The next morning was cloudy. It was a week-day, and it occurred to me to visit one office in Inland Navigation Street, before going to the railway station. I wanted to see one man in the office of the newspaper Weekly Express. Clem had nothing against that.
The information written in the business card, which I got from the talkative red-haired man in the beerhouse Red Unicorn, should be checked out. Who else could know more about evil spirits of the city than the Ghost Section Editor? Clem agreed with me.
We were lucky finding Marcus B. Podaletsky at his working place; merely, he was a Ghost Section Editor no longer. The reporter Podaletsky was in the office but he was about to leave, at the moment, when we came.
The tall middle-aged man with blond walrus moustache was wearing seasonably, with a dark-olive wide-brimmed hat over his eyes. After we introduced ourselves and I received his permission to ask some questions, the three of us settled at a windowsill in the corridor, I held out a packet of Coy Boy to him, and he took a cigarette.
I said that I was an involuntary eyewitness of his talk with the red-bearded client when sitting at the next table in the beerhouse. He nodded in reply, puffing on the cigarette. Then I said that the story of the Green Room sounded most interested.
"A fib," he said.
My opinion was that if the story was but a fib then it was fairly well made. He shrugged shoulders. I asked about Red Abby Road.
"What about the street?" he said.
"I saw it, recently, and it seemed strange to me. Have you heard anything supernatural about the street?"
"No, nothing," he said, "All the buildings are old, and some of them are abandoned for one reason or another."
I said, "Could you find out about one particular house? The work will be paid." After he nodded, I took out my pencil and wrote down the address and name of Mr Aboleo.
"All right," he said when reading the note.
"Your report, send please to the address of Mr Lisnyak." I looked at Clem and he took out his business card. Along with the card Mr Podaletsky got the money from me for paying the postal expense and as prepayment. "Don't forget to mention your mail address in your report, and the rest cash reward will be sent."
Then I asked about the Ghost Section of the newspaper office where he worked. The story of the Section was short yet it could serve a good illustration for the dark side of the life in the city--
When the Ghost Section Editor Podaletsky first began his reception hours, he didn't feel giddy of great expectations, he merely did his work.
Visitors came one by one, townsmen and townswomen, but nothing interesting about them and from them. Some offered stories about foreign or imported ghosts seen in olden times; some he told to apply to the Vampire Sub-Section. One middle-aged woman said that she saw a ghost in Weymarn, by day, in late July, but she could not remember what the ghost looked like, and she said that in case if she was given a monetary reward, she could remember. One men asleep sitting in a corner of the waiting room; after he was awakened, he hiccupped and confessed that he himself was a ghost and wishing a big mug of beer. In short, the people was not what the Ghost Section of the newspaper Weekly Express required, and Editor Podaletsky was about to go to the beerhouse Red Unicorn, but a middle-aged gentleman came in his room without his invitation. "Sir," the gentleman said dryly, "last night, on the bridge nearby my house, I heard a ghost. For every next ghost, I shall ask only a half of the promised payment."
The visitor was a pharmacy owner of the name of Nacht. By night, Editor Podaletsky and Nacht, in the ominous still of the night, carefully walked on the bridge over the Nyoman. Suddenly, Nacht grabbed Podaletsky's hand, saying, "Listen to that! It's it…"
From under the bridge, a plangent mournful singing was heard. Podaletsky whispered, "I hear a male voice."
"Neither a child nor a lady could below like this bull. Would you like to go down?"
"Anyway, we must check it out. Let's go."
They carefully went downstairs, with Podaletsky getting ready his browning. Below the bridge, they almost instantly stumbled upon a man lying on a stone prominence. Editor Podaletsky flashed his lantern upon the stranger and crossed the man with his right hand.
"Stop it!" the stranger, unshaven and disheveled, growled out, "I've been Christianized and named Gustav-Fredrik Silis. Did you come on business or for a cup of tea? Forgive the fact that my valet could not open the main entrance for you."
"Apparently, it's not a ghost," Podaletsky said.
"No, I'm not, sir," the stranger cleared his throat, "I'm an ex-impresario." He started to sing some frivolous couplets.
Nacht said, "What the hell do you do under the bridge? Why do you sing?"
"Gentlemen! Society etiquette doesn't say that one must keep silence when sitting under a bridge by night. Any more questions?.."
"Let's go," Podaletsky said to Nacht and sighed, "I'm afraid we can find ghosts like this, by day, in any part of the city. Did I promise 10 roubles?"
"You gave me 5."
"I was wrong. Go to hell."
The next day, sullen and slightly hoarse, Editor Podaletsky had been swearing upon the last night unsuccessful expedition until his reception hours at the Ghost Section.
The visitors spiritlessly told about their dubious experience in seeing apportions, trying to sell some moans heard in the still of night, some shrouds seen among trees by night, and other used small items from the realm of the Supernatural and from some utility methods of pulp fiction writers. Like it was the day before, only by the end of the working day, one of the visitors attracted Podaletsky's attention.
The visitor was an old man, who strongly smelled of dust and tips. "I am a doorkeeper of Baron von Krusenstern," he began, looking business-like, "Baron von Krusenstern's away, in the Galapagos, studying turtles. Our mansion is empty. Even the pet turtle died, lonesome for his master. Nevertheless, every night, I hear someone's pacing in the upper floor."
"Perhaps, it's the turtle paces?" Editor Podaletsky sounded absentminded.
"As I've said, sir, the turtle is no more. It's a ghost. If only you take your gun, tonight…"
"And 10 roubles for you. All right. Tonight, at midnight, I'll come. We don't give advance money. The payment you'll get after you show the ghost."
At half past eleven, in the night, Editor Podaletsky and the Doorkeeper walked on the expensive carpets of the mansion of the Baron von Krusenstern. Overhead, in the second floor, someone evidently walked, with the sound resonant in the dead silence. "Is that it?" Podaletsky asked.
"That's it. Only listen to it! What a typically vulgar footfall! It may be a ghost of our junior boiler-man."
"Let's go!" Podaletsky said, "You should be the first to come in. My lantern will shine on your way."
When the door was opened, the flash fell on a red-bearded man wearing a gray cap and motley cardigan. He rose from an easy chair and scratched his head looking confused and guilty.
Podaletsky turned to the Doorkeeper, "Ghost?"
The red-bearded man said, "Not yet, sir. But I'm afraid that five days of my starvation more and you are right."
"How did you get there?"
The man replied, "Leaving for the Galapagos, Baron von Krusenstern forgot to send me invitation, and I had to use the sixth window on the left."
The Doorkeeper shouted out, "What are you doing here, man?!!"
"Temporary using the mansion of Barong von Krusenstern, sir. Spending time here till a place under bridges or a bench of boulevards gets vacant."
"We'll arrest you!.." the Doorkeeper nearly wept. "You'll spend the night in the police station!"
"You aren't a thief, by any chance?" Podaletsky asked dryly.
"No, sir, I am not. If I were, I would live in a mansion of my own and not somebody else's."
Podaletsky said to the Doorkeeper, "If I were you I'd give your ghost some cold eats and come to our newspaper editorial office never again. All the best!"
The red-bearded man followed him and asked to listen to him, for he wanted to talk about ghosts or something. Upset, Podaletsky felt unfit for a talk, and he merely gave his business card.
The next day, Editor Podaletsky cancelled his reception hours. He only had the meeting with the red-bearded in the beerhouse. Disappointed yet more, he came to the Office only in 2 days.
Podaletsky heaved a sigh, "Not a single line my Section has produced, for the days. On the last day of my work, one visitor came to tell me about me. I was afraid that I could be replaced by another editor, and I went to the housetops by night in search of something supernatural. I moaned there. A man heard me and the next day he came to my office to tell me about me." Only now, I saw the ex-editor was in state of ennui.
I held out the packet of Coy Boy to him again and asked, "Who's a new editor of the Section?"
"Nobody," he said, taking a cigarette, "The Section is no more."
Thus the matters stood with the supernatural in the city.
Only on the way from the Weekly Express office, I remembered that I had forgotten to ask about the Vampire Sub-Section.
When waiting for our train, at the platform of the railway station, we saw a familiar figure. A gentleman wearing a gray overcoat of saucy cut, with hands in pockets and his grey fedora hat over his eyes was standing with an umbrella in his arm. His lifted collar hid a half of his face, and yet I recognized Adrian Magnhus.
Gladdened, Clem dashed to him. "Mr Magnhus! I'm so glad to meet you, today!.. For goodness' sake, give me the note, which I showed, last night, at Mr Aboleo's… do you remember?"
Glancing at me, Magnhus looked at Clem, evidently drew up, as though being ready to recoil, any moment, and said, "How are you, Mr Lisnyak? Agitated? Please, don't. I remember it but I have not the note about."
"How could it be?" Clem stopped short.
"I gave it to Mr Aboleo, asking him to give it to you." Obviously, Clem's dash and excitement disturbed Magnhus much more than Clem's request or turning up.
Clem said, "Did you!"
"What, you don't believe me? As you please." Magnhus shrugged shoulders, without taking his hands out of his overcoat pockets.
"No… not at all! I believe you… having not a reason not to believe you… or Mr Aboleo… Maybe, we should go to Mr Aboleo? Right now?"
"I can't go to him, right now: my train to Mitava." With that, Magnhus touched his hat's brim with his black gloved hand and walked away from us to meet the puffs of a railway engine. At a distance of several steps, he paused and turned to us, "I'll be back in a week, and then-- at your service, again."
"Where could I find you?"
Clem's question made Magnhus' silhouette pause in the puff of steam, and we heard, "At Mr Aboleo's."
Out of reach, he got out of sight, quickly and lightly mingling with the small crowd. Clem turned to me, "The note cannot be regarded as lost."
I said, "Of course, it's lost only for the time being."
He said, "Anyway, Mother's name is not mentioned in the note. Neither our family name."
I said, "As evidence, the note is not worth."
He said, "Hope, I'll find something of higher importance among Mother's papers."
Presently, we took our train.
In the compartment, I voiced the result of my meditations, saying to Clem that we should not tell much about our visits in the city in our talk with his brothers or whoever of the household. "You must agree," I said, "our roaming the city looked much like a mere muddling away. No result, unless our talk with the rich outlanders. Should your cousins know of our failure in detail?" Clem agreed that they should not. And I sincerely believed that the teenager Hippolite and the landowner Kasimir-Theodor should not know much of foreign eccentrics like Mr Aboleo and Mr Magnhus. Why anybody in the household should know and understand the complicated and alien images of those gentlemen with their oddities and excesses? Really, this knowledge might be unnecessary and misleading.
In the Estate, on our arrival, St Martin's Summer seemed to returned or it never left this blissful land for the time of our absence. The sun was shining kindly. But for the yellow leaves among the green, it would look like a cold summer day.
At home, we found Mr Simenon the teacher in the dining-room having coffee, and Hippolite playing bezique with Father Matthew, in the drawing-room, in front of the potted Rose.
After we got changed, Clem went round all rooms, which was his intention before he entered Leticia's room. While he did the round, I placed the pack of chocolate, which we bought in Brumburg, on the table in the dining-room and unpacked it.
Colourful flat boxes of chocolate from George Bormann, several bars of Bligcken & Robinson chocolate, a bar of Fin Vanille chocolate, from Landrin -- all this sweet supply I placed in a tall pile on the empty end of the table. My snack was served by the moment, and I began my meal. Fried eggs and sausages, cheese, coffee, toasts with sweet honeysuckle jam. However nice I was to my table-mate Mr Simenon, I was not about to tell him much about my latest trip. Merely, I said, "Do you know why your colleague Mlle Delamarche cannot be a tutor for Hippolite? If I tell you why, then one more secret will be unveiled. The question who is the mysterious fiancée of our dear Doctor Talvik will be answered. Well?"
The locals were not slow-witted but they hardly ever hurried with a reply. Mr Simenon seemed to be much like they in that. Putting two to two together, he came to the right conclusion, "Mlle Delamarche will be Mme Talvik soon?"
"Right!"
We, provincials, love rumours. Who don't love rumours and rumouring? But the news which I brought was the only, and he had not any, and presently the theme was exhausted at the table. Finishing his snack, Mr Simenon took leave. He never took a bar of chocolate as a gift from me, saying that he detested chocolate. Well, that's odd.
I was not about to taste any of the mentioned chocolates either, because I opened my box of chocolate Triumph and ate up some on the way here, when in the train. When I made my first toast with jam to have it with a cup of black coffee, Old Ilmar's head poked in the doorway. "Did you talk to anybody, sir? It seemed to me or you called me indeed?"
"It only seemed to you, my friend. However, maybe, it didn't. Guests differ," I said without stopping my meal.
"God save from evil spirits!" Encouraged by my reply, the manservant came in. "If some of them settle on a place, then it is hard to be exterminated. Neither the cross nor a cudgel could help." Standing on side of the doorway, he shook his head.
Seeing Lionheart's coming in, glancing at the fluffy animal, I asked Old Ilmar, "Have you ever seen anything like evil spirits?"
"Either evil spirits or not, but each of us, locals, have seen something, at least once in our life. Father Matthew said that it's but visions whose reason is souls of the undipped humans, which dead are more numerous than souls of good Christians buried in our soil. And Mr Simenon said that most likely it's the people from Aboleo's Factory get naughty by night. Who knows..." He shook his head.
I said, "Two headless monks never appeared?"
"You shouldn't say so, sir! If they came, then I… I would run away from here!" The manservant seemed frightened in earnest. While having my coffee and toasts, in silence, I gave him the time to recover, then he said, "You, sir, asked me about some people of the Factory…"
"I did," I said, "Tell about, my friend!"
Then I learnt from the manservant that in the past summer, three or four days before Leticia's disappearance, or "our Landlady's departure" as he named it, one of the gentlemen of the Factory came. It was a great surprise which made me forget of my coffee and toasts for a while. Before telling about this remarkable detail, the manservant glanced back at the closed door. Before saying about who the gentleman was exactly, he approached my table and said in whisper, "The secretary of the Factory Manger."
"Clarence Batwick?" I specified in undertones.
"Yes, it was Mr Batwick," he said.
The secretary Batwick was the only of the mysterious Four who I had never seen. Interested more and more, I said, "What did the young gentleman want? Who did he want?"
"He wanted to see our Mr Kasimir-Theodor. But Mr Kasimir-Theodor was out. Then he asked about Mr Clement. Mr Clement was out too. Then he asked about Mme Leticia. As far as I knew, our Landlady had returned from the vegetable garden, by the time. But no, she proved to be out, in the vegetable garden again. Ushering the guest to the drawing-room, I went to find Madame."
Some work in the vegetable garden. Clem out. Apparently, the day of the visit was the day when Clem went out for the séance of the "aesthetic gymnastic." In that event, Mr Batwick was quick reaching the Estate soon after he first saw Clem at the von Hahn-Hahn's and a while after Clem left the séance, leaving Clarence Batwick in the group of the aesthetic gymnasts. The way from the Retusari Estate to this was not long, and yet… I asked Old Ilmar, "Do you remember, if Mr Batwick came going by a carriage or on foot?"
"Neither, sir."
"Well, that's odd… Do you want to say that he came by air?"
"Oh no, sir. It was bicycle. He came going by bicycle, sir."
"Of course." I thought to myself that it looked like I was in a bizarre state of mind when I was ready to believe in flying boys. "So, what did the young gentleman want from us?"
Old Ilmar lowered his voice yet more, and I got closer to him, showing my intention to learn all and to keep secret whatever it was. "After Madame entered the drawing-room, I stayed at the doorway..." Saying this, he began justifying his dubious role of a spy, "Worried about our household so much, you know sir, I believed myself entitled to take care, if a question was strangers like those from the Factory..."
"All right, all right!" I said in undertones, "You were absolutely right, staying there and listening to. I appreciate your care. So, what did you hear?"
Glancing back at the door again, Old Ilmar said, "He... the young gentleman from the Factory said that if by chance our Mr Hippolite needed a tutor in French language, he could help, for he was a French teacher." He became silent, looked at me, and his meaningful eye suggested the end of his report.
"Amazing..." I aspirated in undertones, both feeling immensely concerned and wishing to show my interest. "Anything else?"
"No, nothing. The visit was short. Madame said that Mr Hippolite had a teacher, and the teacher was good. Then they began talking about teachers and lessons. But the talk was not long. Refused, the young gentleman left."
"Thank you, dear friend," I said, "What you have told is of great importance."
"Ohh, sir..." he shook his head and sighed.
I said, "This information will be taken into consideration if need be. By the by... Are you nice to Lionheart?"
"To our pet cat? Yes, sir, I am."
"Good for you. Your masters' pets must be well-cared for. Thank you again. Go now."
Alone, I returned to my dessert, thinking to myself that in fact the only amazing thing in the manservant's narration was that the young gentleman of the name of Batwick knew of Po's problem with French and need of a tutor, but this as well as the visit itself could be caused by rumours and the young man's wish to earn additionally – both things as common as dirt. The more unusual was that the young boy's mother little cared about his problem or… it was unknown to her. My thought was interrupted by Hippolite himself, who quietly approached the table.
Clem's younger brother Hippolite-Karl-Maria, named after their late father.
"Oscar…" the nice-looking boy looked timid standing opposite my chair, "The hat box…"
"Hat box?" The remembrance of the mysterious package unpleasantly prickled my mind, and I stopped eating.
"Your hat box," the boy said.
"Not mine, dear," I said, "Who did say to you that the box was for me? The package is addressed to Clem. But it's not for him. Who did say to you that the hat was mine?
Perplexed by my expression, the boy said, "Lionheart did."
"Lionheart?.." I stopped short, "All right then. Go on. Go on, dear."
"All right," he said, "I feel so awkward, telling about what I have to tell, because the hat box is not all right any longer."
"No!.." Worrying about the household and surprised by the fact that Old Ilmar never let know of something awful which happened to anybody or anything here, while I had been away, I said, "Is anything wrong at home? Tell about, and be quick!"
The boy stared at me again and said, "No, nothing's wrong."
"Good," I took breath, and said, "What about the hat box? To say truth, I want to see it never again. Anyway, it must be kept, at hand, just in case. Why do you say it's not all right? Is it stolen?" This last guess was unpleasant too. The box' disappearance was highly undesirable, for this dubious package could be evidence, some day.
"No, it's not stolen." Hippolite watched the series of emotions that crossed over my face like a child watched a life of goldfishes in an aquarium. "Oscar… I am so glad that the box is not dear to you too much. Because it's slightly damaged."
"Damaged? Slightly?" What a kind relief! "All right. That's all right, dear." I added more coffee to my cup.
"In short," the boy said, "Lionheart had a pee upon it."
I stared at the boy; then I found the Tomcat with my eyes. The cat's big silhouette was seen over the window's curtain; the pet spent time on the windowsill, in a splash of sunlight, as it was his custom and preferences. I looked at Hippolite, "Upon that hat box?"
"Yes," the boy said in a piercing whisper, "And now, the box is smelly."
"Perfectly natural," I said and became silent, because I tried to imagine the event. Nothing supernatural was in it. I said, "The box should be taken away, but it's impossible, for the time being. Later, but not now. The box must be placed where the smell can't disturb anybody. The garret? No. Firstly, it must be placed somewhere outside. For a good airing. And then, after it's smelly no longer, the box should be placed in the garret. Right?"
The boy nodded in reply.
"Go to tell the servants to do it by order of Clem."
I told the boy to take one of the chocolate bars and let him go. Careless again, with a bar of Fin Vanille chocolate in hand, the boy left. Feeling relief, I took care about finishing my snack.
Thus, the household was all right, the things went smoothly, but Clem's mother still was somewhere outside, in a shelter unknown to her children, and we knew neither her whereabouts no a reason of her going away. From the dining-room, I went to find Clem.
He said he was ready to come in his mother's room, merely he waited for me. But in the room, when we closed the door behind us, he looked ill at ease. "Unfit to look through contents of the drawers," he said, "I feel weak and helpless about the work. I realize the work must be done and I must overcome my weakness, but my understanding depresses yet more."
I said, "The very thought of the rummage in your mother's papers makes you feel ashamed, and a reason is the remark by Mlle Delamarche, who said shame on you. Isn't that so?"
He never denied my supposition. "For me, my adventures look much like misfortunes. Both things and humans seem to organize a conspiracy to make me feel muddle-headed."
"Go to take a cold shower," I said, while looking round the room once again.
"All right," he said, without moving.
"A glass of cold water or washing your face can help your depression too," I said looking at his face.
"All right," he said and sighed, but he didn't move.
"Do you want me to do it instead of you?" I meant the rummage.
He said, "Oh yes, Oscar, please do it!"
Then I took the key, opened the Chinese Chippendale desk and began pulling the drawers.
I won't go into detail except to say that in ten minutes, I felt regretful about my volunteering. A toiling and confusing work. It happens like this, when you don't know what exactly you search. A bottle beside a small candlestick on the desk captured my attention. It was a bottle of Vin Mariani -- Coca Mariani wine. A used glass beside. Both dusty, both with dregs. The lady had the drink being alone. Not faint. As one could expect: toils and trouble. I asked Clem to open the window to air the room. In the meantime, I remembered of the small book, deep-purple velvet cover, gilt-edged, with the letter "L" in the middle of the front cover, either a diary or notebook, which Clem mentioned in his narration. It was not so difficult to find it.
Unlike Clem, I dared opening the book, at the last written page. My intention was not to read all, only the page where the diarist stopped, and it must be said that the reading proved to be enough for Clem and me, today, to get surprised, to put it mildly, because we could read something most unexpected and mysterious on the page.
On the last page, she wrote --
"My own son seems a stranger for me. An unknown man. But I have two more. Time glides on, and some day, I shall hear a confession from any of them, maybe the same confession, which I have heard today from him, the confession which made him a stranger for me, and then my two sons will become strangers for me too."
Clem and I exchanged glances.
After a small discussion, conclusion: the son, mentioned in the writings, was Kasimir-Theodor, most probably. What kind of a confession did he make to his mother? Clem had not a slightest idea. Neither had I. No use searching for a reply in the diary, because the dates said that between this last note and the previous one there was a week interval. Outpourings was not the family's custom, therefore, no use hastening to Kasimir-Theodor in order to show him the book and ask him all possible questions -- what a pity… However, as we both knew, Kasimir-Theodor looked all right, not falling ill, not changing for worse, therefore the mentioned "confession" might be something extraordinary and important for Leticia alone, perhaps, for her imagination alone. For him and for us all, it might be something usual, or… Who knows? Besides, there was a slight possibility that the mentioned son was Hippolite. Laughable, but possible. Seeing Clem's simple-hearted expression, I could not suspect him as the mentioned son who refused to confess. Sighing, we agreed that the book should be closed and placed back in the drawer.
Clem got yet more thoughtful, and he was not about to help me. Then I looked round the room and crossed it to take a look at a picture on the wall. An autumn landscape in tones of blue and orange with a spice of green. Nice. I looked at the artist's signature. Anna Sneghin. So, the thin woman in dark, who I happened to see at the dinner party in Brumburg, and who was known as an unsuccessful artist, proved to be a good artist. All right. The cold fireplace. I went to the hearth.
Indeed, the ash in the fireplace was cold. Luckily, the hearth had not been cleaned. Remains of some papers. My pokering made the ashes crumbling and showed that only two fragments could be identified: a flourish and seal firmly attached to a piece of burnt silk. My trophy could be ordinary as well as meaningful, depending on context or more evidence in the future. But Clem said that he recognized the flourish.
It seemed to him that the flourish looked like that he saw in Padrik, on the burnt piece of paper, which he extracted from the cold ashes of the stove in the Cottage of Doctor Talvik, where he came to see Mlle Delamarche. Salon Almodis. In case if it was something more than a seeming similarity, the new evidence brought us to Doctor Talvik's name or house or business, like other facts and evidence, earlier. A talk with the doctor seemed necessary, but what we could ask him about? We had nothing but our suppositions, guesswork, or visions of the sort, which we'd rather keep private. In the meantime, the flourish and Clem's remembrance made me return to the letters in Leticia's desk.
My intention was looking through the letters in search of the familiar flourish. Eventually, the flourish flashed on the bottom of one paper.
On the bottom of the drawer, the letter was loosely tied with a pink ribbon as though the last in a bundle which had been taken away. The short letter said--
"Indeed, dear, who didn't hate being awakened from a deep sleep by a loud bell?
Talking of the Salon, they say it becomes more and more popular. The rumours have it that a little more efforts from Mr Bey-Nasar and the wife of our Governor will be his next client.
Finally, about our business. 45% is too much as well.
A.S."
The next letter S in our quest. The next sender. One A.S. As before, the surname could begin with "Sch", "Sh" and "S". Clem and I agreed that the handwriting and the tone of the letter suggested that the sender was a woman. The sender could be "Anna Sneghin" as well as the other person, but the picture on the wall made the former supposition overweighing. We had the next written evidence. And we should care about keeping the evidence better than Clem kept the previous two.
Leaving the room with the cold fireplace, we were told about Kasimir-Theodor coming home, and then we found him at table, in the dining-room, where he had the snack, with Celadon the dog at his feet.
Saying to Kasimir-Theodor that our private investigation went on, I beckoned Clem out of the dining-room and told about my new thought. To ask the Tomcat.
Clem said that it was his intention on the day when he lost the Note about Locker, but he never did it, because Hippolite, the Tomcat's interpreter or intermediator, should not be told about all the details. It sounded sane, but I said, "What if we are mistaken keeping the entire affair secret to Po?"
Clem said, "What if he knows of the affair without our telling?" It sounded uncommonly profound for him.
Unaware or not, but when asked, the boy simply agreed to arrange the séance of the fortune-telling, or whatever it was, for us. Nice of him. The séance took place at the windowsill of the potted princess Rose, like it was last time, but Po said that it was not a custom of Lionheart, merely Lionheart needed some more power today. Long story short, the Tomcat began telling about our distress-gun before we told about it.
Watching the Tomcat who walked around his feet, rubbing on them from time to time, Hippolite said, "He says you are concerned about three papers... Two of them are lost, and one of them is recently found. He says you want to know what happened to the lost papers."
"Yes! Exactly what we want!" Clem exclaimed in a piercing whisper, "Dear..." he hesitated about turning to Po or the Tomcat, "...tell me who stole the first lost paper and what about the second! Please!"
Hippolite said, "He says the first lost paper was taken by the woman who you happened to see. The second lost paper was taken from you not for returning. That's all."
"That's it!" Clem aspirated emotionally and he began specifying, partly for himself, partly for me, "The first lost note is the Note about Locker and the second is the Note from Mr S. Well, Oscar, we shouldn't try to return the second?"
I said, "In my view, we should try. As for the third written evidence, we should think of its safety." I turned to Hippolite, who was all eyes to Clem and me, "Po, dear, tell us all he wants to say more."
"No, nothing more, for now," the boy said.
"We thank you," I said, "Many thanks to our dear Lionheart. He's wonderful. Many thanks to Princess Écossaise. Her help is obvious to her friends. The more I see you, dear," I turned to Po, "the more I feel certain that we, Clem and I, should let you in the affair of our search some time ago or from the outset. We could be a good team. But we never did it, because we believed our search could become dangerous, any time. Do you take my meaning?"
"I see," the boy said, "That's right, roaming about the fields could be dangerous, sometimes," he gave a charming smile, "especially by night, but... What's dangerous in your trip to the city? I could accompany you, not alone, because I could have a basket with Lionheart inside."
Did I say that Hippolite was a good-looking boy? His shining auburn hair a la page obviously was his mother's care. At home, he was usually wearing informal clothes like the sailor's jacket or a white turn-down collared shirt and some light trousers, shorts sometimes. Today, he was wearing his blue and white sailor's jacket and trousers. I said, "Ah it would be wonderful, dear! Truly wonderful!" I exchanged glances with Clem, "Your presence could make us a team. A dynamic team. With you, we are a three-headed feathered and winged snake. Unconquerable."
"Oh... One moment..." Hippolite looked down at the Tomcat, who looked up at his face, and said, "Why three? Lionheart asks why three-headed, and he feels offended by the term."
Clem and I were too agitated to understand this meaning at once, and then I said, "Of course, my darlings! Four-headed. One of the heads would be his."
"Good," Hippolite smiled looking at my face. It was difficult to understand whether it was a happy smile of content or he mocked at himself and his whim about the "talking" cat or he mocked at all of us.
I gazed at him to understand what it was, and he stood my gaze, looking dove-eyed and simple-hearted. No, it was nor a mockery. I said, "What about the Rose? She doesn't feel offended, by any chance?"
Hippolite said, "No. She feels indifferent, quite indifferent to this question, because she never was about to travel."
"Nice," I said, "It all is ever so much nice. Your new thought about your joining our investigation too. But your lessons… Every boy of your age must study and not travel for some dubious affaires."
All what ensued, my persuading speech and the rest of the talk, could be called a mere sentimental stuff, so it could be omitted. In the end, we promised to ask the boy's help as soon as we needed any.
By night, at 11pm, Clem and I were about to go out to the garden's gate in order to do what I wanted to do some time ago, namely, to see Clem's "apollos." My wish was seeing the creatures or phantoms, for the first time, at long last, after several nights and dawns when I missed a chance to see them, "…their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear…" Clem's wish was checking up his vision, seeing it in my presence.
But the creatures never came into our sight.
It was silence underneath the trees where the air smelled of humid herbage. The sky seemed darker and stars looked brighter here than in the fields. Overhead, some night flyers glimpsed with a slight sound which produced an impression of strings fixed across the sky tight and ringing. Bats. Something light and rustling fell from the branches, from time to time. Dead leaves. In the grass, behind the tree-trunks, something rustled and moved. Either the breeze or a rodent, or our Tomcat watching us or playing or hunting in the grass like all cats. Nothing supernatural. In my view, one should look for anything supernatural anywhere but in wild nature. Baleful, at most. Even the trembling field of mushrooms, could be explained, there, in the Dale of the Dead stag, where the vibration made the fungi look like breathing and ready to move, running away, away from us, humans.