Leaving the competent men to turf the slain, we left the Borsky House, for really, Frederic Kothen the investigator knew the whereabouts of my cousins and me.
From the carriage, on the way home, we saw a familiar figure of a man who walked on the relatively dry wayside. A moment more and we saw it was Mr Simenon the teacher. While walking with vigorous strides, he took the sun on his gray head, holding his broad-brimmed squash hat in his hand. A moment more and we offered to give a lift. Placing his bag, the teacher took a seat. Clem and I felt too languorous to be interested in anybody else's business, and Mr Simenon was known as a fascinated walker and fresh-air fiend, which was quite enough about his walking to the Estate.
At the Lesyinesmagi Estate, Clem and I let the household know about the upcoming return of their landlady, but we were too busy to share the celebration.
Two or three messages expected my arrival. One of the messages was the required report from the Ghost Section ex-Editor Marcus B. Podaletsky. Seeing him last time, I asked the reporter Podaletsky to make inquiries about the rich den of the two couples of the rich outlanders, who looked so extravagant and suspicious to Clem and me. Now, the report said that according to records and documents, the mansion in Red Abbey Road belonged to Adrian Magnhus. Mr Kornelis Aboleo was but a tenant.
"No!" it was my reaction to the next riddle in the case.
It turned out that Aboleo, the boss, was a tenant of his own manager! By any standards, everything about the two sounded more than odd.
In the end of his message, Podaletsky let me know that he created a detective agency, with Gustav-Fredrik Silis, the jobless ex-impresario, being the owner's only partner, for the time being. Good for the two men in strait. My thank you note and payment I was about to send on my arrival to Brumburg.
The evil hat box should be checked up if not placed in the ice-house, and I told to bring it, though there was no urgency. Whether I did it, remembering the piece of advice from my friend Colonel, or there was another reason – I can't say why, but I told to bring the box. Clem and I were busy at table, when the box was brought and Hippolite opened it before our eyes -- but the box was empty. Needless to say that the inquiry was made but nobody of the dwellers said that anybody knew anything of the lost contents of the hat box. Nobody said that he or she saw the box after it was placed in the room of the late father of my cousins. The box looked as it was left, merely it was empty, and the damaged topi was no more inside. Both Clem and I felt too tired to cry "No!" once again.
The vortex of the events – either gallop rhythm or waltz or danse macabre, it was uncertain, for the time being -- urged us to be fast, getting changed for the new trip.
The "Note from Mr S", lost to humankind, interested us no longer. Quit. Written by an unknown hand and found among papers of Clem's mother, it should be remembered though:
"Yesterday, I've been waiting for you for 2 hours, in vain. Don't you think, Mme, that you should get resolved? In addition to what was previously said, I can merely say that Mr X knows Your history, in brief, but enough for taking it into consideration. You detest the thought of being connected via Mlle D. All right. I'll be waiting for you at midnight, at the swing. If you don't come -- that's Your business. It's not joke or threat -- alas. Sincerely Yours, S."
"S" might refer to names or surnames beginning with "S" as well as "Sh" and "Sch". "Mlle D" was Mlle Delamarche, most probably. The note no longer sounded meaningful to us, who knew the whereabouts of Clem's mother. What his mother wrote on Page 4 of her diary sounded more interesting --
"It cannot be otherwise. I've come to the decision. Once I came to the decision, I must do it. I should do it 10 years ago. Doubts? Is there any use?"
But we now could suggest that it was written about her decision to use the service of Doctor Talvik.
The P.S. in the note, which was dropped in Clem's hands in the cinema, and which should be remembered here too, sounded most enigmatic, in my view --
"In the matter of Kernstadt Castle, Suurkukk Factory, and the business, which I wrote about, asking for your assistance. I've put it all off in virtue of the same contingency which doesn't let me stay longer in the town. But I'll be back. In the meantime, I'm asking you about the other favour. In Weymarn, I have a friend who lives [ the address was in round brackets ] and who keeps one locker by my request. He can't keep it any longer, so, be so kind as to take the locker to yours. In the locker, you'll find a box. A well-packed parcel. The address of the shipping agency in Mitava is written on the parcel. Please, send the parcel to the address, and the locker, keep at yours, for a while." P.P.S.: "I wish you were here, in my palace of sin."
All the three notes used to sound important, but not on the day when we went to see Clem's mother in Brumburg. To say truth, we put the written evidence out of our head.
In the train, when we were on the way to the city, Clem said that he would like to have a talk with Mr Lundstrom, their neighbour in Lamplighters Lane. Recalling his visit to the old gentleman, Clem felt sure that he heard his mother's piano playing. "Only think! The old man never told me about my mother's stay. How cinical of the old man!.."
I was about to gammon him out of the talk with the old man, anyhow, meaning well to Clem first of all -- but we never visited Mr Lundstrom in the city because we saw the old man at the railway station, on our train's arrival.
At the railway station restaurant, Mr Lundstrom had beer. A stranger, mannerly, smiling, seasonably dressed, rose from his table and approached Mr Lundstrom's. "Have we met before?" the stranger asked. A reason could be that the old gentleman had been watching him openly for some time, for a long while, maybe.
"Of course!" the old man replied, "You and me together were on the way to Siberia, being deported, on foot, in irons. I've recognized you!" Staggered, the stranger recoiled. The old man shouted out after him, "We spent some time in prison. Caught stealing a clock. I remember, it was a wall clock… a good old wall clock… striking... striking… striking… striking!"
Striking and shocking was the scene, and we changed our mind to approach.
"He's finally gone clean off his head."
"Crackbrained. Maybe. But the story he told was so fascinating."
Actually, a reason of our dropping in the railway station restaurant was some circumstance, quite unexpected to us.
The point was that going out of the railway station was rather difficult for ordinary comers like we, that day. The station building was cordoned off by Russian gendarmes. Among the policemen, the Cossacks, horseback, wearing the exotic Circassian coats and Caucasian fur hats at a rakish angle, pranced in front of the mob… This kind of the best warriors ever as a guard talked about an extraordinary event or incident. Exotic at most, nothing supernatural, but the equestrians' presence always gave me the shivers, as though some dark shades and not humans were before my eyes. In my view, only a madman wished to go against those demons of war with their scourge and horses… The town was stirred by the upcoming event so significant that only we, with our chores could fail hearing of it – but we were not fated to miss the event. A Russian statesman, Adjutant General of His Imperial Majesty's Retinue, with his own Suite, on the way to Vienna, was to stop at Brumburg on the day – that is, the train was to stop at the station. The military measures looked perfectly natural and comprehensible after the last assassination attempt in February 1880, after Alexander II the Liberator fell victim to the assassination plot in 1881, and all the permanent student unrest of our time.
The train being expected in 3 quarters, Clem and I decided to stay and watch the event along with the people.
Why not to have a snack? Chops, sauce béchamel, asparagus, coffee and whipped cream for dessert were known to be good in the restaurant that was unusually crowded. Luckily, waiters were quick in their job, perhaps inspired like everywone around, and our order was served without delay. When Clem asked a Cuban cigar, the waiter did the order and placed a three-candled candelabrum before his eyes. Bon ton. But the restaurant room looked rather ordinary: usual pictures over the walls, august personas, Nikolas I as equestrian, the Tsar Liberator in the hussar pelisse, Alexander III, the Empress in the Russian array, portraits of army generals and clerics. Sipping coffee, Clem puffed his cigar and I looked through an old issue of At Fireside, the most popular magazine of the Russian Empire.
Since recently, I hated politics – maybe for a while, maybe for ever – that's why I read trivia alone. Advertisements, miscelenia. Among others, a small article was entitled "Rene Flamel and Orangepeel." Thus, I learned of the Nemetti Circus on tour.
The article was about a recent accident. One Rene Flamel, the upper-level dressage rider in Horse Ballet of the Nemetti Circus, broke his leg in the most unlikely place. By day, Rene Flamel went out for dancing. In the dancing-hall, after several turns of waltz, he found himself at the buffet, and he asked a glass of orangeade. While having the drink, the upper-level dressage rider stepped on an orange-peel, his foot slipped and he fell, so badly that his leg was broken. He was taken to hospital. The simple fracture was diagnozed as serious. His broken leg prevented Rene Flamel from leaving his room for three or four months.
As soon as the guy enjoyed life, what must he do but break his leg? Too bad. Funny too. Learning of the Horse Ballet star's absence, I changed my mind to go to see the Circus show.
In the casual and seemingly chaotic cobweb of events, immensely important as well as small facts, there was always a peculiar logic. A logic? In different and unconnected incidents and facts? That's it. Saying this, I don't fear to sound like a sad paradoxer.
Clem, who had some newspapers in hands too, brought something in one of them to my notice. Several advertisements, which I ran my eyes over –
STENCIL FOR LIPSTICK
"Lipstick is applied quickly and evenly with the aid of a stencil just invented. The stencil is adjusted and held over the mouth as shown in the picture above, thus insuring correct shape and unblurred edges when the lipstick is rubbed on."
Another advertisement tempted to buy an appliance for straightening a snub nose. You put it on your nose before going to bed, fastening several complicated straps on your head, and the process of shaping it as a classic Greek or Roman nose was started. Laughable. Laughable for every well-educated human. Luckily, personally I was not in need of anything of the kind.
The next advertisement said --
HIGHLY INTERESTING
FOR GENTLEMEN AND THEIR HOUSEHOLD
"Catalogue of various and truly interesting goods, made at the fabrica, can be sent in a sealed envelope for 2 nine-kopek stamps. Let know of Your address, writing to:
Aboleo & Co,
Brumburg, St Benedict Street 7."
Sic. On sides of the ad there were depicted well-dressed and long-legged young gentlemen. The ad concerned what the "dropped note" was about, and we still were unaware about a sort of the goods. That's what was the most annoying remaining in this case and worth being detected.
Next, I saw a recent article from "L'Endelel". It was rather a witty critique -- "Versifying Today" -- with the article's opening:
Graphomaniacs. Poets. They always existed. As one of the contemporary authors said, "Poet has not prosaic or non-poetic moments in his life. All events of his being are lit by the unsetting sun of his soul. The soul, like Memnon the Egyptian colossi, utters the harmonic sounds, sporadically, occasionally or non-stop."
In my Notes, I've omitted all funny examples of the new poetry from his article. Too lazy to do a careful translation. The article sounded nice, but there was something most stunning in it, for me personally, because… The author cited me! The quote "Poet has not prosaic or non-poetic moments in his life. All events of his being are lit by the unsetting sun of his soul. The soul, like Memnon the Egyptian colossi, utters the harmonic sounds, sporadically, occasionally or non-stop" was from my essay, published a couple of years ago, in English.
Winning international recognition? Graf-oh-mainiac sooner than a graphomaniac, I felt flattered. However, I could not indulge in amazement or sentiments, since it was time to go, if we wanted to see anything. We should hasten to take a place good for watching the train's arrival.
We were in luck elbowing our way, being in time, because the train was heard approaching.
The train consisted of a baggage-car and two passenger coaches. In the puffs of a railway engine, it took the comers of the high rank several minutes to come into sight to meet the small group of delegates, but… a rapid motion among us. It's one of the well-dressed public threw his bag towards the train… Either a Gladstone or a bag such as a doctor usually carried. Explosion.
Rapid, loud, deafening, but fireless, the explosion was sudden enough to shock everyone. Male and female screams among us. Two or three big flowered and plumed hats shook and fell along with their ladies who fell into a faint onto arms of their husbands, with one of the females having hysterical fit. In the middle of the big noisy jumble of people before our eyes, limited by the power of the gendarmes, who were a substantial part of the jumble, I recognized the man of the crowd who was the first to dash upon the bomber and fall him on the ground, before the cloud of the explosion dispersed. Anton Schubert the police officer. He and the bomber fighting on the ground could not notice at once what we, the viewers, could see.
We saw the cloud of the explosion, and the sight was absolutely amazing, perhaps, more unexpected and shocking than the bomber's nasty action. Actions like the bomber's were known and expected and all more or less possible precautions had been taken against the crime, which became ordinary, but nobody could expect the extraordinary kind of the cloud, which came from the exploded bomb. Because, in fact… it was… a cloud of confetti.
The zealous interjections of the fighting policemen, so familiar in the silence, the absence of a flame and the fantastic cloud in the air stopped the crowd's jumbling much quicker than it could be under other circumstances. It must be said that later, the rumour had it that at the very instant of throwing the bag, the evil-doer shouted out to someone else in the gathering crowd, maybe another bomber. I remember a loud exclamation, but I learned what it exactly was, later, from the rumour.
A minute later, when the evil-doer was neutralized and lifted from the ground by common efforts of the dozen of broad-backed servants of the law, they carried him away, and his pale, dazed face could be seen above his wards' hats. We saw him without his hat, with his eyes black, nose bleeding, and one his fake side-whiskers flapping against his cheek like a dog's ear, which detail lent more absurdity to the funny side of the event. Needless to say that the group of men as well as the crime scene were covered with varicoloured confetti. No infuriated crowd to attack the evil-doer. Most of the people felt regretful about the only thing that the fantastic group was too fast to go out of their sight.
At the instant of the explosion or maybe with the first sign of the danger, the comers of the high rank quickly moved back, away from the air blast. Shaken but unhurt, they hid in the carriage. The only army-officer wearing the Circassian coat stood high in the narrow doorway with his sword unsheathed and his pistol aiming outside. However, a minute late, the faces of the comers appeared behind the carriage window pane, and their bearded and moustached watched what was going on outside with the same curiosity as ours.
"Kornelis Aboleo should see all this. He's fond of practical jokes," said a familiar male voice behind my back.
I looked back. It was Adrian Magnhus. A viewer like we. I said, "You call it a practical joke? You are right, maybe."
"It was one of his," he said.
"His practical joke?!" I said and looked at Clem, who was beside me and listening.
"Just so," Adrian Magnhus said, "His dear small surprise."
I said, "His surprise for the General?"
"No," Adrian Magnhus said, "For the bombers."
Dear me… Lui! toujours lui!
Adrian Magnhus said, "Have you recognized the bomber?"
I said, "Indeed, the man looked vaguely familiar, but no… So many tall, white-skinned young men here, in our homeland."
"Doctor Fridland," Adrian Magnhus said.
"No!!!" Clem and I said together.
"Oh yes," Adrian Magnhus said, "I invite you to Kornelis Aboleo's residence in St Benedict Street 7, today, after…" with his fingers he brushed confetti off his coat, "…eight. Good day to you, Mr Graf… Good day to you, Mr Lisnyak…" He touched his hat.
"Good day to you, Mr Magnhus…" We touched our hats.
On the instant, he left us, going to the door of the station building whose façade was lavishly covered by curious townees.
And so, the parish remained with no doctor. Every cloud of confetti has a dark lining.
The train departed, with the comers of the high rank never coming out of the carriage at the railway station of Brumburg.