After Galbraith commented out loud on the expression of his late friend that randomly came to mind, he, trying not to go crazy from the bites of annoying bedbugs, took off his outer clothing and crawled under the blanket. Red insects began to creep even more viciously over his body - they crawled under his armpits, clung to his chest and legs, and the most arrogant parasites tried to get into the inside of his ears and nostrils. Perhaps there was an additional effect of the fact that in the darkness he could not see their exact number, but, one way or another, the discomfort gradually increased, and soon the inspector woke up in the middle of the night.
- I have had enough! - he shouted into the void.
As he was barefoot, Galbraith walked to the wall switch and extended his hand forward. His index finger touched the white plastic snap. There was a barely audible click, and the room immediately became bright. He looked down and looked at his legs - the bedbugs hung on his skin like ants clinging to a twig. Oh, he thought, if he had not accidentally turned over the mattress, then probably the insects would not have come out... Walking into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and stood under its cold streams. Trying to wash away the vile insects, Galbraith in his thoughts returned to Portland. At first I just remembered how good it was for him there, how he could sleep peacefully in his small apartment without fighting bedbugs. Then, when he was able to get rid of most of the parasites, he sat down on the edge of the bath, focusing on the moment when he finally decided that he needed to leave for this very London.
Nothing particularly unusual happened at that time - Galbraith was just walking to his home after a tiring day at work. That evening there was a chilly wind blowing, so he didn't want to linger outside too long and walked at an accelerated pace. By the time he reached Abbouts st., dusk had already fallen on the street. Approaching house E-14, the inspector put his hand into his jacket pocket - he always pulled out his keys in advance - and raised his head up. What he saw made him shake off a touch of melancholy - the window of his apartment was brightly lit. Galbraith remembered very well that he had not turned on the light in the room since the previous evening, so there could be no doubt that someone else had gotten into his apartment. The inspector's heart began to beat wildly, and he, groping for his small but trusty service pistol in his inner pocket, feverishly ran into the entrance of the house.
Luckily for him, he didn't run into any neighbours inside, so he could safely take out his weapon without fear that anyone would notice. Galbraith ran up the steps to the second floor with a loud stomp, and, holding the weapon with his left hand, inserted the key into the keyhole. His hands were wet with sweat, his fingers were shaking as if in a fever - such was the power of fear that gripped the police inspector at that second. Finally, he was able to get the key into the well. Leaning with his whole body, Galbraith turned it - in the process, the metal of the key almost bent. The door creaked quietly, and Galbraith, with his pistol at the ready, crossed the threshold with the agility of a wild animal in one fell swoop.
- Good evening, mister inspector. I'm glad you finally came, - suddenly a completely calm senile voice was heard.
He expected to see anyone in his apartment - bandits, gangsters, crazy clowns in the end... But what was his surprise when it turned out that sitting on the chair standing by the window was none other than mister chief inspector himself!
- You are not a movie, Galbraith, - Schaeymoure said tranquilly, albeit with some reproach.
Indeed, the scene looked incredibly stupid - apartment owner stood opposite his guest, pointing the barrel of a gun at him. Galbraith immediately felt uneasy.
- I find myself begging your pardon, - he said embarrassedly, slowly lowering his service pistol.
- Please, be seated. I needed to speak with you, - imperturbably Schaeymoure said.
Apparently, Galbraith thought, mister chief inspector has no fear of death at all, if he didn't even raise an eyebrow at this prank with the pistol. Putting the weapon in the inside pocket of his jacket, he looked up at guest.
- Well, you know, I'm not going to sit... - he said quietly
- You are nervous and that's your business, - Schaeymoure said. - But keep in mind that in this case you will have to stand for a long time.
- I'm not some soft-handed for whom standing for a couple of hours is already a burden, - Galbraith answered with a hint of resentment.
These words brought a hint of a smile to the face of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure. The old man seemed to enjoy watching the excited man who was twenty years his junior.
- I have to say, I like your way of expressing your opinion, - the smile was replaced by calm again. - But I didn't come to you to admire your confusion.
Well, of course, Galbraith thought sarcastically to himself, mister chief inspector quietly snuck in his subordinate's apartment, and he thinks that the owner of the apartment will find this as ordinary as a morning meal...
- The essential point is, I want to give you a message... - began his guest.
With these words, Schaeymoure reached out and took a white pack of cigarettes from the table. The apartment owner hurried to approach mister chief inspector in order to obligingly light his cigarette, but he silently dismissed him with a gesture and lit it himself with his lighter.
- So, Galbraith, - taking a drag, he said. - I understand your attitude towards her, so I will not ask you why you decided not to tell me about your schedules.
"What does he mean?" Galbraith thought. Who is this "she" with whom, according to the old man, he himself feels some kind of special relationship?
- That is why, - Schaeymoure continued. - I didn't ask you to share your suspicions with me.
- In relation to whom? - Galbraith involuntarily burst out.
- Doctor Baselard, who else would it be? - answered mister chief inspector and blew out a cloud of smoke.
Galbraith involuntarily admired what a neat ring his honourable guest had made. Yes, he thought, the skill to smoke is also an art...
- Why did you decide that I suspect him? - he asked Schaeymoure with irony in his voice.
- Because I, as a man who was closely acquainted with him, was well aware of the fact that his person could not but arouse suspicion, especially in a subject with such a turn of mind as yours.
The owner of the apartment involuntarily widened his eyes when his guest unloaded this expatiation on him. "How", he thought, "Could mister chief inspector really have a connection with that doctor?". It didn't fit in his head.
- Are you all right? - Schaeymoure asked, looking at his interlocutor's embarrassment.
- Forgive me, - Galbraith woke up from shock and lowered his eyes.
- I understand that this surprises you, - the guest answered calmly. - Isso Que é Vida, - he said suddenly.
Galbraith could not understand the meaning of the last three words of his interlocutor, but could not help but restrain himself from losing his temper and unleashing a stream of words on mister chief inspector.
- Surprises? Is that what you call it? - trying not to raise his voice, he slightly clenched his fists. - Do you really think that I can put up with the fact that this damnable doctor, - Galbraith did not try to choose expressions. - Not only does he not displease you, but it turns out that he is also your friend?!
Having blurted this out, the inspector felt his temperature rise. He raised his right hand to his hair to wipe away the sweat that had formed on his forehead, but the next second something fell to the floor. He bent down - it turned out that he had forgotten that he had been holding a lighter in it all this time, wanting to light the cigarette of his uninvited guest.
- You look amazing in anger, - Schaeymoure said unexpectedly.
Galbraith, who had already picked up the lighter, froze in one position again. He did not expect that his interlocutor would not only not be offended by his behavior, but, on the contrary, would praise this fleeting, uncontrollable outburst of wrath.
- You are motivated by fury, - his interlocutor continued. - And I understand this - the person of that subject can evoke only two reactions - either admiration for his intellect, or sharp hatred of his nature.
- I don't understand you, - Galbraith admitted honestly
- Doctor Baselard is very complicated man, - Schaeymoure said briefly.
"It's understatement", thought the owner of the apartment. He got the feeling that Schaeymoure was trying to show the good side of this man.
- I understand that you now think that I am whitewashing him, - as if reading the thoughts of the interlocutor, Schaeymoure said. - But I really didn't mean it that way.
- Maybe you think that I suspect you yourself? - Galbraith could not resist.
- Por que não? - the guest answered in an incomprehensible language. - In the situation in which you find yourself, there is nothing left to do but suspect each and every one.
Having said this, mister chief inspector rose from his chair. The owner of the apartment simply stood still and watched, almost in divine awe, as Schaeymoure put a cigarette in the ashtray and, straightening his tie, looked out the window. Galbraith followed his gaze - night had already fallen.
- I will allow myself express aloud what I think might have occurred to you, - his guest turned away from the window and crossed his arms over his chest.
- So what will you say? - for some reason this gesture of his interlocutor amused Galbraith.
- The fact that in your head no-no, but thoughts flashed about the fact that wrongdoer Jordan Thurlow and his victim Delia Yonce are of the same blood.
- How... - at these words, Galbraith's jaw began to drop.
- How should I know? - Schaeymoure guessed what he wanted to say. - The fact of the matter, out of nowhere. I said it at random, - he answered calmly.
"Now others will begin to mistrust me too", thought Galbraith. He sighed and, raising his eyes to the ceiling, began to stretch his cervical vertebrae.
- Not to mention... - mister chief inspector suddenly said. - I don't think you'll be interested in knowing this...
Hearing this, apartment owner immediately perked up and looked at his guest.
- These are affairs of bygone days, but still I think that Baselard took Duncan's life out of mercy.
- Are you talking about brain surgery? - Galbraith remembered perfectly well who his interlocutor was talking about now.
- Right. It just seems to me that Baselard decided to meet the poor guy halfway. The woodcutter's death was not an accident - the doctor knew from the very beginning that brain surgery would end in death, and realizing that Duncan still could no longer live normally in condition like that...
- Are you saying that doctor Baselard killed Duncan with his tacit consent? - a sudden insight dawned on the middle-aged inspector.
- You can interpret my words as you please, - Schaeymoure said instead of answering.
Mister chief inspector, taking his hat off the back of his chair, headed towards the exit from the apartment. Galbraith slowly, as if afraid to step on his feet, trotted after the departing guest. Schaeymoure, already grabbing the handle of the front door, turned to the owner.
- I can tell you one thing for sure, doctor Baselard is not the bloodthirsty killer you think he is, - he said dryly.
- Hmm... - Hearing these words, Galbraith unexpectedly lowered his gaze.
- Have a good night, - already from the entryway the voice of mister chief inspector was heard.
At this moment, Galbraith suddenly woke up from his memories. He looked around, as if not understanding where he was. Whatever it was, he told himself, Portland was a thing of the past, and now he was sitting in the bathroom of a shabby London hotel room. He looked at his feet - so far there was not a single bug on his skin.
- Well, soon they will surround me again... - said the inspector with a sigh.
Coming out of the bathroom, he, shaking from the cold, dived under the blanket, completely forgetting that he needed to turn off the light in the room. Galbraith was so tired after the cold bath that as soon as he closed his eyes, he immediately fell asleep. The inspector slept peacefully, without dreams.