Chapter 2
"What cuckoo?" asked Broyd tiredly.
"Head, sir. Brain. The place where normal people have a mind, sir."
"Lord, Nathan, leave him alone! He advises on interventions! Why should he be normal?"
"It is logical," the Commissar admitted, "Sir, it is unlikely that the mayor will like it all."
"I don't care if he likes it or not," the chief of police replied menacingly, "even if he will be pulled out into the bishop's formal robes. Nevertheless, the lungs and the heart, frozen to ice, - this is an argument. This is what I need. At least I can put them on the table and convince these donkeys that the lake is dangerous. An ordinary person will not do this. Nathan, courting this consultant..."
"What?!"
"Yes. I want you to shake out of him who is capable of such and how to squeeze this b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Even if Longsdale wants to lick hearts, gnaw ice or drink blood - immediately provide everyone. We need him."
"What for?"
"For that some creature scatters icy corpses on the lake, and I want to turn her neck. Clear?"
"Clear, sir," Brennon said sullenly and left. A flask of whiskey was hidden in his desk, and he strove for it with all his heart. Kennedy, having learned that an outsider would roam in his morgue, expressed his indignation in phrase, that could come to mind only for a comprehensively educated, erudite scientist. The commissar, a dependent man, was forced to endure. Therefore, it is very difficult to describe the feelings he experienced when he found Longsdale in his office: he was sitting in the commissar's chair and reading the autopsy report, scratching the dog's scruff with the toe of his boot.
"What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?!" growled Brennon. The consultant and the hound looked at him with such an identical expression that for a moment Nathan felt uneasy.
"I'm reading," Longsdale said meekly.
"Well. You know how to read. Happy for you. Get out of my chair!"
"Sorry," the consultant muttered a little audibly. Brennon took a familiar place and remembered that the intruder was ordered to be courted.
"Well, how interesting?" He inquired, "Exciting reading, huh? Surely in the end it turns out that the killer is a butler."
"What other butler? The butler has nothing to do with it. And it is unlikely," - having thought, Longsdale added, "the one who did this considers himself a murderer."
"And who did it?"
"I don't know yet."
"And I don't know," Brennon said grimly. "Therefore, you would go home and not interfere with my work."
"The report says that the first victim suffered from alcohol addiction. Drunkards, especially bitter ones, often see what others do not."
"Still would. Green owls, yellow dwarfs, red elephants. My uncle saw devils with a pitchfork, ran around the yard and fired at everything that moves."
The dog snorted, and Brennon suddenly felt sympathy for the speechless animal. With such a master...
"Nice dog. Thoroughbred. The name of?"
"Whom?"
"The dog."
"Which one?"
Nathan longed for whiskey.
"Good," he said, resigned to the presence of the consultant in his office, "Here is the map. The bodies were found here, here, here and today - there. The second, fourth, eighth and eleventh of November. These are the dates of discovery. Death occurred six to ten hours before. At the first..."
"It doesn't matter where they were found," said the consultant thoughtfully, "It is important how they got there."
"Do you think our tip freezes people's lungs and then pulls bodies into the lake?"
"I do not think... And where are the other reports? Where are the bodies?"
"Thaw."
Such a perplexity was reflected on the face of the counseling whip that Brennon could not deny himself pleasure. He threw on his coat and beckoned a valuable specialist with him:
"Come on. I will show you."
***
Much to the Commissar's disappointment, Longsdale did not gnaw at the ice or lick. He went around all three of the cut blocks (two old victims plus a new one), he thought about it and offered to unfreeze them.
"Kennedy is against," said the Commissar, "He says that if the ice is melted, it will damage the body. We have the first victim left without a face..."
"But you have a skull."
"So what?"
"You can restore the face through the skull."
"What?!"
"Anthropological reconstruction," Longsdale explained patiently, "Schreiber in Lindenne is already doing it, Leroy and Steinberg, Gossel at your university in the capital..."
"Good, good!" - hastily wedged Brennon. At first he decided that the consultant was rubbish again, but the chain of names at least proved that it was not his personal idea. "I'll talk to Kennedy. Without his knowledge..."
"The skull needs to be cleaned..."
"Yes, yes."
"Take measurements..."
"Sure!"
"Put tags..."
"OK!"
The consultant finally fell silent.
"And ice," he muttered a little audibly, "to melt the ice..."
To Brennon's surprise, the pathologist did not veto the Longsdale venture. The old man thought deeply, but reluctantly admitted that he had heard of this method.
"True, the results are not always satisfactory. However, since without identification this gentleman is lying in a nameless grave, I think there will be no harm if Mr. Longsdale tries."
"Truth?" Commissar raised. Surely this is a long business, the consultant will stop flickering before his eyes for three days...
"But under my strict control!"
"Of course..."
Bringing Longsdale to the morgue, Brennon whistled a police artist and led him to the ice blocks in the backyard.
"Well, funny faces," the student remarked, skeptical about all three.
"Don't stare at it," Brennon advised. He walked over to today's sacrifice and peered intently. The deceased pressed one hand to his chest, clenching his fist. Above the fingers were visible the crossbeams of the cross, around which there was a spherical cavity. The commissar buried his nose in the ice. The cross was large, heavy, made of gold, decorated with stones. Brennon noticed a piece of a gold chain on the dead man's black sleeve. I saw the same on my shoulder.
Near the Commissar's office, policemen were already waiting, interviewing the inhabitants of the village on the lake. As always, no one saw, did not hear, and generally neither sleep, nor spirit. However, Brennon did not count on this. So that his subordinates did not relax, he ordered them to wait for the artist, get portraits of the untimely dead and go around the houses of all those who reported the loss of friends and relatives. The Commissar himself brushed his coat, frock coat, hat and turned his feet to the stronghold of spirituality.
The Cathedral of the Virgin Mary raised domes over Rebellion Square, a few steps from the police department. The beggars on the porch, having barely seen Brennon, rushed scattering with scolding. More energetically, the paralytic wore off. The commissar snorted. Before the interrogation of these creams of society, things will come. Now he wanted to see the bishop.
Catholic life went on as usual, Brennon did not notice much panic or anxiety. He caught a couple of youths from the choir in the nave and demanded
Simon Whitby was considerably lower than the Commissar and obviously did not receive any pleasure from the meeting. The bishop turned sixty, and he belonged to those pillars of society, which still considered the policemen to be something like scavengers or janitors. Therefore, having discovered one of these garbage near his office, His Grace angrily swelled and coldly inquired:
"What did you forget here? Alms are given out on Fridays."
His very tone implied that the garbage would be ashamed and crawl away into its cesspool. But Brennon in all his life no one compared with a delicate flower, and someone else's hostility touched him as little as the rice crop in Marandzan.
"I am conducting an investigation into the murder, of which one of the ministers of the church fell victim. I suspect this church," the commissar drew a finger around the little corridor.
"Your vile hints..."
"Hints have nothing to do with it. This morning we found on the lake the corpse of one of the priests. In his hand was a large golden cross decorated with green and red stones. This is unlikely to be found in an ordinary parish church. As soon as the artist finishes the portrait, we will put this person on the wanted list... Isn't it better to share his thoughts with me privately than to notify the whole city that priests steal crosses and die a bad death?"
The bishop wiped his sloping forehead with a handkerchief. Brennon had a low opinion of the mind of this sanctuary, but nevertheless his arguments pierced him. Whitby unlocked the door and with a sharp gesture invited Nathan to enter.
"Father Joseph Tyne," the bishop said abruptly. "One of my vicars. He is responsible for the preservation of church utensils. Several stones fell from the cross, and Father Tyne had to take it to a jeweller. As I understand it, he agreed with van Shpeer that he would call in the evening, after the closure of his workshop. The temptation for the laity, you understand."
At the same time, the bishop was sorting through the papers in the secretary's box. Pulling out a folder, he slipped it to the Commissar.
"I beg. There are so many valuable items in the cathedral that I carefully check everyone who has access to them. Father Tyne worked for the good of faith in my cathedral for more than eight years. Not the slightest suspicion, not a single misconduct..."
"Therefore, when today he did not come to you to report on the safety of the cross, you did not bother the police?"
Whitby grinned obediently.
"The police now climb without soap to the places where they didn't let her go beyond the threshold before! But, so you know, Father Tyne is the purest, crystal-honest man! I didn't even think that he had gone astray, had appropriated a cross and started on a spree... Where is he, by the way?"
"At the morgue," Brennon answered, studying the file. The bishop impatiently waved:
"I mean the cross! This is a valuable relic, which..."
"I answer," the commissar shot a holy look from under the saint, "The cross is in the morgue. He's frozen, you see. But as soon as we can separate him from the deceased, we will immediately return him."
"F… f… frozen? Where are you cold? How?.."
"Into the body," Brennon slammed the folder shut, "We will keep you posted."
"But listen!.."
"By the way, where were you yesterday and when was the last time you saw venerable Tyne?"
The bishop gasped in indignation. However, since Brennon listened to his angry speech without any interest, then by will or not, His Grace had to return to an ugly reality.
"Yesterday I left the cathedral at about five in the evening. Father Tyne had come to see me shortly before, informed me of his visit to the jeweller, and left. As far as I know, he was going to spend time at the cathedral before six, and then go to van Speer. They made an appointment at half-past six."
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"Have you noticed anything strange? Wacky? Father Tyne was excited, scared, maybe excited?"
"No," the bishop answered dryly, "No more than always. He reports to me every Tuesday."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Brennon patted the folded folder in his palm, "We will keep you informed..."
"But the cross!.."
"Especially about the course of defrosting. Good day, sir."
As promised to the bishop, the Commissar did not sit back. Forty minutes after his return to a warm, comfortable study, Brennon accepted a report on an attack on a student, sorted out several allegations of robbery and murder on the Midraine Road, and found out that Father Tyne had not reached Van Shpeer and did not return home either.
***
Sometimes the Commissar wondered who wrote the detective novels and stories, and why did all these people think that the victims or relatives of the killed people would cheerfully report during the interrogation, where they were and what they did to the minute. Father Tyne's sister said nothing at all, only cried silently in her handkerchief. She was a thin, fragile lady of about fifty, meek and quiet. Sobbing gratefully, when Brennon handed her a cup of tea, she silently listened to everything he told her and froze in her chair. The Commissar sat next to him and gently asked:
"Miss, were you expecting your brother yesterday?"
The woman shook her head.
"Why?"
She sighed several times frantically, and Brennon pushed a cup toward her.
"He spoke before leaving..." Miss Tyne whispered and took a few sips, "What will carry the cross to repair... I... I thought... He sometimes slept on the couch in his office, if he was late until late... I decided..." she burst out a short sob, "He just did not send today for buns! I always baked buns for him, but he sent for them, but today did not send!"
Here's a pig, Brennon thought of Bishop Whitby. Miss Tyne fell bitterly weeping. Ordained hog had not thought or seek out father Tyne, nor to send to his sister's acolytes.
"And I'm waiting, waiting..." the woman whispered, "I'm waiting and waiting..."
"What way your brother did usually go home from the cathedral?"
"He took a cab," she said with difficulty, "I don't know..."
"Did he drove somewhere along the road, bought something?"
"Newspapers, sir, and loved cookies in the Bright's store..."
Brennon escorted Miss Tyne to the exit and put her on a cab. He handed her his business card, but the woman hardly understood what they were giving her. The commissar stared at the cab for a long moment, reflecting on senior officials; but since these thoughts were never joyful, he discarded them. It was necessary to establish the ident.i.ties of the other victims as soon as possible in order to find out at what point they could all intersect.
The consultant was found in the backyard. Brennon cringed: in winter he could not go out without a coat, frock coat and scarf, and Longsdale was without all this and did not frown. He studied bodies with a magnifying gla.s.s; the dog sniffed the blocks of ice.
"I can melt them."
"The dead?" the commissar was delighted, "But Kennedy fears that it will damage the corpses."
"I know," Longsdale tapped his finger on the block, "I took ice samples. As soon as a laboratory is equipped in my house, I will conduct experiments and determine the safest way..."
"Chose a house eighty-six?"
The consultant started and stared at Brennon.
"How did you know?!"
"I saw your butler with carts."
Longsdale's face stretched out in frustration, like that of a child who was not shown the trick.
"I thought..."
"What did you think?" Nathan became interested. He first discovered a human reaction in a consultant.
"I thought that since you were red-haired and were born on Sunday, which happened on the first of May..."
"I have no evil eye, and I also do not pierce anything with my third eye!" - the commissar barked, who from childhood was bothered by all the neighboring gummies. Longsdale sighed in disappointment and lost interest in Brennon. The dog snorted softly.
"What about the skull?" The commissar muttered.
"Mr. Kennedy marks him. This scientific discipline is still developing, we will have to calculate the volume of tissues ourselves..."
"In short!"
"It will take three or four days."
"Where will you do this?"
"At home, of course," Longsdale answered, "Your laboratory is too scarce and primitively equipped. The Raiden just had to end with freight."
The Commissar snuffled resentfully. Fortunately, he was distracted by the duty officer - the chief wanted to see him.
"Raiden," Brennon mused, rising to his superiors. The commissar was distinguished by an exceptional facial memory, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not remember the face of the butler. Even the colour of hair and eyes was erased from memory. And that feeling was extremely unpleasant. Almost as unpleasant as the memory of superst.i.tious grandmothers who a.s.sured his father that since the child is not only born on May Sunday, he is also red-headed, he is certainly a changeling!
"Brennon!" cried the chief, as soon as the commissar had closed the door, "You went to the cathedral again!"
"Yes, sir."
"Each time, each, how you rush about there, the bishop writes to the mayor a complaint about the arbitrariness of worldly authorities! What did you do to him again?"
"I was looking for our sacrifice, sir."
"Found it?"
"Oh yeah. Father Joseph Tyne," - Nathan fluently described the tragic fate of the priest, "Therefore, sir, I intend to interrogate all the priests who dealt with Tyne, and all who could see him on the last night. Our victims went to the same club and hardly met in the same houses. The only thing that connects them is the place of death and the road that they got there. We need to find out where they were on the night of the murder. If we find a match, grab the first track."
Broyd thoughtfully stroked his lush mustache.
"What if they died on the lake?"
"But somehow they got there? Father Tyne would be heading in the opposite direction from Weir, toward van Shpeer's jewellery store. But did not head."
"Um... Umm..."
"What the h.e.l.l carried him to the lake for the night looking? The first victim, over whose skull Kennedy is now mocking, was generally dressed in semi-home clothes. Weir froze a yard in depth, and this thug wandered there in one vest and slippers."
"Do you think he jumped out of the house because something called him?"
"d.a.m.n him, sir," Brennon answered sullenly, "Delirium tremens can call a sot anywhere. But, who knows, may be the consultant will benefit."
"I thought you were skeptical..."
"Yes, sir. But the cross surprises me."
"And what happened to him?"
"Tyne carried it to a jeweller, repairing it. And he died with a cross in his fist, pressed to his chest. Why did he get it? Wanted to drive away the murderer church bauble?"
"Brennon! You still think... hmm..."
"An ordinary murderer would have stolen a gold cross without hesitation."
"So you think this murderer is unordinary? So maybe someone scared him."
"Did our dead dig themselves into the ice?"
Ayrton Broyd frowned silently. Brennon scratched his beard thoughtfully. There was a gap in the ice around the cross. Why?