Chapter 9
"Good day," he said, and Mrs. Murphy bounced like a goat. An expression flashed across her face as if the Commissar had nearly caught her red-handed.
"You!" the shout slipped out the woman, "Again?!"
"And then again. Do you know her?" Nathan pushed Mrs. Murphy a portrait of a blond stranger. It was a random poke - mainly because the Commissar wanted to find at least some connection between the brewer and the rest. The widow looked at the portrait and snorted loudly:
"Still would!"
Brennon gasped for breath.
"This bint was our incoming maid. But I kicked her out, as soon as her belly walked up. They took fas.h.i.+on – to become pregnant!"
"And where is she now?"
"How should I know?"
"But do you remember her name?"
"Forget it! No way! I won't remember the names of the maids. A lot of honor! I called her Hedy. She spoke our language barely once."
Brennon stared at Mrs. Murphy. She blushed and irritably fidgeted an ap.r.o.n.
"Like in the best houses, huh?" Asked the Commissar insinuatingly. "All the maids are called Abigal, and you have a whole staff of servants."
The widow turned to the wreath and began to straighten the ribbon.
"So, you suspected the spouse. An interesting picture - the girl is away, your husband in the cold, there are no witnesses, but you have a bad memory..."
"To h.e.l.l with you!" Mrs. Murphy bridleв with anger. "Now you will not leave us alone! Yes, I thought so! And what would YOU think when this pig only did that rolling his eyeb.a.l.l.s on her?!"
"Where did you hire her?"
"In the market, on the day of hiring. I was just looking for an incoming maid there, and this one looked decent, though she didn't babble well in our language. She had no recommendations. Well, it's visible - not a year has pa.s.sed before she dragged herself to us the size of a cow! Believe after this people... I will not tolerate the whorish girl in my house. I ordered her to get out on all four sides."
"Where did she live?"
"How do I know. Thank G.o.d, not in my house."
"When did she come to you?"
"Every two days, in the afternoon."
"Do you know where else she worked?"
Mrs. Murphy snorted.
"It is already known where! I didn't ask, but in vain..."
"How much did you pay her?"
"Two nomms a week."
Brennon gave the widow a long look. The woman stared at the floor.
"You thoroughly saved on her."
"Well..."
"And you didn't even remember her name?"
"It's not ours. Long, you break your tongue."
"And you, a gullible soul, have not even written down anywhere to whom you pay your blood nomms? What if she suddenly stole your spoons?"
Mrs. Murphy discontentedly wrinkled her sloping forehead.
"Maybe I wrote down where... I'll look, find and find."
"Find," Brennon said coldly. The woman looked at him, realized that he would not leave, and hid in the house with a displeased face expression. The commissar turned to her son. He had long noticed that Brian Murphy left the shutters alone and did not take his eyes off his mother. When she left, the young man crept sideways to Brennon.
"What happened to her?" the heir of the brewery growled.
"Discover her – and find out."
Mr. Murphy became even more scarlet than usual, and squeezed out:
"It's not me. I didn't touch her..."
"Did you want to?"
The guy averted his eyes and began digging snow with his foot the size of a violin case.
"Her name was Hildur," he muttered. "The h.e.l.l kind of surname... I am kind to her, yes... I asked her - who is this with her. I said I'd find the b.a.s.t.a.r.d and biff him."
"And she?"
Brian Murphy sighed noisily.
"Cried and left. I gave the money to her, you are not... Do not think! Don't tell mother," he added in a whisper and darted back to the shutter. Mrs. Murphy came out of the house and, with a grim look, slipped a piece of paper to Brennon.
***
"Hiltur Lynvizd," Longsdale put the paper in the folder. "I don't think that is her last name."
"I too," Brennon put his hands in his pockets and scowled with a frown on the tomes of the registration logbook. "Literacy is not Missis Murphy's strongest side. But, nevertheless, a girl with the name Hildur and a surname on "L" arrived in Blackwit either by train, or stagecoach, or river transport. Gentlemen," the commissar circled with a broad gesture several tables littered with registration books; the policemen quietly subsided, "here are a few thousand pages, among which you have to find the name of a visiting foreigner named Hildur. Proceed!"
"Lindgren, Lindquist or Lankvist," the consultant muttered. "She's from Sternborn. Maybe send a letter to their police?"
"Why on earth? She may be the tenth daughter of a poor village drunkard from a sleepy province. No one would lift a finger for her sake. No, we need to look here, in our place."
"But why do you need notes?" Longsdale asked as the Commissar wrapped his scarf and b.u.t.toned his coat.
"Then, so that we can find out where she comes from. In addition, there is a chance that she left a trace - for example, asked somebody to send her baggage to some hotel."
"Then where are you going?"
"To the Club "The Sons of Blackwhit". Our corpse is Ronald Joel Kinnan. He was recognized by Broyd, as well as his wife and children. He left in the club his hat, scarf, coat and cane. His coachman waited on the night of the murder of his master until morning, arrived home and raised the alarm."
Longsdale frowned.
"But he did not die at the club. There they will only tell you the time when he left."
"I'm not going there for Kinnan."
"But what for?"
Brennon was already running down the stairs, but since the consultant kept up (and St.u.r.dy too), he paused and indulgently explained:
"Always show all portraits to all suspects. You never know where you're lucky. A girl like Hildur came to the club a day after day later to wash the floors and clean the fireplaces. And she was a visiting maid in Murphy's house."
Longsdale changed his face, with one jump he crossed the stairs and tightly dug into Brennon's elbow:
"But the utbourd is looking for her!"
"Exactly."
"And you follow her?!"
"I hope so," the Commissar rushed through the front desk at full speed, but the consultant clung to him like a tick:
"You're crazy! And if he finds her, when will you be there?"
"So what?"
"What will you do with the utburd?"
Brennon stopped. He had already opened the door and a blue police carriage was waiting for him in the courtyard. Longsdale let go of his elbow.
"I'm coming with you," he said. "It is too dangerous – if looking for she by only the human."
"And you are not a human?" muttered Brennon. The consultant blinked in surprise. "Okay, get into the carriage. Just for G.o.d's sake - behave yourself!"
The Club for Wealthy Gentlemen "Sons of Blackwhit" occupied an elegant gray building on Rebellion Square, in the shadow of the city bank. To get inside, Brennon needed a letter of recommendation from Broyd, but the doorman tried to veto the hound:
"But sir, this is the animal!"
"And thank G.o.d. Or will you personally sniff evidence and proofs of crime under your armchairs?"
"Wh-what crime?"
"Mr. Kinnan was killed that night."
"But not in our club! Sir!"
But the Commissar had already decisively slide back the doorman away from the path of investigation and threw a coat, scarf and hat in his hands at the shocked footman.
"Come on, St.u.r.dy, look. And you - bring here the owner of the club, the manager and collect the servants for interrogation in the kitchen."
The doorman choked with indignation.
"Longsdale, take care of the deceased's coat, hat, and other belongings. Go for it!"
"Yes, sir," the consultant said complaisantly. St.u.r.dy buried its nose on the floor and trotted into a large club dining room. Brennon, making sure everything was on track, followed the hound. He did not know that a hound sniffed, but decided to trust it. In the end, it already sniffed the dead man...
St.u.r.dy walked through all the places where the deceased had visited - from the dining room to the lavatory - but nowhere did
Brennon went up into the club owner's office with some thought. People here gathered from among those who could easily refuse to answer, and it would be extremely difficult to force them. Another matter is the servant. A servant who, contrary to the conceit of the masters, sees and knows more about them than a confessing priest. But nevertheless, he need to start with the owners. At least out of politeness.
The three men were waiting for the commissar in the owner's office - Longsdale, club owner Mr. Leary and manager Mr. Hannah.
"Belongings," the consultant said shortly and nodded to the coffee table, where everything Kinnan had forgotten in the club lay in a pile. "No trace. He certainly did not go out into the street in this closes and did not meet with..."
"Good," Brennon said abruptly, and turned to the owner: "So, as far as you know, Mister Kinnan, a member of the club, was killed that night. Since all his things remained here, we a.s.sumed that this was the last place he visited. What can you tell about him and his last evening?"
They thoroughly prepared for the police visit. Brennon regarded to the harmonious saga about the leisure of a worthy gentleman right up to the first wrong note:
"So you can't explain why, at the club's closure, you found Mister Kinnan's things in the dressing room?"
"Gentlemen sometimes forget something," the manager Hannah replied courteously. "We send the forgotten things to the owners the next day. So it would be this time, if..."
"And yet you cannot explain where Mister Kinnan has been since midnight, and why he went away on such a cold night without a coat."
"As I said, probably, among other gentlemen in the billiard room."
"If you ask our members," Mr. Leary added with emphasized courtesy, "they will say the same." As for the coat, the carriage was waiting for Mister Kinnan.
"That is, the holy spirit transferred him to the lake?"
"Most likely a coachman."
Brennon stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He looked around the gentlemen with a heavy look from underneath.
"Kinnan went outside through the back door, without a hat and coat. He ran along the street for a long time, until he wet his shoes and lower half of his trouser legs. In the end, the killer overtook him by the lake, finished off and threw the corpse on the ice. All this time the coachman was waiting for him at the club, then he went home and, together with Mister Kinnan's housemates, began searching. He was found at five in the morning. Death occurred at about two in the morning. From you, I only need one thing - the time when he left the club."
Hannah licked his thin lips and stared at Mr. Leary. He was silent, drumming his fingers on the table. Longsdale melancholy scratched the hound 's scruff with the toe of his boot.
"We can't quite answer you," the club owner finally said. - About one o'clock in the morning we were all seized with... seized with... There was a certain confusion and, in its way, even panic. Unfortunately, I can't name the cause, perhaps a gas leak from the kitchen. However, after about ten to fifteen minutes, everything returned to the order befitting our inst.i.tution."
"He went out," Longsdale said. "And it followed him."
"Mister Kinnan was not seen after that," Mr. Leary finished, casting an interested look at the consultant.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?"
Leary sat up arrogantly in his chair.
"Our establishment has a certain reputation, sir!..
"Therefore, let the members of the club die in batches, if only would away. Where are the servants?" nhe commissar sharply asked Mr. Hannah.
"Downstairs in the kitchen."
"Conduct."
The manager without much joy moved to the stairs. Brennon nodded briefly to the club owner, motioned for Longsdale to follow, and slammed the door.
"It came for him here," Nathan whispered to the consultant. "The gentlemen were scared no less than the illiterate fishermen in the Murphy quarter. Kinnan rushed to the call, but common sense prevailed, and he tried to scram.
"Or the utburd just chased him through the streets."
"What for?"
"To play," Longsdale shrugged. "It is the child."
***
The servants gathered in the kitchen. Mr. Hannah, walking past footmen, waiters and cooks, muttered surnames and posts. Brennon watched the faces. Many were alert, some were angry, but almost all were tense and very scared.
"One girl is missing here," he said when the manager finished. "You recognized her from the portrait."
"Oh yes, a foreigner. We have not seen her for three or four months."
"Ever since you noticed her pregnancy?"
Mr. Hannah coughed and blushed slightly, the servants whispered. Brennon gave them a long look.
"Do you know where she lived? Did she have friends? Relatives? Did she talk to any of you?"
The answer was silence. The hound snorted softly.
"So, guys. As you see, the police got into the case, so no one will go out and go into this house until I find out the whole truth."
"You have no right!.." the housekeeper raised his voice.
"A member of your club was killed," Nathan replied insinuatingly, "and the last place where he was seen alive is this house. Do you tumble to it?"
The housekeeper frantically ran a handkerchief over his lips.
"You cannot blame..."
"Why? What's to stop me? Hildur is a very beautiful girl, so maybe some ardently in love servant hit hard Kinnan a poker in his pate when he found out that Kinnan raped her."
A bunch of frightened people burst out in confused sighs. There was a strangled whisper, "Oh Lord! My G.o.d! No, it cannot be! Who would do it?.. She is a foreigner!" Brennon watched them like prey - who was the first to tremble, who would give out a panicky look or an involuntary gesture? Hannah pressed his crumpled handkerchief to his lips again.
"This is unheard of! You will answer for such slander!"
"Drop it," the commissar took a step toward the servants, and they instinctively leaned back. "They know. Servants always know, right?"
He found him in the crowd - a tall, thin guy, dark-haired, pale to blue, with wet strips of sweat over his lip and forehead. The footman backed away, trying to dissolve into the crowd. Brennon circled the table, approaching him. The hound followed him. People huddled against the walls in an attempt to get away from the hound as far as possible.
"Well then, lad?" The commissar asked almost softly. "What's your name?"
The footman quickly licked his lips, shot his eyes back and forth, and darted to the door. The hound overtook him with one leap, rose to the hind legs, with the front it pushed the guy into the wall and soundlessly bared the fangs. The muzzle, which was opposite his face, made such an impression on the young man that he squealed heart-rendingly:
"It's not me! I did not do anything! I did not touch his finger! She herself, herself!"
"She herself what?" Brennon asked. "Is it her own fault?"
"Yes!" The guy cried hysterically. "There was nothing to spin! This Kinnan can all of us with one finger... he gave her money, in the end!"
The hound fell upon him with all its weight. The footman whined and crawled to the floor, covering his head and throat with his hands. The hound stood above him, and its eyes burned like coals.
"Next," the Commissar said coldly.
"I gave her brandy," the guy sobbed, "and took her home... to her house! How did I know!.."
"Surname, name, place of residence," Brennon took out a notebook and a pencil. "And her address."
***
"No luck," the Commissar concluded grimly. Curtains fluttered on the hostess's window, and Nathan felt a boring, suspicious look on his back. "She could not stay here, since she became pregnant."
The rules of Mrs. Austin's young women boarding house were strict - a girl could only rent a room as long as she remained a girl. Hildur Lindquist was pushed out the door immediately, as soon as her position became noticeable. Mrs. Austin, a hook-nosed, thin lady from former, was stern and adamant - no loose and depraved women. Missis did not know where her former guest went, and proudly announced with an imperial accent that she hoped to never know. With such difficulty, the trace found was again lost; and besides, Nathan gloomily thought that for a single girl without money and relatives this could very well have been the last straw.
"Who knows," he muttered, "if at least someone had helped her, maybe there wouldn't be a utburd here."
"Maybe," Longsdale agreed. "But the hostess is not difficult to understand - every second man perceives such boarding houses as his hunting grounds, and only reputation protects the girls. One black sheep is enough to cast a shadow on everyone."
Brennon stopped and gave the consultant a long look.
"You all reason like that, right?"
"We?" surprised one.
"You, imperials. Each victim is to blame for her misfortune."
"I didn't say that," Longsdale replied soothingly. "I only explained what guides Missis Austin."
"That's all for you," Brennon said scornfully. "Talk about the common good and are guided by the arguments of the mind. But now thanks to this, a hungry utburd is hanging around the city, and as I understand it, he will gorge until the food runs out."
"Well, sometimes they fall into hibernation for many years..."
"If there was at least someone," the Commissar said through set teeth, "at least there is one who would beat Kinnan with a stick at the very first attempt..."
The hound poked its wet nose into Nathan's palm and trotted beside him. Brennon ruffled a thick red mane as he walked. It was already dark, and the lamplighters lit the lanterns along the streets. The snow creaked underfoot, and Nathan thought again about the methods of ut.u.r.d. The boarding house was not far from the lake, and if Hildur had stayed here, nothing would have prevented him from coming for her.
"Do you think she killed him out of despair?"
"And from what else?" Muttered Brennon.
"There are many reasons," said Longsdale. "She was trying to etch the fetus. Maybe she is not such an innocent victim as you want to think. Utburds do not just appear. It takes a lot of hate."
"We won't know this until we find Miss Lindquist. Does nothing bother you in the victims?"
The hound noisily sucked in air.
"No. Should it?" the consultant was puzzled.
"No one resisted," Nathan said thoughtfully; they stopped on a hill, from which a view of the gently sloping bank of Weer and the white smooth surface of the lake itself was revealed. "Besides the priest. But he was armed only with golden knick-knack and the Bible."
"Well, not really knick-knack..."
"You said that there is no power in the cross to scare away the beast. Well, perhaps Father Tyne believed in this power. And it did not help."
"You said you are the atheist."
"Yeah."
"How do you do it?"
Brennon turned around in surprise. The consultant thoughtfully looked at the lake.
"You know about other side, that the dead sometimes come back, about utburd, in the end - and how do you still manage not to believe even in the existence of the soul?"
"Uh... kaff..." the commissar faltered, because had never gone into such depths. "I somehow... What does the cross have to do with it?"
"It is not a matter of earnest faith," Longsdale said softly, "because it is also inherent in religious fanatics. The fact is that the person holding the cross in his hand embodied the qualities that the cross personifies, and this allowed him to give them this toy to a certain extent."
"What?!"
Longsdale repeated and never faltered. Brennon froze. Like the sun, insight flashed before him.
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"Oh my G.o.d!" The Commissar wheezed, clutching his head. "Oh my G.o.d!.."
"What?" excited consultant. "Are you sick?"
"Idiot!" Brennon growled and pulled out a hand on which Longsdale was trying to feel his pulse. "We are all idiots! Father Tyne didn't try to beat off the utburd! He was protecting someone from him! He stood with his hands up, and in one was a cross, and in the other a Bible! Like this! So, when they try to close someone with themselves!"
"But whom?" Longsdale dazedly asked.
"Hildur," Nathan threw out abruptly and rushed up the street to the department. "Hildur Lindquist!"
"Why do you think so?"
"Now you will understand. Go, go!"
"But where..."
"Why didn't the utburd find Hildur?"
"Uh... Well, options are possible..."
"Because she picked up Father Tyne's Bible. The Bible with a relic that scares off this beast!"
"So what?" the consultant asked uncertainly; he did not lag behind, although Brennon almost fled; the hound rushed forward, as if it knew what the commissar was striving for.
"Where could a girl go, pregnant, without money, without a roof over her head? To the priest! Father Tyne has patronized several shelters, and I'm sure one of them is for single women. Lord! What an idiot I have to not guess!"
"But who will tell you what kind of shelters Father Tyne was engaged? At such a time!"
"The Gallagher report has all the addresses," Nathan answered and cast a gloomy glance at the sky. It has already poured deep, to black, blue. A thin strip of sunset melted above the lake.