Chapter I.III
Vitaly Ivolginsky
Always Visible (Another Prayer for the Dying Horror Genre)
First Act — Tempo De Construção Novamente
Chapter I.III
It’s not hard to guess that Pharqraut wanted to get off the topic of the late saleswoman as quickly as possible. Undoubtedly, the fact was that, being a bachelor, it was difficult for him to answer the mister chief inspector’s questions regarding items of women’s clothing. Therefore, he immediately moved on to describe the succeeding accident.
“Next we will talk about thirty-two-year-old Alexander O’Brent”, he continued his speech. “He was, to put it mildly…”, Pharqraut paused, searching for words.
“Who was this person in life if the policeman feels embarrassed when he tries to describe him?” thought Galbraith, absentmindedly listening to what was happening in the chief inspector’s office.
“He was a conductor of night-walkers”, speaker squeezed out.
Galbraith realized what profession his friend meant and decided to come to his aid.
“Pimpf, he was pimpf”, for the first time during the entire meeting he raised his voice.
All those present turned their heads together and stared in amazement at the inspector. There was silence in the office, but he just smiled into his moustache.
“You probably misspoke”, Maurice remarked with a quiver in his voice.
Galbraith didn’t answer the medic, he just nodded in Pharqraut’s direction, as if telling the others to listen to his friend, and he had nothing to do with it. Placing his hands on the table, inspector thought that if anyone present shared his preferences in music, then no one would have thought to be surprised by his phrase.
“I want to add”, after a minute’s pause the speaker continued, “that prior to this, mister O’Brent came from Atlanta, state Georgia, where he worked as a cashier at Chick-fil-A”.
“Huh”, Nelissen suddenly interrupted him, “at first this dropout was selling fried chickens, and then switched to different chicks!”
Apparently, the young lieutenant wanted to defuse the situation with this vulgar joke, but he failed to achieve success in this – everyone sitting at the table remained silent and looked disapprovingly at the young man. Pharqraut was the most dissatisfied – it seemed just a little more and he would approach the lieutenant and grabbed him by the neck. But to Galbraith’s relief, his friend was able to control himself.
“Determining what Alexander O’Brent died from was an easy task”, Pharqraut continued. “His body was found in the room of Eastside Lodge, where he was called by one of his subordinates”.
“Name of light-o’-love?”, Schaeymoure said, hammering out the words.
“Miss F…”, Pharqraut was began
Suddenly a high and piercing “Ahcho-o-o!” was heard throughout the entire office. This was once again lieutenant Nelissen. Covering his mouth with his left hand, the young man wiped the tears from his eyes with his right. It seemed that he deliberately sabotaged the inspector’s speech. With great effort, Nelissen gave his face a calm expression and looked at everyone present with a guilty look.
“S-s-sorry, pleas-s-se!”, lieutenant said nervously under the frowns of the others.
Inspector sighed heavily. “I understand you, buddy”, Galbraith thought regretfully, “It’s not easy when you are constantly interrupted”.
“On what issue did fille de joie call mister O’Brent?”, Schaeymoure asked as if not noticing anything.
“It was a trivial point”, Pharqraut perked up, “she came across a nervous client who categorically refused to pay”.
“Name of client?”, mister chief inspector asked questions with the indifference of an automaton.
“Thirty-four year old Eugene Woods, we have not yet been able to establish his place of work”, replied Pharqraut.
“Try harder”, Schaeymoure said with a fatherly intonation.
“As a matter of fact”, inspector ignored this remark, “O’Brent met his death in his motel room. The client fell into a state of passion and right in front of the fancy woman stabbed pimpf in the ribs with a knife, and when he fell to the floor, mister Woods began to kick him in a rage”.
Galbraith was pleased that his friend used his phrase to describe the profession of the deceased. “At least someone benefited from this band”, he thought ironically.
“When the police arrived at the crime scene, then Alexander has only a terrible bloody pulp left in place of his manhood”, inspector said.
Once again the young lieutenant let out a cry of horror, but no one cared about his phobia – especially Galbraith, who was much more worried about the fact that when Pharqraut spoke about the death of Alexander O’Brent, there was such an impulse in his voice that it seemed as if the inspector was unwittingly encouraging the actions of the murderer. “What bad did this man do to my friend if he hates him so much?” he wondered.
After these words, Pharqraut took a breath – it seemed that he was glad that he had finished the story about a man of an ignoble profession.
“The last victim was Dennis Lang”, saying this name, inspector involuntarily smiled. “He was an entomologist living in the Portland suburbs. Generous heart…”
“You’re starting to drool”, medic reprimanded the inspector
“He died as a true altruist”, Pharqraut continued. “Dennis gave his life to save another person”.
“Mister Maurice is right”, Schaeymoure interrupted him. “You should focus on the facts, not the personality of the deceased”.
“All right”, the speaker reluctantly conceded. “Lang was once walking near his house and saw a little boy running away from a mad dog with heart-rending screams”.
“You speak as if you were an eyewitness to what happened”, Galbraith couldn’t resist commenting.
“These details were given to me by his neighbour, missis Taggert”, his friend answered casually. “In general, the entomologist rushed to help the baby, but unfortunately he tripped on a stone and fell right in front of the hound’s nose, which did not deny itself the pleasure of attacking the man lying in front of him”.
“Is everything okay with that kid?”, mister chief inspector asked with some sympathy.
“Little boy was rescued”, Pharqraut said with a smile. “But at the cost of the life of his saviour”, then his face darkened again. “When poor Dennis Lang was taken to the hospital, his body was so damaged by the teeth of a rabid animal that he, without regaining consciousness, left this world in a hospital bed that evening.
“What happened to mad dog?”, Schaeymoure inquired.
“According to missis Taggert, hound, having finished with the entomologist, ran away in an unknown direction. We didn’t bother looking for her”.
“Of course, because our smaller brothers stemming from garbage”, Galbraith could not resist.
“You forgot that a dog can have an owner”, Pharqraut looked at his friend.
“Never mind”, the inspector shrugged him off.
After these words, he turned his attention to Nelissen – the story of the cruel death from the teeth of a animal impressed the lieutenant, and the young man sat, embarrassedly staring straight ahead. Galbraith himself didn’t notice and felt pity for him – It must be difficult to work in the police with a fear of blood and listen to details regarding human deaths.
Pharqraut, having finished his speech, poured himself some more water from the decanter and, having drained the glassful, looked at his listeners with an attentive glance. Most kept a straight face, and even Nelissen came to his senses and raised his head up. Then mister chief inspector Schaeymoure rose from his seat.
“Well, gentlemen, I hope inspector Pharqraut’s story gave you an idea of the kind of case our police department was faced with”, he proclaimed. “Now it’s time to give your comments on this matter”.
The first person to speak out was Maurice. Kneading his temples with both hands, medic rose from his seat and, looking at Pharqraut, declared:
“I have been practising criminal medicine for fifteen years now”, he began with barely concealed contempt. “But I can’t overemphasize how mister Pharqraut managed to put together four completely different deaths”.
Inspector, with his hands folded behind his back, looked at the stout man with hatred.
“I state”, continued Maurice, “that death by rabid dog bites and death under the wheels of a car, of course, there are similarities in that they are accidents, but…”
The medic was unable to finish his speech.
“I’m disgusted”, Pharqraut rather rudely interrupted him, “when people don’t look before they leap”.
“How dare you speak to me in this manner?”, fatso’s face became red and he clenched his fists.
Mister chief inspector raised his hand to calm his angry colleagues, and then the unexpected happened – Pharqraut, losing his composure, rushed to the exit from the office. Galbraith turned around and saw his friend, loudly slamming the door, disappear into the corridor. “It’s their own fault, shouldn’t have interrupting him”, thought Galbraith. Schaeymoure rose from his seat and placed both hands on the table.
“With the departure of the man on whose case we have gathered in this office, I think I can call the meeting officially closed”, he stated in a deadpan tone.
These words from mister chief inspector Schaeymoure served as a sign to everyone who was still sitting at the table. Stout medic pushed back his chair noisily. Muttering something under his breath about ill-mannered youth, Maurice walked away. Young lieutenant Nelissen followed him out. Galbraith, watching them both go, was in no hurry to go out. He poured himself some water from the decanter and, slowly, drained the glassful in small sips. Only after that did he move towards the exit from chief inspector’s office, glancing out the window along the way, behind which the sun was shining brightly.
Thinking about what made Pharqraut so angry about medic Maurice’s words, the inspector walked towards the subway station – for it was the shortest way to his home. The sun was already shining in full force in the sky – after all, it was already noon. Galbraith went down the steps and, feeling pleasantly cool, joined the thick influx of people. Then, stopping at a marble pillar, Galbraith, waiting for the train, began to look at the others waiting.
He didn’t know who he was trying to find among these clerks returning for lunch, mothers with children and so on, but he just wanted to really feel that he was in the crowd. Loneliness was not something for him that would make him lose his head, but sometimes inspector wanted to be in a place with a large bunch of people – apparently, this was the behest of the herd instinct, which at times broke free from somewhere in the basements of the mind of modern man…
For the first time all day, Galbraith felt like it would be nice to take a drag. He walked away from the column and, looking for a place to sit, pulled out from his jacket pocket a pack of cheap cigarettes, which he always bought in large quantities through his friend the shopkeeper. Alas, all the benches were chosen by young couples, kids and their mommies. “Well, be patient, policeman”, he grinned into his moustache and, raising the lighter to the cigarette, returned to the column plastered with advertisements – it gave Galbraith the feeling of at least some kind of foothold, and he felt a little uneasy standing in front of everyone else waiting.
With pleasure, the inspector inhaled pleasantly smelling tobacco smoke into his mouth. Oh yeah, he thought, how good it is that the laws of the state in which he lives have not yet prohibited smokers from indulging in their enjoyments underground… And in general, he continued to think to himself, it’s a little funny that the government, with almost manic zeal, imposes bans on the distribution and use of drugs, but at the same time considers it absolutely normal to allow millions of shops selling alcohol and tobacco products to operate. But if a customs officer happens to find a tiny bag of heroin in the suitcase of some shy young man, then at least bring out the saints…
Galbraith, who has been an inspector with the Portland Police for ten years, believed that thoughts of this kind come to the mind of everyone who on the guard of the order.
“Oh tobacco, you the world…”, came out of his mouth accidentally.
Certain old man standing at a distance from him suddenly twitched with his whole body and, casting glances filled with contempt at inspector, headed closer to the place where the train was supposed to appear. Apparently, he was an ideological opponent against smoking, or maybe it just seemed to him that this mustachioed middle-aged man was crazy about cigarettes, since he said such strange catchwords… Galbraith didn’t care about this – he, taking one puff after another, was simply killing time while waiting for the train.
