Chapter III.VII

Vitaly Ivolginsky

Always Visible (Another Prayer for the Dying Horror Genre)

Third Act — Qualquer ou Uma Grande Recompensa

Chapter III.VII

Waking up the next day, Galbraith noted with great displeasure that while he was sleeping, bedbugs again covered him from head to toe. There is nothing to do, he thought, and ran to the bathroom. Not so much for the sake of washing, but for the sake of getting rid of parasites under running water. After rinsing off, the inspector did not brush his teeth; he even forgot to dry himself with a towel. Approaching the window, he looked at the road and froze, but this time not because he was fascinated by the sight of the cars – the fact was that right under his window sill on the sidewalk below stood a certain young guy in a red shirt. Galbraith immediately suspected something was wrong – it seemed to him that this person had been standing there for some time, and clearly in such a convenient place to monitor the room where the inspector himself was now staying.

Standing by the window, Galbraith looked down at the young guy. He could not see his face, which was hidden behind the wide-open newspaper. Yeah, the inspector thought, the guy is pretending that he just stopped to read an interesting note, the most commonplace spy trick. Suddenly, as he was thinking about this, the mysterious stranger lowered the newspaper, and Galbraith was able to examine he a little more carefully. The scout – Galbraith had no doubt that this was not a random passer-by – had long black hair that curled slightly into curls at the ends. This guy’s nose was slightly turned up, and his facial features gave him a vague resemblance to the pretty face of young Japanese popstars. After analyzing all this, the inspector remembered that he had seen exactly the same face on the plane when he was flying to London. It seems that it was exactly the same frail guy with whom he was sitting then with the old man… Galbraith unfortunately forgot what that fellow traveller was wearing, but it didn’t matter – after all, is not the clothes that makes the man, and the man’s clothes – who, if not the policeman, should know this!

Having made sure that this guy had not noticed him from the street, Galbraith walked away from the window and headed back to the bathroom. Now he washed himself properly, not forgetting to brush his teeth. Then he picked up a razor – he wanted to shave. Alas, the inspector abandoned this case for the umpteenth time because, without calculating the effort, he rubbed too hard on the cheek and ended up cutting the skin. The blood flowed in a thin and seemingly endless red stream… “Yes, apparently it’s not my destiny to shave”, thought Galbraith, leaving the bathroom – he needed to find cotton wool and alcohol to stop the bleeding. He found neither one nor the other in the suitcase. And he even remembered why – when he was packing for the trip, he was told that he should never take alcohol with him, otherwise he might be stopped at customs.

Galbraith called the concierge to the room and, while he was waiting for him to arrive, went to the bathroom again and put his cheek under the stream of water. He knew it wouldn’t do much good, but at least the cold water dulled the pain somewhat. Soon there was a knock on the door and the inspector went to open it. However, instead of the concierge – an old man in a blue tailcoat – a young parlourmaid answered his call.

“I’m sorry, mister Galbraith”, she began hastily right from the doorway, “but mister Tibor won’t be able to come today”.

Having quickly uttered these words, she immediately fell silent, and at the same time shuddered, as if someone had pulled her from behind. The inspector tried not to pay too much attention to it.

“Why?”, Galbraith asked out of politeness.

“He was taken to the hospital last night”, said the woman and shuddered all over again.

“Are you will continue to say with one word at a time?”, the inspector said somewhat dissatisfied.

This twitch of the interlocutress was already starting to get on Galbraith’s nerves. What was the reason for the parlourmaid’s state of mind was unclear to him, but the fact remained that she behaved somehow strangely, which is why he himself had a not very pleasant feeling at that moment.

“Mister Tibor was diagnosed with cancer symptoms… I do not want to elaborate on this”, the parlourmaid said this in a tone that looked like she was about to cry.

“Okay, let’s not talk about it”, the inspector reassured her.

The woman continued to stand on the threshold, and Galbraith noticed that at the moments when she spoke, her neck visibly inflated, like a bellows. There must be something wrong with her lungs, he thought to himself.

“Could you bring some cotton wool to my room?”, he turned to her after five seconds of silence.

“Sorry, please speak clearly”, the woman batted her eyelashes.

“I called a man here to bring me cotton wool. I cut myself”, Galbraith said it loud and clear.

The parlourmaid listened to him, continuing to bat her eyelashes like a noctambulant. With every second her neck inflated more and more, as if it were a balloon that was about to burst. Galbraith wondered why she had such strange behavior…

“Cut yourself further!”, the woman suddenly shouted rudely.

“Excuse me, do you mind?”, Galbraith, surprised by her sudden outburst of aggression, tried to control himself.

“This is not a pharmacy to be dragged all sorts of medicinal muck for you!”, the parlourmaid shouted with hatred and left his room.

“Wait, where are you going?”, the inspector called after her.

“Do not address me for such things!”, came her scream from the corridor.

Closing the door behind her, Galbraith thought that apparently this parlourmaid was either a child or concubine of the concierge – the inspector couldn’t find another reason for her aggression, and he didn’t really want to – he had long ago realized that guests are not welcome in “Stait of Snow Lake” hotel. He had to take a handkerchief from his suitcase instead of cotton wool – not the cleanest, but at least something – and with its help try to do something about the cut. Having stopped the bleeding in half with grief, Galbraith decided that he had enough of sitting in this room, in which the bed was a complete anthill, the staff was inadequate, and the interior is far from luxury class. The inspector began to pack his things, but when he began to look for where he had put his spare shirt, there was another knock on the door, and he again had to go open it.

“Mister Galbraith, you’ve got a visitor”, it was still the same parlourmaid, only now she seemed to have calmed down.

“Who, excuse me?”, asked Galbraith.

“Not a young men”, as if doubting the accuracy of her words, the woman answered.

“He can wait”, the inspector was not in the mood to host any unknown men in his room.

“He said he was on important business!”, the parlourmaid said firmly.

“Well, let him come in”, Galbraith waved his hand and walked away from the door.

He walked to the window and looked down. The guy in the red shirt was no longer there – maybe it really was a random passerby…

“Good afternoon!”, someone’s insinuating voice called out to him.

Galbraith turned around – a middle-aged men entered the room – not as old as the parlourmaid presented the visitor, although with silver hair. Apparently, the suddenness with which the owner of the room turned around scared this men a little, because he backed away slightly when the inspector stared at him. “Hmm, he looks like a medic”, Galbraith thought, looking at this uninvited visitor, dressed in a strict brown suit, over which was thrown a white medical gown.

“So I understand that you are a doctor?”, the inspector expressed his guess out loud.

“No, you made a mistake”, the men answered with some sly gleam in his eyes. “I work in the field which holds the key to the future”.

“And which one exactly?”, Galbraith was intrigued by this definition.

“Computer technologies”, the interlocutor answered calmly.

After these words, the silver-haired men modestly lowered his eyes, but it was clear that in fact he was almost bursting with importance. “So that’s the way it is”, thought the inspector. Looking at this men, a memory involuntarily came to his mind of how back in 1981, when he first saw a used Tandy microcomputer at the police academy, he got into an argument with its operator. That cheerful guy, sitting at the keyboard, told Galbraith, who was standing next to him, that the computer is a product of evolution, comparable to the invention of the steam engine. Without skimping on expressions, the operator said that mass computerization is the future of humanity, which will lead it out of the swamp of ignorance.

Galbraith himself responded to this expatiation by saying that he certainly understands that soon computers will be used in all areas of life, but computerization is inherently a a bilge pump, after all, a simple strike of power plant workers all over the Earth is enough for all electronics – including computers – to turn into a pile of useless scrap metal, and with this a terrible crisis will begin. And Galbraith did not fail to cite libraries as an example – in his opinion, if knowledge is only in electronic form, then with the loss of electricity, civilization will return to a state close to the Stone Age.

When he said this, the computer operator yelled that he was a pessimist, and also, apparently, a spy sent by the Communists. “Yes”, Galbraith thought, “Something similar was said to Pharqraut at the University of Portland, only unlike him, I was not kicked out because of this conversation…” The inspector looked up from his memories and turned to his visitor.

“Well, if you work in the field of the future, then I’m certainly very happy…”, he started.

“Well, how could it be otherwise!”, the silver-haired men interrupted him.

“Wait, I didn’t finish”, Galbraith said. “I wanted to ask how you found out about me”.

At these words his visitor pulled out a small white card from his pocket and, holding it in his left hand, said:

“I’m a specialist from the “Makoto Computerization Institute” and we are looking for volunteers…”, he began to speak.

“What other volunteers? Did I write somewhere that I want…”, the inspector interrupted him with growing dissatisfaction.

“Now it’s your turn to listen to me!”, raising his voice, the silver-haired men flashed his eyes.

“Okay, I get the message”, Galbraith exhaled noisily.

“We need volunteers so that from the point of view of a common person we can evaluate the computer’s dreams”, the specialist said with some pathos.

“The computer’s dreams?”, the inspector repeated the last words of his interlocutor in amazement.

“It’s a long story, you better come to us right away, and we’ll all…”, the silver-haired men didn’t finish speaking.

Interrupting the phrase mid-sentence, the specialist put the card he had been holding in his hands on the nightstand.

“See you!”, he said cheerfully, heading towards the exit of the room.

After two seconds Galbraith went to the nightstand and picked up a piece of white glossy cardboard. This business card had only two lines – the name of the institution the visitor was talking about, as well as the address. Galbraith, peering at the small letters, suddenly heard the visitor slam the door, and almost uttered the exclamation “Hey wait, stop!”. Having put the card back, the inspector ran to the door and opened it, but there was no one in the corridor. Okay, Galbraith thought, what’s the point of chasing after this stranger because that he forgot to ask him how he knew about his modest person. Closing the door, the inspector glanced at the nightstand and returned to the bed. Not wanting to be covered in bedbugs again, he simply sat down on the blanket and stared straight ahead.

Galbraith’s head was now in complete chaos. From the very beginning of this whole story with doctor Baselard, the inspector’s nerves were already beginning to fray, but now, being in a foreign country, in the room of this terrible hotel, Galbraith’s paranoia began to progress. He immediately began to suspect that this visitor, who introduced himself as a computer specialist, was affiliated with that gynecological surgeon. Galbraith was well aware that his own visit to the doctor, which took place back in Portland, undoubtedly made Baselard confident that the police had already arranged surveillance on him and therefore would not miss the opportunity to send a policeman after him. Therefore, after leaving America, doctor Baselard apparently warned his friends in London in advance so that they would monitor the people who would look for him. “This hypothesis has the right to life”, Galbraith thought.

Thinking about America, the inspector could not help but remember that it was rather strange that none of the Portland Police Bureau people cared about the escaped doctor. All the police did was to arrest Baselard’s assistants who were present during the hysterectomy operation. They were interrogated, and after recording their words, and no further action was taken. And only Galbraith insisted that one should not turn a blind eye to this – a couple of days after the case of Delia’s death was closed, he volunteered to catch the instigator of this incident. The police looked at him as an idiot who decided to chase a ghost.

Galbraith was told that his idea of ​​catching Baselard did not make sense, because the death of daughter of certain pharmaceutist was not an event for which it was worth catching a person who had already moved to another country. The inspector was told by his superiors that the Portland police saw no point in asking the Metropolitan Police Service to hand over a some surgeon to them. It was incredibly lucky, Galbraith thought, that someone did apply, and soon he was issued a visa, bought a plane ticket and booked a room in the very hotel where he was now sitting. It is possible that this patron, who wished to remain anonymous, was mister chief inspector Schaeymoure himself, but Galbraith did not have time to particularly understand who helped him and with what thoughts, because at that time he was already packing his things to fly to England.

Due to the overwhelming emotions and impressions, it was difficult for the inspector to put his thoughts in order. Galbraith returned to today’s guest. This silver-haired man clearly knew him by sight, this specialist was well aware that he would be staying in this room of “Stait of Snow Lake” hotel… Who it might have been? Galbraith began to think that his today’s visitor was probably Baselard’s assistant, perhaps even his closest disciple. Apparently, he received Baselard when he arrived in London, and, having learned from the doctor the signs of Galbraith, in some incomprehensible way he tracked down the inspector and paid him a visit, just to see, to make sure that his master was being hunted…

“Don’t be in such a hurry”, Galbraith said quietly to himself. “Need to calm down…”

Sitting on the bed, he felt as if the world around him was spinning at a frantic pace cante flamenco. What made matters worse was the fact that even without going to bed, the bugs still took the opportunity to stick around a person. Feeling a disgusting itch all over his skin, Galbraith got up and went to the window, hoping that the parasites wouldn’t get him here. Looking at the already tired landscape of the road, he began to remember what he knew about Baselard’s assistants. As he remembered, there were only two of them – a man named Norman Van Riesen and a woman named Caetlynn Armour.

At first they interrogated the female, because she easily made contact with the police – it seemed that she herself was going towards the investigation. In addition to facts of little interest to Galbraith about how she gave Baselard instruments and other medical supplies, she also told an interesting detail – It turns out that the doctor, before starting to operate on Delia Yonce, publicly stated that after the operation he would need to urgently fly to England, because he was not sure that the girl was unlikely to be able to recover after the removal of an important internal organ. When Caetlynn Armour was asked if she remembered whether doctor Baselard specified the city to which he was going, she said that he limited himself to only a general definition of the country.

Then Galbraith recalled how the second assistant, a male, was interrogated. The police interrogating him found it difficult to extract words from this unusually sullen man – it seemed as if doctor Baselard had deliberately hired a misanthrope as his assistant, as if he knew that if the police intervened, this man would not spill the beans. However, Norman Van Riesen did tell the police a couple of details, of which Galbraith especially remembers the second. Staring at the police with hateful eyes from under his thick eyebrows, this man said in a hoarse voice that after they removed uterus from the girl, mister Baselard, together with miss Armour, began to remove some kind of thing from the organ – mister Van Riesen could not pronounce its Latin Name. Norman himself received an order from the doctor, the essence of which was that he had to dial some telephone number on the phone and, after waiting for the subscriber to pick up, shout in the most hysterical voice possible any nonsense that came into his head. Alas, the police interrogating Norman Van Riesen were unable to get him to remember the words he shouted into the phone, because after telling them this story, he lost his temper and began screaming for them to let him go to his wife.

In any case, these words about the phone call made Galbraith remember that very morning when, the day after the day of his vacation, he was woken up by a call, and, picking up the phone, he heard a hysterical voice that shouted “Maestro, say “você”! “Você” means “you”!”. Then Galbraith was out of sorts and immediately hung up, but now that he was aware of who that unknown caller was, it now dawned on him why he then had a feeling of some impending trouble. Poor Delia, the inspector thought to himself…