The Dead Mountaineer's Inn: (One More Last Rite for the Detective Genre)

4.

By morning the storm was over. I got up at dawn, while the rest of the inn was still asleep; I rushed out onto the porch wearing only my underwear, and scrubbed myself all over with fresh, fluffy snow, in the hope of getting rid of the hangover I was still feeling from the three glasses of port. The sun had just risen from over the eastern ridge, and the long blue shadow of the inn was stretching into the valley. I noticed that the third window to the right on the second floor was wide open. Apparently someone couldn’t get enough of the healthy mountain air—even at night.

I went back to my room, got dressed, locked the door behind me and ran to the pantry, practically jumping down the stairs. A flushed and sweaty Kaisa was already fussing over the lit stove in the kitchen. She brought me a cup of cocoa and a sandwich, both of which I finished standing right there in the pantry, as I listened with half an ear to the owner humming away in his workshop. Please let me not run into anyone, I thought. This morning is too good to share… Thinking about it—about the clear sky, the golden sun, the empty, powder-filled valley—I felt like a miser, like the little man who’d appeared last night in that fur coat up to his eyebrows, ready to get in a fight over five crowns (Hinkus was his name, a youth counselor: he was on sick leave.) And then wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t run into anyone, except Lel the St. Bernard, who watched with good-natured indifference as I buttoned my bindings and sped off into a morning, a bright sky, a golden sun, a fluffy white valley that were all mine.

After finishing a ten-mile ski to the river and back, I returned to the inn to grab a bite to eat and found that things were already in full swing. The inn’s inhabitants emerged en masse to warm themselves in the sun. The kid and Bucephalus were eviscerating the fresh snow drifts, to the delight of onlookers. Steam rose off both of them. The now coatless youth counselor, who turned out to be a sharp-faced and emaciated type in his mid-thirties, was hooting as he traced figure eights around the inn—though never venturing too far out. Even Mr. Du Barnstoker had perched himself on a pair of skis and was already so coated in snow that he looked like a weary and incredibly tall snowman. As for Olaf the Viking, he was practically dancing on his skis. I felt pang of jealousy when I saw that he was a real master. Mrs. Moses in an elegant fur cape looked down over everything from the inn’s flat roof, as did Mr. Moses with his waistcoat and inevitable mug, and the owner, who was explaining something to them both. I looked around for Mr. Simone. The great physicist had to be around here somewhere—I had heard his barking neigh from three miles away. And there he was: saluting me from the top of a totally smooth telephone pole.

People greeted me very warmly, for the most part. Mr. Du Barnstoker informed me that I appeared to have a worthy new rival, and Mrs. Moses shouted from the roof, in her voice like the tinkling of silver bells, that Mr. Olaf was gorgeous: a virile god of a man. This annoyed me; so I wasted no time making a complete fool of myself. When the kid (who was clearly a boy today: a kind of wild angel, devoid of manners or morals) proposed a race on skis dragged behind his motorcycle, I decided to defy both fate and the Viking, and was the first to pick up the end of the cable.

A dozen years ago races like this had been a piece of cake for me—but that was before the industrialized world had come up with Bucephalus, and anyway, back then I’d been stronger. To make a long story short, three minutes later I found myself in front of the porch. I must not have looked so hot, because I heard Mrs. Moses ask in a frightened voice if I needed to be rubbed with snow. Mr. Moses wondered grimly if anyone knew of a substance that could rub out the memory of my disastrous skiing; meanwhile the owner quickly appeared, carefully hoisted me under the arms and began trying to convince me to swallow a swig of his personal magical elixir. “It’s fragrant, strong, and will relieve pain and restore peace of mind.” Mr. Simone bellowed and whooped sarcastically from the top of the telephone pole; Mr. Du Barnstoker, apologizing, held a handsworth of splayed fingers against his heart. Hinkus the youth counselor excitedly jostled his way to the front of the crowd and whipped his head around, asking everyone if I’d broken any bones, and “where they’d taken him.”

They brushed me off, patted me down, massaged me, wiped my face, dug the snow out from underneath my collar and looked around for my helmet, as Olaf Andvarafors grabbed the end of the cable… at which point they threw me aside and turned their attention to this new wonder, which truly was quite spectacular. I was surprised how quick the turnaround was: I hadn’t even finished picking myself up before the crowd began hoisting their new hero. But fortune doesn’t care whether you’re a blond snow-god or an aging police officer. At the height of his triumph, when the Viking was already towering over the porch, leaning picturesquely on one ski pole as he smiled dazzlingly at Mrs. Moses, fortune gave her wheel a little tap. Lel the St. Bernard made his way to the winner, gave him an intent sniff and then suddenly, with a quick, precise gesture extended his right paw out directly over his ski boots. I couldn’t have scripted it better myself. Mrs. Moses screamed, the crowd burst into a series of hearty curses, and I went back inside. I am not a gloating man by nature, but I love justice. In everything.

Back in the pantry I discovered from Kaisa (with no small difficulty) that the inn’s showers, as it turned out, were working only on the first floor: I ran for fresh towels and underwear, but despite my haste I was too late. The shower had already been taken; the sound of rippling water and garbled singing emerged from behind the door, in front of which Simone stood, with his own towel draped over his shoulder. I took my place beside him; Du Barnstoker soon appeared beside me. We started smoking. Simone, choking with laughter as he looked around, started to tell a joke about a bachelor who moved in with a widow and her three daughters. Fortunately, however, Mrs. Moses appeared at exactly that moment and asked us whether we’d seen her lord and master Mr. Moses walking by. Mr. Du Barnstoker replied gallantly, and at length: no, alas. After licking his lips, Simone stared at Mrs. Moses with languid eyes, as I listened to the voice coming from the shower—suggesting finally that Mr. Moses might be found inside. Mrs. Moses received this suggestion with obvious skepticism. She smiled, shook her head and explained to us that in their house on the Rue de Chanelle, they had two bathrooms—one made of gold, and the other, I believe, made of platinum; having struck us dumb with this information, she told us that she would go look for Mr. Moses elsewhere. Simone immediately offered to go with her, leaving Du Barnstoker and myself behind. Lowering his voice, Du Barnstoker asked if I had witnessed the unfortunate scene that had taken place between Lel the St. Bernard and Mr. Andvarafors. I allowed myself the small pleasure of telling him that I hadn’t. At which point Du Barnstoker related the scene to me in full detail and, when I had finished throwing my hands up and clicking my tongue sadly, added mournfully that our good host had completely lost control over his dog, for only a day earlier the St. Bernard had relieved himself in the exact same way on Mrs. Moses herself in the garage. Once more, I threw my hands in the air and clucked my tongue (sincerely this time) but just then we were joined by Hinkus, who immediately started complaining about the fact that he was paying double the normal amount for a room in an inn with only one working shower. Mr. Du Barnstoker calmed him down by removing from within the folds of his towel a pair of lollipops shaped like roosters. Hinkus grew immediately quiet; his face changed completely, the poor man. He took the roosters, stuffed them into his mouth and stared at the great prestidigitator in horror and disbelief. Then Mr. Du Barnstoker, looking extremely pleased at the effect he’d produced, proceeded to entertain us with the multiplication and division of multidigit numbers.

Meanwhile the shower water continued to beat down, though the singing had been replaced now by unintelligible muttering. From the top of the stairs, Mr. Moses descended with heavy steps, hand in hand with the day’s hero and victim of canine disgrace, Olaf. When they got to the bottom, they parted ways. Mr. Moses took his mug behind the door-curtains, sipping as he went, while the Viking took his place next to us in line without uttering a single unnecessary word. I looked at the clock. We’d been waiting for over ten minutes.

The front door slammed. The kid ran past us without stopping, leaping quietly up the stairs and leaving behind a smell of gasoline, sweat and perfume. I realized immediately that I could hear the voices of the owner and Kaisa in the kitchen, and a sort of strange suspicion dawned on me for the first time. I stared indecisively at the shower door.

“Have you been standing here a long time?” Olaf asked.

“Yes, quite a long time,” Du Barnstoker said.

Suddenly, Hinkus muttered something unintelligible and, shoving Olaf’s shoulder, rushed into the hall.

“Listen,” I said. “Did anyone else arrive this morning?”

“Only these gentlemen,” Du Barnstoker said. “Mr. Andvarafors and Mr.… um… the little fellow, who just left…”

Olaf objected. “We arrived last night,” he said.

I already knew when they had arrived. For a second, the image of a skeleton purring out songs beneath the stream of hot water as it washed its armpits flashed across my mind. I lost my temper and shoved the door. It opened, of course. And of course, no one was in the shower. The stream of hot water (which had been left at full blast) was making a lot of noise, there was steam everywhere, the Dead Mountaineer’s infamous tarpaulin jacket was hanging from the hook, and beneath this, on the oak bench, an old transistor radio was whispering and muttering.

“Que Diablo!” Du Barnstoker cried. “Where’s the owner? Come here at once!”

A ruckus erupted. Heavy boots thumped as the owner ran to us. Simone emerged as if sprung from the ground. The kid leaned over the railing with a cigarette dangling from its lower lip. Hinkus watched cautiously from the hall.

“Unbelievable!” Du Barnstoker exclaimed heatedly. “We’ve been waiting and waiting, for no less than a quarter of an hour—isn’t that right, Inspector?”

“And someone’s been lying in my bed again,” the child reported from above us. “And the towel’s completely wet.”

Simone’s eyes flashed with impish glee.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen…” the owner said, offering a series of appeasing gestures. Before doing anything else he ducked into the shower and turned off the water. Then he took the jacket off the hook, picked up the radio and turned to us. His face was solemn. “Gentlemen!” he said in a low voice. “I can only speak to the facts. This is HIS radio, gentlemen. And HIS jacket.”

“Exactly whose…?” Olaf asked calmly.

“HIS. The dead mountaineer.”

“What I meant was, whose turn is it exactly?” Olaf asked, as calmly as before.

I silently maneuvered the owner out of the way, went into the shower and locked the door behind me. After I’d already taken my clothes off I realized that it wasn’t my turn, but Simone’s—but I didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty. That was probably one of his, I thought furiously. Well, let him wait. The hero of national science. What a waste of water… No, jokers like him should be stopped. And punished. I’ll teach you not to play tricks on me…

When I left the shower, the people gathered in the hall were still discussing what had happened. No new theories had been offered, so I didn’t stick around. On the stairs I ran into the kid, who was still hanging over the railing.

“Madhouse!” it said to me defiantly. I passed without a word and went straight to my room.

The shower and a pleasant exhausted feeling soon caused my temper to disappear completely. I pulled the armchair up to the window, picked up my fattest and most serious book and sat down with my feet propped on the edge of the table. Before I’d finished the first page, I was asleep; by the time I woke up, maybe an hour and a half later, the sun had shifted considerably, and the shadow of the inn was lying beneath my window. I could tell from its silhouette that someone was sitting on the roof, and I decided sleepily that this must be Simone, the great physicist, hopping from chimney to chimney and chortling over the entire valley. I fell asleep again, waking finally with a start when my book slipped off onto the floor. Now I could distinctly see the shadows of two people on the roof: one appeared to be sitting, while the other was standing in front of him. Tanning, I thought, and went to wash up. While I was washing, it occurred to me that a cup of coffee might be nice, a good pick-me-up, and that a snack wouldn’t be a bad thing either. I lit a cigarette and stepped into the hallway. It was already almost three.

I met Hinkus on the landing. He had just come down the attic stairs, and looked strange for some reason. He was naked to the waist and shiny with sweat; his face was so white it was practically green; his eyes weren’t blinking; he was clutching a ball of crumpled clothes to his chest with both hands.

Catching sight of me, he shuddered visibly and stopped.

“Tanning?” I asked, out of politeness. “Don’t get burned. You look ill.”

Having expressed in this way concern for my fellow man’s well-being, I walked past him downstairs without waiting for a response. Hinkus clonked his way down the stairs behind me.

“I need a drink,” he said hoarsely.

“Hot up there?” I asked, without turning around.

“Y-yes… Very hot.”

“Watch out,” I said. “March sun in the mountains is a bad idea.”

“I’m okay… I’ll have a drink, and then I’ll be okay.”

We went down to the lobby.

“You should probably get dressed,” I advised. “What if Mrs. Moses were there…”

“Right,” he said. “Sure. I completely forgot.”

He stopped and began hurriedly putting on his shirt and jacket; I went down to the pantry, where I procured a plate of cold roast beef, some bread and coffee from Kaisa. Hinkus, dressed and looking much less green, joined me and demanded something stronger.

“Is Simone up there too?” I asked. The idea of whiling away some time with a game of pool had floated into my head.

“Up where?” Hinkus asked sharply, carefully bringing a full snifter to his lips.

“On the roof.”

Hinkus’s hand trembled, scattering drops of brandy on his palm. He took a quick gulp, stuck his nose into the air and, after wiping his mouth with his hand, said:

“No. No one else is up there.”

I looked at him with surprise. His lips were pursed; he poured himself a second glass.

“That’s strange,” I said. “For some reason it seemed to me that Simone was up there with you—on the roof, I mean.”

“Take a deep breath the next time anything ‘seems’ to you—you’ll make fewer mistakes that way,” the youth counselor replied, and drank. And then he poured himself another one.

“What’s got into you?” I asked.

He stared at the full glass silently for a little while, before suddenly saying:

“Listen: do you want to suntan on the roof?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m afraid of getting burned. Sensitive skin.”

“You never go tanning?”

“No.”

He thought about this, grabbed the bottle, screwed the cap back on.

“The air’s great up there,” he said. “And the view’s gorgeous. The whole valley in the palm of your hand. The mountains…”

“Let’s shoot some pool,” I suggested. “Do you play?”

His sick little eyes looked me straight in the face for the first time.

“No,” he said. “I’d rather get some fresh air.”

He unscrewed the cap again and poured himself a fourth glass. I finished off my roast beef, drank my coffee and got up. Hinkus stared languidly into his brandy.

“Well, don’t fall off the roof,” I said.

He smiled curtly, but didn’t respond. I went back up to the second floor again. I didn’t hear any billiard balls clacking, so I made my way to Simone’s room. No one answered my knock. Unintelligible voices were coming from behind the door to the next room, so I knocked on it. No Simone here, either. Du Barnstoker and Olaf were sitting at the table playing cards. In the middle of the table there was a tower of crumpled bills. When he saw me, Du Barnstoker made a sweeping gesture and exclaimed:

“Come in, come in, Inspector! My dear Olaf, you don’t mind if the inspector sits in, do you?”

“Of course not,” Olaf said, without looking up from his cards. “With pleasure.” He called spades.

I apologized and closed the door. Where was that chortler hiding himself? I couldn’t see, or more surprisingly hear him anywhere. And why did I even care?

I can shoot pool by myself. There’s not much of a difference, really—I’d even say it’s more fun. I set off for the billiard room; on the way there, I got a little shock. At the bottom of the attic stairs, pinching the hem of her long, luxurious dress with two fingers, was Mrs. Moses.

“Now you’re tanning too?” I blurted out, unable to control myself.

“Tanning? Me? What an odd idea.” She crossed the hall towards me. “What strange suggestions you make, Inspector!”

“Please don’t call me Inspector,” I asked. “I hear it enough on the job… To hear it now from you too…”

“I a-dore police officers,” Mrs. Moses said, rolling her beautiful eyes. “They’re heroes, men of courage… You’re a brave man yourself, aren’t you?”

Somehow it happened that I had offered her a hand and was leading her towards the billiard room. It was a white hand, hard and surprisingly cold.

“Madame,” I said. “You’re practically freezing…”

“Not at all, Inspector,” she said, realizing her mistake at the last minute. “But then what can I call you now?”

“Peter, maybe?” I suggested.

“That would be charming. I had a friend named Peter once: Baron Von Gottesknecht. Perhaps you two know each other?… But then in that case, you must call me Olga. And what if Moses were to hear that?”

“He’ll survive,” I muttered. I glanced sideways at her extraordinary shoulders, her queenly neck, her proud profile, all of which made me hot to the point of chills. She’s an idiot, I thought feverishly—but then so what? Whatever. A lot of people are idiots!

We passed through the dining room and found ourselves in the billiard room. Simone was there. For some reason he had pressed himself into a shallow but wide recess in the wall. His face was red and his hair disheveled.

“Simon!” shouted Mrs. Moses, putting her hands to her cheeks. “What on earth…?”

In answer to this Simone let out a screech and, pushing his legs and arms against the sides of the recess, worked his way up to the ceiling.

“My god, you’ll kill yourself!” Mrs. Moses cried.

“You know she’s right, Simone,” I said in annoyance. “Quit playing around or you’ll break your neck.”

The fool, however, was nowhere near breaking his neck and dying. He reached the ceiling, hung there for a second, growing even more flushed with blood, and then lightly and gently jumped to the floor, where he saluted us. Mrs. Moses began clapping.

“What a marvel you are, Simon,” she said. “A human fly!”

“Well, Inspector?” said Simone, who was a little out of breath. “Shall we fight for the glory of this beautiful lady?” He picked up a cue and lunged towards me as if it were a fencing sword. “Inspector Glebsky, I challenge you to defend yourself!”

With these words he turned to the billiard table and, without taking time to aim, shot the eight ball across the table and into the corner pocket with such a crack that my eyes grew dark. However, retreat was out of the question. I gloomily picked up a cue.

“Fight, gentlemen, fight,” Mrs. Moses said. “The beautiful woman will leave a token for the victor.” She threw a lace handkerchief into the middle of the table. “But I have to go now. I’m afraid my Moses is already furious.” She blew us her kisses and walked out.

“Devilishly attractive woman,” Simone said. “Capable of driving a man out of his mind.” He picked up the handkerchief with his cue, dipped his nose in its lace and rolled his eyes. “Charming!… I see you have also been unsuccessful in your attempts, Inspector?”

“Maybe if I spent as much time around her as you do,” I said darkly, gathering the balls into the rack. “Who asked you to hang around here in the billiard room, anyway?”

“You didn’t have to bring her here, blockhead,” Simone rejoined reasonably.

“Well, I couldn’t take her to my room,” I snapped.

“You shouldn’t start things you don’t know how to finish,” Simone advised. “And rack the balls more evenly, you’re playing with an expert here… There. What shall we play? London Bridge?”

“No. Something simpler.”

“Something simpler,” Simone agreed.

He placed the handkerchief carefully on the windowsill, paused for a second, lowered his head and peered through the window at something. Then he returned to the table.

“Do you remember what Hannibal did to the Romans near Cannes?”

“All right, all right,” I said. “Let’s get going.”

“I’ll jog your memory,” Simone said. With a series of elegant movements he nudged the cueball out to where he wanted it with his cue, took aim, and sunk it. Then he sunk another ball, and split the pyramid. Then, without giving me time to take any of his victims out of their pockets, he sunk two balls in a row, before finally whiffing.

“Lucky for you,” he said, chalking his cue. “Now let’s see what you can do.”

I walked around the table, picking off the easiest ball.

“Look,” Simone said. He was again standing at the window and looking out at something off to one side. “Some fool is sitting on the roof… Excuse me—two fools! I mistook the standing one for a chimney. It appears that my triumphs have spawned imitators.”

“That’s Hinkus,” I muttered, trying to get in a better position for my shot.

“Hinkus—that’s the little one who’s always whining,” said Simone. “A scrap. Olaf on the other hand. The descendent of the ancient Scandinavian kings, believe me, Inspector Glebsky.”

Finally, I took my shot. And missed. It was a simple shot, too. Too bad. I stared at the end of the cue, examining its pad.

“There’s nothing to see—nothing at all,” Simone said, approaching the table. “You’ve got no excuse.”

“What’s your shot?” I asked, watching him in confusion.

“Two sides and then the middle,” he said with an innocent look.

I groaned and went to stand by the window, in order not to see. Simone shot. Then he shot again. Snap, crack, pop. Then he shot again and said:

“Sorry, Inspector. Proceed.”

The shadow of the seated man threw his head back and raised a hand with a bottle in it. I saw that it was Hinkus. He’ll swallow and then pass the bottle to the standing figure. But who was standing?

“Are you going to shoot or not?” Simone asked. “What is it?”

“Hinkus is getting drunk,” I said. “Today’s the day he falls off the roof.”

Hinkus took a deep swig and then took up his previous pose. He didn’t pass the bottle. Who was standing anyway? The kid, probably… Interesting, what could the kid have to talk to Hinkus about? I returned to the table, chose the easier ball and missed again.

“Have you read Coriolis’s memoir on billiards?” Simone asked.

“No,” I said gloomily. “And I don’t plan to.”

“Well, I have,” Simone said. He finished me off with two shots and broke at last into his creepy giggle. I lay my cue across the table.

“There’s no one left to play with, Simone,” I said bitterly. “I guess now you can blow your nose in your prize by yourself.”

Simone grabbed the handkerchief and solemnly tucked it into his breast pocket.

“Excellent,” he said. “What shall we do now?”

I thought about this.

“I think I’ll have a shave. It’s almost lunch.”

“What about me?” Simone asked.

“You can play some pool with yourself,” I advised. “Or go to Olaf’s room. Do you have any money? If you do, they’ll greet you with open arms.”

“Ah,” Simone said. “I’ve already been there.”

“What—already?”

“I lost two hundred crowns to Olaf. He plays like a machine—not a single mistake. It’s not even interesting. I set Barnstoker on him. He’s a magician, after all, maybe he can pull a card trick on him…”

We went out into the hallway and immediately bumped into the child of Du Barnstoker’s beloved deceased brother. The kid stood in our way, its black bulging goggles gleaming brazenly at us. It asked for a cigarette.

“How was Hinkus?” I asked, pulling out a pack. “Is he totally soused?”

“Hinkus? Um…” The kid lit the cigarette and, curling its lips into a circle, puffed out some smoke. “Not totally, but he kicked the first bottle and started on another one.”

“Oho,” I said. “On his second already…”

“What else is there to do here?” the kid asked.

“Were you drinking with him?” Simone asked with interest. The kid snorted haughtily.

“Not likely! He barely noticed me. After all, Kaisa was there…”

It occurred to me that here was an opportunity to figure out definitively whether I was talking to a boy or a girl. So I laid my trap.

“You were in the pantry then?” I said insinuatingly.

“Yes. So what? The police don’t allow that?”

“The police just want to know what you were doing there.”

“The scientific community, too,” Simone added. It appeared that we’d had the same idea.

“Do I need a permit to drink coffee?” the child inquired.

“No,” I answered. “And what else were you doing there?”

Now she’ll… that is to say, it will say something like, “I had a nibble,” or “I wolfed down two sandwiches.”

“Nothing,” the child said coolly. “Coffee and pastries with cream. That’s all that happened in the pantry.”

“Sweets before dinner aren’t good for you,” Simone said reproachfully. He was clearly disappointed. I was too.

“As for getting drunk in the middle of the day: that’s not my cup of tea,” the kid concluded victoriously. “I’ll leave that to Hinkus.”

“Fair enough,” I muttered. “I’m going to go shave.”

“Any more questions, officer?” the kid called after us.

“No. Peace be with you,” I said.

The door slammed—the kid had retired to its room.

“I think I’ll have a little bite to eat,” Simone said, lingering on the landing. “Come on, Inspector—there’s still an hour before lunch…”

“I know what kind of a bite you’re looking for,” I said. “Go on, I’m a family man, Kaisa doesn’t interest me.”

Simone chuckled and said, “If you’re such a family man, can you tell me, was that a boy or a girl? I’m stumped.”

“Go play with Kaisa,” I said. “Leave the puzzles to the police… By the way, were you the one who pulled that prank with the shower?”

“I wouldn’t have dreamed of it,” Simone said. “If you want to know, in my opinion, it was the owner himself.”

I shrugged, and we went our separate ways. Simone’s boots pounded up the stairs as I headed for my room. The moment that I passed the door to the museum, I heard a crash, something toppled with a roar, there was the sound of glass breaking and frustrated grumbling. Without a second’s hesitation, I tore the door open and flew into the room, practically knocking Mr. Moses off his feet. Mr. Moses, who was lifting a corner of the carpet up with one hand, and in the other clutching his perennial mug, was looking with disgust at the overturned nightstand and the pieces of broken vase.

“Blasted rattrap,” he croaked at the sight of me. “Filthy den.”

“What are you doing in here?” I asked angrily.

Mr. Moses immediately lost his temper.

“What am I doing here?” he bellowed, jerking the carpet up with all his strength. Doing this, he nearly lost his balance and knocked over a chair. “Here I am, searching for the scoundrel who’s been tottering around our inn, stealing things from decent people, stomping up and down the hallway every night and staring through the window at my wife! Why the devil should I have to do this, when there’s an officer of the law on the premises?”

He threw the rug back down and turned to me. I took a step back.

“Maybe I should offer a reward?” he continued, working himself up. “The damned police don’t lift a finger until there’s a reward involved. All right—how much do you want, Inspector? Five hundred? A thousand? Very well: fifteen hundred crowns to the man who finds my missing gold watch! Two thousand crowns!”

“You lost your watch?” I asked, frowning.

“Yes!”

“When did you notice it was missing?”

“Only a second ago!”

The jokes were over. A gold watch: that wasn’t felt slippers or a showering ghost.

“When did you last see the item in question?”

“Early this morning.”

“Where do you usually keep it?”

“I do not keep watches—I use them! It was lying on my desk!”

I thought this over.

“My advice,” I said finally, “is for you to write out a formal statement. Then I’ll call the police.”

Moses stared at me, and for a few minutes neither of us said anything. Then he took a sip from his mug and said, “To hell with your formal statement and the police. The last thing I want is for my name to fall into the hands of some grubby newspaper reporter. Why can’t you get to work on it yourself? I said I’d offer a reward. Do you want an advance?”

“I’m not comfortable intervening in this case,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I’m a civil servant, not a private detective. There’s professional procedure to be considered, and anyway…”

“All right,” he said suddenly. “I’ll think about it…” He paused. “Maybe it will turn up. Hopefully, it was all just another idiotic joke. But if the watch isn’t found by tomorrow morning, I’ll write your statement.”

We all agreed that this would be best. Moses went his way, and I went mine.

Who knows what new clues Moses found in his room. I had plenty of them in mine. For starters, someone had hung a sign on my door that said: “When I hear the word ‘culture,’ I call the police.” I took it down, of course—but that was just the beginning. The table in my room appeared to be covered in hardened gum Arabic. Someone had poured it out of the bottle, which was lying in plain sight. In the center of the dried puddle was a piece of paper. A note. An utterly ridiculous note. In clumsy block letters: “MISTER INSPECTOR GLEBSKY: PLEASE BE INFORMED THAT A DANGEROUS GANGSTER, SADIST AND MANIAC IS CURRENTLY STAYING AT THE INN UNDER THE NAME HINKUS. IN CRIMINAL CIRCLES, HE GOES BY THE NAME ‘THE FINCH’. HE IS ARMED AND THREATENING DEATH TO ONE OF THE INN’S CLIENTS. MISTER INSPECTOR IS KINDLY REQUESTED TO TAKE SOME SORT OF ACTION.”

I was so furious and dumbfounded by this that I had to read the note twice before I understood what it said. When I was finished I lit a cigarette and looked around the room. Naturally, I didn’t find any footprints. I smoothed out the sign I’d crumpled up and compared it to the note. The letters on the sign were also in block print and clumsily written, but they’d been written with a pencil. Anyway, the business with the sign was clear: it had to be the kid’s work. A simple joke. One of those stupid signs that the French scrawled on their Sorbonne. The note was something different, however. A practical joker might have slipped it under the door, or stuck it in the lock, or just left it on the table under something heavy, like an ashtray. You had to be either a complete cretin or a savage to ruin a perfectly good table for the sake of a stupid prank. I read the note again, took the deepest drag I could and then went to the window. There goes my vacation, I thought. There goes that freedom I’ve been waiting so long for…

The sun was already quite low in the sky, the shadow of the inn stretched out a good hundred meters. Mr. Hinkus, the dangerous gangster, maniac and sadist, was still loitering on the roof. He was alone.