Chapter I.VII

Written: August 03, 2023

Translated: September 11, 2023

**D**espite such a shock, he, being a policeman, felt that he needed to be responsible for his words to the senior rank, so, settling into the back seat, Galbraith said to the young guy behind the wheel "Rollo, fifty-five" and, trying to suppress the memory of his friend's frozen pale face, he threw his head back on the seat (much like the doppelgaenger he saw yesterday on the subway)...

By the time the taxi driver brought the inspector to the small but neat one-story house of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure, the time was already approaching evening. Galbraith, getting out of the taxi, at parting gave the driver a tip and, approaching a low wooden fence, pressed the bell button. A couple of minutes later the gate opened and Schaeymoure, who was dressed in discreet blue pajamas (which made it difficult to think that this short, elderly man was none other than the chief inspector of Portland's police himself), let the guest in.

The owner, apologizing to Galbraith for his appearance - according to him, he had just woken up from a lunchtime nap, - walked him to the living room and, pointing to two large armchairs upholstered in green fabric, invited Galbraith to sit down. The latter did not remain in debt - sitting down in the chair that was closest to the fireplace behind, he began to wait until mister chief inspector pulled out from a luxurious sideboard a box of fresh cigars, as well as a bottle of some dark brown liquid and two glasses.

- Now, let's just get right into it, - Schaeymoure said in a cheerful tone, looking at the pleasure with which guest puffed on his cigar.

- Well, what's at stake of our today's meeting? - Galbraith had almost completely gotten rid of the oppressive mood caused by the incident at cryptic passage.

- Yes, this is it, - mister chief inspector nodded to the bedside table that stood on his left hand.

Galbraith looked in that direction more closely - on it lay a familiar stack of white photocopied sheets.

- What, are you want me to recite to you by heart everything that is written there? - Galbraith said with some mischief.

At the same time, he took another puff, not failing to note to himself that these cigars were definitely excellent...

- Well, Galbraith, there's no need for that. I already know this document perfectly from line to line, - his interlocutor answered with some mystery in his voice. - I'm more interested in what you think of its content.

Mister chief inspector Schaeymoure looked carefully at his guest. He felt a little uneasy. Time and time again this man looks at him as if he is trying to penetrate his flesh and blood and read his thoughts... Galbraith put out his cigar and, putting it in an ashtray on the small table, said:

- Forgive me generously, mister chief inspector, but I, whatever that is...

He tried to find words with which he wanted to express his complete ignorance of what was written on those sheets by the hands of his friend.

- So, what's next? - Schaeymoure tilted his head slightly.

- I... I haven't read the Pharqraut's case, - Galbraith blurted out.

His subconscious was preparing for the fact that these words of his would be followed by some kind of punishment. Maybe they'll scold him, maybe they'll just start reproaching him for laziness... But mister chief inspector Schaeymoure heard these words, simply lit a new cigar and, blowing out a ring of smoke, said almost peacefully:

- It's nice enough. Will be better check it out already under the influence.

"What? Under what influence?" Galbraith wanted to ask what Schaeymoure meant by this, but he, pouring the liquid into glasses, offered it to his guest.

- Be sure to try Pimm's, fruit liqueur. Ideally, you should drink it with some fruit, but I like it on its own. I hope you appreciate it in value..

Galbraith picked up the glass and raised it to his mouth. Subtle taste of spices... Yes of course, mister chief inspector will not drink any applejack...

- Something that is familiar... - having tried a new drink for the first time, Galbraith fell into some kind of state of ecstasy.

- There's England's spirit, - Schaeymoure winked at him, taking a sip

- England scent! - Galbraith, who found it difficult to describe the sensation that gripped him, agreed with this definition.

- By the way, why did you decide to leave your fatherland? - mister chief inspector suddenly asked a question that was unexpected for his interlocutor.

- Huh, why aske you? - Galbraith raised his head in shock.

- Just idle curiosity, - having finished the first glass, Schaeymoure was already pouring himself a new portion.

- Would you like me to entertain you during your evening aperitif? - as if addressing a friend, Galbraith said.

- I understand your state of mind, - Schaeymoure decided to hush up this topic. - Let me share with you my thoughts on the Pharqraut's case? After all, your friend was a remarkable person, and I was always interested to know how he expressed his thoughts on paper.

- Was... - muttered his guest.

Before Galbraith's eyes flashed again the facial features of Pharqraut, who was near death.

- Are you are not satisfied with what I said about your colleague in the past tense? - mister chief inspector again gave his interlocutor a piercing look.

- No, everything suits me, - said Galbraith.

He thought to himself that did the chief inspector manage to get information about that Pharqraut is no longer alive.

- Well, then it's a good, - Schaeymoure replied. - Then let me begin.

And, putting the glass on the bedside table, mister chief inspector began to express to the guest his impressions of the material he had read. With his gestures, intonation and his appearance, he strongly reminded Galbraith of his philosophy teacher, whose lectures he had attended almost a decade ago...

⁂

The inspector met the next morning in bed in his tiny apartment. The details of how he got to his home yesterday, when he finished an audience at the home of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure, completely flew out of his head. Apparently, the fruit liqueur that they drank together then had a detrimental effect on Galbraith's memory. Getting out of bed, he walked to his desk. A bundle of photocopied material of his friend's investigation lay in the same position in which it had been placed two days ago.

Looking at these sheets, Galbraith recalled excerpts from yesterday's speech by chief inspector Schaeymoure. He seemed to say something about Pharqraut's extraordinary talent for extracting meaning from things, which to any other person would seem irrelevant to this or that situation. In addition, the young inspector impressed Schaeymoure by the fact that with just words he managed to describe his adventures in the places where the deaths of those four occurred in such a way that the chief inspector, in his own words, ended up there and saw them with his own eyes, despite the fact that he had never been there was not. "Big deal, the usual talent of a writer", thought Galbraith. He knew that his friend always showed promise of becoming a writer, but alas, doom decreed his life in such a way that he had to become a police inspector...

And then, against his will, inspector's eyes filled with tears. He again watched as his friend slowly fell to the ground, as his face, on which the expression of horror was frozen, turned pale right before his eyes, and as his pulse ceased to be felt... Galbraith remembered that his friend was taken away in an ambulance, but where he was placed and what his final fate was, he could no longer know. And he didn't want to - because he was afraid that if he saw the cold corpse of his friend again, he might lose his mind with grief.
It would be better if that event at the passage will remain for him the last moment that will be associated with closest friend...

By the way, regarding the cryptic passage... Inspector, having washed his face and went into the kitchen, began to analyze that moment - immovable reflection, earthquake and blood wave... If he is to believe Pharqraut's words, then in fact Galbraith was simply rushing around in a panic at a dead end with a mirror - that is, those visions were not real events. His rational mind told him that there was no point in trying to understand the visions themselves - instead, he needed to get to the bottom of what caused them.

Putting a pan of sausages on the stove, Galbraith decided to build on what his friend told him then - narcotics. The inspector had never taken a single mind-altering drug in his entire life, he was as sure of this as in, two and two are four. This means that there was a possibility that he took the psychotropic medication unknowingly. This could be possible, if in the food he ate before, someone had quietly added a dose of some hallucinogen.

Having put forward this hypothesis, Galbraith suddenly remembered how he read in some book (if his memory served him right, it was written on the other side of the Iron Curtain), that in France there was a case where an anti-drug specialist discovered hashish in a pie that was served at an immodest price in one restaurant. And what was even worse that before this case was revealed, gourmets from all over the resort where that restaurant was located had been buying this delicacy for several years. Galbraith still remembered the name of that drug dish given in the text - "The X-Pies".

Involuntarily, inspector began to remember that book. Small, slightly larger than his own notebook, bound in green cardboard, titled "The Word about A Rest". On its pages, the author spoke of advertising as a kind of "child of Satan", which supposedly seduces mere mortals into the path of sins. Apparently, Galbraith thought, it is typical for a resident of a communist power - talk about capitalism as a kind of Satanic discipline.

Having drained the water from the pan and placed the sausages on a plate, Galbraith returned to his analysis of what influenced yesterday's incident in the passage. So, narcotics in food. What did he eat then? Armed with a knife and fork, inspector carefully cut the sausages into slices. Yesterday he left the house hungry. At a bar where he went for breakfast, he fell for the bartender's advertisement and ordered pizza. In fact, it turned out to be a disgusting semi-finished product that had neither taste nor smell. A worthy candidate for putting a pill or two of lysergic acid diethylamide in there... But for what reason?

The bartender knew Galbraith well, who often visited his establishment - one might say, from the very first day he moved into the house on Abbouts st. Did mister Anderson suddenly come up with the idea to drug his client that day? Or even not just him - who knows how many people after him then ordered that pizza... This is the case if the narcotic was added at the food preparation stage - but then again, why would cooks suddenly mix psychotropic compound into the dough? Anything can happen, of course...

Then the inspector's thoughts turned to beer, which he also ordered from the same bar. The bartender pulled that bottle from under the counter, which even then seemed somewhat suspicious to Galbraith. Unlike pizza, it's could easily have added a pinch of hallucinogen to the beer and, after waiting for it to dissolve, serve it to the client. Here it could also play into the hands of, that inspector asked to warm up the drink - even if grains of the substance were still visible in the cold beer, then with heating they finally went into liquid. But again, a regular customer and a narcotic, this somehow doesn't fit together...

After eating all the sausages, Galbraith put the cezve on the stove - he liked to end breakfast with a mug of an invigorating drink. God be with him, with this bar, he thought. But how else could the hypothetical narcotic enter his body? He came up with the idea, which smacked of schizophrenia, that the mind-altering drug was in the very decanter that was standing on the table in the office of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure at the moment when Pharqraut was speaking about his investigation. The delusion of such a hypothesis was that, that, as Galbraith thought, a drug had not yet been invented that did not manifest itself immediately after entering the body, but only the next day, and even in a very suitable place for this - in some kind of dead end, far from strangers...

Inspector removed the cezve from the stove in time - the foam bubbling from the neck almost flooded the burner. Having filled a small coffee cup to the brim, Galbraith began to wait until the drink cooled a little, because there was no pleasure in burning his tongue when the main thing in coffee (after the aroma, of course) is its indescribable, subtle taste. Galbraith never liked the tea - he even despised it, calling it "herbal decoction for people have no taste". He reached into the refrigerator for cream - alas, there was not a drop left on the bottom of the cardboard package. Nothing can be done, he'll have to drink empty coffee...

Inspector was stumped in his analysis of what led him to that hallucination. His overly rational thinking did not allow him to admit mystic, and the drug theory fell apart like a glass vase falling to the floor. Galbraith, having drunk the first cup of coffee, was already reaching for the cezve in order to pour more, but a call from the next room forced him to get up from the table. He went to the telephone and picked up the receiver.

- Hello! Go outside, a car waiting for you downstairs, - a voice unknown to him hurriedly minted words.

- I fear you are making a mistake... - Galbraith began displeasedly, who was not at all happy that he was distracted from drinking coffee.

- There's no mistake, inspector! - the caller interrupted him. - Dispatch call from Parkrose Neighborhood, they say suicide. Paramedics have already arrived at the scene and are waiting for the police.

- Fine, give me a minute, - with these words he hung up.

The caller did not introduce himself to Galbraith, but judging by the fact that he addressed him as "inspector", this was a person clearly connected with the police, and further words only confirmed this. Going out into the hallway, Galbraith sat down on a stool and began to put on patent leather shoes, because he decided that for the sake of an important moment it was worth wearing shoes that were more impressive than loafers. Remembering the coffee that was cooling in the cezve, he sighed and, leaving the apartment, ran down the stairs.

At the entrance stood a familiar square sedan. The inspector opened the back door and sat down next to the cheerful and rosy-cheeked doctor. Making the sound of a police siren, The Crown Victoria took off. Galbraith made himself comfortable and glanced out the window - the city had already woken up, children were already running along the streets, cyclists were riding, and occasionally people with loaded carts came across... "Oh yeah", he thought, "It turns out that while I was getting up, having breakfast and drinking coffee, everyone else had long since gone to work, and I’m the only sleepyhead"...

Music was playing inside the car. Galbraith immediately noticed that this was a song from the same album, which was already eight years old. Only this was a different track - if the song that was playing in the bar was about parties, then in this one, to the accompaniment of very outdated synthesizers, the young singer, with some uncharacteristic insinuating intonation, told the listeners that he was counting his last minutes under the orange sky. This song is out of date, he thought - the red giant, which by its very existence terrified the entire capitalist world, has already de facto ceased to exist. The inspector, having read in the newspapers a month ago about the Soviet coup d'état attempt, already realized that the end of this tense confrontation was not far off. America, Great Britain and other countries belonging to North Atlantic Treaty Organization no longer had to fear that a nuclear apocalypse was about to begin...

Galbraith was distracted from these political thoughts by the unexpected "No sex" to his ears, which crept into the lyrics of a song playing on the radio. Yes, in their youth these guys knew how to write texts that could surprise their listeners...

- What, the music is bad? - the doctor sitting on inspector's left noticed his neighbour's displeased grin.

- No, the song is pretty much okay, only its lyrics are shamelessly outdated, - having woken up from his trance, Galbraith turned to his interlocutor.

- I'll ask the driver to switch channels, - said the doctor and, without waiting for his answer, turned to the sergeant Saussure who was driving.

Now, instead of music, there is an advertisement for bug spray on the radio. The announcer listed the advantages of the insect repellent with such extraordinary joy, as if he had inhaled laughing gas before the broadcast.

- Well, that's better? - the doctor leaned back in his seat and winked at inspector.

- To be honest, I really don't care, - Galbraith looked out the window.

They had already left the city and were driving along the highway, on the sides of which there were trees, and only rare houses occasionally broke the monotony of this landscape, interspersed with rare power poles. There was something peaceful in contemplating this beauty. However, at the moment the inspector did not feel much pacification.

- If you're thirsty, I will give you a drink, - the doctor pulled out a backpack from under the seat and began rummaging through it.

- What have you got for me? - Galbraith, who still couldn't come to terms with being pulled away from his coffee, perked up a little.

- Take a hold, - the interlocutor handed him a shiny vacuum flask.

- Huh, nice, - Having opened the lid, Galbraith's nose felt such a pleasant smell for him. - Coffee with?..

- Sugar, just sugar, - the doctor, impressed by the inspector's smile, said this with obvious pleasure.

Galbraith did not really like sweet coffee - personally, he always drank it only with cream and without sweeteners. But in this situation he had no choice. He placed the lid on his lap and brought vacuum flask to his lips.

- Drink it down, I had a very substantial breakfast, - said the doctor, looking at how greedily inspector swallows the liquid with browned sugar.

- Thank you very much, - Galbraith answered.

He closing the vacuum flask with a lid - inspector decided that it would be better to leave some coffee for the return trip. Having given it to the doctor, Galbraith looked at the man sitting next to the driver. He did not see his face, but judging by his broad shoulders, the stranger was clearly a man with an unbending will.

- Don't you know who this is? - inspector turned to his neighbour.

- He's from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, - said the doctor. Then he leaned over and whispered in Galbraith's ear - A stern guy, but a little twitchy.

The F.B.I man, whose sensitive ears had heard the doctor's remark, turned back. Galbraith saw the arrogant face of a young man whose features seemed to be carved from stone. He, clearly restraining himself from shouting at the good-natured doctor, just glared at him from under his thick eyebrows. "Yes", Galbraith thought, "This guy will not tolerate comments addressed to him. How do they even hire such people to the authorities? His nerves are totally shot"...

- Mister Matt MacLaren, I would advise you to refrain from criticism of my person! - Galbraith heard the same voice that distracted him from breakfast.

- We should have introduced you to our inspector somehow, - the doctor answered him cheerfully, on whom the stern glance from under his brows had no effect.

The man reached at Galbraith, who was sitting directly behind him. The inspector wanted to rudely say to him "What are you staring at, shaver?", but he suppressed this desire. No, he definitely didn't like this guy in a strict black suit and thick eyebrows.

- We have reached our destination, - suddenly the booming bass of the young sergeant Saussure, who was sitting behind the wheel, was heard.

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