“Where’d you get this, old man?” I asked.
Lel playfully shook his head and leapt sideways to the door.
“I get it,” I said. “I understand. Wait a minute.”
I put the bullets back into the clip, drove the clip into the handle and shoved the pistol in a side pocket on my way to the door. Outside, Lel rolled off the porch and, falling into the snow, galloped along the facade. I felt almost certain that he was going to stop beneath Olaf’s window—but he didn’t. He circled the house, disappearing for a second and then reappearing again to peer eagerly at me from around the corner. I grabbed the first pair of available skis, fastened them haphazardly on my feet and immediately ski’d after him.
After we had circled the inn Lel shot off, stopping about fifty meters away from the building. I made my way to him and looked around. All of this was strange. I saw a hole in the snow, from which Lel had dug up the pistol; I saw the tracks of my skis behind me; I saw the furrows that Lel had made jumping through the snowbanks; but the rest of the ground around us was unmarked. This could only mean one thing: the pistol had been thrown here, from either the road or the inn. Either way, it was a good throw. I wasn’t sure that I would have been able to heave such a heavy and unwieldy thing so far. Then I understood. The pistol had been thrown from the roof. They’d taken the gun from Hinkus and thrown it away. Or else, maybe Hinkus had thrown the gun away himself. Maybe he had been afraid of being caught with the gun. Or maybe Hinkus himself hadn’t done it, but someone else… anyway, it definitely had to be from the roof. Only an exceptional arm could have thrown that far from the road, and to do it from any of the rooms would have been completely impossible.
“Well, Lel,” I said to the Saint Bernard, “you’ve done a good job. Better than me. I should have shaken down Hinkus more thoroughly, the way old Zgut would have done it. Right? Luckily it’s not too late.”
I set off back to the inn without waiting for Lel’s response. He galloped along beside me, scattering snow, falling through drifts and swinging his ears.
I intended to find Hinkus immediately—to wake that son of a bitch up and shake him to within an inch of his life, even if it cost me a reprimand on my end of year review. It was clear to me now that the cases of Olaf and Hinkus were connected in the most direct way; that their arrival here together hadn’t been an accident; that Hinkus had been sitting on the roof armed with a long-range pistol and a single purpose: to keep a close watch on the immediate surroundings and not let anyone leave the inn; that he was the one who had sent the note as a warning, signing it “F” (he’d sent it to the wrong room, of course: Du Barnstoker couldn’t possibly be wrapped up in this), that his presence here had caused and was still causing someone great difficulties, and that I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to find out right now who that someone was, and why it was happening. There were a lot of contradictions to this version of things, of course. Let’s say Hinkus was Olaf’s bodyguard, and was thwarting his murderer—well, then, why had they dealt with Hinkus himself so lightly? Why hadn’t they broken his neck too? Why had his enemy deployed such an exceptionally humane tactic as capturing him and tying him up? Actually, this would have been easy to explain: Hinkus was clearly a hired man, and they just didn’t want to get their hands dirty with him… Yes! I had to find out who he’d sent that telegram to… I’d forgotten about this the whole time…
The owner called out to me from the pantry and, without saying another word, offered me a mug of hot coffee and a huge sandwich triangle with fresh ham. It was exactly what I needed. He looked at me as I chewed rapidly, and then finally asked:
“Anything new?”
I nodded.
“Yes. A pistol. Only I didn’t find it—Lel did. Also, I’m an idiot.”
“Hm… Yes. Lel’s a smart dog. What kind of pistol?”
“An interesting one,” I said. “Professional… By the way, have you ever heard of a gun being loaded with silver bullets?”
The owner was quiet for a while, his jaw bulging.
“Your gun is loaded with silver bullets?” he said slowly.
I nodded.
“Hmm… well, I’ve read about it,” the owner said. “People load their weapons with silver bullets when they’re planning to shoot ghosts.”
“More zombie mumbo-jumbo,” I grumbled. But then I remembered hearing about this myself.
“Yes, more. Normal bullets won’t kill ghouls. Werewolves, kitsune foxes… frog queens… I warned you, Peter!” He raised a fat finger. “I’ve been waiting for something like this for a long time. And now it turns out I’m not the only one…”
I finished chewing my sandwich and drank the rest of my coffee. I can’t say that the owner’s words didn’t give me pause. For whatever reason, it appeared that the single fantastic version of the events that he’d offered was constantly being confirmed, while my many realistic ones were not… Ghouls, phantoms, ghosts… The only problem was that, if this was the case then there was nothing left for me to do but turn in my weapon: as some writer or another said, the afterlife is the church’s business, not the police’s…
“Have you figured out whose gun it is?” the manager asked.
“Yes, we have one ghoul hunter here—a certain Hinkus,” I said and left.
Standing in the middle of the lobby, looking very awkward and unnatural, like a stuffed doll, was Mr. Luarvik L. Luarvik. He stared at me with one eye, as the other peered up the stairs. His jacket looked particularly crooked on him, his pants were slipping down, his dangling empty sleeve looked like a cow had been chewing on it. I nodded and tried to walk past him, but he quickly hobbled forward to stand directly in my way.
“Yes?” I said, stopping short.
“A small but important conversation,” he announced.
“I’m busy. Give me half an hour.”
He grabbed my elbow.
“I beg you to predispose yourself. Immediately.”
“I don’t understand. Predispose myself to what?”
“To giving me a few minutes. It’s important to me.”
“It’s important to you,” I repeated, continuing to make my way towards the stairs. “If it’s important only to you, then to me, it’s not that important.”
He kept a hold on me as if tethered, planting his feet strangely: one with its toes out, the other with its toes in.
“Important to you too,” he said. “You’ll be happy. You’ll get everything you want.”
We were already halfway up the stairs.
“And what exactly are we going to talk about?” I asked.
“About the suitcase.”
“So you’re ready to answer my questions?”
“Let’s stop walking and talk,” he asked. “My legs work bad.”
Ah, he’s getting worked up, I thought. That’s good—I like that.
“In half an hour,” I said. “And let go of me, please. You’re in my way.”
“Yes,” he said. “In your way. I want to be in your way. My conversation is urgent.”
“How urgent could it be?” I objected. “There’s no need to hurry. Half an hour. Or let’s say an hour.”
“No, no, immediately please. Everything depends on it. And it will be quick. Me to you, you to me. That’s that.”
We were already in the second floor hallway. I began to feel bad for him.
“Well, all right,” I said. “Let’s go to my room. Only it has to be quick.”
“Yes, yes, of course, quick.”
I led him to my room, sat down on the edge of the table and said,
“Tell me.”
But he didn’t start immediately. At first he looked around, hoping no doubt that the suitcase was lying somewhere within sight.