The family mausoleum with a patinated bronze epigraph FAMILIE GELDERSMANN loomed between two giant firs. For about a quarter of an hour, it was closely observed by a motionless dark silhouette lurking in the nearby thuja grove. Two suspectful eyes unbrokenly hawkeyed through the evening gloominess, mistrustfully rescrutinising the foggish murk fuzzing the charnel's blackened roundish roofline.
It happened again shortly before half past eight. A slight haze emanated from the roundshaped sidewall airhole. It flowed smoothly around the cross-welded grillerods, and the leaves-scented air carried it calmly over the surrounding tombstones. The man among thujas took advantage of a train rumble resounding from a distance to slip silently behind the neighbouring cenotaph. A thrush warbled somewhere. A new whitish cloud passed through the glassless fenestella into the autumn's dusk and soon floated just above the watcher's head.
For a long afterwhile, nothing seemed happening at all. The sneaking spy just listened intently, his stony eyes studying the area environing the smoking tomb house. Finally, he steadily and cautiously slipped his hand under the overcoat and pulled something elongated out of the underarm holster. Then he slowly reached into his sidepocket as well. Onto the protruding end of the produced oblong object, he noiselessly screwed a thick add-on. Aiming the extended tube upwards, he moved towards the rear corner of the observed smokepuffing ossuary.
Only a few yards were remaining to the frontwall. Any cracking sound of a trampled twig or dry leaf would be a gross mistake during the last phase of his inconspicuous advance. The stealthy visitor needed to avoid such failure at all costs. The cobbled walkway lining the stone foundations of the destination reverence shelter seemed to be the least problematic route. The tip of his polished shoe gently pushed away leaf after leaf from underfoot. Thus, preparing the ground for a professional completion of the accessional tactic without causing the slightest rustle.
His back pressed against the side wall, the cautious gentleman gradually worked his way to the frontage quoin. With a finger on the trigger, he carefully moved his weapon's muzzle in front of the spirally carved granite pillar. His smooth progress got complicated by an unpleasant deep raingutter filled with oozy gunk, which he had to overleap precariously. Lightning-fast movements, however, were obviously no problem for the facemasked figure: The lithesome dusky silhouette smartly leveraged the jump-gained speed and, in a single bound, straddle swooshed roundward the cornerpillar into the anteporch's gloom.
At first, the vigilant explorer waited motionless for a few minutes. He did not proceed forward until his breathing calmed down entirely and not before reascertaining himself of no sound or movement in the observable vicinity. As soon as his outstretched arm could risklessly reach the glazed cut-out in the entrance gate, he tensed all his muscles and braced himself for unforeseen surprises. Exercising increased caution, he crept stealthily till his head reached the dusty glass's edgerim. After a slow sidebend peek through the grillaged front door, his hand suddenly slackened. A scarcely perceptible hint of relief flitted across his face:
—Good evening...— he spoke laconically towards the inside, hiding the pistol under his topcoat. —What an exquisitely furnished lounge. Shouldn't I bring one of your firestoves here as well?
—Oh, Hubert...! Welcome. Are you coming from a masquerade ball?
An owl hooted in the distance.
—A nice little comfy cookstove, you propone?— continued the voice from the tomb. —You may be surprised, but that's not a senseless idea at all. Who would have guessed that you might show so much compassion for a stiffeningly overworked oversitter? Or have you perhaps been struck by a sense of romance of the evening? Although I have to concede, sometimes I am not entirely sure if you mean your questions sincerely or with a dash of sarcasm. Please, don't stand in the doorway. You might repel sleep away from our hosts*. Sit down. ( *There is an old superstition widespread everyplace in Central Europe that if guests are not properly seated, the unwelcoming household will be deprived of sleep. Here, the popular folkloric phrase was used in the sense of dry humour - the visited structure is a place of the final rest of the late people. / translat∙ note)
The soldierly man looked somewhat incredulously at the upholstered armchair his host has offered him with such incredible generosity. Nevertheless, keeping a calm face, in a few seconds he seemed entirely at one with the new style of furnishing the tombs.
—Dear Hubert! Have you heeded all the instructions on inconspicuousness? Did no one follow you?
—Me?— the newcomer replied dryly. —Certainly not me...
—You're here a good hour early. Twenty-three meters astray from our preagreed place. Did something, emm, get you off the track? Stronger drinks, perhaps, were they serving at the carnival? By the way, good eyemask. Suits you. What were you? The Phantom of the Opera?
—Your smoke signals have deflected me. The inconspicuous ones...— the gunman didn't let himself get derailed and ignored the teasing remarks haughtily. Nevertheless, he better preferred to swiftly hide the leather face mask in a special chestpocket near the small walkie-talkie pouched on the inside of his outercoat.
—Oh, don't you worry about that. I have the airspace under zealous control.— the relaxed smoker assured the irked visitor in an unforced tone. —You have good observation skills. Those I much venerate about you.
—Do I guess this right?— the newcomer did not restrain himself from asking more questions, delivered with stoic supercalmness. —They have brought you here in that armchair, withal your lighted pipe? Unnoticed, all the way from Misty Road?
—Ephhh...
—Didn't anyone follow you? Firefighters, for example? Or health professionals in white coats?
The host's hand with the ignited hookah's* mouthpiece froze halfway to his lips, his eyebrows rising uncontrollably. ( *water pipe, an oriental smoking device with a long bendy tubing that draws the smoke through a bowl of water - also known as a hubble-bubble, chillum, narghile, or kalian / translat∙ note; All unusual words from this book are listed and explained on: www.en.okram.fr/books/dictionary - the Author's free website) After a while, however, one corner of his mouth twisted into a smile, and he remarked amicably:
—Oh...! Hubert and..., humour...? Who would say that about you?! Now you were obviously going for pure irony. Quite a good one, I must profess. Congratulations. So... Let me deduce... Four:zero? Am I counting my winnings right?
The guest did not respond.
—Confess it, you're out of your depth, dear Hubert. Disbalanced, for the fourth time since you crossed the cemetery's sidegate. I am sure you can't neither guess nor even remotely approximise the purpose of our meeting. This selected place and time are literally overconfusing you. The choice of the environment seems strange to you. Despite your drilltraining, you are now filled with nothing but sheer doubtful wonder. Maybe even fear. Am I right? Are you scared, Hubert?
The cloaked man's gaze slowly rescanned the tombchamber - expressionlessly noticing everything from an engraved Old English teapot, through an etched brass bowl full of roasted chestnuts, to the wires leading from some bulky briefcase directly into the host's shoes:
—I don't understand you. What strange things, in particular, are in your min-...— he didn't have time to finish the question, for a raven cawed twice earpiercingly outside. The host threw the overblanket off his knees in a flash. Zippily disconnecting the shoe-plugged cables, he leapt behind the entrance gate's bottom woodpane.
Hubert instinctually followed him without question or slightest hesitation. He jumped behind the other gateleaf and waited seriousfaced for further instructions.
—This door!— whispered the host. —We must close it as quickly as possible. Soundlessly!
It took a considerable effort of both men to close the heavy gate unnoticed. They leaned from below into both the huge handle and the ornate latticework to lighten the old hinges and weaken their squeak.
The raven squawked three times. After less than a minute, they earnoticed an intensating screeching of gravel beneath tires. A wavering beam of yellowish light flew through the lattice twice and disappeared somewhere between the graves.
—Police patrol.— explained the crouched host. —They were supposed to cruise here eightish. That's when the cemetery usually closes.
An owl hooted. The host rose and blew a warm lungful into his hands:
—So, we got the first obstacle resolved. Not a single living soul should trespass on here before morning. Maybe an inanimate one will be showing up - if we get lucky tonight. Let us hope... Whew, but it's getting genuinely wintry. There should be plenty of fallen wood around here... Were you suggesting, if I understood you correctly, a stove? Hubert?
—Yes, Doctor?
—Well, didn't you offer yourself voluntarily?
—Eh...
—To fetch one of my wood stoves?
Hubert's unbelieving gaze fell on the mechanical crank gramophone* in the tombroom's rearward ( *an old-fashioned record-player, a phonograph with a horizontal turntable driven by a spring mechanism equipped with an external handle for manual winding / translat∙ note). It occurred to him with horror that his sarcastically meant remark might have been taken on the armchair-sprawled host's part as a perfectly serious proposition. He hesitated in discomfiture as to how he should most properly react, if possible, to avert the realisation of the foolish idea.
Doctor Barton reached amusedly for a gunnysack lying on the granite floor:
—Here we go...— a smile carved a crease under his nose as he lifted a cobblestone lid on the side ledge. He poured charcoal from the sack into the oval opening and doused it with gasoline. Then he covered the firehole again and placed a freshly stricken match into some viewless point under the gothic overhang. There was a flare with a swooshing sound, and Doctor Barton transferred the teapot from the table to the warming surface. —As you can see, you don't have to carry anything. They've had a counteremergency heatstove here for a couple of centuries. Built-in. If nothing else so far, this must have impressed you by now. Shall we make it five:zero? If you cop to your defeat, I will warrant you that special dreamt-about transport in return. Not me, but you will be whisked townward in an armchair, comfortably, all the way home. You have my word. What do you say?
Hubert reassumed his saturnine semblance.
—Umm, that's a noble solemnity you are honouring me with tonight... I am going to guess your past.— Doctor Barton changed the discourse tactics as he settled back in his comfortable armchair and sniffed enjoyingly at an open packet of a brownish teamix. —An English gentleman's upbringing. But probably not in Britain proper, just somewhere in former colonies. You only went to the United Kingdom for a few years. Due to a formal completion of your studies, such would be my conjecture. Some kind of master's degree, most likely?
—Aren't you going to contradict me?— Doctor Barton tried to envigorate the unilaterally driven dialogue. Still, the only response during the next minute was the rustling of leaves on yellowing trees. —How am I doing so far? Regrettably, I'm still unable to infer the exact topic of your diploma thesis. I would adjudge something along the lines of "The relationship between the right triceps's angular velocity at the moment of effectuating a left hook and the duration of healing of comminuted jawbone fractures in preschool and middle-aged adversaries", but I could be mistaken. Prove me wrong. Surprise me, please.
—Well, arr, errr, umm...— continued the unsuccessful monologue: —Only quietude again. Admission by silence? He who remains mute testifies, some say. Latterly on, only intensive training followed in your life. Yearfuls of a hard drill. Total transformation to a super-hard agente. Which wouldn't move an eyebrow if the Moon descended from the sky.
—You've made a requisition for my help. Do you need my services, or what's your intention in that fluff-stuffed armchair of yours?— sarcasticised Hubert measuredly.
—No. This time, I don't need your services at all. But your helpfulness would be greatly cherished and gladly welcomed. Albeit even then, rephrasing it punctualistically, I don't really need your helpmanship or servitude, either, so to speak...
—So then, is a goodbye in order, reverable Mr∙ Doctor?
Hubert bowed courteously and walked calmly to leave.
—May the Azure Minaret illuminate your path.— proclaimed Doctor Barton behind his back.
The suddenly stiffed Hubert seemed to grow to the ground.
—The Third Passgate is sealed.— the Doctor persevered in his fraternisation attempts.
Hubert turned slowly:
—That's right, and that's the way Shaab wishes it.
—Until the Timestop comes.
—Until the agefulness of the Shellrocks takes place and until the Markword starts to shine.
—The Omnibook shall be the Sign to you.— finished Doctor Barton the exchange of conspiratorial rejoinders. Holding between his fingers a golden signet sealring with a glowing stone of deep wine-red colour, he kept detecting fluctuations in Hubert's pupils' dilation. —Six:zero? There was no way you could have foreseen such a turn of events.
—Awaiting your orders.— the phlegmatic Hubert ignored the Doctor's teasing.
Doctor Barton re-connected the power cords to his shoes and handed his companion a similar bundle of coilcords terminated with crocodile clips:
—If I can give you friendly advice, plug these in as soon as possible. However, should you very much lust for prancing around here like a clown on wooden stilts at three in the morning, it's your choice. Your optation for stiff-leggedness shall be fully respected. I would choicely forechoose a nimble co-worker in good shape, though. You will find your pack of roasted almonds and a powering rig with heating inserts behind the backrest. We have a long October night ahead of us.
CHAPTER 2
Photograph of a Ghost
Drifting clouds revealed the sickle-shaped Moon hanging low above the horizon. Silence fell, and both men stared at the dewy grave silhouettes, glimmering pearlily and casting elongated shadows. A soft hoot of an owl carried over the old cemetery.
—Oh, lest I forget...— remembered Doctor Barton at the night raptor's sound and interrupted the unwrapping of bulky bales of dense dark cloth. —Our premier safeguard: ...
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The Mystery of the Rammed Key, Part 1
Mystery / ThrillerHow many times have you seen a key sticking out of an old tree? This breathtaking story is based on a real memory. Further findings unearthed during a thrilling investigation are even more puzzling...! High in the crown of a giant tree is an old...
