Chapter I.VII

Despite 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...