Chapter III.VI

After Galbraith commented out loud on the expression of his late friend that randomly came to mind, he, trying not to go crazy from the bites of annoying bedbugs, took off his outer clothing and crawled under the blanket. Red insects began to creep even more viciously over his body - they crawled under his armpits, clung to his chest and legs, and the most arrogant parasites tried to get into the inside of his ears and nostrils. Perhaps there was an additional effect of the fact that in the darkness he could not see their exact number, but, one way or another, the discomfort gradually increased, and soon the inspector woke up in the middle of the night.

- I have had enough! - he shouted into the void.

As he was barefoot, Galbraith walked to the wall switch and extended his hand forward. His index finger touched the white plastic snap. There was a barely audible click, and the room immediately became bright. He looked down and looked at his legs - the bedbugs hung on his skin like ants clinging to a twig. Oh, he thought, if he had not accidentally turned over the mattress, then probably the insects would not have come out... Walking into the bathroom, he turned on the shower and stood under its cold streams. Trying to wash away the vile insects, Galbraith in his thoughts returned to Portland. At first I just remembered how good it was for him there, how he could sleep peacefully in his small apartment without fighting bedbugs. Then, when he was able to get rid of most of the parasites, he sat down on the edge of the bath, focusing on the moment when he finally decided that he needed to leave for this very London.

Nothing particularly unusual happened at that time - Galbraith was just walking to his home after a tiring day at work. That evening there was a chilly wind blowing, so he didn't want to linger outside too long and walked at an accelerated pace. By the time he reached Abbouts st., dusk had already fallen on the street. Approaching house E-14, the inspector put his hand into his jacket pocket - he always pulled out his keys in advance - and raised his head up. What he saw made him shake off a touch of melancholy - the window of his apartment was brightly lit. Galbraith remembered very well that he had not turned on the light in the room since the previous evening, so there could be no doubt that someone else had gotten into his apartment. The inspector's heart began to beat wildly, and he, groping for his small but trusty service pistol in his inner pocket, feverishly ran into the entrance of the house.

Luckily for him, he didn't run into any neighbours inside, so he could safely take out his weapon without fear that anyone would notice. Galbraith ran up the steps to the second floor with a loud stomp, and, holding the weapon with his left hand, inserted the key into the keyhole. His hands were wet with sweat, his fingers were shaking as if in a fever - such was the power of fear that gripped the police inspector at that second. Finally, he was able to get the key into the well. Leaning with his whole body, Galbraith turned it - in the process, the metal of the key almost bent. The door creaked quietly, and Galbraith, with his pistol at the ready, crossed the threshold with the agility of a wild animal in one fell swoop.

- Good evening, mister inspector. I'm glad you finally came, - suddenly a completely calm senile voice was heard.

He expected to see anyone in his apartment - bandits, gangsters, crazy clowns in the end... But what was his surprise when it turned out that sitting on the chair standing by the window was none other than mister chief inspector himself!

- You are not a movie, Galbraith, - Schaeymoure said tranquilly, albeit with some reproach.

Indeed, the scene looked incredibly stupid - apartment owner stood opposite his guest, pointing the barrel of a gun at him. Galbraith immediately felt uneasy.

- I find myself begging your pardon, - he said embarrassedly, slowly lowering his service pistol.

- Please, be seated. I needed to speak with you, - imperturbably Schaeymoure said.

Apparently, Galbraith thought, mister chief inspector has no fear of death at all, if he didn't even raise an eyebrow at this prank with the pistol. Putting the weapon in the inside pocket of his jacket, he looked up at guest.

- Well, you know, I'm not going to sit... - he said quietly

- You are nervous and that's your business, - Schaeymoure said. - But keep in mind that in this case you will have to stand for a long time.

- I'm not some soft-handed for whom standing for a couple of hours is already a burden, - Galbraith answered with a hint of resentment.

These words brought a hint of a smile to the face of mister chief inspector Schaeymoure. The old man seemed to enjoy watching the excited man who was twenty years his junior.

- I have to say, I like your way of expressing your opinion, - the smile was replaced by calm again. - But I didn't come to you to admire your confusion.

Well, of course, Galbraith thought sarcastically to himself, mister chief inspector quietly snuck in his subordinate's apartment, and he thinks that the owner of the apartment will find this as ordinary as a morning meal...

- The essential point is, I want to give you a message... - began his guest.

With these words, Schaeymoure reached out and took a white pack of cigarettes from the table. The apartment owner hurried to approach mister chief inspector in order to obligingly light his cigarette, but he silently dismissed him with a gesture and lit it himself with his lighter.

- So, Galbraith, - taking a drag, he said. - I understand your attitude towards her, so I will not ask you why you decided not to tell me about your schedules.

"What does he mean?" Galbraith thought. Who is this "she" with whom, according to the old man, he himself feels some kind of special relationship?