Chapter III.II

After five minutes of silence, the taxi driver, without taking his hands off the steering wheel, sniffled. The inspector saw in the rear view mirror how a grin appeared on the man’s wrinkled face.

- I think I guessed why you chose this hotel, - he said in a knowing tone.

- Well, why? - Galbraith asked curiously.

- According to the advertising brochures, then in one of his rooms stopped a certain person...

And the London driver named the name of one writer, which was well known to everyone who had been interested in American literature at least once in their life. His passenger scratched his moustache and shook his head. The taxi driver took this as a sign that Galbraith allowed him to continue the babbling - he sighed noisily, and after a short pause said:

- I completely agree with you! - at the same time he smiled.

- Sorry, I'm not sure what you mean... - Galbraith didn't understand.

- I'm talking about, - the driver interrupted him. - That this paper shifter doesn't honour to the hotel to which I am taking you now!

There was genuine resentment in the man's voice.

- That is not what I said, - protested Galbraith, who was already starting to get tired of the driver’s tone.

- I would even say that he only disgraces this establishment, exacerbating the already low level of service, - the taxi driver spoke louder and louder.

- Just keep calm, for God's sake... - the passenger asked without much hope.

- Because this is not a writer, - the man behind the wheel was already shouting. - This is a businessman! He just hit the mother lode, and he doesn’t care about the level of education of his readership!

- As much as possible... - the inspector, listening to this expatiation, wiped the sweat from his forehead.

- On the contrary, he indulges the basest instincts of the most primitive and backward sectors of the population, you will see this for yourself now! - the driver didn't let up.

Galbraith realized that it was pointless to try to calm this Englishman, who imagined that he knew a lot about writers better than all the members of the League of American Writers combined. So the policeman simply assumed an indifferent look and leaned his head back on the seat.

- Just listen, - the taxi driver spoke in the tone of a strict teacher. - What did I read on the very first page of his book! "White bitch had taken it in the mouth again", - with barely restrained rage he quoted to the entire interior of the car

At these words, Galbraith involuntarily opened his eyes.

- Please, don't use bad language, - he tried to shame the man.

But the interlocutor ignored his words.

- On the very first page, first! - as if reading out a court verdict, the taxi driver continued excitedly. - Taking that book in my hands, I was going to get some food for thought, but its pages greeted me with the slang of ill-mannered teenagers!

His passenger, who was gradually beginning to be amused by these shouts, looked up at the driver's seat.

- One might think, - he began in a calm tone. - That you expected from the mystical horror genre something sublime and refined, - having said this, the inspector yawned and stared out the window.

- Expected? - the driver yelled. - This has got to be usual state of affairs! Do you know the writer Lem? - he suddenly turned to the passenger.

- Lem... - Galbraith said thoughtfully.

He began to turn over in his head the names of all those whom he had read in his youth. No one with that last name came to his mind.

- I repeat, does the name of Lem mean anything to you? - the driver's eyes blinked several times.

"He might even get a heart attack", - thought the inspector, and he felt embarrassed.

- Well, - he began, - I read the novel "Motlys" by a writer with a similar surname, certain Steinar Lem.

In fact, it was a lie - he had never picked up such a book, he had only seen its title on one of the Norwegian bestseller lists. The driver turned back to the steering wheel. The dissatisfied sniffle he made convinced Galbraith that the old man did not like his answer at best, and at worst was perceived as an affront. But he finally stopped having literary debates with the passenger. Apparently, the fact that the inspector knew the namesake of his favourite writer allowed the taxi driver to feel some respect for him. This was confirmed by the man’s slightly animated look, as well as by the fact that the next fifteen minutes of the trip from the London Heathrow Airport to the hotel "Stait of Snow Lake" building passed in complete silence.

When the car brought the police inspector to its destination, the taxi driver pressed the brake and leaned out of the window. After admiring the two women walking towards him for a few seconds, the old man's face lit up and he said triumphantly "Ninety pounds sterling". His passenger nodded silently and took out the money.

- That's it, I brought you to this pigsty! - after payment the taxi driver said in a sympathetic tone.

- Do you feel sorry for me? - Galbraith asked him cheerfully, pulling the suitcase out of the car.

- Not really, - after a pause, the man said.

The inspector got out of the car and was about to close the door, but the driver, again sticking his head out of the window, looked up at him.

- If you don’t like this hotel, then don’t be angry that I brought you there! - there was a pleading in his words.

- Think nothing of it! - said the inspector even more cheerfully.

He waved to the driver, who was already driving away. Then he turned on his heel and, sighing, looked at the building. The first thing that caught Galbraith's eye was the sign hanging above the door - a simple rectangular wooden plate painted white. On it was written in thick red letters "Stait of Snow Lake". A tourist from Portland couldn't help but think that this sign must have been drawn by the hotel owner's child - the letters were so clumsy. Not a good start for today, flashed through his mind.