Chapter III.V

The inspector put his hands in his pockets and, quickening his pace, decided that the dinner was ruined - not so much because of the fettuccine, it was more of a reason to leave the "Orcinus Orca Osteria" - how much from the staff, who behaved very inappropriately, and also because of these beggars... Galbraith wanted to get rid of the disgusting feeling, so he decided to go to a liquor store, which, fortunately for him, turned out to be almost next to this catering establishment - just on the other side of the road.

In this very cramped room, where it was impossible to really walk past the shelves with alcohol, it was not particularly comfortable for him to move around in search of the right bottle. By this time, there was a large line of people at the cash register, and during the entire time that Galbraith was looking for some cheaper drink, not one of these people left the store, which also did not bring any good.. When the inspector finally took the bottle of pink sparkling wine he liked and stood in line, he realized what was going on - the cash register froze after absolutely every item was sold and the cashier had to constantly restart it. Galbraith got tired of waiting, and he, putting the bottle in its original place, left this tiny alcohol market in completely upset feelings.

He returned to the "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel tight and dry. Having climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and entered his room, Galbraith was relieved to take off his jacket, slightly wet from the rain, and went to the bath. Having finished washing, he then went to the bed and, without knowing why, turned the mattress over. This innocent action made him shudder with disgust - underneath him, on the surface of the bed, whole flocks of tiny red bugs swarmed. Without wasting a minute, Galbraith immediately went downstairs and called the concierge. Quite soon a gloomy old man in an old-fashioned blue tailcoat, without a single hair on his head, came out to see him. He looked the inspector up and down.

- The only thing I can suggest to you is to change the room, - the concierge said gloomily, as if thinking about the end of the world.

- Is it really that hard for you to ask me to change my mattress? - Galbraith, tired after the osteria, was not ready for this.

- I'm sorry, but I'm not much help, - the old man said firmly.

- What about bed linen? My sheet is burned by a cigarette, - said the inspector.

- As compensation, I can ask that fresh fruit slices be delivered to your room, - the concierge answered, continuing to stand like a stick of rhubarb.

- All right, I accept that, - Galbraith answered with a hint of despair.

- At the expense of the establishment, of course, - the old man added.

The rules here are strange, Galbraith thought, climbing the stairs to his room, because the bed and some fruit are disproportionate to each other... The inspector couldn't help but think that whoever he met in London during this time, everyone who came across his path seemed to be crazy. "Or it's just me too respectable for this city?" he asked himself as he entered the room. Approaching the bed, he became convinced that it was impossible to sleep on it - the bedbugs he had disturbed were already crawling all over the bed linen. He began to prepare for the fact that he would apparently have to sleep on a shoe bench, which was just long enough for him to lie down on with his legs crossed.

Then the concierge entered the room. He glanced at the tousled bed, did not say a word and, putting a small plate on the table, left. Galbraith came closer - yes, there really were fruits there, but in what quantity. One slice each of apple, pear and orange, and, contrary to the words of the old man in the blue tailcoat, they were far from fresh - the apple and pear darkened, and the orange became weathered in the air. Well, of course, Galbraith thought, taking the plate in his hands, no one was going to feed him - the fruit is just a symbol of the fact that the staff of this hotel is supposedly sensitive to the guests...

The inspector went to the trash bin and sent these fruits there, and, putting the plate on the desk, shuddered - someone had again disturbed him with their visit. Galbraith turned around - it was the scrubwoman, a stout person in a greasy apron, who, having placed a bucket of water on the floor, started wiping the floor with a wet mop. The inspector went to the window so as not to interfere with her cleaning the room. Having nothing else to do, he looked down at the road where the cars were driving. The only sign that an accident occurred in the morning under his window was only a dark spot on the asphalt. Galbraith thought that if so much blood had flowed out, then that poor guy in the convertible had definitely went to the forefathers...

Continuing to look at the road, he heard the creaking of the bathroom door - well, finally, he thought, they would deign to clean the plaque in the toilet... But that was not the case - the scrubwoman left there without spending even a minute there. Galbraith hoped that she at least put new toilet paper there. With these thoughts, he took his eyes off the road and looked at the scrubwoman, who, gloomily looking ahead, was diligently spreading liquid dirt on the floor. Feeling the guest's stern gaze on her, she straightened her back and, squeezing out the mop, swept away the trash in the corners.

- What a service... - Galbraith involuntarily burst out when the woman, having taken the bucket, was already leaving him.

The scrubwoman, hearing his voice, jerked her whole body so hard that a couple of drops of dirty water from her bucket splashed onto the door. She threw a frightened look at him and immediately disappeared into the corridor, forgetting about closing the door.

- Oh yes, parsimony doesn't serve, - the inspector said out loud.

Galbraith closed the door behind the scrubwoman and, sighing, looked at the floor - it did not become cleaner; on the contrary, ugly black wet stains appeared on the linoleum. He approached the bed, where small red insects were swarming with might and main on the blanket, pillow and sheet, because of which this piece of furniture looked as if it had been eaten away by rust, and this rust was alive and was constantly changing its pattern. Standing by the bed and contemplating this mess in a kind of trance, Galbraith breathed slowly and deeply, and the tips of his fingers twitched slightly from the indignation reigning inside.