Chapter III.VIII

Galbraith, who was already tired of looking at cars passing along the street, realized that he can’t just stand there and indulge in memories in vain. He walked away from the window and began looking for clothes, wondering what to do. He threw out the idea of moving out of this "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel - firstly, a feeling of stinginess did not allow him to just give up a room for which he had paid almost six hundred dollars (in American money). Secondly, it seemed to the inspector that if he now began to bother himself with moving, then, being busy with this matter, he would not be able to properly comprehend the visit of this strange specialist.

After getting dressed, Galbraith went to the door and, after checking that he had not forgotten either his wallet or documents, went down the stairs and left the hotel building. He already knew what the weather was like outside - because he stood at the window for almost a quarter of an hour - but he did not expect that it would be so hot outside. Regretting that he forgot to wet his shirt before leaving, he hailed a taxi and, opening the door, addressed the driver:

- Take me to a restaurant you would recommend, - Galbraith said dryly.

Having made himself comfortable and slammed the door, the inspector had to wait until the driver collected his thoughts.

- I have "Clair'n'Tone" in mind, - he said fifteen seconds later.

- What's that? - the passenger asked indifferently.

- Vanitas-restaurant, - answered the driver, pressing the pedal.

The car started moving, and Galbraith, not trying to delve into the meaning of the driver’s last words, stared out the window. He decided to trust someone who knew London because he didn't want to find a restaurant himself. His sad experience with the "Orcinus Orca Osteria" made him abandon any attempts to personally find places for the rest. "Yes", he thought, "It would certainly be much easier if I were an ordinary tourist, whom the guide almost leads by the hand, but alas, his incognito travel put an end to such conveniences". The inspector watched how, during the trip, the urban view outside the window was gradually replaced by rural landscapes.

"Wow, how far away this "Clair'n'Tone" apparently is", thought Galbraith. Couldn't a native Londoner recommend a restaurant that was in the city center? Is it possible - here the inspector involuntarily smiled - in the center of the capital of England there are such terrible restaurants that Londoners prefer to dine almost in the middle of nowhere? But he did not have time to think this thought through to the end.

- Get out, - the driver abruptly said rudely

- What, are we there yet? - Galbraith woke up, turning away from the window.

- I reiterate, get out, - the taxi driver repeated without malice, but firmly.

- All right, as you please, - the inspector opened the door and got out of the car.

- I'll refuel and come back for you, - the driver shouted after him and turned on the ignition.

Galbraith watched his car. "Hmm", he thought, "The taxi driver’s behavior is strange - what’s the difference whether he will refuel with or without a passenger?" The inspector took his eyes off the yellow car that had already disappeared in the distance and looked around. He stood by a wooden fence, behind which he could see a one-story cottage of not particularly attractive appearance. What surprised Galbraith was that this was the only house in the area - the rest of the landscape was a steppe without a single tree, with grass scorched by the sun. "What kind of place is it?", the inspector asked himself.

The next second, a bark reached his ears. The dog that made it, as Galbraith realized, was behind the fence outside of which he was now standing. He took a couple of steps from the fence, when suddenly he saw a man walking from the side of the road towards the wicket. Some inner feeling forced the inspector to hide. The stranger's strong build - one might even say gorilla-like - with his broad shoulders and the black hat pulled down over his eyes together created a rather menacing impression. As the man began to approach the fence, the dog's barking became louder. Galbraith noticed how he slightly slowed down his pace and, right as he walked, put his right hand in the pocket of his black, formal jacket. The inspector watched in silent amazement as the man took out of his pocket a pistol, shining in the midday sun - somewhat similar to those used by the fascists in the Second World War - and, cocking the trigger, stopped at the wicket. "I should have retreated to a safe place", Galbraith thought, watching as the stranger stood in a threatening pose and held his weapon out in front of him.

The next second, the muscular man sharply jerked his leg forward. "Wow, he has strength", Galbraith thought, looking at how the wicket immediately gave in to his kick. Suddenly a shot rang out, and a high, heart-rending dog scream reached the inspector’s ears. "That's it", Galbraith thought, "This thug is shooting at an animal..." But be that as it may, he, hiding around the corner of the fence, did not take any action, because he understood that in a foreign country, and even in some deserted place, it was better to try to stay away from trouble. Therefore, when, after five shots, a cry from a young man was suddenly heard from behind the fence - apparently the owner of the house - Galbraith only dryly stated the fact that the poor dog would never again have to run around the glade for butterflies...

After the man with the weapon stepped over the threshold of the wicket, Galbraith finally decided to see what was going on there. He slowly, trying not to make any noise, walked forward and stopped at such a distance that he could see what was happening inside the site. A massacre was taking place there - a gorilla-like man in a hat, who no longer had a pistol in his hands, was inflicting strong kicks on some young guy in a white shirt who was lying under his feet. The inspector, peering into what was happening, noted that he could not find the dog’s corpse. He made the assumption that the killer probably threw the animal away from the gate, or that the dog, not being completely killed, crawled to the side. Trying to comprehend what was happening, Galbraith could not help but notice that the killer’s movements were somewhat hesitant, as if he was afraid that the kicks would cause severe damage. Usually, the policeman thought, killers act on the dictates of instinct and completely indulge in the feeling of aggression, but the body language of this man was as if he was not really beating the guy, but was only pretending to fake the beating...