‘Lady Cortinova’s girls,’ started Edgar, ‘do you know of them?’
‘Yes, of course!’
‘Where can I find them?’ ordered Edgar, his hand still gripped tightly over his victim, who lay crouched in submission.
‘Everyone knows Rena lives—’
‘Not that one,’ interrupted Edgar, ‘the other one, the new girl.’
‘Lenka?!’ the man shrieked, unable to endure the pain for much longer.
‘That’s the one. Where can we find her?’ demanded Edgar. Juraj’s face was a mixture of pale white and deep green as he stood helpless and aghast. He was a mirror image of the congregation who did not dare try to interrupt or assist their now fragile leader.
‘I heard she lives on Mudroňova Street, apartment block five—I don’t know her last name. It’s all I know, I swear it!’
Edgar released him from his grasp. The man quickly took his hand and rubbed at his shoulder, pawing and trying to provide some self-comfort, his pride more broken than any bone from the encounter. Looking at up his antagonist with tears in his eyes, the man whispered, ‘Who are you?’ complete fear pronounced within his voice.
Edgar gave a large smile, his teeth glistening as wrinkles under his eyes came alive once more, ‘I am Edgar Rollenvart, the Soviet detective who only requires your respect.’ Edgar’s face precipitated into one of stern disposition as the last words left his mouth and the man’s face mirrored his. Quietly, Edgar turned and motioned for Juraj to follow; no one from the group dared to speak outright in protest or usher a single foot forward in offence.
6.
Arriving at block five, Edgar cracked at the frozen metal handle of the door and it creaked open. The glass panes were frosty and white from ever-growing snow that fell silently and crisp. It built layers that crunched as their boots traversed, laying imprints of detail that defined their chosen steps.
‘I’ll take the bottom floor, you go to the top. We’ll work our way until we meet in the middle, unless one of us finds her first, in which case, give out a shout!’ proclaimed Juraj, eager to prove to Edgar he was a man of action and came equipped with a plan.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ inquired Edgar, a look of astonishment and bewilderment across his face.
‘Lenka,’ whispered Juraj. ‘We know she is here, but we do not know which apartment she lives in!’ Juraj triumphantly exclaimed with a resounding assurance that he had the matter in hand.
‘My goodness,’ began Edgar, ‘how long have you lived in the Teralov Manor?’ he questioned.
Startled and dumbstruck, Juraj simply replied, ‘All of my life, why?’
Trying his utmost not to burst into a fit of obscure laughter, Edgar responded that it was clear as much. He pointed to the mailboxes that resided on the ground floor, which had every occupants’ name printed beside the opening.
‘You’ve not been in an apartment block recently, have you, dear nobleman?’ Edgar taunted, his mouth creasing at the sides, eyes glowing with amusement from Juraj’s naïve and sheltered ways.
‘Not recently,’ mumbled Juraj, shuffling awkwardly whilst staring at the metal boxes, scanning the names.
‘Here,’ said Edgar, as he stabbed a finger at one of the panels, ‘Lenka Martarova, apartment twenty-seven.’
Chuckling with more glee than he ought to, he beckoned for Juraj to follow, who did so whilst muttering something sheepishly about how not everybody was a detective, much to Edgar’s shrouded pleasure.
The halls echoed with the tapping of their footsteps as they proceeded down the long hallway, walking past wooden doors of the occupants’ apartments; quiet and eery, something felt amiss and awry to Edgar. The chill of the now frozen night had seeped its way inside the building and, with no apparent heating, his own breath could be made visible as he muttered to Juraj something about people not closing doors correctly.
In reply, Juraj simply shrugged, somewhat concerned for the living conditions of the people here and acutely aware it was himself who was the latter to enter. He had not known such bitter and hardened lifestyles and it was clear from his face he felt something of pity for the residents and the hard life they must have been enduring.
Making strides upwards through the concrete stairway, laden with cold metal handrails, the pair journeyed towards the fourth floor, with sights on apartment twenty-seven in mind.
The thudding of Edgar’s strong, aged, robust fist almost rattled the door off its hinges as he knocked. With no reply, he knocked once more. Harder still, he boomed ‘Miss Martarova! We are here on business of the state to investigate the murder of Peter Teralov!’ Edgar shouted enthusiastically through the door. His voice echoed like a ship foghorn in dawn, across and out of the corridor then down the staircase from whence they had come.
A faint noise and rustling emerged from behind the door, which slowly opened.
A woman’s face appeared hesitantly, revealing just half of her profile—her hair covering most of it, it was clear she was pretty.
‘What?’ she asked, the look on her face resembling fear and trepidation. ‘Say it again. What do you mean?’ she repeated.
Edgar examined her, and not before long instructing her to open the door further and reveal herself. He stated he meant her no harm, but there were questions that needed answers.
She nodded and motioned for them to enter, silently gesturing towards them with the beckoning of one hand.
‘Something to drink, water perhaps?’ she asked, facing Edgar.
‘Perhaps, Lenka,’ started Juraj, ‘it might be best we sit. The good detective here would like to ask where you were a few days ago.’
Lenka looked at Juraj in confusion. She pursed her lips and her eyes changed to a state of distrust.
‘How do you know my name?’ she asked Juraj.
He shuffled his feet slightly and tightened his face, looking at Edgar, who was
