Edgar interrupted with half frustration and half-humorous expression. ‘I spoke in jest—please, any room will do.’
Annoyed by the late-night conversation and intrusion, the clerk abruptly scribbled something down on paper and pointed at Edgar. ‘Forty-seven,’ then to Juraj, ‘fifty-two.’ He stood up and turned from the desk, taking two keys off the wall, their corresponding numbers present, and silently passing them over to the guests.
‘Thank you,’ spoke Edgar. Juraj repeated the same. The clerk, silent in reply, judged them with his blank dark eyes, riddled with contempt as he recognized where Edgar had originated from.
‘It is late,’ stated Edgar, as he made his way up the staircase, clasping the railing. Dust greeted his fingers with an unwelcome embrace. ‘Be up early in the morning, Juraj.’
Trailing behind, Juraj made an attempt to ask Edgar where exactly they would be heading come dawn, but it was already too late—Edgar had already made his way to his room and snapped the door swiftly shut, but not before muttering something about how he would find out soon enough in the morning, and that for now, it was a time more suitable to rest, and less so for talking. Stubborn aloof absolutist! Juraj thought.
Edgar took a seat next to the bed, glancing around the room and absorbing its surroundings that would provide at least some respite for the night. The wind howled outside—a shutter blew and knocked again and again somewhere close by. The detective took a cigarette from his pouch and placed it slowly into his mouth. Taking a match, he struck the head firmly. The flame erupted quickly at first, then slowly in a minute flicker.
Placing the cigarette into the burn of the flame, Edgar lit the end and inhaled deeply. During a long and considered pause, he went off into deep thought to reconcile with the happenings of the day and what it could all have meant thus far.
This place was eerie and awkward, with dark-brown wooden bed stalls and damp antique-like bedsheets. The carpet was musty—the smell rose into Edgar’s nostrils and he took in the dank smell of the room with every breath. It was stale and he feared the dust was settling within his lungs, a far greater threat than that of the tobacco he steadily breathed in.
Within his knapsack was some basic parchment and a pencil. He took the moment of solitude to finally record his thoughts and findings of what he had learnt thus far, scrambling and writing with haste:
Peter’s body inspected. Two pieces of evidence to note, one irrelevant now, the other… lost.
Spoke to the mother, last known accomplice. Innocent, it would seem.
I write this in Bratislava. Tomorrow, I must find Milos: why did he leave so soon, why would you abandon comfort and condolement of the Teralov family in sight of business? Suspicious, indeed. Perceived alcoholic. Intentions of investment in large opportunity.
The place I find respite in at present is queer, hostile. Most people do not like my accent, where I am from—disheartening, yet one perseveres.
I reserve judgement or assumption for now. Do not quite trust Juraj yet. He is likeable but hiding something.
After preparing himself for the night, Edgar slipped into his nightwear and tucked himself into bed. Turning off the light at the bed stand, he was about to sleep when suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Throwing the sheets away and stomping to the door with a thunderous exhibition, Edgar tore the door open, almost off its own fitted hinges.
‘There is something I need to tell you.’
Unimpressed by the late intrusion, Edgar barked, ‘Are you aware of the hour? It cannot wait until dawn?’
‘I do apologize,’ remarked Juraj, standing stony-faced, halfway between looking lost and stricken with terror, as much as a child seeking comfort from a parent in the still of the dark night would do after enduring a terrible nightmare.
‘You see, it is this note. I found it within my jacket pocket.’
Raising a crumpled piece of paper, Juraj waved it in front of the detective’s face, who looked back at Juraj with incomprehension and fascination. Questioning in response, Edgar asked when, exactly, he had discovered this note.
‘Just now. The writing does not belong to me, nor do I recognize it. Here.’ He passed the note towards Edgar, who took it into his hand and buried his nose into reading the document, whilst beckoning for Juraj to come inside.
‘Sit and switch that light on, would you?’
Edgar straightened his back and squinted as the light violently echoed across the room. After a short moment of adjustment, he flattened the paper out in his hands and tried to make sense of what was written.
‘Do not trust the detective—he will hurt you, us. Beware of him!’
Edgar looked up at Juraj, who appeared nervous and slightly quivering, as if untrusting of his companion. The note was scribbled in an untidy fashion. It was rushed, hastily so, and appeared unappealing to the eye. The paper was stained yellow and had a clammy smell to it. The quality of the ink was low, and the way in which it was written suggested someone who was not well versed in the art of penmanship. But the meaning behind it remained cryptic to Edgar as he certainly had no intention of harming Juraj. On the contrary, he had only just recently started to grow quite fond of him.
Neither spoke for a while. The silence made Edgar aware of the taste of tobacco on his tongue and the relentless wind heightened Juraj’s state of alertness. Finally, Edgar broke the standoff and whispered with clear concern, the suspicion riddled deep within his tone, rich with instinct, ‘You are sure you do not know who wrote this?’
‘Yes, quite sure.’
‘And how might it have arrived within your pocket?’
Juraj shrugged. ‘I do not know.’
Pacing
