Knowing he could not rest, nor stay another night in the hotel with the controversy looming over him, Juraj made for the exit of his room. Through the dark, empty halls that resembled a haunted ghost-like scene, pictures of castles hung from the walls, dated and dusty. The red carpet below peeled over its rims at the ends where it met the walls. Muskiness filled the air and Juraj’s nostrils as he made his way down the great bannister staircase, hands running along the wooden railing as he made with pace and vigour down into the main foyer.
Nothing but emptiness once more, though usually at least the grim and impatient clerk would be sulking and looming around the desk counter, musing and flicking through papers and documentation.
His absence was duly noted. Perhaps he has been requested for further questioning by Lichnova, Juraj assured himself.
Not knowing who else would tend the hotel in this situation, he shrugged and made his way out into the briskly cold and bone-chilling night. The strong wind struck his face immediately, thawing his lips and cheeks from a rosy red into a futile blue. Clanging and snapping of metal and wood boomed in the distance, his hair instantly messed in a wild flailing, dancing in the air as nature reminded him of his place.
‘Good sir, a ride!’ he waved and beckoned forth a chauffeur.
The rider gave a single crack of his whip and the horse began to move forward in motion towards Juraj, then dutifully stopping to let him aboard on his master’s command.
‘Where to at this hour then, young man?’ the horse master questioned, a slight disdain and resentment in his voice.
‘Police station, with haste if you wouldn’t mind,’ snapped Juraj.
The master complained under his breath with a gruff and cracked his whip once more, shaking his head slightly. It was clear his shift must have been close to an end before meeting the night fare with other absentminded notations of disruption.
A few minutes of the hoofs knocking at the stone and the wind further chewing at Juraj’s skin, and they had arrived at their destination.
‘Might a few coppers have you stay, whilst I am inside?’ asked Juraj hopefully.
The driver snorted and put his hand out in request of payment.
‘Absolutely not, 20 marks,’ he demanded.
With a shake of his head and another crack of his harsh leather whip on flesh, the carriage went about once more. It disappeared swiftly into the distance and Juraj muttered too under his breath about service or lack thereof.
Stepping into the warmth of the station, Juraj breathed a sigh of relief. His cheeks instantly felt redeemed and the redness within his boots flowed in reverse up his body, freeing him of the dreadful frosty demeanour that had accompanied him on the journey thus far.
With great cheer and gusto, he approached the desk counter where a policeman stood on watch.
‘I have important information for Lichnova about the murder of Edgar Rollenvart,’ he proclaimed.
The guard shifted his face, his large cheeks and bald head shining brightly against the light of the room. ‘Can’t help you, friend,’ he began, scratching at his head and looking at Juraj straight in the eye. ‘Lichnova is occupied and particularly so this evening, bad times…’ he gawked, an anxious and concerned look slapped across his wide face.
Before Juraj could reply to clarify his confusion and concern, Lichnova burst through a pair of doors. Her face was a picture of fright and deep-seated worry.
Breathless, she panted and placed her hands atop her legs, slightly curled over, trying to take a moment. She then looked up and met Juraj’s eyes directly, pertinence overcoming her demeanour.
‘It’s you, Juraj,’ she squeezed in between breaths. ‘Good, I was hoping to call on you.’
She moved closer towards Juraj and placed her hand on his shoulder with a suppressed excursion of breath. Juraj stood as silent and blank as the white walls around them.
‘I—’ he started.
‘Come with me,’ stated Lichnova.
The guard shifted his gaze and looked down, an expression of bewilderment and dumbfoundedness riddled across his troubled features. Juraj simply nodded and Lichnova led Juraj through the door from where she came and into the station’s holding cell.
There was a crash behind Juraj as the door swung closed, making him jump with unexpected fright, yet what startled him more so is what he laid his vision upon next—an encounter of horror and disbelief. Before him swung a body, swaying side-to-side morbidly in the air, strung up to the rafters, a noose tight around the victim’s neck.
‘My God,’ ushered Juraj. ‘Milos, you poor devil.’
Lifeless and baron, the cell room was stark empty. Lichnova paced back and forth, nervously shifting her feet and chewing on a fingernail.
‘It doesn’t add up,’ she started. ‘We told him he would be executed—hung, no less—so why would he have killed himself instead?’
Startled and white, Juraj was in shock and disbelief at the events taking place before him—like a grim reaper looming behind him, death seemed to follow his every move.
Finally, breathing deeply for air, his mouth wide open and face gaunt with repentance, he explained to Lichnova the reason for why he had come.
Describing the contents of Edgar’s diary, he shared his theory with the inspector that Edgar had figured out who the real killer might have been, or at the very least, strongly suspected.
‘If Milos was the killer,’ he explained, ‘why would Edgar have simply run past me and Milos? I hadn’t thought of it before, but now it is clear—Edgar did not suspect Milos, and that means the real killer is still out there.’
Lichnova examined Juraj closely, searching for any sign that might absolve
