‘Without question,’ replied Edgar, his strong Soviet accent ringing throughout the establishment’s halls. The porter bowed and turned away with a slight wince.
‘Forgive me for such embarrassment,’ Jozef professed. ‘Not everybody here in Prague is quite as...intuitive, as your good self, detective. Please, follow me.’
He led the two men past statues made of crystal and ancient stone—carvings of Greek Gods and beautiful Goddesses. The halls were lined with golden paintings and a large wooden staircase wound its way upstairs beyond the entrance, leading into places unbeknownst to Edgar—no doubt the finest of rooms and relaxation areas known to the whole of Prague.
Jozef ushered them left and then right, away from the mainstay area, the sounds of chatter and buzz from a dining area now dimmed. Through purple painted walls with black trim, the red carpet marked a stark contrast. Beckoning and pulling, he mused as he led the way, ‘Please, come this way,’ smiling as beads of sweat dripped across his brow. He swiped it away as he spoke, gently patting the dampness with a handkerchief, which he returned to his bright white jacket pocket.
Guided into a room with a golden plate on the painted white door, with black print that stated, ‘Manager’s Office,’ the three men sat inside the private room.
Filled with fine wares, a globe of the world sat on his oak desk, a perfectly rounded sphere with ancient dark blues and pale yellows to represent the Earth. It was mounted upon a wooden frame to hold it steadfast. A black telephone sat by the corner of the desk, ivory dials with small circle holds in which to place the fingers when one required its service—a perfect fit for a well-kept office.
Edgar could not be sure, but he was acutely aware of the faintest of foreign smells—the singed burn of paper. Blackened, dark and bitter, the remnants of grey ash as it crumbled into nothingness captured his senses. All too vague to be certain of anything, but the setting raised caution within Edgar, the smell lending itself as a complaint to the undertone of the conspicuous character before him, in an overly lavish and extreme world. The grandeur of the hotel did not reflect the calamity of the one which existed outside of its walls.
Unwilling to be further distracted by his slight perceptions, Edgar wasted no time in questioning the manager on what he knew of Peter, or what his whereabouts might have been both before and after it was known he had left the hotel.
‘What do you know of the murder of Peter Teralov?’ Edgar probed, watching Jozef’s face with great intensity and attention.
Slightly flinching, the manager retorted with both hesitation and admiration in his voice.
‘Peter was a good man—he would often stay here, in the hotel that is.’ He paused for a moment. ‘My understanding was that he wasn’t too keen on staying at the Teralov mansion. Things at home were not always… exemplary?’
Looking at Juraj as he spoke, he seemed rather embarrassed as his cheeks flushed and filled with hot pink colours. The sweat from his forehead bleeding further still, he wiped away at it relentlessly with his now sodden and pungent handkerchief.
Edgar turned his focus towards Juraj, who replied with a shrug of his shoulders, suggesting he did not quite follow.
‘Exemplary?’ repeated Edgar, turning back towards the manager.
‘Indeed,’ Jozef parroted, ‘the death of his father, I suspect. Old enough to remember, young enough for the damage to have taken its full toll; a terrible thing, really.’
Twisting his fingers around one another, the manager spoke without looking at Juraj directly, who shook his head, annoyed and agitated by the same rhetoric that had followed him around his entire life. A dead man still continues to define me and my family, he cursed within the reflections of his mind.
‘Dead father?’ repeated Edgar, turning towards Juraj, who quietly nodded in affirmation. ‘And what does that have to do with the matter at hand here?’
Edgar’s tone was vastly strong and direct and Juraj smiled slightly, pleased that someone else had finally found the relevance of the events of a past ghost to be immaterial to what defined the Teralov boys as men.
‘Well I—I suppose I don’t know,’ Jozef responded sheepishly. ‘I would have thought such an event would have profound effects on one’s mental wellbeing, am I right, Juraj?’
Juraj remained silent, staring at the manager in anger. He could hear a voice within his head bargaining for him to remain calm—this was not about him and his own demons. Edgar was here to do a job, and he would not be the one to take away from the purpose of the visit.
‘I disagree,’ interjected Edgar, ‘their father’s death has no bearing in this investigation. Now, if you would not mind, save your conjecture for someone else who cares to listen.’ Jozef gulped and nodded to indicate he understood and Juraj let fly a slight grin. He was beginning to enjoy Edgar.
‘Now then, the night of Sunday, 2nd February? Peter was here or not?’
The manager responded in full and, without hesitation, provided the Soviet detective with a valid alibi. In fact, Jozef revealed the page where Peter himself had signed his name upon arrival at the hotel desk. Juraj begrudgingly agreed that the handwriting was indeed a match.
Edgar felt mostly satisfied with the information provided. The manager had insisted Peter was last seen within the confines of the establishment with a woman, who had since been known to have travelled back to Bratislava, from whence she was originally from.
‘Often, ladies would arrive here in Prague in search of a better life or something more. Only, more often than not, they find life truly isn’t much better here than what it is back home. Despondent, most simply return home after the realization hits them,’ the manager explained
