Chapter Twenty-Four
During an interval in the proceedings, Manager Mifkin came in and begged a word of Pluck. Pluck, true to his nature, sighed heavily in the man’s face. “What is it now, for the love of God?!”
“May I speak to you in my office for just a moment, Inspector?”
“Oh, for—! Ugh! All right, if you must.”
The manager led the inspector to his office (Pluck became distracted along the way and ended up getting lost somewhere in the hotel, but after twenty minutes, he was discovered and brought to his destination). Once Pluck had entered, Mifkin closed the door.
“Inspector, I hate to disturb you with problems regarding the hotel’s staffing situation—”
“Then don’t.” Pluck opened the door, and started to exit. “Pleasure talking to you, Manager, and keep up the good work.”
“Please, Inspector, just one word more.”
Pluck sighed. “Make it a short word, if you please, you buffoon. A word like a, or I, at the longest.”
“It is just that with the increasing number of suspects you have charged with crimes, and the increasing number of members of staff I must allocate to guarding their rooms—”
“Yes, yes, well?! What about it?!”
“And even members of staff whom you’ve charged with the murder of this person or that, being themselves confined to their rooms—”
“And?!”
“We will fairly soon have no more members of staff.”
“. . .Ah. Yes. I see.”
“And so, naturally, I wished to ask—”
“By all means!”
“Yes?”
“Yes! By all means, source some more staff from nearby hotels. Have them come at once. Offer them whatever salary you choose, and don’t be stingy.”
“But the roads are still impassable, Inspector.”
“Then offer them double.”
“We cannot even communicate with the world outside.”
“Then, as manager of this semi-reputable establishment, it is up to you to invent a solution to this problem you’ve created.”
“I was hoping that you would—”
“You do like being manager here, don’t you, Mifkin?”
“Why, sir, I am only temporarily in this position, until such time as Herr Voot is cleared from suspicion.”
“Mm. . .yes. . .” Pluck looked at his shoe, then turned and looked at a portrait of some hunters on the wall. “What if I were to tell you that Herr Voot is almost certainly guilty of conspiracy to commit murder?”
“I would not believe it, Inspector.”
“Mm. Quite. Then what if I were to tell you that Herr Voot is almost certainly an anarchist bent on the annihilation of every man, woman and child on this earth?”
“I would also find that very hard to believe, sir.”
“I see. And what if I were to tell you that if you can help me catch the killers, I would make you owner of this hotel?”
Mifkin laughed. “But Inspector—”
“Or, if that won’t satisfy your unquenchable ambition: czar of the state?”
“I’d think that unrealistic, sir.”
“What do you mean? You do realise that I’m an inspector, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“I absolutely have it within my power to have you declared czar of the state, should you fulfil your obligations to me in conducting this investigation.”
“You are too kind, Inspector, but really—”
“Tut tut—we’ll say no more about it.” He started to leave, but turned back, thinking of one more thing to add, as you do: “I only hope that when you attain such a pinnacle of political power, you will remember the man who put you there. A dukedom, and a modest chateau, and a handpicked harem sourced from the best families of Europe, will be all I require. Now good day, and don’t bother me again.”
The inspector went out, and Mifkin closed the door. The manager stared at the closed door and thought. He knew the idea was nothing short of ridiculous. And yet. . .the towering man—towering in both physical height and hidden ambition—could not help daydreaming. He was a dreamer, was Mifkin, though neither his peers nor his betters ever knew. His dreaming had heretofore been confined to this or that bent-over maid or well-polished carriage, but now, as he gazed upon an antique map of the state that hung framed upon the wall, his dream dilated to encompass a brutal yet ultimately just reign of terror upon his fellow countrymen and -women; he envisaged fields scorched of all flora, with the slain, anatomically disgraced corpses of his enemies—Voot, bellhops, Curtis the porter, Herr von Distill the hotel owner, stupendously patronising guests, and all the other nemeses he’d amassed through his life—heaped over the land like leaves off an oak, their faces still bearing their terminal expression of incredulity at the identity of their vanquisher; and two lines of perspective shooting outward from his palace to the horizon, the tract between them utterly jammed with those subjects he’d spared, on their knees, heads bowed to him, as one.
At the end of his vision, Mifkin’s lips curled into a snarl that would have terrified anyone who happened to be present; fortunate was he that no orderlies from a local asylum, butterfly net to hand, could see him. The shutters of reality began to close a little of their own accord, he sensed peripherally, but he willed his vision to endure but a few moments longer, savouring the taste of a soup he knew could never be cooked.