The Dead Mountaineer's Inn by Arkady Strugatsky Read Free Book Online

Barnstoker. “I did not expect this from you, Barn … Bardel … Dubel …”
    â€œOh, it’s only a theory,” Du Barnstoker said casually. “Mr. Simone has calculated the odds for us.”
    â€œNonsense,” Mr. Moses said. “Rubbish. Mathematics—now there’s a science … And who is this?” he asked, rolling his right eye at me. It seemed murky somehow, a bad eye.
    â€œAllow me to introduce you,” the host said hurriedly. “Mr. Moses, Inspector Glebsky. Inspector Glebsky, Mr. Moses.”
    â€œInspector,” grumbled Moses. “Fake documents, forged passports … I’ll have you know my passport is not a forgery, Glebsky. Is your memory any good?”
    â€œI can’t complain,” I said.
    â€œWell, then, don’t forget that.” He glared sternly at his bowl again and took a sip from his mug. “Good soup today,” he said. “Olga, take this away and bring me some sort of meat. But why have you stopped talking, gentlemen? Continue, continue, I will listen.”
    â€œYes, meat, that reminds me,” Simone piped up. “A glutton walked into a restaurant and ordered a filet …”
    â€œA filet—what’s wrong with that?” Mr. Moses said approvingly, as he tried to cut his roast with one hand. He did not remove the other hand from its mug.
    â€œThe waiter said he would bring one right away,” Simone continued. “And the glutton stared up at the girls on the stage while he waited …”
    â€œHilarious,” Mr. Moses said. “So far, utterly hilarious. This needs salt—Olga, pass the salt. Well?”
    Simone hesitated.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said uncertainly. “I’m having very serious apprehensions about the present company.”
    â€œSo? Apprehensions,” Mr. Moses announced with satisfaction. “What happened next?”
    â€œThat’s it,” Simone said dolefully. He leaned back in his chair.
    Moses stared at him.
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘That’s it’?” he asked indignantly. “He brought him the filet, didn’t he?”
    â€œWell … actually … no, he didn’t,” Simone said.
    â€œWhat impertinence,” Moses said. “He should have calledthe
maître d
’.” He pushed his plate away in disgust. “That was an unpleasant story you told us, Simone.”
    â€œI guess it is,” Simone said, smiling faintly.
    Moses took a sip from his mug and turned to the owner.
    â€œSnevar,” he said. “Have you found the miscreant who’s been stealing our shoes? There’s a job for you, Inspector. You can pursue it in your spare time—come to think of it, you’re not doing anything at the moment. Some miscreant has been stealing shoes and looking in people’s windows.”
    I was about to reply that I would absolutely look into it; but just then the kid started Bucephalus’s engine right underneath the window. The glass in the dining room shook, making conversation impossible. Everyone buried themselves in their plates as Du Barnstoker, pressing his splayed fingers against his heart, poured out muted apologies to his right and left. Then Bucephalus’s roar became completely unbearable; clouds of light snow soared past the windows; the roar quickly moved away, fading into a barely audible hum.
    â€œJust like Niagara Falls,” the crystalline voice of Mrs. Moses rang out.
    â€œOr a rocket launch!” Simone said. “Awful machine.”
    Kaisa approached Mr. Moses on tiptoe, and set a decanter of pineapple syrup in front of him. Moses gazed favorably at it before taking a sip from his mug.
    â€œAnd what do you think about this thievery, Inspector?” he said.
    â€œI think someone here has been playing jokes,” I answered.
    â€œThere’s an odd idea,” Moses said