The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1501: Chapter 248: Close Friends and Brothers-in-Arms

The corridor of the Moscow Police Headquarters resembled a Volga River sealed with bricks and stones. Although the weather had warmed considerably after the spring, it did not bring sunshine to the place most feared by Moscovites, as damp mildew spread over the lime walls like Siberian tundra.

As Arthur walked on the creaky pine wood floor, he momentarily heard the sound of exiles’ shackles dragging on the ice—until he realized it was merely the sound of spurs clashing from the Cossacks and Constitutional Soldiers.

Two Constitutional Soldiers carrying carbines paced back and forth at the end of the corridor near a door. After Arthur presented his diplomatic passport, the soldiers first saluted him and then escorted him into an office.

Inside the spacious office, a heated bustle was underway, with seventeen blue-uniformed civil servants writhing between oak tables. Their backs curved into question marks, and the scratching sound of quill pens on parchment reminded one of cockroaches gnawing on holy wafers.

Just as Arthur settled into the leather chair with copper studs, he witnessed a solemn document migration—three bald ninth-rank civil servants carried bundles of files as tall as half a person, with the reverent posture of lifting a holy image during Easter, transporting the documents from the “unregistered” iron cabinet to the “registered” oak box, a mere three-foot distance.

As for the officer on duty overseeing the office’s affairs, he was diligently polishing the shining medals on his chest, and his actions resembled a painter embellishing the Holy Mother’s robe with gold paint on the eve of Easter.

After the Constitutional Soldiers reported their situation to the officer on duty, who was wearing a steel helmet and fully dressed in military attire, he promptly stood up to entertain this most esteemed guest.

“Please have some tea, Your Excellency.” The officer on duty tapped his fingernail on the rim of the cup, echoing the rhythm of a morning church clock: “This is some fine Karachay Tea. Although last year during the tax inspection, it was found that the tea merchant had mixed in birch mushroom, rest assured, there’s absolutely none in this cup…”

“Achoo!”

Before the officer on duty could finish his witty remark, a sneeze from a clerk interrupted him, causing him to glare fiercely at the ill-timed clerk, who immediately stifled his sneeze into the crisp sound of a broken quill.

Seeing Arthur holding a pipe, the officer on duty suggested he smoke for a while, apologizing somewhat bashfully: “You are so considerate, verifying new testimony is such a minor task, you could send a servant to the police station to pass a note, and we would certainly send an officer to visit, rather than make you come in person.”

Arthur’s pipe ash fell onto the cover of the “Code of Conduct for Police Officers,” startling a greenfly shivering near the fifth rule against bribery. This creature, rarely seen in the cold season, fluttered towards a pile of “urgent” labeled documents, only to be stuck midway on the sticky cover of the Emperor’s Latest Decree, which had yet to dry despite being posted just two days ago.

Arthur put down his pipe, shaking his head slightly: “It doesn’t matter. My injuries have greatly improved since the attack. The doctor also recommends I should enhance my exercise appropriately, which aids in blood circulation and physical recovery.”

Arthur could say such things, but the officer on duty dared not take his words seriously.

Who didn’t know that just a few days ago, this British diplomat made a record where Chief Zienski specially invited him to his residence with good cigarettes and tea, patiently interviewing him all morning?

“Since you say so, let’s try to finish quickly and not delay your subsequent plans today. Here, please confirm this new testimony first.” The file handed over by the officer on duty emitted a mixed scent of pickled cucumber and sealing wax: “The eighth witness said the assailant had Bulgarian cheekbones, but the ninth insisted it was the curly hair of a Roma…”

The officer on duty’s voice suddenly stuck in his throat as the oak door with copper studs in the office was abruptly swung open, and Colonel Shubinski, reeking of vodka and tobacco, barged in.

“The spring breeze from St. Petersburg blew York’s white roses into the police station’s pickle jar!” Shubinski’s coat swept over the table’s “Polish Spy Suspect Portrait Collection,” covering the Saint Stanislaus Medal on the officer’s chest with drawings of wanted men with beards.

The officer on duty raised his hand in salute, accidentally knocking his fingernail on Arthur’s tea cup rim, the clanging sound awakening the greenfly stuck on the Emperor’s Latest Decree. This poor creature was now desperately struggling on Tsar Nicholas I’s mustache in the decree.

The officer on duty’s face turned from pig liver red to the ghastly white of pickled beets: “Colonel, Your Excellency, we are currently…”

“Currently adding angel halos to portraits of the assailants?” Shubinski grabbed the composite sketch of the fugitive criminal from the table: “I say they should draw a barrel in the background since all sins ferment from vodka.”

The officer on duty laughed and cried: “Colonel, please don’t joke, Sir Arthur Hastings is right here.”

“Of course, I know Sir Arthur is here, I’m not blind!” Shubinski remarked: “How is Zienski conducting business? Wasn’t my British brother invited for a transcript just a few days ago, and now he’s dragged back into the office again?”

Upon hearing Shubinski openly call Zienski by his surname, the officer on duty inwardly cursed this fellow for his presumptuous arrogance.

But what could they do when this guy was selected for the second interrogation committee handpicked by the Emperor, yet their superior Zienski was kicked out of the list.