The Boarding House Horror

4. Lazar Yankov

A velvety voice said, "His heart rate is falling."

I licked dry lips and pried my eyes open. A rosette of heads arrayed themselves before my eyes like petals on a flower. With a lurch of my stomach I realized I was flat on my back. Every house guest peered down at me.

Blind Alice Bree's hand lay upon my neck, cool and firm. The smooth voice had been hers, and she spoke again. "Welcome back, Inspector. Don't worry. You weren't out long. Count to five for me, please."

I had no idea what else to do, so I complied. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Flip's shaggy head joined the rosette. "Inspector? Hey! What's this? What happened?"

Daria said, "I don't know. He said, 'Oh, how stupid of me' and slithered to the floor."

"Flip," I said. "Hold on. Give me a minute." The rush of heat I felt earlier faded to a chill as sweat evaporated from my face.

Alice removed her hand and rocked back on her heels. She reached behind her to grope for a chair. Finding one, she sat upon it. Trousers under a shapeless frock, my fevered brain noted. She said, "Symptoms somewhat like heavy metal poisoning, but not identical. Mariam, a glass of water, please? Lazar, a blanket if you would be so kind. The toxin made him sweat."

Heads moved and shuffled. Flip's head came closer.

"Toxin?" Flip said.

"Toxin. Of course," I said. I lay flat on my back, starting to shiver. And I began grinning like a fool.

"Bartel, are you all right?" Flip twisted his head to align better with mine.

"I'll be fine," I said. My voice sounded strong. Steely, even, just how I hoped. "Flip, Blommer was dead wrong. Raptis was poisoned. I just got a tiny dose of it, because I was stupid. Well, lucky. It was dumb luck, but I'll take it."

"Murder, huh?" Flip reached to scratch behind his ear.

I looked ceilingward at all the eyes staring at me. This was all emphatically not according to police procedure. Announcing to a whole room of witnesses that murder had occurred simply was not done. Furthermore, it stood to reason that one of them was the murderer. Furthermore, there was still a chance it could have been suicide, somehow, though I didn't see how. I should have waited. Should have waited.

"Help me up," I said. My arms and legs sloshed as if they were filled with water, but my bones felt all right. I contracted my stomach and curled up to my elbows. Strong hands gripped my biceps and lifted.

I scrabbled and found my feet. I glanced left into Flip's bland face. To the right I found soft brown eyes and sympathy. The man with the scar on his jaw. Lazar Yankov, room five. "Dutch men. So tall," he said.

I wanted to stand tall, after that, but for a few moments I needed my supports. Before me stood a woman with warm brown skin and hoop earrings peeking from beneath abundant black hair. She held a glass of water in her hand and watched me with one eyebrow arched. She was a beauty, of the kind that the eye drifted to and, once there, rested upon.

Mariam Saab. African. Too much jewelry. Room eight.

She answered Lazar with a sly curve of her lips. "Tall, indeed. The two of you make a good pair."

I found the remark too intimate. A criminal investigation was supposed to be a dispassionate and clinical sorting of facts. Yet, here I was, dangling between two men because I would drop into a heap if they let go, having my physical characteristics discussed by a possible eyewitness.

Deep down, I knew that wasn't the trouble. The trouble was that she called me tall and I liked it.

I said, "Thanks, but now how about I sit in a chair?"