A look of irritation crossed his face when he saw them on the arrival straight above him, and he pummeled his book shut, ousting a puff of residue from between the covers; the overlaid engraving on the facade of the volume was in Portuguese and underneath that lay the decoration of a plated palm conquered by a sickle, and on the spine was the image of a crown and a leaf. Beheim saw that the front of Kostolec’s dim silk shirt was thick with dust, proof—may be—that he had pummeled closed different books not so well before. An indication of dissatisfaction, potentially. Yet, as they moved toward he grinned in a lovely way. Lovely, at any rate, as opposed to the overall run of grins with which Beheim had met. Thus, for all his nervousness over addressing so imposing a figure, Beheim was put to some degree at his simplicity.
“Ok, superb! Our little police officer,” said Kostolec, cleaning his hands on his pants, which were additionally dim; the vacancy around them made his voice convey a slight resonation, and his words appeared to mix a little something in the focal obscurity of the well. “How whimsical! I feel I’ve been shipped into the middle of a voyaging dramatic organization.” He cast a curve look toward Alexandra. “Also, which part would you say you are playing this day, my dear? Not the shuddering ingenue, I trust.” “For the motivation behind this scene,” she said dryly, “you’d do best to think of me as a lance transporter.” “Such pleasant threat. I endorse.” Then, to Beheim, who was rearranging through the free bits of paper on which he had made his notes:
“Be careful about her, Mister Policeman. She has an ability for self-hallucination which serves all the better to cloud her real motives.”Beheim disregarded this. “Your worker Jules,” he said, “has expressed that he was with you in the library the evening of the homicide. You were both here the whole evening?” “Didn’t Jules so state?” “Indeed, yet I—” “Then, at that point, I would not question him. He is a man of honor of outstanding character.” Kostolec inclined toward the podium, not the hardened development of an elderly person, but rather giving an impression of flexible strength. “He chases books for me. It saves time to have him arrived behind schedule down.” “And for what reason is he not helping you now?” Kostolec chuckled. “Something more significant has come up. He is at present hastening about Banat, posing inquiries, and getting dolt’s things done. For some cop, I accept.” “For that, my statements of regret,” Beheim said, and again rearranged through his notes. “Jules has likewise demonstrated that you are left upon a long report. Might I ask what is the subject of your explores?” “That is immaterial to your examination.” “It likely could be,” Beheim said. “In any case, I’m apprehensive I should be the adjudicator of that.” “Your objectives are not mine,” said Kostolec, outrage edging into his voice. “Valid, I can’t drive you to reply. I can just note that you don’t. Nonetheless, it’s conceivable that your explores have some importance of which you are uninformed. Also, regardless of whether they are unimportant, why not settle the matter?” Kostolec was quiet briefly; nothing about his stance or articulation provided some insight into his mindset. Beheim looked down over the railing at the twisting flight of stairs underneath. Light emissions struck into the focal point of the well from various lower arrivals, given particular structure by the residue suspended noticeable all around; ties glimmered in the shadows like creases of metal. Far underneath, a shining orange spot bobbled like a firefly in the grainy haziness. Presumably, another researcher rising with a light. A weak squeaking clamor came from the arrival above, however, Beheim saw nobody there. The construction settling, he assumed. At last, Kostolec said, “I’m sure you have considered the affront implied in your scrutinizing.”
“I lament the need—” Beheim started, however, Kostolec cut him off. “Then again,” he went on, “I should consider your naiveté and the inconceivable situation where you have been put. Along these lines, I will address your inquiry.” A dull grin scratched the lines further on his shriveled face, and Beheim, stunned by this presentation of soundness, mumbled his much obliged. “I’m examining the future,” Kostolec said. Beheim sat tight for further clarification, yet none was impending. He looked at Alexandra; she lifted one shoulder in a practically vague shrug. Kostolec kept on grinning. “Would you want to be more explicit?” Beheim inquired. “No, I would not.” “Great.” Beheim paced to the edge of the arrival, looked down again into the well. Another weak squeaking clamor went to his ears. “It appears to be that the future, in any event, your origination of it, is some way or another identified with the records of the Royal Portuguese Botanical Society. The book you were inspecting seems to contain a portion of their pioneer diaries. The palm tree on the cover shows to me that the work concerns a tropical land. The sickle”— he spread his hands—”maybe alludes to Islam. A tropical Portuguese settlement with an Islamic populace? I’m curious about the historical backdrop of Portuguese development.