Galbraith, who was already tired of looking at cars passing along the street, realized that he can’t just stand there and indulge in memories in vain. He walked away from the window and began looking for clothes, wondering what to do. He threw out the idea of moving out of this "Stait of Snow Lake" hotel - firstly, a feeling of stinginess did not allow him to just give up a room for which he had paid almost six hundred dollars (in American money). Secondly, it seemed to the inspector that if he now began to bother himself with moving, then, being busy with this matter, he would not be able to properly comprehend the visit of this strange specialist.

After getting dressed, Galbraith went to the door and, after checking that he had not forgotten either his wallet or documents, went down the stairs and left the hotel building. He already knew what the weather was like outside - because he stood at the window for almost a quarter of an hour - but he did not expect that it would be so hot outside. Regretting that he forgot to wet his shirt before leaving, he hailed a taxi and, opening the door, addressed the driver:

- Take me to a restaurant you would recommend, - Galbraith said dryly.

Having made himself comfortable and slammed the door, the inspector had to wait until the driver collected his thoughts.

- I have "Clair'n'Tone" in mind, - he said fifteen seconds later.

- What's that? - the passenger asked indifferently.

- Vanitas-restaurant, - answered the driver, pressing the pedal.

The car started moving, and Galbraith, not trying to delve into the meaning of the driver’s last words, stared out the window. He decided to trust someone who knew London because he didn't want to find a restaurant himself. His sad experience with the "Orcinus Orca Osteria" made him abandon any attempts to personally find places for the rest. "Yes", he thought, "It would certainly be much easier if I were an ordinary tourist, whom the guide almost leads by the hand, but alas, his incognito travel put an end to such conveniences". The inspector watched how, during the trip, the urban view outside the window was gradually replaced by rural landscapes.

"Wow, how far away this "Clair'n'Tone" apparently is", thought Galbraith. Couldn't a native Londoner recommend a restaurant that was in the city center? Is it possible - here the inspector involuntarily smiled - in the center of the capital of England there are such terrible restaurants that Londoners prefer to dine almost in the middle of nowhere? But he did not have time to think this thought through to the end.

- Get out, - the driver abruptly said rudely

- What, are we there yet? - Galbraith woke up, turning away from the window.

- I reiterate, get out, - the taxi driver repeated without malice, but firmly.

- All right, as you please, - the inspector opened the door and got out of the car.

- I'll refuel and come back for you, - the driver shouted after him and the ignition.

Galbraith watched his car. "Hmm", he thought, "The taxi driver’s behavior is strange - what’s the difference whether he will refuel with or without a passenger?" The inspector took his eyes off the yellow car that had already disappeared in the distance and looked around. He stood by a wooden fence, behind which he could see a one-story cottage of not particularly attractive appearance. What surprised Galbraith was that this was the only house in the area - the rest of the landscape was a steppe without a single tree, with grass scorched by the sun. "What kind of place is it?", the inspector asked himself.

The next second, a bark reached his ears. The dog that made it, as Galbraith realized, was behind the fence outside of which he was now standing. He took a couple of steps from the fence, when suddenly he saw a man walking from the side of the road towards the wicket. Some inner feeling forced the inspector to hide. The stranger's strong build - one might even say gorilla-like - with his broad shoulders and the black hat pulled down over his eyes together created a rather menacing impression. As the man began to approach the fence, the dog's barking became louder. Galbraith noticed how he slightly slowed down his pace and, right as he walked, put his right hand in the pocket of his black, formal jacket. The inspector watched in silent amazement as the man took out of his pocket a pistol, shining in the midday sun - somewhat similar to those used by the fascists in the Second World War - and, cocking the trigger, stopped at the wicket. "I should have retreated to a safe place", Galbraith thought, watching as the stranger stood in a threatening pose and held his weapon out in front of him.

The next second, the muscular man sharply jerked his leg forward. "Wow, he has strength", Galbraith thought, looking at how the wicket immediately gave in to his kick. Suddenly a shot rang out, and a high, heart-rending dog scream reached the inspector’s ears. "That's it", Galbraith thought, "This thug is shooting at an animal..." But be that as it may, he, hiding around the corner of the fence, did not take any action, because he understood that in a foreign country, and even in some deserted place, it was better to try to stay away from trouble. Therefore, when, after five shots, a cry from a young man was suddenly heard from behind the fence - apparently the owner of the house - Galbraith only dryly stated the fact that the poor dog would never again have to run around the glade for butterflies...

After the man with the weapon stepped over the threshold of the wicket, Galbraith finally decided to see what was going on there. He slowly, trying not to make any noise, walked forward and stopped at such a distance that he could see what was happening inside the site. A massacre was taking place there - a gorilla-like man in a hat, who no longer had a pistol in his hands, was inflicting strong kicks on some young guy in a white shirt who was lying under his feet. The inspector, peering into what was happening, noted that he could not find the dog’s corpse. He made the assumption that the killer probably threw the animal away from the gate, or that the dog, not being completely killed, crawled to the side. Trying to comprehend what was happening, Galbraith could not help but notice that the killer’s movements were somewhat hesitant, as if he was afraid that the kicks would cause severe damage. Usually, the policeman thought, killers act on the dictates of instinct and completely indulge in the feeling of aggression, but the body language of this man was as if he was not really beating the guy, but was only pretending to fake the beating...

Suddenly Galbraith heard a car stop behind him. He turned around - it turns out that the taxi driver really did not deceive him and returned for his passenger.

- Get in, we're moving on, - the taxi driver shouted from the window.

The inspector feverishly opened the door and climbed into the car, simultaneously hitting the top of his head against its ceiling. He wanted to quickly leave this place, but he had to wait - the driver, quietly cursing, fiddled with the ignition key, which did not want to turn. Galbraith, whose heart was beating wildly, glanced out the window. A muscular man in a black jacket, distracted by the sound of an approaching car, left the beating of the young guy and turned towards the road. At the same time, his hat involuntarily flew off his head, and the inspector was finally able to see his face.

- My goodness, it is... - Galbraith whispered with just his lips

But he didn’t have time to finish - the taxi driver finally managed to turn the ignition key, and the car moved sharply forward. Due to the suddenness of this maneuver, the inspector did not have time to react in time and his face was buried in the back of the front seat. Galbraith leaned back in his seat with a curse, feeling that a lump was slowly beginning to swell on his forehead.

- Did you hit a little? - the taxi driver asked without a hint of sympathy.

- Never mind, - his passenger answered, feeling the haematoma.

Overcoming the pain, Galbraith lowered his hand and, trying to position himself as comfortably as possible, began to think about the event that he happened to observe a couple of minutes ago. The killer, as he managed to notice, had facial features very similar to pharmaceutist mister Yonce - the same prominent cheekbones, deep-set eyes and a powerful jaw. "Another doppelgaenger, or more accurately, dreifachgaenger?" thought the inspector. But Galbraith was confused by the fact that this particular person’s face had a grayish tint, which stood out strongly against the background of the stranger’s pink ears and neck. As if some kind of sunscreen was applied to the man's face, or... Galbraith admitted a crazy theory that this man wore a mask on his face in order to resemble father of the late Delia.

- Staging, - whispered the inspector.

Yes, this is exactly the word he used to describe this incident - what he saw, with a high degree of probability, could have been an imitation, a skillfully played performance. Galbraith immediately remembered the words of his late friend - he said that when he, along with a police squad, was going to arrest mister Thurlow, they got to the criminal’s house just at the moment when mister Yonce used a pistol to kill the Jordan's dog and began to trample him owner of the house.

The inspector compared Pharqraut's story with what he saw now. Yes, he was not an eyewitness to that incident, but all the details coincided. Except that he never saw the dog - it seemed that instead of a real animal behind the fence there was a record player hidden from prying eyes that played a tape with pre-recorded sounds of barking. "Quite a logical explanation", he thought. Then it was clear why this dreifachgaenger had such strange body plasticity - he did not really beat the guy, but only played the beating scene, like an actor on a theatre stage. The only thing that was unclear was who staged this “performance” and why. And most importantly, for what purpose, for whom was this whole presentation intended...

At that moment the car stopped moving.

- So, we're already here, - muttered the driver.

The inspector woke up from his thoughts and opened the door, preparing to get out of the car.

- Wait a minute, - the driver said and stuck a piece of paper into his hand.

- Why did you give this to me? - Galbraith asked as he began to unwrap it

- I just want to tell you that if you have any questions, just call this number, - having said this, the driver turned away and took the wheel.

In the end, the inspector climbed out and, without even looking at the departing car, began to look at the piece of paper. There were only two lines in it - a telephone number (020) 1805 1982 and a name "H. Berneasy". Hmm, Galbraith thought, why did the taxi driver decide that he, a random passenger whom he saw for the first time in his life, might need him... He thought about doctor Baselard again - why shouldn’t this doctor really give money to a random person with his own car, so that at the right moment he would drive up to the hotel where the inspector was staying, take him to his place and take him to the right places...

- That's ridiculous, - the inspector said with a grin.

Stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket, Galbraith raised his head. He stood near a four-story building that had all sorts of cafes and storefronts. The taxi driver dropped the inspector off at the modest entrance, above which hung a sign "Clair'n'Tone". Looking at these blue neon letters, Galbraith involuntarily noticed to himself that because of this Baselard, he had developed such paranoia that if we develop the idea that doctor is behind everything in this world, then in the heat of the moment you can get to the point where if you start digging the Bible, it turns out that Eve gave the apple to Adam not on the inspiration of some abstract serpent-tempter, but only because this was the request of doctor Baselard, who pursued the idea of killing the little girl Delia, who would be born many generations later in the family of the pharmaceutist Yonce...