Gregory leaped from his chair, his eyes blazing.
“Sciss told me something concrete after the phone call. He said he expects the corpses to be recovered, and he claims he can use his formula to figure out exactly where they will reappear, that is, when their energy of movement, as he calls it, will be used up… Now it’s up to us to do everything possible to make sure that the reappearances take place in front of witnesses, at least once.”
“Just a minute,” interrupted Sheppard, who had been trying for some time to get Gregory’s attention. The detective, almost running around the room in excitement, seemed for a few moments to have forgotten that the Chief Inspector was there.
“You’ve set up an either-or proposition: Sciss — or the factor. Now you’ve practically eliminated the factor, leaving us with nothing but some kind of crude fraud, a gruesome little game being played out in the mortuaries. But what if neither alternative is valid? What if the perpetrator isn’t Sciss or the factor? Or what if the perpetrator invented the factor, then injected it into the corpses as an experiment?”
“Do you really believe that?” Gregory screamed, running up to the desk. Panting breathlessly, he stood there, staring at the calm, almost complacent Chief Inspector. “Do you really believe that… that… nonsense? No one invented anything! A discovery like that would be worth a Nobel Prize! Believe me, the whole world would know about it. That’s one reason. And furthermore, Sciss—”
Gregory stopped short. During the acute silence that followed, a slow, measured, creaking sound could be heard, not from behind the wall but in the very room where he was sitting with the Chief Inspector. Gregory had heard this sound a few times before. The incidents had been several weeks apart, but each had occurred while he was lying in his bed in the dark. The first time the creaking had awakened him from a deep sleep. Absolutely certain that someone was approaching him on bare feet, Gregory had switched on the light. There was no one in the room. The second incident had occurred very late — in fact, just before dawn. Gregory, exhausted by a sleepless night of listening to Mr. Fenshawe’s acoustical gymnastics, was lying in a state of torpor, neither asleep nor awake. He’d turned on the light again; like the first time, the room was empty. The third time, having convinced himself that the wooden floors in old houses dry unevenly, and that the process can only be heard during the still hours of the night, Gregory ignored the creaking. Now, however, the room was well lit by the lamp on the desk and the furniture, undoubtedly as old as the floor, wasn’t making a sound. The parquet near the stove creaked faintly but distinctly. Soon after, somewhat closer to the middle of the room, two more creaks followed in quick succession, one in front of Gregory, the other behind him. After a minute of quiet during which Gregory remained hunched over without moving, a weak sound could be heard from Mr. Fenshawe’s room, a kind of giggling — or was it crying? — weak, senile, muffled, perhaps by a quilt — followed by weak coughing. And then it was quiet again.
“And furthermore, Sciss partially contradicted himself…”
Gregory tried to pick up the thread, but the interval had been too long and he couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened. He was at his wits’ end. Shaking his head a few times as if trying to knock some water out of his ears, he sat down.
“I’m beginning to understand,” said Sheppard, leaning back in his chair. There was a serious expression on his face. “You suspect Sciss because you think he has a compulsion to do these things. I suppose you’ve tried to determine his whereabouts during each of the nights in question. If he has a good alibi for even one of them, your suspicion collapses — unless you accept the idea of an accomplice, a miracle-worker per procuram. Well?”
“Is it possible that he didn’t notice anything?” flashed through Gregory’s mind. “It can’t be. Maybe… maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe it’s old age.” He struggled to concentrate. Sheppard’s words were still ringing in his ears but he couldn’t grasp their meaning.
“Well yes… of course…” he muttered. Then, regaining control of himself: “Sciss is such a loner that it’s hard to talk about a tight alibi. I should have questioned him, but I didn’t. I admit I bungled things. I bungled… I didn’t even question that woman who runs his house…”
“Woman?” Sheppard said, unable to hide his surprise. He looked at Gregory, somewhat obviously trying to restrain a smile. “That’s his sister! No, Gregory, the truth is, you haven’t accomplished very much. If you didn’t want to question her, you should at least have talked to me! The day the body disappeared in Lewes — remember, it was between three and five in the morning — Sciss was at my house.”
“At your house?” Gregory whispered.
“Yes. I was trying to talk him into helping us — in a private capacity, of course — and I wanted to show him some of the reports. He left just after
midnight — I can’t say whether it was five after or twelve-thirty, but even assuming that it was midnight, I doubt whether he could have driven fast enough to get to Lewes before three in the morning. It would have been closer to four. But that’s not the most important point. You know, Lieutenant, there are many kinds of improbabilities — material ones, for instance, like the improbability of tossing a coin a hundred times and having it come up heads ninety-nine times. And certain kinds of psychological improbability verge just as closely on the impossible. I’ve known Sciss for many years. He’s an exasperating man, an egomaniac made of razor blades and glass, arrogant in every possible way, absolutely devoid of tact, or perhaps completely unaware that civilized people use good manners not so much out of politeness but for the sake of simple, comfortable coexistence. I have no illusions about him. But the insinuation that he could hide on all fours under some old coffins in a mortuary, or reinforce the jaws of a corpse with adhesive tape, or stamp footprints into the snow, or wrack his brains to figure out how to interrupt rigor mortis, or shake a dead body like a scarecrow to frighten a constable — this is all absolutely incompatible with everything I know about him. Now please try to understand. I don’t claim that Sciss couldn’t commit a misdemeanor or even a felony. But I’m sure he could never manage a crime that involves such gruesomely crude elements. There can only be one Sciss. Either he’s the man who perpetrated that tragic little farce at the cemetery, or he’s the man I know. In other words, if Sciss wanted to get away with staging the affair at the cemetery, he’d have to pretend to be completely different in his daily life from the person he really is, or, speaking more cautiously, than the one he may prove to be, if he did everything you accuse him of. Do you think that such consistent role-playing is possible?”
“I’ve already told you that as far as I’m concerned anything is possible if it frees me from the necessity of believing in miracles,” Gregory said in a dull voice, rubbing his palms together as if he suddenly felt cold. “I can’t allow myself the luxury of psychologizing. I must have a perpetrator, and I’ll get him no matter what the cost. Maybe Sciss is insane — in the full sense of the word — maybe he’s a monomaniac, maybe he has a split personality or a divided ego, maybe he has an accomplice, maybe he’s using his theory to protect the real culprit — there are more than enough possibilities.”
“Answer one question for me,” Sheppard said very gently. “But first I want you to understand something: I’m not trying to make suggestions, I’m not initiating anything from the top, and I admit that in this case I don’t know anything — not a thing.”
“What’s the question?” Gregory replied sharply, almost brutally, feeling himself turn pale.
“Why don’t you admit that the explanation may not involve criminals?”
“But I’ve already told you! I’ve told you several times! Because the only alternative is a miracle!”
“Do you really mean that?” Sheppard asked, his voice suddenly solicitous. “All right, let’s leave it for now. The alibi I just gave you for Sciss — you’ll check it out, right? I mean the incident at Lewes, because I can only vouch for him up till midnight.
My coat is over here, isn’t it? Thank you. I think there’s going to be a change in the weather; my rheumatism is beginning to act up and it’s a bit hard for me to raise my arms. Thank you again. It’s after midnight already. I must have lost track of the time. Good night, now. Oh, one more thing. If you have a free moment — for training, so to speak — maybe you ought to do a little detective work around here and let me know who was responsible for that creaking during our conversation. After all, it wasn’t a miracle, was it? Please, please, don’t look so surprised. You know very well what I’m talking about. Maybe a little too well. Now, if I’m not mistaken, I go out by the staircase on the other side of the drawing room with the mirrors. No, you don’t have to show me the way. The door downstairs is locked, but I noticed that the key was still in the lock. You can lock it again later when you get a chance — there aren’t any thieves in this neighborhood. Good night again, and above all, Lieutenant, remember — deliberation and discretion.”
He went out. Gregory followed him, hardly conscious of what he was doing. The Chief Inspector, not hesitating for a moment, tramped through one room after another and quickly descended the stairs to the front door. The detective followed slowly, hanging on to the bannister like a drunken man. The front door closed quietly. Gregory reached it, locked it, mechanically giving the key two turns, then returned upstairs, his head roaring, his eyes burning as if on fire. Just the way he was, fully dressed, he threw himself down on his bed. The house was still. Through the window some far-off lights were dimly visible. The clock ticked quietly. It would be difficult to say how long Gregory remained in the same position without moving.
After a while the lamp on the desk seemed less bright than before. “I must be very tired,” Gregory thought. “I have to get to sleep or I won’t be good for anything tomorrow.” But he didn’t make a move. Something — a tiny cloud or a puff of smoke — floated over the empty armchair in which Sheppard had been sitting. Gregory ignored it and lay there listlessly, listening to his own breathing. Suddenly, the room reverberated with the sound of knocking.
Three separate and quite distinct knocks followed. Gregory turned his head toward the door but still did not get up. Three more knocks. He wanted to say “come in” but couldn’t; his mouth hadn’t been so dry since his last hangover. Standing up, he made for the door.
Gregory put his hand on the doorknob but was unable to move, suddenly overcome by fear of whoever might be on the other side. Finally, he yanked the door open and, his heart sinking, peered into the darkness. There was no one there. He ran out into the long band of light emanating from the lamp behind him, then made his way past a line of opened doors, his arms extended frontward so he wouldn’t bump into whoever it was.
Not encountering anything, Gregory moved farther down the hallway, increasingly enveloped in the resonating sounds. “I never realized this house was so big,” he thought; at almost the same moment he saw a tall shadow backing into a side hall. He took off in pursuit; but the light, pattering sound of hurrying feet told him that his quarry was running too. An instant later a door loomed up in front of Gregory. He managed to jump inside just as it slammed shut, nearly crashing into a blue-sheeted bed but stopping himself in time. It was Mr. Fenshawe’s room. More confused than ever, he wanted to get away. A bowl-shaped alabaster lamp was hanging so low over the table that it practically touched him. The table itself had been pushed alongside the bed. Farther inside, next to the wall adjacent to his room, he saw two female manikins — the kind used in high-fashion salons — good figures, beautiful features, real hair. They were both naked, their cream-colored limbs glistening in the light of the lamp, and one, gazing at Gregory with an affable fixed smile, was tapping rhythmically on the wall. He was stunned by the sight.
At almost the same instant he saw Mr. Fenshawe sitting on the floor behind the manikin, cackling quietly to himself as if he had a hacking cough. A complicated set of strings ran from his hands to the arms and bodies of both manikins, and the old man, aided by some levers of the kind found backstage at a puppet theater, was manipulating them skillfully.
“No, no,” he said, “please don’t be frightened. I apologize if the noise keeps you awake, but I can only do this at night. I contact the spirit world, you know.”
“But you need a table for that,” Gregory said absently, glancing around the room without knowing what he was looking for.
“Tables are old-fashioned. It’s done this way now,” replied Mr. Fenshawe, not interrupting his manipulation of the strings.
Gregory didn’t answer. There was a floor-length, yellow-fringed window drape hanging behind Mr. Fenshawe; it was protruding slightly on one side, as if carefully pulled over a big vertical object of some kind.
Addressing an idiotic question to Mr. Fenshawe — something or other about the manufacture of manikins — then praising the old man’s skill in manipulating them, Gregory gradually moved sideways along the wall until he was within touching distance of the drape. He extended his arm and touched a broad, full fold: it gave a little under the pressure, then resisted it. Gregory knew now: someone was hiding behind the drape! He took a deep breath, stood for a second with his muscles tensed, then began walking around the room, keeping up a steady chatter. He confessed to Mr. Fenshawe about his nightly fears; then, uncertain whether he had managed to allay the old man’s suspicions, he told him about the investigation, pausing once in front of the manikins and once in front of the drape, addressing himself first to them and then directly to it, as if he was no longer paying any attention to Mr. Fenshawe. These maneuvers made him feel that he was beginning to gain the advantage; well aware of the risks, he began to space his words with double meanings, simultaneously poking at the protruding part of the motionless yellow drape with a feeling of mingled triumph and fear. Laughing out loud, Gregory swept the room with a flashing glance, looking something like a second-rate actor’s version of a detective. The cry “Come out! I’ve got you!” pounded steadily in his head. His speech became blurred and incoherent; in his excitement he blurted out sentences without bothering to complete them. Standing with his back to the drape, Gregory was so close to whoever was hiding behind it that he could feel the warmth of his body. All at once old Mr. Fenshawe jumped up from the floor, an expression of terror and compassion in his eyes, and in the same instant something grabbed hold of Gregory. Unable to tear loose or to breathe, he flapped his arms helplessly; an icy cold sharpness pierced his chest; everything around him stopped, the room became as motionless as a photograph. Gregory fell gently, thinking with extraordinary acuity, “Well, it’s over, but why don’t I feel anything? — with his last bit of consciousness he prepared himself for the pain, struggling to keep his eyes open. Looking up from the floor, he saw a grayish figure framed by the yellow drape. The man bent over Gregory with uncommon interest. “I can’t see,” the lieutenant thought in despair. “Now I’ll never find out which of the two…” Just as Gregory began to understand that the man had killed him, that the contest had ended with his adversary the victor, the room around him became a gigantic noisy bell. And then he woke up… in a dark room, with the cold, acrid aroma of tobacco smoke hanging in the air. The telephone was ringing. It stopped for a while, then began again. Only half awake, with a head as heavy as the nightmare itself, Gregory gradually realized that the monotonous ringing had been going on for quite some time.
“Gregory,” he stammered into the receiver, leaning with his full weight on an outstretched hand; the room was whirling around.
“This is Gregson. I’ve been calling you for half an hour. Guess what, pal, a report just came in from Beavers Home. They found that guy’s corpse — the one that disappeared about three weeks ago.”
“What?” said Gregory in terror. “Where? What corpse?”
“Hey, come on, are you still sleeping? The body of that sailor — Aloney — the one that disappeared from the dissecting lab. They found it in an old iron foundry. In pretty lousy condition too. It must have been there a long t
ime.”
“In Beverley?” Gregory asked quietly. His head was throbbing — he felt as if he’d been out on an all-night drunk.
“No, in Beavers Home. Hey, pull yourself together. It’s about six miles farther north, where Lord Altringham has his stables. You know where I mean?”
“Who found it?”
“Some workmen; the report just came in but it was last night. In the middle of some junk in front of an old quonset hut. Piles of rusted sheet metal all over the place. You going?”
“No. I can’t,” Gregory blurted out belligerently, and immediately added in a quiet voice, “I don’t feel too well. It may be the flu. Send Calls — you get in touch with him, all right? And a doctor too. Sorensen won’t be able to go; that is, he won’t want to. Try King. Please take care of it for me, Gregson. Calls will be able to manage everything. Oh, have them take a photographer along. Why am I bothering with all this — you know what to do. I really can’t go.”
He stopped short, afraid that he was talking too much. For a moment there was silence on the other end.
The Investigation Page 14
