“In other words, I have a persecution mania, I’m obsessed, I’m proceeding in spite of the facts?” said Gregory, closing his eyes. The conversation had gone on long enough — he was ready to end it even if he had to be arrogant.
“The reporters are all eager to talk to that constable who ran away from the mortuary,” said Black. “Are you? Do you expect much from his story?”
“No.”
“I knew it,” the writer said coldly. “If he recovers and says he saw a resurrection with his own eyes, you’ll think he imagined it, you’ll tell yourself that you can’t depend on the testimony of a man who has a serious brain concussion, and all the doctors will say the same thing. Or maybe you’ll say that your perpetrator was even more clever than you assumed — that the constable couldn’t see him because he used some kind of invisible nylon thread or covered himself with a black substance. For you, Inspector, only Barabbas exists; if you had been a witness at that famous scene, and heard a voice saying ‘Lazarus, arise!’ — you’d remain yourself, you wouldn’t change at all. By yourself I mean a victim of hallucination or illusion, or a clever fraud. I say that you will never, never give up the idea that there is a perpetrator because your existence depends on his!”
Although he had told himself not to let Black’s remarks affect him, Gregory could feel his face turning pale. He tried to smile but couldn’t.
“In other words, I’m the kind of policeman who was assigned to guard the Holy Sepulcher,” he said. “Or I’m like Paul — before his conversion. You’re not going to give me a single break, are you?”
“No!” said the writer. “But it’s not me. You yourself won’t. This isn’t a question of methodology or statistics or even of systematic investigation — it’s a matter of faith. You believe in a perpetrator because you have to. We need policemen like you, but we also need Holy Sepulchers.”
“I’ll go you one better,” said Gregory, laughing unnaturally. “You could say that I’m not even doing what I want to do, just acting out a role in a tragedy, or a tragicomedy. Or something, you tell me, since you’re so eager to be the chorus…”
“Why not? That’s my job,” the writer declared.
Sciss had been listening to this conversation with growing impatience. Finally, he could no longer contain himself.
“Armour, my dear friend,” he said in a persuasive voice, “paradoxes are as necessary to you as water is to a fish. I know you enjoy doing it, but don’t reduce things to absurdities.”
“A fish doesn’t create the water,” Black responded, but Sciss wasn’t listening.
“This case has to do with facts, not with drama or lyric poetry. As you know very well, Entia non sunt multiplicanda. Faith is not involved in the analysis of a series of facts. A working hypothesis may sometimes be invalid, but even an invalid hypothesis, if nothing else, affirms that there is a human perpetrator…”
“As long as there are human beings facts don’t exist in a void,” said the writer. “Once a fact emerges into consciousness it is already an interpretation. Facts? A thousand years ago a similar event gave rise to a new religion. And even if it had turned out to be an anti-religion, there would still be the same crowds of believers and priests, the mass hallucinations, the empty coffins pulled apart for relics, the blind seeing, the deaf beginning to hear… I admit that action in this sphere is more limited and less mythologized nowadays, the Inquisitor doesn’t threaten to torture anyone for statistical heresies — that’s why the tabloid papers make such big profits. Facts, my dear friend, are your business as well as the Inspector’s. You’re both the kind of disciples on which our era is founded. Inspector, I hope you aren’t angry at me because of our little disagreement. I don’t know you so I can’t possibly predict whether or not you’ll end up another Paul. But even if you do, Scotland Yard will remain the same. The police are never converted. I don’t know if you ever noticed that.”
“You turn everything into a joke,” Sciss grunted indifferently. McCatt whispered to him for a moment, then they both got up. Outside the checkroom Gregory found himself standing next to Sciss, who suddenly turned to him and said in a lowered voice:
“Do you have anything to say to me?”
Gregory hesitated, then, acting on an impulse, took Sciss’s hand and shook it.
“Please don’t think about me, just go about your work in peace,” he replied.
“Thank you,” said Sciss. His voice was so shaky that even Gregory was surprised and confused. Armour Black’s car was parked in front of the Ritz. Sciss got in with him, leaving Gregory alone with McCatt. Although Gregory would have preferred to say good-bye, McCatt proposed that they walk together for a while.
Both men were the same height; walking side by side, they reluctantly became aware of this fact on several different occasions when each discovered the other peering at him curiously out of the corner of his eye. These unexpected encounters called for a smile, but neither one was willing to make the gesture. After a while McCatt stopped at a vegetable stand and bought a banana. Peeling it, he glanced at Gregory.
“Do you like bananas?”
“Not too much.”
“Are you in a rush?”
“No.”
“Why don’t we try our luck,” McCatt suggested, pointing at the brightly lit entrance of a penny arcade.
Cheered by the thought, Gregory nodded and followed him inside. Several greasy-haired teenagers were watching sullenly as one of their number fired a line of blue sparks at a small airplane revolving behind the window of a glass case. McCatt walked straight to the back of the arcade, passing a row of pinball machines and automatic roulette games. He stopped in front of a glass-topped metal case. Underneath the glass cover there was a green landscape, complete with bushes and trees. He deftly threw a coin into the slot, pulled a lever, and turned to Gregory.
“Do you know this game?”
“No.”
“It’s called ‘Hottentots and Kangaroo.’ There aren’t any Hottentots in Australia, but what difference does it make? I’ll be the kangaroo. Ready?”
He pressed a button. A little kangaroo jumped out of a black slot and fell into a clump of bushes. Gregory pulled his lever — and three funny-looking little black figures slid out on his side. He manipulated the handgrip, moving his Hottentots closer to the place where he thought the kangaroo was hiding. At the last minute the kangaroo jumped out, broke through Gregory’s skirmish line, and again took refuge in the jungle. They wandered that way across the whole plastic map; every time Gregory got too close the kangaroo managed to escape. Finally Gregory worked out a tactical plan: positioning one Hottentot at the place where the kangaroo had disappeared, he held the other two in reserve, aligning them in such a way that McCatt couldn’t possibly escape. He caught the kangaroo on his next move.
“For a beginner you’re very good,” McCatt said. His eyes were sparkling, he was chuckling like a boy. Gregory shrugged his shoulders, feeling somewhat foolish.
“Maybe because I’m a hunter by profession.”
“No, it’s not that. You have to use your mind in this game. There’s no other way to play it. You understood the principle right off. This game lends itself to mathematical analysis, you know. Sciss hates this kind of fun — it’s a defect, a fundamental defect in his personality…”
That said, he walked slowly down the row of slot machines, threw a coin into one of them and jerked the lever, setting the colorful disks into motion: a flood of coins streamed out of the machine into his outstretched hand. The kids up front, noticing this, began to move slowly in his direction, watching as McCatt nonchalantly threw the money into his pocket. But McCatt didn’t try his luck again and the two men left, passing the stubborn dull-witted fellow near the entrance who was still shoving coin after coin into the machine in a desperate effort to shoot down the airplane.
An arcade lined by shops came into view a few steps farther on. Gregory recognized it at once: it was the same one he had wandered into not long befo
re; inside, toward the back, he saw a huge mirror closing off the far end.
“There’s no exit here,” he said, coming to a stop.
“I know. You suspect Sciss, don’t you?”
Gregory paused for a moment before answering.
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“You could say that. But… he really doesn’t have any friends.”
“I know, it’s not very easy to like him,” Gregory said with surprising emphasis. “Only… you shouldn’t ask me questions like that.”
“I only meant it rhetorically. After all, it’s obvious that you suspect him. Maybe not of engineering the disappearances, but, let’s say… of being an accomplice. However, and I don’t mean to sound facetious, only time will tell. I just want to know one thing: would you close the investigation if you witnessed, with your own eyes, something that looks like a resurrection? That is, a dead man sitting, moving around…”
“Did Sciss tell you to ask me that?” Gregory asked in a sarcastic tone of voice. Without realizing it, the two men had walked as far as the center of the arcade, stopping in front of a shop window. Inside it a barefoot window decorator was undressing a willowy blonde manikin. Gregory was suddenly reminded of his dream. He watched attentively as the manikin’s slender, pink body emerged from under the gold lame.
“It’s too bad you understood it that way,” McCatt answered slowly. Bowing his head slightly, he turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Gregory in front of the shop window.
The lieutenant took a few steps farther into the arcade, but turned back after seeing his reflection in the mirror. On the street outside more and more window displays were lit up, and the noise and bustling had intensified as it usually does in the early evening. Continually jostled as he walked along deep in thought, he finally turned into a side street. After a minute or two he found himself standing at the entrance to a courtyard. The display cases on both sides of the gate belonged to a photographer, and his eyes swept over the rows of wedding pictures, quickly taking in the conventionally retouched happy couples — the brides all smiling shyly behind their veils, the tuxedoed men affecting virile poses. He walked into the courtyard. An old man in a slovenly, unbuttoned leather smock was kneeling beside the open hood of an old car, listening to the purring of its motor with his eyes closed. Behind him there was a garage, its doors open. Gregory could see several other cars inside, as well as empty gasoline cans and piles of spare parts scattered along the walls. The man in the smock, seeming to sense Gregory’s presence, opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. The expression of ecstasy left his face.
“What can I do for you, mister? You want to rent a car?”
“What? Uh… you rent cars?” Gregory asked.
“Of course. Allow me, sir. Would you like a new one? I have this year’s Buick, automatic transmission, the smoothest ride you ever had. How long do you want it?”
“No… uh, yes. Just for tonight. Yes, I’ll take the Buick,” Gregory decided. “Do you want a deposit?”
“That depends.”
Gregory showed him his identity card. The man smiled and bowed.
“You don’t have to leave no deposit, Inspector, it goes without saying. You can pay me the fifteen shillings later. The Buick, right? Should I gas her up?”
“Yes. Will it take long?”
“No… only a minute.”
The man disappeared into the garage. One of the dark cars gave a start and quietly pulled out onto the concrete drive. Gregory paid, placing the money in the proprietor’s chubby, greasy palm. He slammed the door, adjusted the seat, tested the brake, worked the pedals for a moment to get accustomed to them, threw the car into gear, and drove carefully into the street. It was still fairly light outside.
The car was really new and it handled easily. At the first red light Gregory turned around and studied its length through the panoramic rear window. He wasn’t used to such a big car, but he enjoyed the rhythmic throbbing of its powerful engine. The traffic was heavy for a while, but Gregory put on more speed after it thinned out. There were fewer private cars in the street now, and more brightly painted vans, panel trucks, and motorcycles delivering merchandise. He had reached the East End when he realized that he didn’t have any cigarettes.
Gregory drove along several narrow streets posted with no parking signs, finally finding a spot next to a cluster of dry trees enclosed by an old iron grating that looked like a huge bird cage. He backed the Buick in until he could feel the tires bumping gently against the curb, then got out and began looking for a tobacco shop he had seen from the car. He had never been in this neighborhood before, however, and as a result he couldn’t find it. He walked up the next side street. It was beginning to get darker. He saw two or three long-haired youths loitering in the glare outside a small movie house. Their hands crammed into the pockets of their wrinkled tight pants, they were patiently watching the still photographs in a revolving drum that advertised coming attractions. Just past the movie theater Gregory was caught in a blast of hot air from the open door of a cafeteria. Inside he could see some sausages sizzling on an open grill, and through the smoke he made out several more long-haired characters like the ones outside the theater. Finally he found the tobacco shop. The proprietor, a short hunchback with a face as flat as a pancake and almost no neck, handed him a package of American cigarettes. On the way out Gregory encountered another dwarf; this one, unusually fat, with short arms and legs, was removing a tray of sugar-covered pastries from a delivery wagon. Gregory tore the cellophane off the package, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Deciding to return to the car by a different route, he crossed the street and walked straight ahead, looking for a cross street leading to the right. He passed another cafeteria, its door open also, with a narrow, sausage-shaped red, green, and white flag drooping over its entrance like a rag. Down the street there was a penny arcade full of people, a grocery, and a hardware store. Most of the sidewalk outside the hardware store was blocked by piles of merchandise. The proprietor, dressed in a black sweater and smoking a pipe, was sitting under a tree, watching a little cart on the other side of the street. Hearing a catchy tune from that direction, Gregory paused and took a close look. Although the occupant of the cart was standing, only the upper part of his chest was visible; actually, it was an armless torso; the head, swinging to left and right in quick half turns was playing a brisk march on a harmonica mounted on a wire frame. Gregory put his hand in his pocket and toyed nervously with a coin; then, by an effort of sheer willpower, forced himself to walk away. The high-pitched sound of the harmonica followed him for a while. Shuddering as the image of the street musician flashed into his mind, Gregory realized, almost as an afterthought, that he was beginning to feel a little like a dwarf. The idea fascinated him. “A street of dwarfs,” he thought. It suddenly occurred to him that the series of disappearances had to have a clear-cut meaning, even if it was hidden. It would be difficult to discard everything at this point and start all over again on a hunch, he mused. There were no street lamps and it was getting darker and darker — the street was lit only by faint streaks of light from the shop windows. Up ahead Gregory saw a gap in the streaks — the street he was looking for.
The cross street was almost empty, lit more or less by an old-fashioned gas lamp hanging from a spiral iron arm attached to a wall. Gregory walked slowly, smoking his cigarette until the wet tobacco at the end began burning and singed his lips. Just past the corner there was an antique shop, or so the sign claimed, but there was nothing in the window except a dusty pile of cardboard boxes and some old photographs of movie stars scattered about like an abandoned deck of playing cards. At the end of the street he found the little square where he had parked the car.
Some children were playing hide-and-seek near the iron grating, popping out from behind the cagelike structure, which enclosed a statue of someone in a bishop’s miter, to throw pieces of wood at his Buick.
“That’s enough fooling around, you hear me!” he shouted, eme
rging from the shadows. The children scattered noisily, more exuberant than frightened. He got in and started the motor. Cut off from his surroundings by the car windows, he had a premonition that he was about to unleash something he’d be sorry for later on. The premonition urged him not to go ahead with whatever it was he had just started. He hesitated for a second, but his fingers tightened automatically on the gearshift, and the car began coasting down the slope. Reducing speed gradually, he turned into a broad avenue, passing a street sign but not managing to read it.
The dashboard clock radiated a pinkish color; its hands stood at seven o’clock. Time was really flying today. Various events connected with the case came to mind, but Gregory rejected them — he wanted to push them out of his consciousness, trying hard not to think about the case, as if it was important not to think about it, as if everything would turn out all right if he left it alone; somehow, he felt, all the details would fall into place when he came back to them later on.
He was leaving the East End when the flashing directional signal of a dark car in front of him caught his eye. Recognizing the dented rear bumper, he slowed down and stayed at a safe distance behind the car. He managed without any trouble.
The dark gray sedan turned again into a deserted tree-lined street. Gregory allowed it to get a few more yards ahead; then, to keep from attracting attention, he turned off his lights, following the other car like this for a long time. Once or twice, at intersections, he had to speed up to make sure he wouldn’t lose it but he preferred not to get too close. There weren’t many other cars on the street though, and Sciss was a careful driver, who used his directional signals often. The orange flashes were a big help, but Gregory was a little annoyed because he didn’t always know where he was. Suddenly he recognized the bluish letters of an advertising sign and immediately everything fell into place. There was a branch of the City Bank, next door to it a small cafe he had frequented in his youth. The dark sedan pulled up to the curb. Gregory made a quick decision: at the risk of losing Sciss, who was already getting out of his car, Gregory drove up to the next block. He stopped in front of a big chestnut tree which protected the Buick from the light of the street lamps, slammed the doors, and hurried back, but Sciss was nowhere to be seen. Gregory stopped in front of the cafe and tried to peek through the windows. Some posters pasted on the glass blocked his view, so he raised his collar and went inside, unable to resist the unpleasant feeling that he was doing something ridiculous.
The Investigation Page 16
