The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  “If you say so,” murmured Wells.

  For a few moments, Clayton fell silent, gazing benevolently at the author, and then he said, “Let me tell you about when I was like you, when I was not yet Inspector Cornelius Clayton. Perhaps it will help. More than a decade ago, I was an ordinary man. Yes, a man who thought the world was what it was. I had the same impoverished, narrow idea of it you have now, except that then I had no difficulty picking up peas with a fork, because both my hands were made of flesh and bone.”

  The inspector uttered these last words in a tone of joviality, but Wells fancied his voice contained an underlying air of melancholy like the rustle of dead leaves in autumn. He seemed reluctant to weigh up what he had lost, for fear the balance might go against the decision he had made, so long ago now that he could no longer see himself in that youth who had casually chosen his fate.

  “My father was a policeman, and following in his footsteps I joined Scotland Yard to fight against crime. My dedication, together with the advice and training I received from my father, soon yielded an excellent reputation, which, added to my extreme youth, quickly won me the admiration of my superiors, who would frequently and unreservedly congratulate me. One of these, Superintendent Thomas Arnold, called me to his office when I had scarcely been two years with the force. He told me someone was keen to meet me and, there and then, introduced me to the oddest-looking fellow I had ever seen in my life, until that moment at least.

  “He was about fifty years old, stout, but with a lively manner, and he wore a peculiar-looking patch over his right eye. At first I wasn’t sure whether he had lost the real one or whether it was still intact beneath the artificial one now occupying its socket. This was a kind of globular lens with a carved edge, held on by a strap that went over his forehead. Inside the globe, which appeared to move, was a smaller circle that gave off a faint reddish glow. Unflustered by my bewilderment, he stretched out a chubby yet vigorous hand laden with rings with strange symbols on them and introduced himself as Angus Sinclair, captain of a division inside the police force that I had no knowledge of. The superintendent beat a swift retreat, leaving me alone with this eccentric fellow, who immediately ensconced himself in the superintendent’s chair, gesturing with a wave of his hand for me to sit opposite him. Once I had done so, he beamed at me, browsing with a satisfied expression through the papers in front of him, which I soon discovered was my curriculum vitae.

  “‘You have a brilliant record, Inspector Clayton, I congratulate you,’ he said in a solemn tone.

  “‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied, noticing the strange badge on the left-hand lapel of his black three-piece suit: a tiny winged dragon.

  “‘Mmm . . . with your youth and intelligence, I imagine you’ll go far. Yes, indeed, very far. In time, you will doubtless achieve the rank of colonel. And when you reach seventy or eighty years old, you’ll die a happy man, stout like me, and with a shock of white hair, content, no doubt, to look back on what could only be seen as a happy life and a career built on solving crimes and sending wrongdoers to prison, and so forth.’

  “‘Thank you for the exercise in fortune-telling,’ I replied, vexed by the provocative tone with which he had belittled not only my achievements thus far, but also my future achievements.

  “The captain grinned, amused at my display of youthful insolence.

  “‘Oh, they are admirable achievements, of which anyone could be proud. However, I am sure you aspire to more, much more than this.’ He stared at me fixedly for a few moments. His mechanical eye glowed intensely, and I fancied I even heard a strange buzzing noise coming from behind the lens. ‘The problem is you have no idea what this more entails, or am I mistaken?’

  “He wasn’t mistaken, but I preferred not to admit it. I simply remained silent, curious to know what this fellow wanted from me.

  “‘Yes, thanks to your intelligence and commitment you’ll make the grade of colonel, or whatever it is you aspire to. Yet you will know nothing of the world, my boy. Absolutely nothing, however much you might think you know everything.’ He leaned over the desk and gave me a challenging smile. ‘That is your future. But I am offering you a far more exciting one.’

  “‘What are you talking about, sir?’ I asked, startled by the eccentric fellow’s fervent tone.

  “‘I am inviting you to use your talents to solve other kinds of cases. Special cases,’ he explained. ‘This is what we do in my division, Inspector Clayton, we solve special cases. However, it is not enough to have a brilliant record. You must possess a certain, shall I say . . . temperament.’

  “‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  “‘You need an open mind, Inspector Clayton. Do you possess such a thing?’

  “I hesitated for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then I nodded vigorously; I had never stopped to think about it, but until someone told me otherwise, I had an open mind. Captain Sinclair nodded with satisfaction.

  “‘Let’s see if it is true!’ he declared with theatrical enthusiasm, even as he extracted a newspaper clipping from his file and placed it before me on the table. ‘Read this carefully and tell me what conclusions you draw from it, no matter how far-fetched. What do you think the man died of?’

  “The clipping dated from two years before and announced the death of a vagrant. His body had been discovered in a heap on the outskirts of the city, his face half chewed off by stray dogs, but the causes of his death were a mystery: the autopsy had revealed nothing. The journalist writing the article must have been a timid soul, for he ended by stating that the crime had been committed on the night of a full moon, and that in the sand around the body, the victim had desperately traced several crosses, as though trying to ward off the devil. After carefully rereading it several times, I relayed to the captain the various causes of death that had occurred to me. Considering that no one with enough strength to chase a dog away would allow himself to be killed by it, I told him, and since dogs rarely attack living humans, the man had probably been poisoned then dragged there, and his murderer had for some reason traced those crosses before fleeing the scene. I also suggested it might have been an accidental death that someone was trying to cover up, and a few other explanations of a similar nature that occurred to me.’

  “‘Is that all?’ asked Captain Sinclair, exaggerating his disappointment. ‘I asked for all the possibilities, no matter how far-fetched.’

  “I grinned impishly and replied, ‘I also think it could have been a werewolf that killed and mauled the vagrant at the refuse heap, not the dogs. It happened during a full moon, which is when they change. And while the creature was stalking him like a two-legged wolf, the victim drew crosses around himself in an attempt to send the creature back to the Hell from whence it came.’

  “Captain Sinclair asked once more, in the same disappointed tone, ‘Is that all?’

  “‘No, that’s not all,’ I replied with a grin. ‘It could have been the work of a vampire, given the crime was committed at night, and this would also explain why the victim drew the crosses in the sand. Or perhaps it was a vampire imitating a werewolf, pointing the finger at his age-old adversary, with whom from time immemorial he has been vying to take over the planet. That is all, Captain. Did I get it right?’

  “‘You aren’t ready to know yet.’ He leaned back in his chair and studied me with cold curiosity. ‘But tell me: are you interested in joining a division where these could be the answers, where the impossible is sometimes the only solution? Those in my division place no limits on our imagination; we carry on searching beyond the point where normal minds would give up.’

  “I looked at him, not knowing what to say, and was relieved when Sinclair told me I could have a few days to think about it, also warning me that everything we had discussed in that office must be considered top secret, and that if my answer was no, I would do well to forget that the conversation had ever taken place. That was the first warning he gave me, but not the last, nor was it the most astonishing. He then handed me a n
ote containing the address of the Special Branch, where I was to report the following week if I decided to accept his offer. I left and went home. But I only needed one sleepless night to realize that however hard I tried I would never be able to forget our conversation. In fact, from the moment I stepped through that office door, I was doomed. I was young, ambitious, and full of myself, and now I was aware that others had access to information to which the rest of us mortals were not privy. I couldn’t go on living without wanting to know it, too. I didn’t wait a week. The following morning, I went to the address printed on the note and asked to be shown to Captain Sinclair’s office, where apparently he was expecting me. And there I sealed my fate forever.”

  Clayton concluded his tale with a pained smile and waited for Wells to respond.

  “Congratulations on believing in werewolves and vampires,” the author said in an almost pitying voice.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Wells, you’re wrong: I didn’t believe in them. I merely told the captain what he wanted to hear. No, the young man I was then didn’t believe in vampires or in werewolves. But that fellow headed a group of special inspectors, the cream of the Scotland Yard crop. Whatever they did, I wanted to be part of it, for the thought of continuing to solve murders and apprehend common criminals no longer appealed to me. I would have told him the vagrant was killed by an elf, if necessary.” Clayton gave a bitter smile. “But that was twelve years ago, Mr. Wells, twelve years. And now I can only affirm that I believe in more things than I would like.”

  “Oh, really? Do vampires exist, for instance?” Wells took the opportunity to ask.

  Clayton gazed at him with a smile on his lips, like an adult enjoying a child’s curiosity.

  “This house belonged to one,” Clayton avowed, watching with amusement as Wells raised his eyebrows. Then he added with a grin, “Or so the man in question believed. His name was Lord Railsberg, and he suffered from a pigmentation disease that made his skin turn red when exposed to the sun. He was also allergic to garlic and even had an enlarged sacrum, all known traits of the vampire, according to fables and novels. As you well know, the works of Polidori, Preskett Prest, Sheridan Le Fanu, and in particular Stoker’s best-selling novel popularized the vampire myth to the point where anyone possessing these traits can think he is one. Lord Railsberg built this house and lived here with a group of acolytes who, like him, fled the light. They ventured aboveground only to abduct women, whom they callously slaughtered so they could drink and even bathe in their blood, as the Hungarian countess Elisabeth Báthory was rumored to have done. When we tracked down his lair, the place was piled with corpses and people sleeping in coffins, but I assure you none of the so-called vampires was able to escape prison by changing into a bat. So I can’t affirm the existence of vampires, but if they do exist, I expect they have more in common with the abject beasts of Slavic legend than the suave aristocrats portrayed by novelists.”

  “I see,” Wells said, not taking the remark personally.

  “But, naturally, we don’t only deal with madmen,” Clayton added. “As I already told you, occasionally we also discover the impossible.”

  With these words, Clayton glanced mournfully at a portrait hanging on one of the walls. Wells followed the direction of his gaze and discovered a painting of a beautiful, wealthy-looking lady in a finely carved mahogany frame. The young woman looked down on the world with a mixture of melancholy and pride. Her dark eyes glittered rapaciously, and an inscrutable smile, which Wells thought betrayed a hint of cruelty, played on her lips like a dewdrop on a rose petal.

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  “Countess Valerie Bompard,” the young man replied, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the catch in his voice as he uttered her name.

  “A beautiful woman,” the author commented, unsure whether this was the word best suited to her.

  “Yes, Valerie always had that effect on men: she made all who met her believe they were in the presence of the most beautiful woman in the world,” Clayton confirmed, in an oddly faint and weary voice, as though he were sedated.

  “Did she die?” Wells asked, noticing that the inspector had referred to her in the past tense.

  “I killed her,” Clayton replied in a cheerless voice.

  Wells gazed at him in astonishment.

  “It was my first case,” the inspector added. “The only one I solved with both my hands.”

  Clayton let his gaze wander back to the portrait, as did Wells, vaguely disturbed by the inspector’s words. Had that woman been responsible for his losing his hand? Wells studied her more closely, and again he felt “beautiful” was not the best way to describe her. She was undeniably very striking, and yet her eyes gave off a kind of somber, animal glow that unsettled him. It was as though her pupils contained something greater than she, something elusive. Undoubtedly, thought Wells, if he had met her he would have found it hard to behave naturally in her presence. Much less woo her, he reflected. He had no idea what had gone on between this woman and the policeman, but whatever it was, the event had marked Clayton so deeply he had still not recovered from it, and doubtless never would. Wells toyed briefly with the idea of questioning him about it, because he thought Clayton might expect it. Perhaps he was longing to tell someone what had happened between him and the woman whose portrait he kept hidden in the cellar, especially since the world was about to end, and this was his clumsy way of saying so. However, Wells finally decided against it, because he did not want to risk the inspector humiliating him again by telling him there were things in the world he was not yet ready to know. This thought riled Wells somewhat, and he recalled how in the carriage on the way to Horsell, he had refrained from mentioning to Clayton his visit to the Chamber of Marvels, for fear he might be accused of trespassing. But things had changed so much since that distant morning, and all of a sudden it occurred to him that divulging this information was the perfect antidote to Clayton’s irritating qualms, the only way he could think of that would put them on an equal footing and enable them to conduct a balanced conversation.

  “Yes, we live in a world full of mysteries,” he declared, smiling at the portrait, “but, then, you know them all, don’t you, Clayton? You even knew what Martians looked like before we stumbled on one at Scotland Yard, didn’t you?”

  Clayton turned from the portrait, and as though emerging from a deep sleep, he gazed at Wells, slightly bewildered.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said at last, coldly.

  “Come now, Inspector, don’t treat me like a fool. I know perfectly well what you open with that little key round your neck.”

  “Do you?” the inspector said, taken aback, instinctively touching it.

  “Of course,” Wells affirmed, looking straight at him. “I’ve been in there.”

  Clayton looked at him in amazement, then gave an amused smile.

  “You truly are an intriguing man, Mr. Wells. So, you’ve seen the Martian and his spacecraft.”

  “And all the other marvels hidden away from the world,” the author went on bitterly.

  “Before you become so enraged that you hurl yourself at me, ruining our little chat, allow me to remind you what I told you the day we met: all that fantasy is in quarantine, so to speak. There’s no sense in announcing these marvels to the world when the majority will undoubtedly turn out to be fraudulent.”

  “Really? Well, Inspector, the Martian and his spacecraft seemed real enough to me.”

  “In that particular instance,” Clayton began to explain, “the government deemed it too dangerous to reveal to the world—”

  “Well, perhaps if they had, this invasion would not have taken us quite so unawares,” Wells interjected.

  “I’m not so sure . . . I’ve no idea how you managed to get into the Chamber of Marvels, Wells; what I do know is that you must have done so several days before I went to your house, otherwise you wouldn’t have seen the Martian, because it was stolen two days before the start of the invasion.”

 
“Stolen?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Wells. In fact, the reason I went to your house in the first place was because I thought you might have taken it.”

  “For God’s sake, Clayton! What the devil would I want with a dead Martian?”

  “Who knows, Mr. Wells. It is my job to suspect everyone.” The inspector grinned. “It also occurred to me that Murray might have stolen it to make it emerge from his cylinder.”

  “If he’d known there was a real Martian in the museum basement, you can be sure he would have done so,” Wells could not resist commenting.

  “But it’s clear neither of you took it. Still, I’m convinced there is a connection between the theft of the Martian and the invasion. I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

  “I congratulate you on having reached that conclusion, Inspector. Perhaps if you’d confided in me sooner, I might have helped you to reflect about this, but your infuriating obsession for keeping things to yourself—”

  “Apparently I’m not the only one with bad habits, Mr. Wells. If you’d been open with me about your visit to the Chamber of Marvels . . . Let’s not waste time quarreling. There’s a far more pressing matter we need to discuss, and I confess that your having been in there will make it a lot easier for you to comprehend what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Another mystery, Inspector?” the author remarked dryly. “Haven’t we had enough for one day?”

  “This one concerns you, Mr. Wells. And I suggest you calm down and listen to what I have to say. We’re on the same side now, in case you hadn’t realized it.”

  Wells shrugged but remained silent.