cb.booksofblood2-第31部分

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ry　sounds。
　
　'Don't　…'　Lewis　began。
　'I　want　to　tell　you；　Lewis。　I　want　you　to　know；　I　want　you　to　see　her　as　I　saw　her　…　so　you　know　what　there　is。
　there　is　。　。　。　what　there　is　in　the　world。'
　The　tears　ran　down　his　face　in　two　graceful　rivulets。　He　gripped　Lewis'　hand　in　his；　so　tightly　it　ached。
　'She　was　covered　in　blood。　In　wounds。　Skin　torn　off　hair　torn　out。　Her　tongue　was　on　the　pillow；　Lewis。
　Imagine　that。　She'd　bitten　it　off　in　her　terror。　It　was　just　lying　on　the　pillow。　And　her　eyes；　all　swimming　in　blood；　like　she'd　wept　blood。　She　was　the　dearest　thing　in　all　creation；　Lewis。　She　was　beautiful。'
　'No　more。'
　'I　want　to　die；　Lewis。'
　'No。'
　'I　don't　want　to　live　now。　There's　no　point。'
　'They　won't　find　you　guilty。'
　'I　don't　care；　Lewis。　You　must　look　after　Catherine　now。　I　read　about　the　exhibition　…'
　He　almost　smiled。
　'…　Wonderful　for　you。　We　always　said；　didn't　we？　before　the　war；　you'd　be　the　one　to　be　famous；　I'd　be　…'
　The　smile　had　gone。
　'…　notorious。　They　say　terrible　things　about　me　now；　in　the　newspapers。　An　old　man　going　with　young　girls；　you　see；　that　doesn't　make　me　very　wholesome。　They　probably　think　I　lost　my　temper　because　I　couldn't　perform　with　her。　That's　what　they　think；　I'm　certain。'　He　lost　his　way；　halted；　began　again。　'You　must　look　after　Catherine。　She's　got　money；　but　no　friends。　She's　too　cool；　you　see。　Too　hurt　inside；　and　that　makes　people　wary　of　her。　You　have　to　stay　with　her。'
　'I　shall。'
　'I　know。　I　know。　That's　why　I　feel　happy；　really；　to　just。。：
　'No；　Phillipe。'
　'Just　die。　There's　nothing　left　for　us；　Lewis。　The　world's　too　hard。'
　Lewis　thought　of　the　snow；　and　the　ice…floes；　and　saw　the　sense　in　dying。
　
　The　officer　in　charge　of　the　investigation　was　less　than　helpful；　though　Lewis　introduced　himself　as　a　relative　of　the　esteemed　Detective　Dupin。　Lewis's　contempt　for　the　shoddily…dressed　weasel；　sitting　in　his　cluttered　hole　of　an　office；　made　the　interview　crackle　with　suppressed　anger。
　'Your　friend；'　the　Inspector　said；　picking　at　the　raw　cuticle　of　his　thumb；　'is　a　murderer；　Monsieur　Fox。　It　is　as　simple　as　that。　The　evidence　is　overwhelming。'
　'I　can't　believe　that。'
　'Believe　what　you　like　to　believe；　that's　your　prerogative。　We　have　all　the　evidence　we　need　to　convict　Phillipe　Laborteaux　of　murder　in　the　first　degree。　It　was　a　cold…blooded　killing　and　he　will　be　punished　to　the　full　extent　of　the　law。　This　is　my　promise。'
　'What　evidence　do　you　have　against　him？'
　'Monsieur　Fox；　I　am　not　beholden　to　you。　What　evidence　we　have　is　our　business。　Suffice　it　to　say　that　no　other　person　was　seen　in　the　house　during　the　time　that　the　accused　claims　he　was　at　some　fictional　patisserie；　and　as　access　to　the　room　in　which　the　deceased　was　found　is　only　possible　by　the　stairs　…'
　'What　about　a　window？'
　'A　plain　wall：　three　flights　up。　Maybe　an　acrobat：　an　acrobat　might　do　it。'
　'And　the　state　of　the　body？'
　The　Inspector　made　a　face。　Disgust。
　'Horrible。　Skin　and　muscle　stripped　from　the　bone。　All　the　spine　exposed。　Blood；　much　blood。'
　'Phillipe　is　seventy。'
　'So？'
　'An　old　man　would　not　be　capable　…'
　'In　other　respects；'　the　Inspector　interrupted；　'he　seems　to　have　been　quite　capable；　oui？　The　lover；　yes？　The　passionate　lover：　he　was　capable　of　that。'
　'And　what　motive　would　you　claim　he　had？'
　His　mouth　scalloped；　his　eyes　rolled　and　he　tapped　his　chest。
　'Le　coeur　humain；'　he　said；　as　if　despairing　of　reason　in　affairs　of　the　heart。　'Le　coeur　humain；　quel　mystère；　n'est…ce　pas？'　and　exhaling　the　stench　of　his　ulcer　at　Lewis；　he　proffered　the　open　door。
　'Merci；　Monsieur　Fox。　I　understand　your　confusion；　oui？　But　you　are　wasting　your　time。　A　crime　is　a　crime。　It　is　real；　not　like　your　paintings。'
　He　saw　the　surprise　on　Lewis's　face。
　'Oh；　I　am　not　so　uncivilized　as　not　to　know　your　reputation；　Monsieur　Fox。　But　I　ask　you；　make　your　fictions　as　best　you　can；　that　is　your　genius；　oui？　Mine；　to　investigate　the　truth。'
　Lewis　couldn't　bear　the　weasel's　cant　any　longer。
　'Truth？'　he　snapped　back　at　the　Inspector。　'You　wouldn't　know　the　truth　if　you　tripped　over　it。'
　The　weasel　looked　as　though　he'd　been　slapped　with　a　wet　fish。
　It　was　precious　little　satisfaction；　but　it　made　Lewis　feel　better　for　at　least　five　minutes。
　
　The　house　on　the　Rue　des　Martyrs　was　not　in　good　condition；　and　Lewis　could　smell　the　damp　as　he　climbed　to　the　little　room　on　the　third　floor。　Doors　opened　as　he　passed；　and　inquiring　whispers　ushered　him　up　the　stairs；　but　nobody　tried　to　stop　him。　The　room　where　the　atrocity　had　happened　was　locked。　Frustrated；　but　not　knowing　how　or　why　it　would　help　Phillipe's　case　to　see　the　interior　of　the　room；　he　made　his　way　back　down　the　stairs　and　into　the　bitter　air。
　Catherine　was　back　at　the　Quai　de　Bourbon。　As　soon　as　Lewis　saw　her　he　knew　there　was　something　new　to　hear。　Her　grey　hair　was　loosed　from　the　bun　she　favoured　wearing；　and　hung　unbraided　at　her　shoulders。　Her　face　was　a　sickly　yellow…grey　by　the　lamplight。　She　shivered；　even　in　the　clogged　air　of　the　centrally…heated　apartment。
　'What's　wrong？'　he　asked。
　'I　went　to　Phillipe's　apartment。'
　'So　did　I。　It　was　locked。'
　'I　have　the　key：　Phillipe's　spare　key。　I　just　wanted　to　pick　up　a　few　clothes　for　him。'
　Lewis　nodded。
　'And？'
　'Somebody　else　was　there。'
　'Police？'
　'No。'
　'Who？'
　'I　couldn't　see。　I　don't　know　exactly。　He　was　dressed　in　a　big　coat；　scarf　over　his　face。　Hat。　Gloves。'　She　paused。　Then；　'he　had　a　razor；　Lewis。'
　'A　razor？'
　'An　open　razor；　like　a　barber。'
　Something　jangled　in　the　back　of　Lewis　Fox's　mind。
　An　open　razor；　a　man　dressed　so　well　he　couldn't　be　recognized。
　'I　was　terrified。'
　'Did　he　hurt　you？'　She　shook　her　head。　'I　screamed　and　he　ran　away。'　'Didn't　say　anything　to　you？'　'No。'
　'Maybe　a　friend　of　Phillipe's？'　'I　know　Phillipe's　friends。'　'Then　of　the　girl。　A　brother。'　'Perhaps。　But　…''What？'
　'There　was　something　odd　about　him。　He　smelt　of　perfume；　stank　of　it；　and　he　walked　with　such　mincing　little　steps；　even　though　he　was　huge。'
　Lewis　put　his　arm　around　her。
　'Whoever　it　was；　you　scared　them　off。　You　just　mustn't　go　back　there。　If　we　have　to　fetch　clothes　for　Phillipe；　I'll　gladly　go。'
　'Thank　you。　I　feel　a　fool：　he　may　have　just　stumbled　in。　e　to　look　at　the　murder…chamber。　People　do　that；　don't　they？　Out　of　some　morbid　fascination。　。　。'
　'Tomorrow　I'll　speak　to　the　Weasel。'
　'Weasel？'
　'Inspector　Marais。　Have　him　search　the　place。'
　'Did　you　see　Phillipe？'
　'Yes。'
　'Is　he　well？'
　Lewis　said　nothing　for　a　long　moment。
　'He　wants　to　die；　Catherine。　He's　given　up　fighting　already；　before　he　goes　to　trial。'
　'But　he　didn't　do　anything。'
　'We　can't　prove　that。'
　'You're　always　boasting　about　your　ancestors。　Your　blessed　Dupin。　You　prove　it。　。　。'
　'Where　do　I　start？'
　'Speak　to　some　of　his　friends；　Lewis。　Please。　Maybe　the　woman　had　enemies。'
　Jacques　Solal　stared　at　Lewis　through　his　round…bellied　spectacles；　his　irises　huge　and　distorted　through　the　glass。　He　was　the　worse　for　too　much　cognac。
　'She　hadn't　got　any　enemies；'　he　said；　'not　her。　Oh　maybe　a　few　women　jealous　of　her　beauty。　。　。'
　Lewis　toyed　with　the　wrapped　cubes　of　sugar　that　had　e　with　his　coffee。　Solal　was　as　uninformative　as　he　was　drunk；　but　unlikely　as　it　seemed　Catherine　had　described　the　runt　across　the　table　as　Phillipe's　closest　friend。
　'Do　you　think　Phillipe　murdered　her？'
　Solal　pursed　his　lips。
　'Who　knows？'
　'What's　your　instinct？'
　'Ah；　he　was　my　friend。　If　I　knew　who　had　killed　her　I　would　say　so。'
　It　seemed　to　be　the　truth。　Maybe　the　little　man　was　simply　drowning　his　sorrows　in　cognac。
　'He　was　a　gentlemen；'　Solal　said；　his　eyes　drifting　towards　the　street。　Through　the　steamed　glass　of　the　Brasserie　window　brave　Parisians　were　struggling　through　the　fury　of　another　blizzard；　vainly　attempting　to　keep　their　dignity　and　their　posture　in　the　teeth　of　a　gale。
　'A　gentleman；'　he　said　again。
　'And　the　girl？'
　'She　was　beautiful；　and　he　was　in　love　with　her。　She　had　other　admirers；　of　course。　A　woman　like　her　…'
　'Jealous　admirers？'
　'Who　knows？'
　Again：　who　knows？　The　inquiry　hung　on　the　air　like　a　shrug。　Who　knows？　Who　knows？　Lewis　began　to　understand　the　Inspector's　passion　for　truth。　For　the　first　time　in　ten　years　perhaps　a　goal　appeared　in　his　life；　an　ambition　to　shoot　this　indifferent　'who　knows？'　out　of　the　air。　To　discover　what　had　happened　in　that　room　on　the　Rue　des　Martyrs。　Not　an　approximation；　not　a　fictionalized　account；　but　the　truth；　the　absolute；　unquestionable　truth。
　'Do　you　remember　if　there　were　any　particular　men　who　fancied　her？'　he　asked。
　Solal　grinned。　He　only　had　two　teeth　in　his　lower　jaw。
　'Oh　yes。　There　was　one。'
　'Who？'
　'I　never　knew　his　name。　A　big　man：　I　saw　him　outside　the　house　three　or　four　times。　Though　to　smell　him　you'd　have　thought　…'
　He　made　an　unmistakable　face　that　implied　he　thought　the　man　was　homosexual。　The　arched　eyebrows　and　the　pursed　lips　made　him　look　doubly　ridiculous　behind　the　thick　spectacles。
　'He　smelt？'
　'Oh　yes。'
　'Of　what？'
　'Perfume；　Lewis。　Perfume。'
　Somewhere　in　Paris　there　was　a　man　who　had　known　the　gir