cb.booksofblood2-第32部分

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　'He　smelt？'
　'Oh　yes。'
　'Of　what？'
　'Perfume；　Lewis。　Perfume。'
　Somewhere　in　Paris　there　was　a　man　who　had　known　the　girl　Phillipe　loved。　Jealous　rage　had　overe　him。　In　a　fit　of　uncontrollable　anger　he　had　broken　into　Phillipe's　apartment　and　slaughtered　the　girl。　It　was　as　clear　as　that。
　Somewhere　in　Paris。
　'Another　cognac？'
　Solal　shook　his　head。
　'Already　I'm　sick；'　he　said。
　Lewis　called　the　waiter　across；　and　as　he　did　so　his　eye　alighted　on　a　cluster　of　newspaper　clippings　pinned　behind　the　bar。
　Solal　followed　his　gaze。
　'Phillipe：　he　liked　the　pictures；'　he　said。
　Lewis　stood　up。
　'He　came　here；　sometimes；　to　see　them。'
　The　cuttings　were　old；　stained　and　fading。　Some　were　presumably　of　purely　local　interest。　Accounts　of　a　fireball　seen　in　a　nearby　street。　Another　about　a　boy　of　two　burned　to　death　in　his　cot。　One　concerned　an　escaped　puma；　one；　an　unpublished　manuscript　by　Rimbaud；　a　third　（acpanied　by　a　photograph）　detailed　casualties　in　a　plane　crash　at　Orleans　airport。　But　there　were　other　cuttings　too；　some　far　older　than　others。　Atrocities；　bizarre　murders；　ritual　rapes；　an　advertisement　for　'Fantomas'；　another　for　Cocteau's　'La　Belle　et　La　Bete'。　And　almost　buried　under　this　embarrassment　of　bizarreries；　was　a　sepia　photograph　so　absurd　it　could　have　e　from　the　hand　of　Max　Ernst。　A　half…ring　of　well…dressed　gentlemen；　many　sporting　the　thick　moustaches　popular　in　the　eighteen…nineties；　were　grouped　around　the　vast；　bleeding　bulk　of　an　ape；　which　was　suspended　by　its　feet　from　a　lamppost。　The　faces　in　the　picture　bore　expressions　of　mute　pride；　of　absolute　authority　over　the　dead　beast；　which　Lewis　clearly　recognized　as　a　gorilla。　Its　inverted　head　had　an　almost　noble　tilt　in　death。　Its　brow　was　deep　and　furrowed；　its　jaw；　though　shattered　by　a　fearsome　wound；　was　thinly　bearded　like　that　of　a　patrician；　and　its　eyes；　rolled　back　in　its　head；　seemed　full　of　concern　for　this　merciless　world。　They　reminded　Lewis；　those　rolling　eyes；　of　the　Weasel　in　his　hole；　tapping　his　chest。
　
　'Le　coeur　humain。'
　Pitiful。
　'What　is　that？'　he　asked　the　acne…ridden　barman；　point…ing　at　the　picture　of　the　dead　gorilla。
　A　shrug　was　the　reply：　indifferent　to　the　fate　of　men　and　apes。
　'Who　knows？'　said　Solal　at　his　back。　'Who　knows？'
　
　It　was　not　the　ape　of　Poe's　story；　that　was　certain。　That　tale　had　been　told　in　1835；　and　the　photograph　was　far　more　recent。　Besides；　the　ape　in　the　picture　was　a　gorilla：　clearly　a　gorilla。
　Had　history　repeated　itself？　Had　another　ape；　a　different　species　but　an　ape　nevertheless；　been　loosed　on　the　streets　of　Paris　at　the　turn　of　the　century？
　And　if　so；　if　the　story　of　the　ape　could　repeat　itself　once　why　not　twice？
　As　Lewis　walked　through　the　freezing　night　back　to　the　apartment　at　the　Quai　de　Bourbon；　the　imagined　repetition　of　events　became　more　attractive；　and　now　further　symmetry　presented　itself　to　him。　Was　it　possible　that　he；　the　great　nephew　of　C。　Auguste　Dupin；　might　bee　involved　in　another　pursuit；　not　entirely　dissimilar　from　the　first？
　The　key　to　Phillipe's　room　at　the　Rue　des　Martyrs　was　icy　in　Lewis's　hand；　and　though　it　was　now　well　past　midnight　he　couldn't　help　but　turn　off　at　the　bridge　and　make　his　way　up　the　Boulevard　de　Sebastopol；　west　on　to　Boulevard　Bonne…Nouvelle；　then　north　again　towards　the　Place　Pigalle。　It　was　a　long；　exhausting　trudge；　but　he　felt　in　need　of　the　cold　air；　to　keep　his　head　clear　of　emotionalism。　It　took　him　an　hour　and　a　half　to　reach　the　Rue　des　Martyrs。
　
　It　was　Saturday　night；　and　there　was　still　a　lot　of　noise　in　a　number　of　the　rooms。　Lewis　made　his　way　up　the　two　flights　as　quietly　as　he　could；　his　presence　masked　by　the　din。　The　key　turned　easily；　and　the　door　swung　open。
　Street　lights　illuminated　the　room。　The　bed；　which　dominated　the　space；　was　bare。　Presumably　sheets　and　blankets　had　been　taken　away　for　forensic　tests。　The　eruption　of　blood　onto　the　mattress　was　a　mulberry　colour　in　the　gloom。　Otherwise；　there　was　no　sign　of　the　violence　the　room　had　witnessed。
　Lewis　reached　for　the　light　switch；　and　snapped　it　on。　Nothing　happened。　He　stepped　deeply　into　the　room　and　stared　up　at　the　light　fixture。　The　bulb　was　shattered。
　He　half　thought　of　retreating；　of　leaving　the　room　to　darkness；　and　returning　in　the　morning　when　there　were　fewer　shadows。　But　as　he　stood　under　the　broken　bulb　his　eyes　began　to　pierce　the　gloom　a　little　better；　and　he　began　to　make　out　the　shape　of　a　large　teak　chest　of　drawers　along　the　far　wall。　Surely　it　was　a　matter　of　a　few　minutes　work　to　find　a　change　of　clothes　for　Phillipe。　Otherwise　he　would　have　to　return　the　next　day；　another　long　journey　through　the　snow。　Better　to　do　it　now；　and　save　his　bones。
　The　room　was　large；　and　had　been　left　in　chaos　by　the　police。　Lewis　stumbled　and　cursed　as　he　crossed　to　the　chest　of　drawers；　tripping　over　a　fallen　lamp；　and　a　shattered　vase。　Downstairs　the　howls　and　shrieks　of　a　well…advanced　party　drowned　any　noise　he　made。　Was　it　an　orgy　or　a　fight？　The　noise　could　have　been　either。
　He　struggled　with　the　top　drawer　of　the　teak　chest；　and　eventually　wrenched　it　open；　ferreting　in　the　depths　for　the　bare　essentials　of　Phillipe's　fort：　a　clean　undershirt；　a　pair　of　socks；　initialed　handkerchiefs；　beautifully　pressed。
　He　sneezed。　The　chilly　weather　had　thickened　the　catarrh　on　his　chest　and　the　mucus　in　his　sinuses。　A　handkerchief　was　to　hand；　and　he　blew　his　nose；　clearing　his　blocked　nostrils。　For　the　first　time　the　smell　of　the　room　came　to　him。
　One　odour　predominated；　above　the　damp；　and　the　stale　vegetables。　Perfume；　the　lingering　scent　of　perfume。
　He　turned　into　the　darkened　room；　hearing　his　bones　creak；　and　his　eyes　fell　on　the　shadow　behind　the　bed。　A　huge　shadow；　a　bulk　that　swelled　as　it　rose　into　view。
　It　was；　he　saw　at　once；　the　razor…wielding　stranger。　He　was　here：　in　waiting。
　Curiously；　Lewis　wasn't　frightened。
　'What　are　you　doing？'　he　demanded；　in　a　loud；　strong　voice。
　As　he　emerged　from　his　hiding　place　the　face　of　the　stranger　came　into　the　watery　light　from　the　street；　a　broad；　flat…featured；　flayed　face。　His　eyes　were　deep…set；　but　without　malice；　and　he　was　smiling；　smiling　generously；　at　Lewis。
　'Who　are　you？'　Lewis　asked　again。
　The　man　shook　his　head；　shook　his　body；　in　fact；　his　gloved　hands　gesturing　around　his　mouth。　Was　he　dumb？　The　shaking　of　the　head　was　more　violent　now；　as　though　he　was　about　to　have　a　fit。
　'Are　you　all　right？'
　Suddenly；　the　shaking　stopped；　and　to　his　surprise　Lewis　saw　tears；　large；　syrupy　tears　well　up　in　the　stranger's　eyes　and　roll　down　his　rough　cheeks　and　into　the　bush　of　his　beard。
　As　if　ashamed　of　his　display　of　feelings；　the　man　turned　away　from　the　light；　making　a　thick　noise　of　sobbing　in　his　throat；　and　exited。　Lewis　followed；　more　curious　about　this　stranger　than　nervous　of　his　intentions。
　
　'Wait！'
　The　man　was　already　half…way　down　the　first　flight　of　stairs；　nimble　despite　his　build。
　'Please　wait；　I　want　to　talk　to　you；'　Lewis　began　down　the　stairs　after　him；　but　the　pursuit　was　lost　before　it　was　started。　Lewis'　joints　were　stiff　with　age　and　the　cold；　and　it　was　late。　No　time　to　be　running　after　a　much　younger　man；　along　a　pavement　made　lethal　with　ice　and　snow。　He　chased　the　stranger　as　far　as　the　door　and　then　watched　him　run　off　down　the　street；　his　gait　was　mincing　as　Catherine　had　said。　Almost　a　waddle；　ridiculous　in　a　man　so　big。
　The　smell　of　his　perfume　was　already　snatched　away　by　the　north…east　wind。　Breathless；　Lewis　climbed　the　stairs　again；　past　the　din　of　the　party；　to　claim　a　set　of　clothes　for　Phillipe。
　
　The　next　day　Paris　woke　to　a　blizzard　of　unprecedented　ferocity。　The　calls　to　Mass　went　unrequited；　the　hot　Sunday　croissants　went　un…bought；　the　newspapers　lay　unread　on　the　vendors'　stalls。　Few　people　had　either　the　nerve　or　the　motive　to　step　outside　into　the　howling　gale。　They　sat　by　their　fires；　hugging　their　knees；　and　dreamt　of　spring。
　Catherine　wanted　to　go　to　the　prison　to　visit　Phillipe；　but　Lewis　insisted　that　he　go　alone。　It　was　not　simply　the　cold　weather　that　made　him　cautious　on　her　behalf；　he　had　difficult　words　to　say　to　Phillipe；　delicate　questions　to　ask　him。　After　the　previous　night's　encounter　in　his　room；　he　had　no　doubt　that　Phillipe　had　a　rival；　probably　a　murderous　rival。　The　only　way　to　save　Phillipe's　life；　it　seemed；　was　to　trace　the　man。　And　if　that　meant　delving　into　Phillipe's　sexual　arrangements；　then　so　be　it。　But　it
　
　wasn't　a　conversation　he；　or　Phillipe；　would　have　wanted　to　conduct　in　Catherine's　presence。
　The　fresh　clothes　Lewis　had　brought　were　searched；　then　given　to　Phillipe；　who　took　them　with　a　nod　of　thanks。
　'I　went　to　the　house　last　night　to　fetch　these　for　you。'
　'Oh。'
　'There　was　somebody　in　the　room　already。'　Phillipe's　jaw　muscle　began　to　churn；　as　he　ground　his　teeth　together。　He　was　avoiding　Lewis's　eyes。
　'A　big　man；　with　a　beard。　Do　you　know　him；　or　of　him？'
　'No。'
　'Phillipe　…''No！'
　'The　same　man　attacked　Catherine；'　Lewis　said。
　'What？'　Phillipe　had　begun　to　tremble。　'With　a　razor。'
　'Attacked　her？'　Phillipe　said。　'Are　you　sure？'　'Or　was　going　to。'
　'No！　He　would　never　have　touched　her。　Never！'