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Eleanor　Kooker；　Davidson　and　two　other　men　survived。　One　was　locked　in　the　earth　up　to　his　chin；　Eleanor　was　buried　so　that　her　breasts　sat　on　the　ground；　her　arms　were　free　to　beat　uselessly　at　the　ground　that　held　her　fast。　Davidson　himself　was　held　from　his　hips　down。　And　most　horribly；　one　pathetic　victim　was　seen　only　by　his　nose　and　mouth。　His　head　was　tipped　back　into　the　ground；　blinded　by　rock。　Still　he　breathed；　still　he　screamed。
　Eleanor　Kooker　was　scrabbling　at　the　ground　with　torn　nails；　but　this　was　not　loose　sand。　It　was　immovable。
　'Get　help；'　she　demanded　of　Lucy；　hands　bleeding。
　The　two　women　stared　at　each　other。
　'Jesus　God！'　screamed　the　Mouth。
　The　Head　was　silent：　by　his　glazed　look　it　was　apparent　that　he'd　lost　his　mind。
　'Please　help　us　。　。　。'　pleaded　Davidson's　Torso。　'Fetch　help。'
　Lucy　nodded。
　'Go！'　demanded　Eleanor　Kooker。　'Go！'
　Numbly；　Lucy　obeyed。　Already　there　was　a　glimmer　of　dawn　in　the　east。　The　air　would　soon　be　blistering。　In　Wele；　three　hours　walk　away；　she　would　find　only　old　men；　hysterical　women　and　children。　She　would　have　to　summon　help　from　perhaps　fifty　miles　distance。　Even　assuming　she　found　her　way　back。　Even　assuming　she　didn't　collapse　exhausted　to　the　sand　and　die。
　It　would　be　noon　before　she　could　fetch　help　to　the　woman；　to　the　Torso；　to　the　Head；　to　the　Mouth。　By　that　time　the　wilderness　would　have　had　the　best　of　them。　The　sun　would　have　boiled　their　brain…pans　dry；　snakes　would　have　nested　in　their　hair；　the　buzzards　would　have　hooked　out　their　helpless　eyes。
　She　glanced　round　once　more　at　their　trivial　forms；　dwarfed　by　the　bloody　sweep　of　the　dawn　sky。　Little　dots　and　mas　of　human　pain　on　a　blank　sheet　of　sand；　she　didn't　care　to　think　of　the　pen　that　wrote　them　there。　That　was　for　tomorrow。
　After　a　while；　she　began　to　run。
　
　NEW　MURDER　IN　THE　RUE　MORGUE
　
　WINTER；　LEWIS　DECIDED；　was　no　season　for　old　men。　The　snow　that　lay　five　inches　thick　on　the　streets　of　Paris　froze　him　to　the　marrow。　What　had　been　a　joy　to　him　as　a　child　was　now　a　curse。　He　hated　it　with　all　his　heart；　hated　the　snowballing　children　（squeals；　howls；　tears）；　hated；　too；　the　young　lovers；　eager　to　be　caught　in　a　flurry　together　（squeals；　kisses；　tears）。　It　was　unfortable　and　tiresome；　and　he　wished　he　was　in　Fort　Lauderdale；　where　the　sun　would　be　shining。
　But　Catherine's　telegram；　though　not　explicit；　had　been　urgent；　and　the　ties　of　friendship　between　them　had　been　unbroken　for　the　best　part　of　fifty　years。　He　was　here　for　her；　and　for　her　brother　Phillipe。　However　thin　his　blood　felt　in　this　ice　land；　it　was　foolish　to　plain。　He'd　e　at　a　summons　from　the　past；　and　he　would　have　e　as　swiftly；　and　as　willingly；　if　Paris　had　been　burning。
　
　Besides；　it　was　his　mother's　city。　She'd　been　born　on　the　Boulevard　Diderot；　back　in　a　time　when　the　city　was　untrammelled　by　free…thinking　architects　and　social　engineers。　Now　every　time　Lewis　returned　to　Paris　he　steeled　himself　for　another　desecration。　It　was　happening　less　of　late；　he'd　noticed。　The　recession　in　Europe　made　governments　less　eager　with　their　bulldozers。　But　still；　year　after　year；　more　fine　houses　found　themselves　rubble。　Whole　streets　sometimes；　gone　to　ground。
　Even　the　Rue　Morgue。
　There　was；　of　course；　some　doubt　as　to　whether　that　infamous　street　had　ever　existed　in　the　first　place；　but　as　his　years　advanced　Lewis　had　seen　less　and　less　purpose　in　distinguishing　between　fact　and　fiction。　That　great　divide　was　for　young　men；　who　still　had　to　deal　with　life。　For　the　old　（Lewis　was　73）；　the　distinction　was　academic。　What　did　it　matter　what　was　true　and　what　was　false；　what　real　and　what　invented？　In　his　head　all　of　it；　the　half…lies　and　the　truths；　were　one　continuum　of　personal　history。
　Maybe　the　Rue　Morgue　had　existed；　as　it　had　been　described　in　Edgar　Allan　Poe's　immortal　story；　maybe　it　was　pure　invention。　Whichever；　the　notorious　street　was　no　longer　to　be　found　on　a　map　of　Paris。
　Perhaps　Lewis　was　a　little　disappointed　not　to　have　found　the　Rue　Morgue。　After　all；　it　was　part　of　his　heritage。　If　the　stories　he　had　been　told　as　a　young　boy　were　correct；　the　events　described　in　the　Murders　in　the　Rue　Morgue　had　been　narrated　to　Poe　by　Lewis's　grandfather。　It　was　his　mother's　pride　that　her　father　had　met　Poe；　while　traveling　in　America。　Apparently　his　grandfather　had　been　a　globe…trotter；　unhappy　unless　he　visited　a　new　town　every　week。　And　in　the　winter　of　1835　he　had　been　in　Richmond；　Virginia。　It　was　a　bitter　winter；　perhaps　not　unlike　the　one　Lewis　was　presently　suffering；　and　one　night　the　grandfather　had　taken　refuge　in　a　bar　in　Richmond。　There；　with　a　blizzard　raging　outside；　he　had　met　a　small；　dark；　melancholy　young　man　called　Eddie。　He　was　something　of　a　local　celebrity　apparently；　having　written　a　tale　that　had　won　a　petition　in　the　Baltimore　Saturday　Visitor。　The　tale　was　MS　found　in　a　bottle　and　the　haunted　young　man　was　Edgar　Allan　Poe。
　The　two　had　spent　the　evening　together；　drinking；　and　（this　is　how　the　story　went；　anyway）　Poe　had　gently　pumped　Lewis's　grandfather　for　stories　of　the　bizarre；　of　the　occult　and　of　the　morbid。　The　worldly…wise　traveler　was　glad　to　oblige；　pouring　out　believe…it…or…not　fragments　that　the　writer　later　turned　into　The　Mystery　of　Marie　Roget　and　The　Murders　in　the　Rue　Morgue。　In　both　those　stories；　peering　out　from　between　the　atrocities；　was　the　peculiar　genius　of　C。　Auguste　Dupin。
　C。　Auguste　Dupin。　Poe's　vision　of　the　perfect　detective：
　calm；　rational　and　brilliantly　perceptive。　The　narratives　in　which　he　appeared　rapidly　became　well…known；　and　through　them　Dupin　became　a　fictional　celebrity；　without　anyone　in　America　knowing　that　Dupin　was　a　real　person。
　He　was　the　brother　of　Lewis's　grandfather。　Lewis's　great　uncle　was　C。　Auguste　Dupin。
　And　his　greatest　case　…　the　Murders　in　the　Rue　Morgue　…they　too　were　based　on　fact。　The　slaughters　that　occurred　in　the　story　had　actually　taken　place。　Two　women　had　indeed　been　brutally　killed　in　the　Rue　Morgue。　They　were；　as　Poe　had　written；　Madame　L'Espanaye　and　her　daughter　Mademoiselle　Camille　L'Espanaye。　Both　women　of　good　reputation；　who　lived　quiet　and　unsensational　lives。　So　much　more　horrible　then　to　find　those　lives　so　brutally　cut　short。　The　daughter's　body　had　been　thrust　up　the　chimney；　the　body　of　the　mother　was　discovered　in　the　yard　at　the　back　of　the　house；　her　throat　cut　with　such　savagery　that　her　head　was　all　but　sawn　off。　No　apparent　motive　could　be　found　for　the　murders；　and　the　mystery　further　deepened　when　all　the　occupants　of　the　house　claimed　to　have　heard　the　voice　of　the　murderer　speaking　in　a　different　language。　The　Frenchman　was　certain　the　voice　had　spoken　Spanish；　the　Englishman　had　heard　German；　the　Dutchman　thought　it　was　French。　Dupin；　in　his　investigations；　noted　that　none　of　the　witnesses　actually　spoke　the　language　they　claimed　to　have　heard　from　the　lips　of　the　unseen　murderer。　He　concluded　that　the　language　was　no　language　at　all；　but　the　wordless　voice　of　a　wild　beast。
　An　ape　in　fact；　a　monstrous　orang…outang　from　the　East　Indian　Islands。　Its　tawny　hairs　had　been　found　in　the　grip　of　the　slain　Madame　L'Espanaye。　Only　its　strength　and　agility　made　the　appalling　fate　of　Mademoiselle　L'Espanaye　plausible。　The　beast　had　belonged　to　a　Maltese　sailor；　had　escaped；　and　run　riot　in　the　bloody　apartment　on　the　Rue　Morgue。
　That　was　the　bones　of　the　story。
　Whether　true　or　not　the　tale　held　a　great　romantic　appeal　for　Lewis。　He　liked　to　think　of　his　great　uncle　logically　pacing　his　way　through　the　mystery；　undistressed　by　the　hysteria　and　horror　around　him。　He　thought　of　that　calm　as　essentially　European；　belonging　to　a　lost　age　in　which　the　light　of　reason　was　still　valued；　and　the　worst　horror　that　could　be　conceived　of　was　a　beast　with　a　cut…throat　razor。
　Now；　as　the　twentieth　century　ground　through　its　last　quarter；　there　were　far　greater　atrocities　to　be　accounted　for；　all　mitted　by　human　beings。　The　humble　orangoutang　had　been　investigated　by　anthropologists　and　found　to　be　a　solitary　herbivore；　quiet　and　philosophical。　The　true　monsters　were　far　less　apparent；　and　far　more　powerful。　Their　weapons　made　razors　look　pitiful；　their　crimes　were　vast。　I