cb.booksofblood2-第38部分

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　'Where　is　the　ape？'　he　demanded。
　Phillipe　pointed　to　his　temple。
　'Here；　where　you　can　never　find　him；'　he　said；　and　spat　in　Lewis'　face。　The　spittle　hit　his　lip；　like　a　kiss。
　'You　don't　know　what　you　did。　You'll　never　know。'
　Lewis　wiped　his　lip　as　the　warders　escorted　the　prisoner　out　of　the　room　and　back　to　his　happy　drugged　oblivion。　All　he　could　think　of　now；　left　alone　in　the　cold　interview　room；　was　that　Phillipe　had　it　easy。　He'd　taken　refuge　in　pretended　guilt；　and　locked　himself　away　where　memory；　and　revenge；　and　the　truth；　the　wild；　marauding　truth；　could　never　touch　him　again。　He　hated　Phillipe　at　that　moment；　with　all　his　heart。　Hated　him　for　the　dilettante　and　the　coward　he'd　always　known　him　to　be。　It　wasn't　a　more　gentle　world　Phillipe　had　created　around　him；　it　was　a　hiding　place；　as　much　a　lie　as　that　summer　of　1937　had　been。　No　life　could　be　lived　the　way　he'd　lived　it　without　a　reckoning　ing　sooner　or　later；　and　here　it　was。
　That　night；　in　the　safety　of　his　cell；　Phillipe　woke。　It　was　warm；　but　he　was　cold。　In　the　utter　dark　he　chewed　at　his　wrists　until　a　pulse　of　blood　bubbled　into　his　mouth。　He　lay　back　on　his　bed；　and　quietly　splashed　and　fountained　away　to　death；　out　of　sight　and　out　of　mind。
　
　The　suicide　was　reported　in　a　small　article　on　the　second　page　of　Le　Monde。　The　big　news　of　the　following　day　however　was　the　sensational　murder　of　a　redheaded　pros…titute　in　a　little　house　off　the　Rue　de　Rochechquant。　Monique　Zevaco　had　been　found　at　three　o'clock　in　the　morning　by　her　flat　mate；　her　body　in　a　state　so　horrible　as　to　'defy　description'。
　Despite　the　alleged　impossibility　of　the　task；　the　media　set　about　describing　the　indescribable　with　a　morbid　will。　Every　last　scratch；　tear　and　gouging　on　Monique's　partially　nude　body　…　tattooed；　drooled　Le　Monde；　with　a　map　of　France　…　was　chronicled　in　detail。　As　indeed　was　the　appearance　of　her　well…dressed；　over…perfumed　murderer；　who　had　apparently　watched　her　at　her　toilet　through　a　small　back　window；　then　broken　in　and　attacked　Mademoiselle　Zevaco　in　her　bathroom。　The　murderer　had　then　fled　down　the　stairs；　bumping　into　the　flat　mate　who　would　minutes　after　discover　Mademoiselle　Zevaco's　mutilated　corpse。　Only　one　mentator　made　any　con…nection　between　the　murder　at　the　Rue　des　Martyrs　and　the　slaughter　of　Mme　Zevaco；　and　he　failed　to　pick　up　on　the　curious　coincidence　that　the　accused　Phillipe　Laborteaux　had　that　same　night　taken　his　own　life。
　
　The　funeral　took　place　in　a　storm；　the　cortege　edging　its　pitiful　way　through　the　abandoned　streets　towards　Montparnasse　with　the　lashing　snow　entirely　blotting　out　the　road　ahead。　Lewis　sat　with　Catherine　and　Jacques　Solal　as　they　laid　Phillipe　to　rest。　Every　one　of　his　circle　had　deserted　him；　unwilling　to　attend　the　funeral　of　a　suicide　and　of　a　suspected　murderer。　His　wit；　his　good　looks；　his　infinite　capacity　to　charm　went　for　nothing　at　the　end。
　
　He　was　not；　as　it　turned　out；　entirely　unmourned　by　strangers。　As　they　stood　at　the　graveside；　the　cold　cutting　into　them；　Solal　sidled　up　to　Lewis　and　nudged　him。
　〃What？'
　'Over　there。　Under　the　tree。'　Solal　nodded　beyond　the　praying　priest。
　The　stranger　was　standing　at　a　distance；　almost　hidden　by　the　marble　mausoleums。　A　heavy　black　scarf　was　wrapped　across　his　face；　and　a　wide…brimmed　hat　pulled　down　over　his　brow；　but　his　bulk　was　unmistakable。　Catherine　had　seen　him　too。　She　was　shaking　as　she　stood；　wrapped　round　by　Lewis's　embrace；　not　just　with　cold；　but　with　fear。　It　was　as　though　the　creature　was　some　morbid　angel；　e　to　hover　a　while；　and　enjoy　the　grief。　It　was　grotesque；　and　eerie；　that　this　thing　should　e　to　see　Phillipe　consigned　to　the　frozen　earth。　'What　did　it　feel？　Anguish？　Guilt？
　Yes；　did　it　feel　guilt？
　It　knew　it　had　been　seen；　and　it　turned　its　back；　shambling　away。　Without　a　word　to　Lewis；　Jacques　Solal　slipped　away　from　the　grave　in　pursuit。　In　a　short　while　both　the　stranger　and　his　pursuer　were　erased　by　the　snow。
　Back　at　the　Quai　de　Bourbon　Catherine　and　Lewis　said　nothing　of　the　incident。　A　kind　of　barrier　had　appeared　between　them；　forbidding　contact　on　any　level　but　the　most　trivial。　There　was　no　purpose　in　analysis；　and　none　in　regrets。　Phillipe　was　dead。　The　past；　their　past　together；　was　dead。　This　final　chapter　in　their　joint　lives　soured　utterly　everything　that　preceded　it；　so　that　no　shared　memory　could　be　enjoyed　without　the　pleasure　being　spoilt。　Phillipe　had　died　horribly；　devouring　his　own　flesh　and　blood；　perhaps　driven　mad　by　a　knowledge　he　possessed　of　his　own　guilt　and　depravity。　No　innocence；　no　history　of　joy　could　remain　unstained　by　that　fact。　Silently　they　mourned　the　loss；　not　only　of　Phillipe；　but　of　their　own　past。　Lewis　understood　now　Phillipe's　reluctance　to　live　when　there　was　such　loss　in　the　world。
　Solal　rang。　Breathless　after　his　chase；　but　elated；　he　spoke　in　whispers　to　Lewis；　clearly　enjoying　the　excitement。
　'I'm　at　the　Gare　du　Nord；　and　I've　found　out　where　our　friend　lives。　I've　found　him；　Lewis！'
　'Excellent。　I'll　e　straight　away。　I'll　meet　you　on　the　steps　of　the　Gare　du　Nord。　I'll　take　a　cab：　ten　minutes。'
　'It's　in　the　basement　of　number　sixteen；　Rue　des　Fleurs。　I'll　see　you　there　…；
　'Don't　go　in；　Jacques。　Wait　for　me。　Don't　…'The　telephone　clicked　and　Solal　was　gone。　Lewis　reached　for　his　coat。
　'Who　was　that？'
　She　asked；　but　she　didn't　want　to　know。　Lewis　shrugged　on　his　overcoat　and　said：　'Nobody　at　all。　Don't　worry。　I　won't　be　long。'
　'Take　your　scarf；'　she　said；　not　glancing　over　her　shoulder。
　'Yes。　Thank　you。'
　'You'll　catch　a　chill。'
　He　left　her　gazing　over　the　night…clad　Seine；　watching　the　ice…floes　dance　together　on　the　black　water。
　
　When　he　arrived　at　the　house　on　the　Rue　des　Fleurs；　Solal　was　not　to　be　seen；　but　fresh　footprints　in　the　powdery　snow　led　to　the　front　door　of　number　sixteen　and　then；　foiled；　went　around　the　back　of　the　house。　Lewis　followed　them。　As　he　stepped　into　the　yard　behind　the　house；　through　a　rotted　gate　that　had　been　crudely　forced　by　Solal；　he　realized　he　had　e　without　a　weapon。　Best　to　go　back；　perhaps；　find　a　crowbar；　a　knife；　something。　Even　as　he　was　debating　with　himself；　the　back　door　opened；　and　the　stranger　appeared；　dressed　in　his　now　familiar　overcoat。　Lewis　flattened　himself　against　the　wall　of　the　yard；　where　the　shadows　were　deepest；　certain　that　he　would　be　seen。　But　the　beast　was　about　other　business。　He　stood　in　the　doorway　with　his　face　fully　exposed；　and　for　the　first　time；　in　the　reflected　moonlight　off　the　snow；　Lewis　could　see　the　creature's　physiognomy　plainly。　Its　face　was　freshly　shaved；　and　the　scent　of　cologne　was　strong；　even　in　the　open　air。　Its　skin　was　pink　as　a　peach；　though　nicked　in　one　or　two　places　by　a　careless　blade。　Lewis　thought　of　the　open…razor　it　had　apparently　threatened　Catherine　with。　Was　that　what　its　business　had　been　in　Phillipe's　room；　the　purloining　of　a　good　razor？　It　was　pulling　its　leather　gloves　on　over　its　wide；　shaved　hands；　making　small　coughing　noises　in　its　throat　that　sounded　almost　like　grunts　of　satisfaction。　Lewis　had　the　impression　that　it　was　preparing　itself　for　the　outside　world；　and　the　sight　was　touching　as　much　as　intimidating。　All　this　thing　wanted　was　to　be　human。　It　was　aspiring；　in　its　way；　to　the　model　Phillipe　had　given　it；　had　nurtured　in　it。　Now；　deprived　of　its　mentor；　confused　and　unhappy；　it　was　attempting　to　face　the　world　as　it　had　been　taught　to　do。　There　was　no　way　back　for　it。　Its　days　of　innocence　had　gone：　it　could　never　be　an　unambitious　beast　again。　Trapped　in　its　new　persona；　it　had　no　choice　but　to　continue　in　the　life　its　master　had　awoken　its　taste　for。　Without　glancing　in　Lewis'　direction；　it　gently　closed　the　door　behind　it　and　crossed　the　yard；　its　walk　transforming　in　those　few　steps　from　a　simian　roll　to　the　mincing　waddle　that　it　used　to　simulate　humanity。
　Then　it　was　gone。
　Lewis　waited　a　moment　in　the　shadows；　breathing　shallowly。　Every　bone　in　his　body　ached　with　cold　now；　and　his　feet　were　numb。　The　beast　showed　no　sign　of　returning；　so　he　ventured　out　of　his　hiding　place　and　tried　the　door。　It　was　not　locked。　As　he　stepped　inside　a　stench　struck　him：　the　sickly　sweet　smell　of　r