Authors: Stanislaw Lem
“Answer one question for me,” Sheppard said very gently. “But first I want you to understand something: I’m not trying to make suggestions, I’m not initiating anything from the top, and I admit that in this case I don’t know anything—not a thing.”
“What’s the question?” Gregory replied sharply, almost brutally, feeling himself turn pale.
“Why don’t you admit that the explanation may not involve criminals?”
“But I’ve already told you! I’ve told you several times! Because the only alternative is a miracle!”
“Do you really mean that?” Sheppard asked, his voice suddenly solicitous. “All right, let’s leave it for now. The alibi I just gave you for Sciss—you’ll check it out, right? I mean the incident at Lewes, because I can only vouch for him up till midnight. My coat is over here, isn’t it? Thank you. I think there’s going to be a change in the weather; my rheumatism is beginning to act up and it’s a bit hard for me to raise my arms. Thank you again. It’s after midnight already. I must have lost track of the time. Good night, now. Oh, one more thing. If you have a free moment—for training, so to speak—maybe you ought to do a little detective work around here and let me know who was responsible for that creaking during our conversation. After all, it wasn’t a miracle, was it? Please, please, don’t look so surprised. You know very well what I’m talking about. Maybe a little too well. Now, if I’m not mistaken, I go out by the staircase on the other side of the drawing room with the mirrors. No, you don’t have to show me the way. The door downstairs is locked, but I noticed that the key was still in the lock. You can lock it again later when you get a chance—there aren’t any thieves in this neighborhood. Good night again, and above all, Lieutenant, remember—deliberation and discretion.”
He went out. Gregory followed him, hardly conscious of what he was doing. The Chief Inspector, not hesitating for a moment, tramped through one room after another and quickly descended the stairs to the front door. The detective followed slowly, hanging on to the bannister like a drunken man. The front door closed quietly. Gregory reached it, locked it, mechanically giving the key two turns, then returned upstairs, his head roaring, his eyes burning as if on fire. Just the way he was, fully dressed, he threw himself down on his bed. The house was still. Through the window some far-off lights were dimly visible. The clock ticked quietly. It would be difficult to say how long Gregory remained in the same position without moving.
After a while the lamp on the desk seemed less bright than before. “I must be very tired,” Gregory thought. “I have to get to sleep or I won’t be good for anything tomorrow.” But he didn’t make a move. Something—a tiny cloud or a puff of smoke—floated over the empty armchair in which Sheppard had been sitting. Gregory ignored it and lay there listlessly, listening to his own breathing. Suddenly, the room reverberated with the sound of knocking.
Three separate and quite distinct knocks followed. Gregory turned his head toward the door but still did not get up. Three more knocks. He wanted to say “come in” but couldn’t; his mouth hadn’t been so dry since his last hangover. Standing up, he made for the door.
Gregory put his hand on the doorknob but was unable to move, suddenly overcome by fear of whoever might be on the other side. Finally, he yanked the door open and, his heart sinking, peered into the darkness. There was no one there. He ran out into the long band of light emanating from the lamp behind him, then made his way past a line of opened doors, his arms extended frontward so he wouldn’t bump into whoever it was.
Not encountering anything, Gregory moved farther down the hallway, increasingly enveloped in the resonating sounds. “I never realized this house was so big,” he thought; at almost the same moment he saw a tall shadow backing into a side hall. He took off in pursuit; but the light, pattering sound of hurrying feet told him that his quarry was running too. An instant later a door loomed up in front of Gregory. He managed to jump inside just as it slammed shut, nearly crashing into a blue-sheeted bed but stopping himself in time. It was Mr. Fenshawe’s room. More confused than ever, he wanted to get away. Á bowl-shaped alabaster lamp was hanging so low over the table that it practically touched him. The table itself had been pushed alongside the bed. Farther inside, next to the wall adjacent to his room, he saw two female manikins—the kind used in high-fashion salons—good figures, beautiful features, real hair. They were both naked, their cream-colored limbs glistening in the light of the lamp, and one, gazing at Gregory with an affable fixed smile, was tapping rhythmically on the wall. He was stunned by the sight.
At almost the same instant he saw Mr. Fenshawe sitting on the floor behind the manikin, cackling quietly to himself as if he had a hacking cough. A complicated set of strings ran from his hands to the arms and bodies of both manikins, and the old man, aided by some levers of the kind found backstage at a puppet theater, was manipulating them skillfully.
“No, no,” he said, “please don’t be frightened. I apologize if the noise keeps you awake, but I can only do this at night. I contact the spirit world, you know.”
“But you need a table for that,” Gregory said absently, glancing around the room without knowing what he was looking for.
“Tables are old-fashioned. It’s done this way now,” replied Mr. Fenshawe, not interrupting his manipulation of the strings.
Gregory didn’t answer. There was a floor-length, yellow-fringed window drape hanging behind Mr. Fenshawe; it was protruding slightly on one side, as if carefully pulled over a big vertical object of some kind.
Addressing an idiotic question to Mr. Fenshawe—something or other about the manufacture of manikins—then praising the old man’s skill in manipulating them, Gregory gradually moved sideways along the wall until he was within touching distance of the drape. He extended his arm and touched a broad, full fold: it gave a little under the pressure, then resisted it. Gregory knew now: someone was hiding behind the drape! He took a deep breath, stood for a second with his muscles tensed, then began walking around the room, keeping up a steady chatter. He confessed to Mr. Fenshawe about his nightly fears; then, uncertain whether he had managed to allay the old man’s suspicions, he told him about the investigation, pausing once in front of the manikins and once in front of the drape, addressing himself first to them and then directly to it, as if he was no longer paying any attention to Mr. Fenshawe. These maneuvers made him feel that he was beginning to gain the advantage; well aware of the risks, he began to space his words with double meanings, simultaneously poking at the protruding part of the motionless yellow drape with a feeling of mingled triumph and fear. Laughing out loud, Gregory swept the room with a flashing glance, looking something like a second-rate actor’s version of a detective. The cry “Come out! I’ve got you!” pounded steadily in his head. His speech became blurred and incoherent; in his excitement he blurted out sentences without bothering to complete them. Standing with his back to the drape, Gregory was so close to whoever was hiding behind it that he could feel the warmth of his body. All at once old Mr. Fenshawe jumped up from the floor, an expression of terror and compassion in his eyes, and in the same instant something grabbed hold of Gregory. Unable to tear loose or to breathe, he flapped his arms helplessly; an icy cold sharpness pierced his chest; everything around him stopped, the room became as motionless as a photograph. Gregory fell gently, thinking with extraordinary acuity, “Well, it’s over, but why don’t I feel anything?—with his last bit of consciousness he prepared himself for the pain, struggling to keep his eyes open. Looking up from the floor, he saw a grayish figure framed by the yellow drape. The man bent over Gregory with uncommon interest. “I can’t see,” the lieutenant thought in despair. “Now I’ll never find out which of the two…” Just as Gregory began to understand that the man had killed him, that the contest had ended with his adversary the victor, the room around him became a gigantic noisy bell. And then he woke up … in a dark room, with the cold, acrid aroma of tobacco smoke hanging in the air. The telephone was ringing. It stopped for a while, then began again. Only half awake, with a head as heavy as the nightmare itself, Gregory gradually realized that the monotonous ringing had been going on for quite some time.
“Gregory,” he stammered into the receiver, leaning with his full weight on an outstretched hand; the room was whirling around.
“This is Gregson. I’ve been calling you for half an hour. Guess what, pal, a report just came in from Beavers Home. They found that guy’s corpse—the one that disappeared about three weeks ago.”
“What?” said Gregory in terror. “Where? What corpse?”
“Hey, come on, are you still sleeping? The body of that sailor—Aloney—the one that disappeared from the dissecting lab. They found it in an old iron foundry. In pretty lousy condition too. It must have been there a long time.”
“In Beverley?” Gregory asked quietly. His head was throbbing—he felt as if he’d been out on an all-night drunk.
“No, in Beavers Home. Hey, pull yourself together. It’s about six miles farther north, where Lord Altringham has his stables. You know where I mean?”
“Who found it?”
“Some workmen; the report just came in but it was last night. In the middle of some junk in front of an old quonset hut. Piles of rusted sheet metal all over the place. You going?”
“No. I can’t,” Gregory blurted out belligerently, and immediately added in a quiet voice, “I don’t feel too well. It may be the flu. Send Calls—you get in touch with him, all right? And a doctor too. Sorensen won’t be able to go; that is, he won’t want to. Try King. Please take care of it for me, Gregson. Calls will be able to manage everything. Oh, have them take a photographer along. Why am I bothering with all this—you know what to do. I really can’t go.”
He stopped short, afraid that he was talking too much. For a moment there was silence on the other end.
“Whatever you say,” Gregson said at last. “If you’re sick, you can’t go. I thought you’d be interested.”
“I am, of course! I want to know whatever they find out. I’m going to take good care of myself—aspirin, the whole works—I’ll be back on my feet soon, and I’ll try to get to the Yard around … around one. Tell Calls I’ll be waiting for him.”
Gregory hung up and walked over to the window. It was daybreak; he knew he’d never be able to fall asleep again. He swung open the terrace door and stood in the penetrating damp air. The curtain stirred gently. He stared at the colorless sky of the new day.
It was a few minutes to four when Gregory arrived at the Ritz. Glancing at a clock built into a column marking a streetcar stop, he paused in front of a display of still photographs from a new film and casually studied the glass-covered pictures of a long-legged woman in tom underwear, some masked gangsters, and two cars colliding in a cloud of dust. One after another, big American cars pulled up in front of the restaurant. A pair of tourists from across the ocean emerged from a long black Packard: the woman, old and hideously made up, was wearing diamonds and a sable cape; her escort, a slim young man discreetly dressed in gray, held her handbag and waited patiently until she got out of the car. On the other side of the street the neon marquee of a theater flashed on in a burst of light and movement, its bluish reflection glittering in the windows of nearby stores. When the hands of the clock indicated 4:20, Gregory began moving toward the Ritz. The earlier part of the afternoon had gone as he expected. Calls finally came back with a medical report on the body and an account of the circumstances in which it was found, both absolutely worthless, and Gregory was forced to admit that his idea of setting up stake-outs to watch for the returning bodies was fantasy, plain and simple. He couldn’t possibly get enough policemen to cover an area of more than eighty square miles.
A doorman in gold braid opened the door for him. His gloves were more respectable-looking than Gregory’s. Uncertain how the meeting would go, the lieutenant was worried and ill at ease. Sciss had phoned him around noon to suggest having dinner together, trying so hard to be gracious that he gave the impression of having forgotten the events of the previous evening. He hadn’t even mentioned the unfortunate phone call. “The second act,” Gregory mused, looking around the large dining room. He saw Sciss and headed for his table, thus managing to escape from the approaching headwaiter. As he drew closer he saw that there were two other men with Sciss. He didn’t recognize either one. When the introductions were over, Gregory leaned uncomfortably against the red velvet upholstered back of his chair; he was flanked on both sides by majolica potted palms, and from the table, which was situated on a raised platform, he had a fine view of the whole interior of the Ritz: elegant women; brilliantly colored, brightly lit fountains; pseudo-Moorish columns. Sciss handed him the menu. Gregory wrinkled his forehead, pretending to study it. He was beginning to feel that Sciss was out to make a fool of him.
His earlier assumption—that Sciss wanted to have a candid private talk—was clearly wrong. “The ass is using his friends to impress me,” Gregory thought, looking with affected indifference at his table companions, Armour Black and Doctor McCatt. Gregory knew Black from his books and from pictures in the newspapers. About fifty years old, Black was at the height of his popularity. A long series of best-selling novels, written after years of silence, had finally made him famous. The writer kept himself in excellent shape, and in person it was easy to see that the news pictures showing him on the tennis court or with fishing rod in hand were genuine. Black had big, neatly manicured hands; his head was large, with a thick crop of dark hair, a fleshy nose, and thick eyebrows that overshadowed his face; sometimes, when he closed his eyes for a while in the middle of a conversation, his age showed. The other man seemed much younger but probably wasn’t; boyish-looking and very thin, he had close-set blue eyes and a protruding Adams apple that seemed to stretch the skin of his neck. His behavior was eccentric, to say the least. Sometimes he hunched over and stared with glazed eyes at the whiskey glass in front of him; then, seeming to regain his senses, he’d straighten up and sit rigidly for a minute or so. A moment later he would stare around the dining room with his mouth gaping open or would turn, stare persistently at Gregory, then break out laughing like a mischievous child. He seemed the same type as Sciss, and because of this Gregory assumed he was one of Sciss’s students. But while Sciss reminded him of a long-legged bird, there was something reminiscent of a rodent in McCatt.