cb.booksofblood2-第30部分

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　His　voice　trailed　away；　as　though　the　next　words　were　unsayable。
　the　ape。'
　Those　were　the　words：　the　apparently　unspeakable　was　spoken　as　though　each　syllable　had　been　cut　from　his　throat。
　the　ape。'
　'What　about　the　ape？'
　'There　are　beasts；　Lewis。　Some　of　them　are　pitiful；　circus　animals。　They　have　no　brains；　they　are　born　victims。　Then　there　are　others。'
　'What　others？'
　'Natalie　was　a　whore！'　he　screamed　again；　his　eyes　big　as　saucers。　He　took　hold　of　Lewis'　lapels；　and　began　to　shake　him。　Everybody　else　in　the　little　room　turned　to　look　at　the　two　old　men　as　they　wrestled　over　the　table。　Convicts　and　their　sweethearts　grinned　as　Phillipe　was　dragged　off　his　friend；　his　words　descending　into　incoherence　and　obscenity　as　he　thrashed　in　the　warder's　grip。
　'Whore！　Whore！　Whore！'　was　all　he　could　say　as　they　hauled　him　back　to　his　cell。
　
　Catherine　met　Lewis　at　the　door　of　her　apartment。　She　was　shaking　and　tearful。　Beyond　her；　the　room　was　wrecked。
　She　sobbed　against　his　chest　as　he　forted　her；　but　she　was　inconsolable。　It　was　many　years　since　he'd　forted　a　woman；　and　he'd　lost　the　knack　of　it。　He　was　embarrassed　instead　of　soothing；　and　she　knew　it。　She　broke　away　from　his　embrace；　happier　untouched。
　'He　was　here；'　she　said。
　He　didn't　need　to　ask　who。　The　stranger；　the　tearful；　razor…wielding　stranger。
　'What　did　he　want？'
　
　'He　kept　saying　〃Phillipe〃　to　me。　Almost　saying　it；　grunting　it　more　than　saying　it：　and　when　I　didn't　answer　he　just　destroyed　the　furniture；　the　vases。　He　wasn't　even　looking　for　anything：　he　just　wanted　to　make　a　mess。'
　It　made　her　furious：　the　uselessness　of　the　attack。
　The　apartment　was　in　ruins。　Lewis　wandered　through　the　fragments　of　porcelain　and　shredded　fabric；　shaking　his　head。　In　his　mind　a　confusion　of　tearful　faces：　Catherine；　Phillipe；　the　stranger。　Everyone　in　his　narrow　world；　it　seemed；　was　hurt　and　broken。　Everyone　was　suffering；　and　yet　the　source；　the　heart　of　the　suffering；　was　nowhere　to　be　found。
　Only　Phillipe　had　pointed　an　accusing　finger：　at　Lewis　himself。
　'You　began　all　this。'　Weren't　those　his　words？　'you　began　all　this。'
　But　how？
　Lewis　stood　at　the　window。　Three　of　the　small　panes　had　been　cracked　by　flying　debris；　and　a　wind　was　insinuating　itself　into　the　apartment；　with　frost　in　its　teeth。　He　looked　across　at　the　ice…thickened　waters　of　the　Seine；　then　a　movement　caught　his　eye。　His　stomach　turned。
　The　full　face　of　the　stranger　was　turned　up　to　the　window；　his　expression　wild。　The　clothes　he　had　always　worn　so　impeccably　were　in　disarray；　and　the　look　on　his　face　was　of　utter；　utter　despair；　so　pitiful　as　to　be　almost　tragic。　Or　rather；　a　performance　of　tragedy：　an　actor's　pain。　Even　as　Lewis　stared　down　at　him　the　stranger　raised　his　arms　to　the　window　in　a　gesture　that　seemed　to　beg　either　forgiveness　or　understanding；　or　both。
　Lewis　backed　away　from　the　appeal。　It　was　too　much；　all　too　much。　The　next　moment　the　stranger　was　walking　across　the　courtyard　away　from　the　apartment。　The　mincing　walk　had　deteriorated　into　a　rolling　lope。　Lewis　uttered　a　long；　low　moan　of　recognition　as　the　ill…dressed　bulk　disappeared　from　view。
　'Lewis？'
　It　wasn't　a　man's　walk；　that　roll；　that　swagger。　It　was　the　gait　of　an　upright　beast　who'd　been　taught　to　walk；　and　now；　without　its　master；　was　losing　the　trick　of　it。
　It　was　an　ape。
　Oh　God；　oh　God；　it　was　an　ape。
　
　'I　have　to　see　Phillipe　Laborteaux。'
　'I'm　sorry；　Monsieur；　but　prison　visitors　…''This　is　a　matter　of　life　and　death；　officer。'　'Easily　said；　Monsieur。'
　Lewis　risked　a　lie。
　'His　sister　is　dying。　I　beg　you　to　have　some　passion。'　'Oh。。　。well。。。'
　A　little　doubt。　Lewis　levered　a　little　further。　'A　few　minutes　only；　to　settle　arrangements。'　'Can't　it　wait　until　tomorrow？'
　'She'll　be　dead　by　morning。'
　Lewis　hated　talking　about　Catherine　in　such　a　way；　even　for　the　purpose　of　this　deception；　but　it　was　necessary；　he　had　to　see　Phillipe。　If　his　theory　was　correct；　history　might　repeat　itself　before　the　night　was　out。
　Phillipe　had　been　woken　from　a　sedated　sleep。　His　eyes　were　circled　with　darkness。
　'What　do　you　want？'
　Lewis　didn't　even　attempt　to　proceed　any　further　with　his　lie；　Phillipe　was　drugged　as　it　was；　and　probably　confused。　Best　to　confront　him　with　the　truth；　and　see　what　came　of　it。
　
　'You　kept　an　ape；　didn't　you？'
　
　A　look　of　terror　crossed　Phillipe's　face；　slowed　by　the　drugs　in　his　blood；　but　plain　enough。
　'Didn't　you？'
　'Lewis。　。　。'　Phillipe　looked　so　very　old。
　'Answer　me；　Phillipe；　I　beg　you：　before　it's　too　late。　Did　you　keep　an　ape？'
　'It　was　an　experiment；　that's　all　it　was。　An　experiment。'
　'Why？'
　'Your　stories。　Your　damn　stories：　I　wanted　to　see　if　it　was　true　that　they　were　wild。　I　wanted　to　make　a　man　of　it。'
　'Make　a　man　of　it。'
　'And　that　whore。　。　。'
　'Natalie。'
　'She　seduced　it。'
　Lewis　felt　sick。　This　was　a　convolution　he　hadn't　anticipated。
　'Seduced　it？'
　'Whore；'　Phillipe　said；　with　infinite　regret。
　'Where　is　this　ape　of　yours？'
　'You'll　kill　it。'
　'It　broke　into　the　apartment；　while　Catherine　was　there。　Destroyed　everything；　Phillipe。　It's　dangerous　now　that　it　has　no　master。　Don't　you　understand？'
　'Catherine？'
　'No；　she's　all　right。'
　'It's　trained：　it　wouldn't　harm　her。　It's　watched　her；　in　hiding。　e　and　gone。　Quiet　as　a　mouse。'
　'And　the　girl？'
　'It　was　jealous。'
　'So　it　murdered　her？'
　'Perhaps。　I　don't　know。　I　don't　want　to　think　about　it。'
　'Why　haven't　you　told　them；　had　the　thing　destroyed？'
　'I　don't　know　if　it's　true。　It's　probably　all　a　fiction；　one　of　your　damn　fictions；　just　another　story。'
　A　sour；　wily　smile　crossed　his　exhausted　face。
　'You　must　know　what　I　mean；　Lewis。　It　could　be　a　story；　couldn't　it？　Like　your　tales　of　Dupin。　Except　that　maybe　I　made　it　true　for　a　while；　did　you　ever　think　of　that？　Maybe　I　made　it　true。'
　Lewis　stood　up。　It　was　a　tired　debate：　reality　and　illusion。　Either　a　thing　was；　or　was　not。　Life　was　not　a　dream。
　'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