cb.booksofblood2-第25章

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s　apparent；　and　far　more　powerful。　Their　weapons　made　razors　look　pitiful；　their　crimes　were　vast。　In　some　ways　Lewis　was　almost　glad　to　be　old　and　close　to　leaving　the　century　to　its　own　devices。　Yes；　the　snow　froze　his　marrow。　Yes；　to　see　a　young　girl　with　a　face　of　a　goddess　uselessly　stirred　his　desires。　Yes；　he　felt　like　an　observer　now　instead　of　a　participator。
　But　it　had　not　always　been　that　way。
　In　1937；　in　the　very　room　at　number　eleven；　Quai　de　Bourbon；　where　he　now　sat；　there　had　been　experience　enough。　Paris　was　still　a　pleasure…dome　in　those　days；　studiously　ignoring　rumours　of　war；　and　preserving；　though　at　times　the　strain　told；　an　air　of　sweet　na？veté。　They　had　been　careless　then；　in　both　senses　of　the　word；　living　endless　lives　of　perfect　leisure。
　It　wasn't　so　of　course。　The　lives　had　not　been　perfect；　or　endless。　But　for　a　time　…　a　summer；　a　month；　a　day　…　it　had　seemed　nothing　in　the　world　would　change。
　In　half　a　decade　Paris　would　burn；　and　its　playful　guilt；　which　was　true　innocence；　would　be　soiled　permanently。　They　had　spent　many　days　（and　nights）　in　the　apartment　Lewis　now　occupied；　wonderful　times；　when　he　thought　of　them　his　stomach　seemed　to　ache　with　the　loss。
　His　thoughts　turned　to　more　recent　events。　To　his　New　York　exhibition；　in　which　his　series　of　paintings　chronicling　the　damnation　of　Europe　had　been　a　brilliant　critical　success。　At　the　age　of　seventy…three　Lewis　Fox　was　a　feted　man。　Articles　were　being　written　in　every　art　periodical。　Admirers　and　buyers　had　sprung　up　like　mushrooms　overnight；　eager　to　purchase　his　work；　to　talk　with　him；　to　touch　his　hand。　All　too　late；　of　course。　The　agonies　of　creation　were　long　over；　and　he'd　put　down　his　brushes　for　the　last　time　five　years　ago。　Now；　when　he　was　merely　a　spectator；　his　critical　triumph　seemed　like　a　parody：　he　viewed　the　circus　from　a　distance　with　something　approaching　distaste。
　When　the　telegram　had　e　from　Paris；　begging　for　his　assistance；　he　had　been　more　than　pleased　to　slip　away　from　the　ring　of　imbeciles　mouthing　his　praise。
　Now　he　waited　in　the　darkening　apartment；　watching　the　steady　flow　of　cars　across　the　Pont　Louis…Phillipe；　as　tired　Parisians　began　the　trek　home　through　the　snow。　Their　horns　blared；　their　engines　coughed　and　growled；　their　yellow　fog　lamps　made　a　ribbon　of　light　across　the　bridge。
　Still　Catherine　didn't　e。
　The　snow；　which　had　held　off　for　most　of　the　day；　was　beginning　to　fall　again；　whispering　against　the　window。　The　traffic　flowed　across　the　Seine；　the　Seine　flowed　under　the　traffic。　Night　fell。　At　last；　he　heard　footsteps　in　the　hail；　exchanged　whispers　with　the　housekeeper。
　It　was　Catherine。　At　last；　it　was　Catherine。
　He　stood　up　and　stared　at　the　door；　imagining　it　opening　before　it　opened；　imagining　her　in　the　doorway。
　'Lewis；　my　darling　…'
　She　smiled　at　him；　a　pale　smile　on　a　paler　face。　She　looked　older　than　he'd　expected。　How　long　was　it　since　he'd　seen　her？　Four　years　or　five？　Her　fragrance　was　the　same　as　she　always　wore：　and　it　reassured　Lewis　with　its　permanence。　He　kissed　her　cold　cheeks　lightly。
　'You　look　well；'　he　lied。
　'No　I　don't；'　she　said。　'If　I　look　well　it's　an　insult　to　Phillipe。　How　can　I　be　well　when　he's　in　such　trouble？'
　Her　manner　was　brisk；　and　forbidding；　as　always。
　She　was　three　years　his　senior；　but　she　treated　him　as　a　teacher　would　a　recalcitrant　child。　She　always　had：　it　was　her　way　of　being　fond。
　Greetings　over；　she　sat　down　beside　the　window；　staring　out　over　the　Seine。　Small　grey　ice…floes　floated　under　the　bridge；　rocking　and　revolving　in　the　current。　The　water　looked　deadly；　as　though　its　bitterness　could　crush　the　breath　out　of　you。
　'What　trouble　is　Phillipe　in？'
　'He's　accused　of…'
　A　tiny　hesitation。　A　flicker　of　an　eyelid。
　'…　murder。'
　Lewis　wanted　to　laugh；　the　very　thought　was　prepos…terous。　Phillipe　was　sixty…nine　years　old；　and　as　mild…mannered　as　a　lamb。
　'It's　true；　Lewis。　I　couldn't　tell　you　by　telegram；　you　understand。　I　had　to　say　it　myself。　Murder。　He's　accused　of　murder。'
　'Who？'
　'A　girl；　of　course。　One　of　his　fancy　women。'
　'He　still　gets　around；　does　he？'
　'We　used　to　joke　he'd　die　on　a　woman；　remember？'
　Lewis　half…nodded。
　'She　was　nineteen。　Natalie　Perec。　Quite　an　educated　girl；　apparently。　And　lovely。　Long　red　hair。　You　remember　how　Phillipe　loved　redheads？'
　'Nineteen？　He　has　nineteen　year　olds？'
　She　didn't　reply。　Lewis　sat　down；　knowing　his　pacing　of　the　room　irritated　her。　In　profile　she　was　still　beautiful；　and　the　wash　of　yellow…blue　through　the　window　softened　the　lines　on　her　face；　magically　erasing　fifty　years　of　living。
　'Where　is　he？'
　'They　locked　him　up。　They　say　he's　dangerous。　They　say　he　could　kill　again。'
　Lewis　shook　his　head。　There　was　a　pain　at　his　temples；　which　might　go　if　he　could　only　close　his　eyes。
　'He　needs　to　see　you。　Very　badly。'
　But　maybe　sleep　was　just　an　escape。　Here　was　something　even　he　couldn't　be　a　spectator　to。
　
　Phillipe　Laborteaux　stared　at　Lewis　across　the　bare；　scored　table；　his　face　weary　and　lost。　They　had　greeted　each　other　only　with　handshakes；　all　other　physical　contact　was　strictly　forbidden。
　'I　am　in　despair；'　he　said。　'She's　dead。　My　Natalie　is　dead。'
　'Tell　me　what　happened。'
　'I　have　a　little　apartment　in　Montmartre。　In　the　Rue　des　Martyrs。　Just　a　room　really；　to　entertain　friends。　Catherine　always　keeps　number　11　SO　neat；　you　know；　a　man　can't　spread　himself　out。　Natalie　used　to　spend　a　lot　of　time　with　me　there：　everyone　in　the　house　knew　her。　She　was　so　good　natured；　so　beautiful。　She　was　studying　to　go　into　Medical　School。　Bright。　And　she　loved　me。'
　Phillipe　was　still　handsome。　In　fact；　as　the　fashion　in　looks　came　full　circle　his　elegance；　his　almost　dashing　face；　his　unhurried　charm　were　the　order　of　the　day。　A　breath　of　a　lost　age；　perhaps。
　'I　went　out　on　Sunday　morning：　to　the　patisserie。　And　when　I　came　back。　。　。'
　The　words　failed　him　for　a　moment。
　'Lewis。。。'
　His　eyes　filled　with　tears　of　frustration。　This　was　so　difficult　for　him　his　mouth　refused　to　make　the　necessary　sounds。
　
　'Don't　…'　Lewis　began。
　'I　want　to　tell　you；　Lewis。　I　want　you　to　know；　I　want　you　to　see　her　as　I　saw　her　…　so　you　know　what　there　is。
　there　is　。　。　。　what　there　is　in　the　world。'
　The　tears　ran　down　his　face　in　two　graceful　rivulets。　He　gripped　Lewis'　hand　in　his；　so　tightly　it　ached。
　'She　was　covered　in　blood。　In　wounds。　Skin　torn　off　hair　torn　out。　Her　tongue　was　on　the　pillow；　Lewis。
　Imagine　that。　She'd　bitten　it　off　in　her　terror。　It　was　just　lying　on　the　pillow。　And　her　eyes；　all　swimming　in　blood；　like　she'd　wept　blood。　She　was　the　dearest　thing　in　all　creation；　Lewis。　She　was　beautiful。'
　'No　more。'
　'I　want　to　die；　Lewis。'
　'No。'
　'I　don't　want　to　live　now。　There's　no　point。'
　'They　won't　find　you　guilty。'
　'I　don't　care；　Lewis。　You　must　look　after　Catherine　now。　I　read　about　the　exhibition　…'
　He　almost　smiled。
　'…　Wonderful　for　you。　We　always　said；　didn't　we？　before　the　war；　you'd　be　the　one　to　be　famous；　I'd　be　…'
　The　smile　had　gone。
　'…　notorious。　They　say　terrible　things　about　me　now；　in　the　newspapers。　An　old　man　going　with　young　girls；　you　see；　that　doesn't　make　me　very　wholesome。　They　probably　think　I　lost　my　temper　because　I　couldn't　perform　with　her。　That's　what　they　think；　I'm　certain。'　He　lost　his　way；　halted；　began　again。　'You　must　look　after　Catherine。　She's　got　money；　but　no　friends。　She's　too　cool；　you　see。　Too　hurt　inside；　and　that　makes　people　wary　of　her。　You　have　to　stay　with　her。'
　'I　shall。'
　'I　know。　I　know。　That's　why　I　feel　happy；　really；　to　just。。：
　'No；　Phillipe。'
　'Just　die。　There's　nothing　left　for　us；　Lewis。　The　world's　too　hard。'
　Lewis　thought　of　the　snow；　and　the　ice…floes；　and　saw　the　sense　in　dying。
　
　The　officer　in　charge　of　the　investigation　was　less　than　helpful；　though　Lewis　introduced　himself　as　a　relative　of　the　esteemed　Detective　Dupin。　Lewis's　contempt　for　the　shoddily…dressed　weasel；　sitting　in　his　cluttered　hole　of　an　office；　made　the　interview　crackle　with　suppressed　anger。
　'Your　friend；'　the　Inspector　said；　picking　at　the　raw　cuticle　of　his　thumb；　'is　a　murderer；　Monsieur　Fox。　It　is　as　simple　as　that。　The　evidence　is　overwhelming。'
　'I　can't　believe　that。'
　'Believe　what　you　like　to　believe；　that's　your　prerogative。　We　have　all　the　evidence　we　need　to　convict　Phillipe　Laborteaux　of　murder　in　the　first　degree。　It　was　a　cold…blooded　killing　and　he　will　be　punished　to　the　full　extent　of　the　law。　This　is　my　promise。'
　'What　evidence　do　you　have　against　him？'
　'Monsieur　Fox；　I　am　not　beholden　to　you。　What　evidence　we　have　is　our　business。　Suffice　it　to　say　that　no　other　person　was　seen　in　the　house　during　the　time　that　the　accused　claims　he　was　at　some　fictional　patisserie；　and　as　access　to　the　room　in　which　the　deceased　was　found　is　only　possible　by　the　stairs　…'
　'What　about　a　window？'
　'A　plain　wall：　three　flights　up。　Maybe　an　acrobat：　an　acrobat　might　do　it。'
　'And　the　state　of　the　body？'
　The　Inspector　made　a　face。　Disgust。
　'Horrible。　Skin　and　muscle　stripped　from　the　bone。　All　the　spine　exposed。　Blood；　much　blood。'
　'Phillipe　is　seventy。'
　'So？'
　'An　old　man　would　not　be　capable　…'
　'In　other　respects；'　the　Inspector　interrupted；　'he　seems　to　have　been　quite　capable；　oui？　The　lover；　yes？　The　passionate　lover：　he　was　capable　of　that。'
　'And　what　motive　would　you　claim　he　had？'
　His　mouth　scalloped；　his　eyes　rolled　and　he　tapped　his　chest。
　'Le　coeur　humain；'　he　said；　as　if　despairing　of　reason　in　affairs　of　the　heart。　'Le　coeur　humain；　quel　mystère；　n'est…ce　pas？'　and　exhaling　the　stench　of　his　ulcer　at　Lewis；　he　proffered　the　open　door。
　'Merci；　Monsieur　Fox。　I　understand　your　confusion；　oui？　But　you　are　wasting　your　time。　A　crime　is　a　crime。　It　is　real；　not　like　your　paintings。'
　He　saw　the　surprise　on　Lewis's　face。
　'Oh；　I　am　not　so　uncivilized　as　not　to　know　your　reputation；　Monsieur　Fox。　But　I　ask　you；　make　your　fictions　as　best　you　can；　that　is　your　genius；　oui？　Mine；　to　investigate　the　truth。'
　Lewis　couldn't　bear　the　weasel's　cant　any　longer。
　'Truth？'　he　snapped　back　at　the　Inspector。　'You　wouldn't　know　the　truth　if　you　tripped　over　it。'
　The　weasel　looked　as　though　he'd　been　slapped　with　a　wet　fish。
　It　was　precious　little　satisfaction；　but　it　made　Lewis　feel　better　for　at　least　five　minutes。
　
　The　house　on　the　Rue　des　Martyrs　was　not　in　good　condition；　and　Lewis　could　smell　the　damp　as　he　climbed　to　the　little　room　on　the　third　floor。　Doors　opened　as　he　passed；　and　inquiring　whispers　ushered　him　up　the　stairs；　but　nobody　tried　to　stop　him。　The　room　where　the　atrocity　had　happened　was　locked。　Frustrated；　but　not　knowing　how　or　why　it　would　help　Phillipe's　case　to　see　the　interior　of　the　room；　he　made　his　way　back　down　the　stairs　and　into　the　bitter　air。
　Catherine　was　back　at　the　Quai　de　Bourbon。　As　soon　as　Lewis　saw　her　he　knew　there　was　something　new　to　hear。　Her　grey　hair　was　loosed　from　the　bun　she　favoured　wearing；　and　hung　unbraided　at　her　shoulders。　Her　face　was　a　sickly　yellow…grey　by　the　lamplight。　She　shivered；　even　in　the　clogged　air　of　the　centrally…heated　apartment。
　'What's　wrong？'　he　asked。
　'I　went　to　Phillipe's　apa