“Do you really believe that?” Gregory screamed, running up to the desk. Panting breathlessly, he stood there, staring at the calm, almost complacent Chief Inspector. “Do you really believe that… that… nonsense? No one invented anything! A discovery like that would be worth a Nobel Prize! Believe me, the whole world would know about it. That’s one reason. And furthermore, Sciss—”
Gregory stopped short. During the acute silence that followed, a slow, measured, creaking sound could be heard, not from behind the wall but in the very room where he was sitting with the Chief Inspector. Gregory had heard this sound a few times before. The incidents had been several weeks apart, but each had occurred while he was lying in his bed in the dark. The first time the creaking had awakened him from a deep sleep. Absolutely certain that someone was approaching him on bare feet, Gregory had switched on the light. There was no one in the room. The second incident had occurred very late — in fact, just before dawn. Gregory, exhausted by a sleepless night of listening to Mr. Fenshawe’s acoustical gymnastics, was lying in a state of torpor, neither asleep nor awake. He’d turned on the light again; like the first time, the room was empty. The third time, having convinced himself that the wooden floors in old houses dry unevenly, and that the process can only be heard during the still hours of the night, Gregory ignored the creaking. Now, however, the room was well lit by the lamp on the desk and the furniture, undoubtedly as old as the floor, wasn’t making a sound. The parquet near the stove creaked faintly but distinctly. Soon after, somewhat closer to the middle of the room, two more creaks followed in quick succession, one in front of Gregory, the other behind him. After a minute of quiet during which Gregory remained hunched over without moving, a weak sound could be heard from Mr. Fenshawe’s room, a kind of giggling — or was it crying? — weak, senile, muffled, perhaps by a quilt — followed by weak coughing. And then it was quiet again.
“And furthermore, Sciss partially contradicted himself…”
Gregory tried to pick up the thread, but the interval had been too long and he couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened. He was at his wits’ end. Shaking his head a few times as if trying to knock some water out of his ears, he sat down.
“I’m beginning to understand,” said Sheppard, leaning back in his chair. There was a serious expression on his face. “You suspect Sciss because you think he has a compulsion to do these things. I suppose you’ve tried to determine his whereabouts during each of the nights in question. If he has a good alibi for even one of them, your suspicion collapses — unless you accept the idea of an accomplice, a miracle-worker
“Is it possible that he didn’t notice anything?” flashed through Gregory’s mind. “It can’t be. Maybe… maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe it’s old age.” He struggled to concentrate. Sheppard’s words were still ringing in his ears but he couldn’t grasp their meaning.
“Well yes… of course…” he muttered. Then, regaining control of himself: “Sciss is such a loner that it’s hard to talk about a tight alibi. I should have questioned him, but I didn’t. I admit I bungled things. I bungled… I didn’t even question that woman who runs his house…”
“Woman?” Sheppard said, unable to hide his surprise. He looked at Gregory, somewhat obviously trying to restrain a smile. “That’s his sister! No, Gregory, the truth is, you haven’t accomplished very much. If you didn’t want to question her, you should at least have talked to me! The day the body disappeared in Lewes — remember, it was between three and five in the morning — Sciss was at my house.”
“At your house?” Gregory whispered.
“Yes. I was trying to talk him into helping us — in a private capacity, of course — and I wanted to show him some of the reports. He left just after
midnight — I can’t say whether it was five after or twelve-thirty, but even assuming that it was midnight, I doubt whether he could have driven fast enough to get to Lewes before three in the morning. It would have been closer to four. But that’s not the most important point. You know, Lieutenant, there are many kinds of improbabilities — material ones, for instance, like the improbability of tossing a coin a hundred times and having it come up heads ninety-nine times. And certain kinds of psychological improbability verge just as closely on the impossible. I’ve known Sciss for many years. He’s an exasperating man, an egomaniac made of razor blades and glass, arrogant in every possible way, absolutely devoid of tact, or perhaps completely unaware that civilized people use good manners not so much out of politeness but for the sake of simple, comfortable coexistence. I have no illusions about him. But the insinuation that he could hide on all fours under some old coffins in a mortuary, or reinforce the jaws of a corpse with adhesive tape, or stamp footprints into the snow, or wrack his brains to figure out how to interrupt rigor mortis, or shake a dead body like a scarecrow to frighten a constable — this is all absolutely incompatible with everything I know about him. Now please try to understand. I don’t claim that Sciss couldn’t commit a misdemeanor or even a felony. But I’m sure he could never manage a crime that involves such gruesomely crude elements. There can only be one Sciss. Either he’s the man who perpetrated that tragic little farce at the cemetery, or he’s the man I know. In other words, if Sciss wanted to get away with staging the affair at the cemetery, he’d have to pretend to be completely different in his daily life from the person he really is, or, speaking more cautiously, than the one he may prove to be, if he did everything you accuse him of. Do you think that such consistent role-playing is possible?”
“I’ve already told you that as far as I’m concerned anything is possible if it frees me from the necessity of believing in miracles,” Gregory said in a dull voice, rubbing his palms together as if he suddenly felt cold. “I can’t allow myself the luxury of psychologizing. I must have a perpetrator, and I’ll get him no matter what the cost. Maybe Sciss is insane — in the full sense of the word — maybe he’s a monomaniac, maybe he has a split personality or a divided ego, maybe he has an accomplice, maybe he’s using his theory to protect the real culprit — there are more than enough possibilities.”
“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
