He was surprised again at number 85. In a garden behind a low brick wall, at a considerable distance from any of the other houses, there stood a massive building. It was completely dark, as if dead. Taking a good look around, Gregory finally spotted a weak glow coming from one of the upstairs windows.
The spiked gate made a creaking sound when he swung it open. Forced to grope in the darkness to get his bearings because the brick wall cut off the light from the street, Gregory used the tip of his foot to feel his way along a flagstone walk to the solid black door of the house. Instead of a bell there was a knocker. He pulled it gently as if afraid to make too much noise.
He had a long wait, occasionally hearing the dripping of an unseen rainspout or the sound of a car whizzing by on the wet pavement at the intersection. Finally, and soundlessly, the door opened. Sheppard was standing in the doorway.
“You’re here already? That’s fine. Please follow me.”
The hall was completely dark. Farther inside the house, a weak glow streaked the stairs in a trail of light, beckoning upward. An open door on the second floor landing led into a small foyer. Gregory noticed something staring at him from overhead — it was the skull of some kind of animal, its looming, empty eye sockets clearly standing out from the yellowed bone.
He took off his coat and entered the room. The long walk in the fog had irritated his eyes and they still burned a little.
“Please sit down.”
The room was almost dark. There was a lamp on the desk, but it was pointed downward toward an open book, its light reflected onto the wall and ceiling from the flattened pages. Gregory remained on his feet. There was only one chair.
“Please sit down,” the Chief Inspector said a second time. It sounded like an order. The lieutenant sat down reluctantly. He was now so close to the source of the light that he was almost unable to see. A few blurred spots that were actually pictures were barely visible on the walls; under his feet he felt a deep rug. Opposite him was a long bookshelf. A television set glistened in the middle of a dull whitish area.
Sheppard walked over to the desk, pulled a black metal cigarette box out from under some books, and slid it over to his guest. He lit one himself and began pacing back and forth between the door and the window, which was screened by a heavy brown drape. The silence lasted so long that Gregory, who had nothing to do but watch the pacing figure, soon began to feel bored.
“I’ve decided to give you the case,” Sheppard said all of a sudden, not losing a step.
Gregory didn’t know what to say. He could feel the alcohol in him and took a deep drag on the cigarette as if tobacco smoke would restore his sobriety.
“You’ll be on your own,” Sheppard continued in a decisive tone of voice. Still pacing back and forth, he glanced obliquely at the figure seated in the circle of light next to the lamp.
“Don’t think I picked you because you have any special ability as an investigator, because you don’t. Furthermore, your methods are completely unsystematic. But it doesn’t make any difference. You have a great personal interest in this case, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Gregory answered. He sensed that an uncomplicated affirmative reply would be best.
“Do you have any theories of your own about it? Something personal that you didn’t want to mention in my office today?”
“No. That is…” Gregory hesitated.
“Go on.”
“This is just an impression. It’s not based on anything,” said Gregory. He spoke with some reluctance. “But it seems to me that this case really isn’t about bodies. I mean, they play a definite role, but not in this thing.”
“In what thing?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Really?”
The Chief Inspector sounded almost cheerful. Gregory wished he could see his face. This was a completely different Sheppard from the one he’d occasionally met at the Yard.
“In my opinion this is a lousy case,” Gregory suddenly blurted out as if talking to a friend. “There’s something about it… something peculiar. It’s not that it’s difficult, but there are details that don’t fit… not for material reasons but because the only connecting links are all psychological nonsense. It all builds up to nothing and leads to a dead end…”
“Yes, go on,” Sheppard chimed in attentively, still pacing back and forth. Gregory was no longer watching him. Unable to tear his eyes from the papers on the desk, he began speaking excitedly.
“The idea that this whole case is based on some kind of insanity, mania, or psychopathology is almost irresistible. No matter where you start, no matter how anxious you are to avoid it, everything leads you back to it. But as a matter of fact that’s our out, because it only seems that way. All right, let’s say it was a maniac. But everything was so carefully planned and methodical… I don’t know, do you see what I mean? If you went into a house and found that all the tables and chairs had only one leg, you’d probably tell yourself that it was the work of a madman, that some maniac had decided to furnish his house that way. But if you went from house to house and found the same thing all over town? I don’t know what any of this means, but it just couldn’t be… this is not the work of a madman. I think we have to go to the other extreme. Someone very intelligent who is using his intellect for a purpose we don’t understand yet.”
“What else?” Sheppard asked quietly, as if he didn’t want to do anything to intrude on the fervor which had quite obviously seized Gregory. Sitting behind the desk, still staring blindly at the papers, the younger man was silent for a moment, then answered.
“What else?… Nothing very good. Nothing very good at all. A series of acts without a single slipup, that’s pretty bad… In fact it appalls me, it’s absolutely inhuman. Human beings don’t work that way. Human beings make mistakes, it’s in the nature of things that they miscalculate from time to time, make mistakes, leave clues behind, change their plans in the middle of everything. But from the very beginning these bodies… the ones that were moved… if that’s the right word for it… I don’t agree with Farquart that the perpetrator ran away because he was frightened. It wasn’t anything like that. At the time all he wanted was to move them. Just a little at first. Then a little more. Then, still more… until finally a body disappeared altogether. That’s the way it had to be, that’s the way he wanted to do it. I thought… I’m always thinking about it, why he… but I don’t know. Nothing.”
“Are you familiar with the Lapeyrot case?” Sheppard asked. Standing in the back of the room he was almost invisible.
“Lapeyrot? The Frenchman who—”
“Yes. In 1909. Do you know the case?”
“It sounds familiar, but I can’t remember. What was it about?”
“About too much evidence. At least that’s what they said at the time, unfortunately. On a beach along the Seine River, for a certain period, they kept finding buttons of various kinds arranged in geometric patterns, as well as belt buckles, suspender clasps, and small coins. Always arranged in polygons, circles, or other shapes. There were also handkerchiefs knotted together.”
“Wait a minute. I remember something now. I must have read about it somewhere. Two old guys in a garret who… right?”
“Right. That’s the very case I’m talking about…”
“They used to search out young people who were trying to kill themselves — they’d bring them home, revive them, cheer them up, and have them tell what it was that had driven them to attempt suicide. That’s the way it was, right? And after all that… they strangled them to death. Right?”
“More or less. One of the pair was a pharmacist. After the murders they got rid of their victims with the aid of some acid and a fireplace; then they’d amuse themselves by playing a little game with the police with the buttons, buckles, coins, and other odds and ends that were left over.”
“I don’t see the connection. One of the Lapeyrot murderers was insane. He completely dominated his accomplice, who was regarded as a victim of
Gregory stopped short, an incomprehensible smile suddenly appearing on his lips. He looked at the Chief
