"Then tell me all the details. Don't leave anything out. What exactly did you hear?"
"Why are you so interested in this?" she wanted to know.
"Well, it concerns murder, doesn't it?"
"Do you really want to use such a dramatic word in this connection? I have the impression that the whole business is just an exaggerated form of rivalry."
"And how do you arrive at that conclusion?"
"Very simple. I know every brother and sister by his or her voice. And their voices, or rather the screeching they make when summoned by one of our local sexpots, tells me what they have their minds set on.8 The cries, the death cries I've heard the last weeks all came from males who had already gotten into fights with their rivals and who were on their way to whoever was calling them. And while they were still yelling at the top of their voices, someone joined them, someone they seemed to know, someone they had considerable respect for. Because even their increased capacity for aggression in this state did not deter this unknown party."
"That's my theory, too. Do you know who the mysterious stranger is?"
"No."
"Did he speak with the prospective corpse?"
"Yes, but I couldn't understand what they were talking about. But there was one thing I thought I could detect again and again in what they said: the stranger spoke with great urgency, as if he wanted to convince the one he was talking to of something."
"Convince him of something?"
"That's the way it seemed to me."
"And later?"
"After they talked there was usually a pause …"
"And then the death cry!"
"Exactly. I suppose it was then that the stranger went for their necks."
"That's right. He always went straight for the neck, the way our kind does in hunting. But it's nearly impossible for a killer to get at a rival's neck because a rival is usually about as big, strong, and quick as the attacker. The only other possibility is that the victim simply didn't count on this reaction, and turned his back on the killer at some point. But that means he had a fair amount of trust in the killer."
"Maybe a female who didn't want to be molested."
"A peculiar way of keeping the guys at bay. No, no, the murders were all planned, planned in cold blood. In my opinion, the fanaticized members of the Claudandus sect are the most likely neck biters. Particularly that sinister preacher. He really looked like he once might have owned a store selling voodoo trinkets. Can you tell me anything about this sect?"
"Very little. I only know that they worship a martyr by the name of Claudandus who supposedly lived in this area ages ago. They say he was tormented and tortured from birth. Nobody really knows by whom and why. In any event, one day his suffering became so great that he called out to God, begging to be saved. And behold, God heard his pleading, descended, and saved him from his suffering. His tormentor was killed, and very cruelly, it is said, while the good Claudandus immediately received divine sanctuary. Be that as it may, he hasn't been seen since. Like every legend, this one may have a grain of truth in it, but I never knew him."
"Did you know that Claudandus means 'one that must or should be closed' in Latin?"
"No, and I can't make head or tail of that. But I think you're on the wrong trail. You can forget about the members of the sect. Those fools who worship Claudandus and castigate themselves for his sake are harmless. They're doing those crazy things because of vague feelings of piety and devotion, maybe even simple boredom. They would never hurt anyone else. And go as far as murder? Well, I don't know …"
"You can defend Claudandus but I'm still suspicious. None of those freaks looked kosher to me …"
Before I could complete my sentence, she tilted her head upwards. I looked up as well at the spot on the ceiling toward which Felicity's blind eyes were directed, anxious, expectant.
Bluebeard had poked his head through the open skylight and gaped guiltily.
"Why did you split? We only wanted to have a little chat with you," he said almost apologetically.
"In the course of which three hundred and sixty volts would have helped loosen my tongue, right?" I replied, furiously.
Felicity relaxed again, and over her face, now gleaming silver in the first morning light, a bewitching, blind smile flitted. You could see her relief that no fight was going to take place. No fighters, no fight, no life.
4
Right after Bluebeard showed up, Felicity's owner (type: impoverished aristocrat, including monocle, silk pajamas, meerschaum pipe, and signet ring) woke up and greeted us with a wide variety of primitive gestures and noises not unlike Gustav's. Since His Grace, lacking a servant, had to fetch his morning paper and fresh rolls himself, I availed myself of the opportunity to slip out when he opened the apartment door. I had already said good-bye to Felicity, assuring her that I would visit her again.
I went up to the roof to meet Bluebeard, who had been waiting for me. It was pretty embarrassing for him to talk about what had happened the previous night, but now his sensitivities meant precious little to me.
"On the one hand, you came to me so I'd do something about the murders, but on the other hand you kept me in the dark about what was really important. I'd like to know what other nice surprises you have in store for me." I rebuked him, gnashing my teeth.
"Important, important! Lordy, Lordy, who'd ever think that that was important? This Claudandus crap is nothing but a way to kill time, cop a few thrills, see if you ain't chicken, whatever you want to call it. I'm not kidding! What's that sideshow got to do with some nutty neck biter?"
I wasn't far from exploding
