"I have an idea," I said. "Tell the computer to find out the breeds of the murder victims."
"Not a bad idea," agreed Pascal with pleasure. Now he was in his element. The joy of having found an equally enthusiastic game partner was written prominently on his face. Although he already knew the answers because he himself had entered the data, his paws whooshed with blinding speed over the keyboard.
After a few seconds, the computer presented us with the results, which were illuminated in a yellow box at the top of the screen:
NameRace
ATLAS: EUROPEAN SHORTHAIR
TOMTOM: EUROPEAN SHORTHAIR
FELIDAE X: EUROPEAN SHORTHAIR
SASCHA: EUROPEAN SHORTHAIR
DEEP PURPLE: EUROPEAN SHORTHAIR
"All five are not particularly distinguished representatives of Felidae," commented Pascal.
"Nevertheless, one further common feature," I replied.
"That, my dear friend, proves nothing at all because the European Shorthair is one of the most widely distributed breeds in the entire world. If you'll permit the expression: the European Shorthair is one of our standard models. I estimate that seventy percent of the district belong to this breed."
He was right. Yet my instincts told me that there still had to be some truth to my theory.
"It's strange nevertheless. All the victims are male, in heat, and European Shorthairs."
"No, not all." His face darkened suddenly. All levity vanished from his sparkling eyes. "Because I haven't had time yet to enter the sixth victim."
"What sixth victim?"
I didn't understand what he was saying. Had Bluebeard concealed something from me again? Without bothering to reply, Pascal again pressed a few keys. The computer searched a while before spitting out a list of brothers and sisters whose names began with "F."
A terrible thought began to take shape in my head. But I would rather have died than to have thought it through. No, the idea was simply absurd, because it stood logic on its head.
I was suddenly horrified; Pascal stopped the list, which was scrolling upwards, at the name "Felicity" and began to color it red with the help of the function keys.
"Felicity?" I cried out, on the point of hysteria.
Pascal, without betraying the least emotion, continued his work solemnly.
"Yes. Felicity as well, unfortunately."
"No, no, Pascal. That's impossible. You're getting something mixed up. Just an hour ago I spoke with her. She seemed very much alive to me then."
"But I was told the news just before you and Bluebeard arrived."
"Who told you?"
"Agathe. She's a harmless stray and gets around a lot."
"And why didn't you tell me about it right away?"
"I didn't want to begin our first meeting with such terrible news."
"But why? And how?"
Suddenly it dawned on me. The open skylight … Her owner had left the apartment with me to do his morning chores. She was alone after that.
All at once the tears filled my eyes. What was the reason? Why? Why kill this miserable creature, who had already been abused so badly?
I sprang down from the desk and ran out of the house. Outside I tried to convince myself that what Pascal said was not true. He had meant another Felicity. Yes, that had to be it. I had the power to turn back the course of events if I could see that Felicity was still alive.
I ran heedlessly along the garden walls. I looked desperately for a way to climb up to the roofs. It seemed to me that everything around me was whirling past like calendar pages that have been torn off and thrown up into the air. There—a fire escape! I rushed up it, and then, completely out of breath, once again found myself in the roofscape. No pausing now—I had to see her, just had to see her. She could not be dead; this thought became more and more of a schizophrenic certainty in my mind.
Finally I reached the skylight, which was still open. My heart beating wildly, I stuck my head through the window and looked down.
It was like a scene in a horror film. The old aristocrat sat on a rocking chair crying his eyes out. At his feet was Felicity, her head almost completely severed from her body. The murderer had struck with particularly drastic brutality this time. Not only had he applied his fatal neck bite, which alone would have served his purpose, but he also had jabbed and torn at her neck long after she had died. So much blood had poured out of her body on the carpet that it seemed as if Felicity were swimming in the red fluid. It looked as if this inhuman thing had just been about to rip off her head when he suddenly heard the steps of the old man and, after an extraordinary jump, fled out through the skylight. Felicity's blind eyes were open very wide, as if, even in the face of death, she had wished for nothing more deeply than to see at last.
So much hate, so much fighting, so much evil in the world. She had had good reason to be on constant guard against what was "out there." For "out there" were the others, the murderers. Despite my desolation, I was convinced that the theory I had tried out on Pascal was right. Felicity's murder differed from the other five only in that she was a witness. She was killed because she may have wanted to divulge some essential information to me.
A chill of fear suddenly ran down my spine. It occurred to me that I must have been shadowed by someone the whole time. The murderer was anything but a raging, drooling madman. He was unusually intelligent, and absolutely didn't want anyone to meddle in his plans.
I looked at Felicity, saw the silvery gleam of her coat, now soiled with splattered blood, saw her shimmering green eyes in which I could read her longing for a visual life; I saw all this damned injustice, and I swore revenge: whoever did this would die the way Felicity did.
5
