As for the dead bodies being left out in full view, we were obviously at an impasse. But because I wanted to go on to the next question, and because nothing clever occurred to me, I merely said: "Well, perhaps by not hiding the bodies he's trying to call the attention of one brother in particular to what he may consider his mission in life."
"Now, that's what I call good!" Pascal cried out.
"Why?" I asked, somewhat intimidated.
"Because for the first time you mentioned a mission, Francis. Look, don't you get it? He wants his life's mission, in which he has invested so much effort, to be recognized or even to be carried on by others, perhaps by one brother in particular. It must be his deliberate intention to disclose his motives. Whatever it is that he wants to tell us, he is now looking for supporters; for some reason it's getting to be too much for him."
"A strange method of recruiting sympathizers."
"True. Nevertheless his whole personality is odd. He's like a puzzle; no, he is the puzzle, and he's only waiting for someone to come and solve it."
"At least he could express himself a little more clearly; under the circumstances, it's possible nobody will be able to figure out what he's up to."
"Don't worry, Francis, sooner or later we'll decode his signals. And then we'll be hot on his track."
"Let's hope so. Okay, let's forget this part of the story for the time being and talk about the only suspect we've found up to now: Joker. What do you think of him?"
He plodded back to his regal cushion and lowered himself down on it very gingerly.
"A very promising suspect. He witnessed the tragic events in the experimental laboratory, and saw his chance to establish a cult of martyrdom along classic biblical lines based on Claudandus's sufferings. As we know, it was a chance he acted on. As might be expected, right away he declared himself the worldly representative of the Prophet for the obvious reason that such a position would give him great power and special status in the district. But who really does know about the things Joker saw then, or rather became acquainted with through those cruel people? Perhaps dealing with these gruesome matters pushed him over the edge. It's conceivable, isn't it?"
"Jesaja spoke of the Prophet's voice echoing down the shafts, not Joker's."
Pascal put on a poker face.
"He disguised his voice. I have no problems believing that that second Rasputin would be capable of that. Moreover, he was the only one, aside from Jesaja, who knew the catacombs and how practical they'd be, so to speak, as a garbage disposal."
"But don't forget the mysterious stranger."
"If he exists."
I slumped down on the parquet floor and looked off into space, stymied. As I said, everything that Pascal had to say held water; it sounded so damned logical. Nevertheless, did a case as marvelously mysterious as this one deserve such a simple, if not pat, solution? Supposedly Joker was our culprit: a religious fanatic whom I had held in suspicion ever since that infamous night when I first saw him as master of ceremonies at that ritual of pain. His whole appearance had something diabolical, omnipotent, coldhearted, and downright cruel about it, and he could hardly have played the part of the perfect killer, the one nobody would ever suspect of committing murder. Precisely this primitive image threw me off. Everything fit together too well; it was all too transparent. Without admitting it to myself, all through my many unsettling experiences I had certainly thought of that despicable cleric. Like a snake that could not be trod down, again and again he slithered up out of the deepest depths of my unconsciousness to cry at me in his awesome bass: I'm the murderer! I'm the murderer! But I had always refused to pay attention to that thunderous voice, to even acknowledge its mere existence. Now, however, since Pascal had so frankly and openly affirmed my suspicion, being free from any such psychological mechanism of repression I would have to confront the facts. Indeed, if you carefully considered the pros and cons, only Joker came into question as the murderer. And yet something in me insisted on resisting a solution that was simply too good to be true. I was convinced I only had a single trump left to beat Pascal this time.
"There's one more thing: this odd old-new race, one of whose members I came across today. According to Bluebeard they must be unique in the district," I objected roguishly.
"Professor Preterius's killer race," Pascal said, beaming.
"Yes, Professor Preterius's murderer race. Is there really any reason to doubt it? Certainly not because of anything as ridiculous as logic," I replied like a slightly obnoxious child. But Pascal was not going to be provoked, and smiled like a father devoted to progressive childrearing methods who was capable of discovering God-knows-what signs of creativity in the most primitive tantrums of his child.
"Not only logic, Francis, although I must confess that there's something to be said for your theory. Nevertheless, it is a little too neatly put together, if you'll forgive me for saying so. You're forgetting that an ingenious breeding method, that is, one created by human manipulation, is not necessarily required for the creation of a new or an 'old-new' race. In short, you're forgetting the so-called 'blind clock-maker,' namely evolution, the inscrutable plans of Mother Nature. For she creates a new species every day with no consciousness of her miraculous work. To put it simply, new or unusual races can arise from the workings of chance alone. You really don't have to bend over backwards to set up a clever breeding program; this goes without saying. Look, ninety-nine percent of our kind copulate without any
