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cb.booksofblood2-第41章

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ngs too; some far older than others。 Atrocities; bizarre murders; ritual rapes; an advertisement for 'Fantomas'; another for Cocteau's 'La Belle et La Bete'。 And almost buried under this embarrassment of bizarreries; was a sepia photograph so absurd it could have e from the hand of Max Ernst。 A half…ring of well…dressed gentlemen; many sporting the thick moustaches popular in the eighteen…nineties; were grouped around the vast; bleeding bulk of an ape; which was suspended by its feet from a lamppost。 The faces in the picture bore expressions of mute pride; of absolute authority over the dead beast; which Lewis clearly recognized as a gorilla。 Its inverted head had an almost noble tilt in death。 Its brow was deep and furrowed; its jaw; though shattered by a fearsome wound; was thinly bearded like that of a patrician; and its eyes; rolled back in its head; seemed full of concern for this merciless world。 They reminded Lewis; those rolling eyes; of the Weasel in his hole; tapping his chest。
 
 'Le coeur humain。'
 Pitiful。
 'What is that?' he asked the acne…ridden barman; point…ing at the picture of the dead gorilla。
 A shrug was the reply: indifferent to the fate of men and apes。
 'Who knows?' said Solal at his back。 'Who knows?'
 
 It was not the ape of Poe's story; that was certain。 That tale had been told in 1835; and the photograph was far more recent。 Besides; the ape in the picture was a gorilla: clearly a gorilla。
 Had history repeated itself? Had another ape; a different species but an ape nevertheless; been loosed on the streets of Paris at the turn of the century?
 And if so; if the story of the ape could repeat itself once why not twice?
 As Lewis walked through the freezing night back to the apartment at the Quai de Bourbon; the imagined repetition of events became more attractive; and now further symmetry presented itself to him。 Was it possible that he; the great nephew of C。 Auguste Dupin; might bee involved in another pursuit; not entirely dissimilar from the first?
 The key to Phillipe's room at the Rue des Martyrs was icy in Lewis's hand; and though it was now well past midnight he couldn't help but turn off at the bridge and make his way up the Boulevard de Sebastopol; west on to Boulevard Bonne…Nouvelle; then north again towards the Place Pigalle。 It was a long; exhausting trudge; but he felt in need of the cold air; to keep his head clear of emotionalism。 It took him an hour and a half to reach the Rue des Martyrs。
 
 It was Saturday night; and there was still a lot of noise in a number of the rooms。 Lewis made his way up the two flights as quietly as he could; his presence masked by the din。 The key turned easily; and the door swung open。
 Street lights illuminated the room。 The bed; which dominated the space; was bare。 Presumably sheets and blankets had been taken away for forensic tests。 The eruption of blood onto the mattress was a mulberry colour in the gloom。 Otherwise; there was no sign of the violence the room had witnessed。
 Lewis reached for the light switch; and snapped it on。 Nothing happened。 He stepped deeply into the room and stared up at the light fixture。 The bulb was shattered。
 He half thought of retreating; of leaving the room to darkness; and returning in the morning when there were fewer shadows。 But as he stood under the broken bulb his eyes began to pierce the gloom a little better; and he began to make out the shape of a large teak chest of drawers along the far wall。 Surely it was a matter of a few minutes work to find a change of clothes for Phillipe。 Otherwise he would have to return the next day; another long journey through the snow。 Better to do it now; and save his bones。
 The room was large; and had been left in chaos by the police。 Lewis stumbled and cursed as he crossed to the chest of drawers; tripping over a fallen lamp; and a shattered vase。 Downstairs the howls and shrieks of a well…advanced party drowned any noise he made。 Was it an orgy or a fight? The noise could have been either。
 He struggled with the top drawer of the teak chest; and eventually wrenched it open; ferreting in the depths for the bare essentials of Phillipe's fort: a clean undershirt; a pair of socks; initialed handkerchiefs; beautifully pressed。
 He sneezed。 The chilly weather had thickened the catarrh on his chest and the mucus in his sinuses。 A handkerchief was to hand; and he blew his nose; clearing his blocked nostrils。 For the first time the smell of the room came to him。
 One odour predominated; above the damp; and the stale vegetables。 Perfume; the lingering scent of perfume。
 He turned into the darkened room; hearing his bones creak; and his eyes fell on the shadow behind the bed。 A huge shadow; a bulk that swelled as it rose into view。
 It was; he saw at once; the razor…wielding stranger。 He was here: in waiting。
 Curiously; Lewis wasn't frightened。
 'What are you doing?' he demanded; in a loud; strong voice。
 As he emerged from his hiding place the face of the stranger came into the watery light from the street; a broad; flat…featured; flayed face。 His eyes were deep…set; but without malice; and he was smiling; smiling generously; at Lewis。
 'Who are you?' Lewis asked again。
 The man shook his head; shook his body; in fact; his gloved hands gesturing around his mouth。 Was he dumb? The shaking of the head was more violent now; as though he was about to have a fit。
 'Are you all right?'
 Suddenly; the shaking stopped; and to his surprise Lewis saw tears; large; syrupy tears well up in the stranger's eyes and roll down his rough cheeks and into the bush of his beard。
 As if ashamed of his display of feelings; the man turned away from the light; making a thick noise of sobbing in his throat; and exited。 Lewis followed; more curious about this stranger than nervous of his intentions。
 
 'Wait!'
 The man was already half…way down the first flight of stairs; nimble despite his build。
 'Please wait; I want to talk to you;' Lewis began down the stairs after him; but the pursuit was lost before it was started。 Lewis' joints were stiff with age and the cold; and it was late。 No time to be running after a much younger man; along a pavement made lethal with ice and snow。 He chased the stranger as far as the door and then watched him run off down the street; his gait was mincing as Catherine had said。 Almost a waddle; ridiculous in a man so big。
 The smell of his perfume was already snatched away by the north…east wind。 Breathless; Lewis climbed the stairs again; past the din of the party; to claim a set of clothes for Phillipe。
 
 The next day Paris woke to a blizzard of unprecedented ferocity。 The calls to Mass went unrequited; the hot Sunday croissants went un…bought; the newspapers lay unread on the vendors' stalls。 Few people had either the nerve or the motive to step outside into the howling gale。 They sat by their fires; hugging their knees; and dreamt of spring。
 Catherine wanted to go to the prison to visit Phillipe; but Lewis insisted that he go alone。 It was not simply the cold weather that made him cautious on her behalf; he had difficult words to say to Phillipe; delicate questions to ask him。 After the previous night'
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