cb.booksofblood2-第30节

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ther　for　stories　of　the　bizarre；　of　the　occult　and　of　the　morbid。　The　worldly…wise　traveler　was　glad　to　oblige；　pouring　out　believe…it…or…not　fragments　that　the　writer　later　turned　into　The　Mystery　of　Marie　Roget　and　The　Murders　in　the　Rue　Morgue。　In　both　those　stories；　peering　out　from　between　the　atrocities；　was　the　peculiar　genius　of　C。　Auguste　Dupin。
　C。　Auguste　Dupin。　Poe's　vision　of　the　perfect　detective：
　calm；　rational　and　brilliantly　perceptive。　The　narratives　in　which　he　appeared　rapidly　became　well…known；　and　through　them　Dupin　became　a　fictional　celebrity；　without　anyone　in　America　knowing　that　Dupin　was　a　real　person。
　He　was　the　brother　of　Lewis's　grandfather。　Lewis's　great　uncle　was　C。　Auguste　Dupin。
　And　his　greatest　case　…　the　Murders　in　the　Rue　Morgue　…they　too　were　based　on　fact。　The　slaughters　that　occurred　in　the　story　had　actually　taken　place。　Two　women　had　indeed　been　brutally　killed　in　the　Rue　Morgue。　They　were；　as　Poe　had　written；　Madame　L'Espanaye　and　her　daughter　Mademoiselle　Camille　L'Espanaye。　Both　women　of　good　reputation；　who　lived　quiet　and　unsensational　lives。　So　much　more　horrible　then　to　find　those　lives　so　brutally　cut　short。　The　daughter's　body　had　been　thrust　up　the　chimney；　the　body　of　the　mother　was　discovered　in　the　yard　at　the　back　of　the　house；　her　throat　cut　with　such　savagery　that　her　head　was　all　but　sawn　off。　No　apparent　motive　could　be　found　for　the　murders；　and　the　mystery　further　deepened　when　all　the　occupants　of　the　house　claimed　to　have　heard　the　voice　of　the　murderer　speaking　in　a　different　language。　The　Frenchman　was　certain　the　voice　had　spoken　Spanish；　the　Englishman　had　heard　German；　the　Dutchman　thought　it　was　French。　Dupin；　in　his　investigations；　noted　that　none　of　the　witnesses　actually　spoke　the　language　they　claimed　to　have　heard　from　the　lips　of　the　unseen　murderer。　He　concluded　that　the　language　was　no　language　at　all；　but　the　wordless　voice　of　a　wild　beast。
　An　ape　in　fact；　a　monstrous　orang…outang　from　the　East　Indian　Islands。　Its　tawny　hairs　had　been　found　in　the　grip　of　the　slain　Madame　L'Espanaye。　Only　its　strength　and　agility　made　the　appalling　fate　of　Mademoiselle　L'Espanaye　plausible。　The　beast　had　belonged　to　a　Maltese　sailor；　had　escaped；　and　run　riot　in　the　bloody　apartment　on　the　Rue　Morgue。
　That　was　the　bones　of　the　story。
　Whether　true　or　not　the　tale　held　a　great　romantic　appeal　for　Lewis。　He　liked　to　think　of　his　great　uncle　logically　pacing　his　way　through　the　mystery；　undistressed　by　the　hysteria　and　horror　around　him。　He　thought　of　that　calm　as　essentially　European；　belonging　to　a　lost　age　in　which　the　light　of　reason　was　still　valued；　and　the　worst　horror　that　could　be　conceived　of　was　a　beast　with　a　cut…throat　razor。
　Now；　as　the　twentieth　century　ground　through　its　last　quarter；　there　were　far　greater　atrocities　to　be　accounted　for；　all　mitted　by　human　beings。　The　humble　orangoutang　had　been　investigated　by　anthropologists　and　found　to　be　a　solitary　herbivore；　quiet　and　philosophical。　The　true　monsters　were　far　less　apparent；　and　far　more　powerful。　Their　weapons　made　razors　look　pitiful；　their　crimes　were　vast。　In　some　ways　Lewis　was　almost　glad　to　be　old　and　close　to　leaving　the　century　to　its　own　devices。　Yes；　the　snow　froze　his　marrow。　Yes；　to　see　a　young　girl　with　a　face　of　a　goddess　uselessly　stirred　his　desires。　Yes；　he　felt　like　an　observer　now　instead　of　a　participator。
　But　it　had　not　always　been　that　way。
　In　1937；　in　the　very　room　at　number　eleven；　Quai　de　Bourbon；　where　he　now　sat；　there　had　been　experience　enough。　Paris　was　still　a　pleasure…dome　in　those　days；　studiously　ignoring　rumours　of　war；　and　preserving；　though　at　times　the　strain　told；　an　air　of　sweet　na？veté。　They　had　been　careless　then；　in　both　senses　of　the　word；　living　endless　lives　of　perfect　leisure。
　It　wasn't　so　of　course。　The　lives　had　not　been　perfect；　or　endless。　But　for　a　time　…　a　summer；　a　month；　a　day　…　it　had　seemed　nothing　in　the　world　would　change。
　In　half　a　decade　Paris　would　burn；　and　its　playful　guilt；　which　was　true　innocence；　would　be　soiled　permanently。　They　had　spent　many　days　（and　nights）　in　the　apartment　Lewis　now　occupied；　wonderful　times；　when　he　thought　of　them　his　stomach　seemed　to　ache　with　the　loss。
　His　thoughts　turned　to　more　recent　events。　To　his　New　York　exhibition；　in　which　his　series　of　paintings　chronicling　the　damnation　of　Europe　had　been　a　brilliant　critical　success。　At　the　age　of　seventy…three　Lewis　Fox　was　a　feted　man。　Articles　were　being　written　in　every　art　periodical。　Admirers　and　buyers　had　sprung　up　like　mushrooms　overnight；　eager　to　purchase　his　work；　to　talk　with　him；　to　touch　his　hand。　All　too　late；　of　course。　The　agonies　of　creation　were　long　over；　and　he'd　put　down　his　brushes　for　the　last　time　five　years　ago。　Now；　when　he　was　merely　a　spectator；　his　critical　triumph　seemed　like　a　parody：　he　viewed　the　circus　from　a　distance　with　something　approaching　distaste。
　When　the　telegram　had　e　from　Paris；　begging　for　his　assistance；　he　had　been　more　than　pleased　to　slip　away　from　the　ring　of　imbeciles　mouthing　his　praise。
　Now　he　waited　in　the　darkening　apartment；　watching　the　steady　flow　of　cars　across　the　Pont　Louis…Phillipe；　as　tired　Parisians　began　the　trek　home　through　the　snow。　Their　horns　blared；　their　engines　coughed　and　growled；　their　yellow　fog　lamps　made　a　ribbon　of　light　across　the　bridge。
　Still　Catherine　didn't　e。
　The　snow；　which　had　held　off　for　most　of　the　day；　was　beginning　to　fall　again；　whispering　against　the　window。　The　traffic　flowed　across　the　Seine；　the　Seine　flowed　under　the　traffic。　Night　fell。　At　last；　he　heard　footsteps　in　the　hail；　exchanged　whispers　with　the　housekeeper。
　It　was　Catherine。　At　last；　it　was　Catherine。
　He　stood　up　and　stared　at　the　door；　imagining　it　opening　before　it　opened；　imagining　her　in　the　doorway。
　'Lewis；　my　darling　…'
　She　smiled　at　him；　a　pale　smile　on　a　paler　face。　She　looked　older　than　he'd　expected。　How　long　was　it　since　he'd　seen　her？　Four　years　or　five？　Her　fragrance　was　the　same　as　she　always　wore：　and　it　reassured　Lewis　with　its　permanence。　He　kissed　her　cold　cheeks　lightly。
　'You　look　well；'　he　lied。
　'No　I　don't；'　she　said。　'If　I　look　well　it's　an　insult　to　Phillipe。　How　can　I　be　well　when　he's　in　such　trouble？'
　Her　manner　was　brisk；　and　forbidding；　as　always。
　She　was　three　years　his　senior；　but　she　treated　him　as　a　teacher　would　a　recalcitrant　child。　She　always　had：　it　was　her　way　of　being　fond。
　Greetings　over；　she　sat　down　beside　the　window；　staring　out　over　the　Seine。　Small　grey　ice…floes　floated　under　the　bridge；　rocking　and　revolving　in　the　current。　The　water　looked　deadly；　as　though　its　bitterness　could　crush　the　breath　out　of　you。
　'What　trouble　is　Phillipe　in？'
　'He's　accused　of…'
　A　tiny　hesitation。　A　flicker　of　an　eyelid。
　'…　murder。'
　Lewis　wanted　to　laugh；　the　very　thought　was　prepos…terous。　Phillipe　was　sixty…nine　years　old；　and　as　mild…mannered　as　a　lamb。
　'It's　true；　Lewis。　I　couldn't　tell　you　by　telegram；　you　understand。　I　had　to　say　it　myself。　Murder。　He's　accused　of　murder。'
　'Who？'
　'A　girl；　of　course。　One　of　his　fancy　women。'
　'He　still　gets　around；　does　he？'
　'We　used　to　joke　he'd　die　on　a　woman；　remember？'
　Lewis　half…nodded。
　'She　was　nineteen。　Natalie　Perec。　Quite　an　educated　girl；　apparently。　And　lovely。　Long　red　hair。　You　remember　how　Phillipe　loved　redheads？'
　'Nineteen？　He　has　nineteen　year　olds？'
　She　didn't　reply。　Lewis　sat　down；　knowing　his　pacing　of　the　room　irritated　her。　In　profile　she　was　still　beautiful；　and　the　wash　of　yellow…blue　through　the　window　softened　the　lines　on　her　face；　magically　erasing　fifty　years　of　living。
　'Where　is　he？'
　'They　locked　him　up。　They　say　he's　dangerous。　They　say　he　could　kill　again。'
　Lewis　shook　his　head。　There　was　a　pain　at　his　temples；　which　might　go　if　he　could　only　close　his　eyes。
　'He　needs　to　see　you。　Very　badly。'
　But　maybe　sleep　was　just　an　escape。　Here　was　something　even　he　couldn't　be　a　spectator　to。
　
　Phillipe　Laborteaux　stared　at　Lewis　across　the　bare；　scored　table；　his　face　weary　and　lost。　They　had　greeted　each　other　only　with　handshakes；　all　other　physical　contact　was　strictly　forbidden。
　'I　am　in　despair；'　he　said。　'She's　dead。　My　Natalie　is　dead。'
　'Tell　me　what　happened。'
　'I　have　a　little　apartment　in　Montmartre。　In　the　Rue　des　Martyrs。　Just　a　room　really；　to　entertain　friends。　Catherine　always　keeps　number　11　SO　neat；　you　know；　a　man　can't　spread　himself　out。　Natalie　used　to　spend　a　lot　of　time　with　me　there：　everyone　in　the　house　knew　her。　She　was　so　good　natured；　so　beautiful。　She　was　studying　to　go　into　Medical　School。　Bright。　And　she　loved　me。'
　Phillipe　was　still　handsome。　In　fact；　as　the　fashion　in　looks　came　full　circle　his　elegance；　his　almost　dashing　face；　his　unhurried　charm　were　the　order　of　the　day。　A　breath　of　a　lost　age；　perhaps。
　'I　went　out　on　Sunday　morning：　to　the　patisserie。　And　when　I　came　back。　。　。'
　The　words　failed　him　for　a　moment。
　'Lewis。。。'
　His　eyes　filled　with　tears　of　frustration。　This　was　so　difficult　for　him　his　mouth　refused　to　make　the　necessary　sounds。
　
　'Don't　…'　Lewis　began。
　'I　want　to　tell　you；　Lewis。　I　want　you　to　know；　I　want　y