DESPITE NOT HAVING SLEPT A wink that night, Inspector Cornelius Clayton strode out early next morning toward number 3 Furnival Street. He hoped the chill air would clear his thoughts, or at least dislodge the niggling pain that had taken root at the base of his skull at some point during that endless night. After leaving Scotland Yard, he had decided not to take a cab and had instead made his way down to the river. The streets were shrouded in a damp fog that obliged him to turn up the collar of his coat and bury his hands in his pockets. He slowed his pace as he reached the Victoria Embankment, intending to stroll along the Thames as far as the Strand. He liked seeing the dawn lazily cast its light over the water, as though sketching it with an unsteady hand among the city’s edifices. At that hour, still obscured by swirls of mist, the river allowed the first barges to cleave its waters, like derelict floating castles with their brimming cargoes of coal, oysters, and eels. A crowd of boats, sloops, and small vessels jostled on both banks of the river, disgorging onto its quays baskets filled with squid, shellfish, and other treasures snatched from the sea, whose foul odors the wind wafted through the neighboring streets. Before reaching Waterloo Bridge, which the dawn light outlined in greyish hues in the distance, Clayton crossed the Strand and wandered into Covent Garden market. Unconsciously, he adjusted his pace to the steady rhythm of the tradespeople who had been laboriously setting up their stalls since four o’clock and disappeared among the noisy labyrinth lined with barrows brimming with cabbages and onions, flower baskets, beer barrels and fruit stalls, where, regardless of the early hour, a mob of ragged beggars, children robbed of their childhood, and picturesquely skinny cats were competing for the stall holders’ scraps. Unperturbed by these sights, Clayton soon slipped through the gap between a stall selling shiny apples and one with gladioli, clashing in the breeze like fantastical rapiers. He stepped absentmindedly through puddles, where the reflections from streetlights glinted and were then extinguished as he passed, heralding another of those cold, dreary days typical of London in autumn.
Finally he crossed the Aldwych and drew near to his destination. However, despite his resolute stride, Inspector Clayton remained far away. In fact, he was still in the interview room in Scotland Yard, where for the past few hours he had been taking statements from Madame Amber, whose real name was Sarah Willard, and from Sir Henry Blendell, architect to Her Majesty, the most honorable, trustworthy man in the realm, at least until the ill-fated day when the beautiful medium with platinum-blond hair and deep-blue eyes had crossed his path.
For the umpteenth time, Clayton went over in his head the lengthy confession he and Captain Sinclair had finally dragged out of them. First they had put them in different rooms and, aiming to wear them down and unsettle them, had subjected them to the same cross-examination, over and over, laying small traps for them among the torrent of questions. They had even resorted to the old trick of assuring each of them that the other, in the safety of the adjacent room, had betrayed them to save his or her own skin. Then, just before dawn, they had confronted them both in the same room, in the desperate hope one of them would break down. But it had all been in vain. All night long they had repeated the same version of events, identical down to the last detail: they acknowledged their personal relationship and their criminal association; they confessed to having carried out hundreds of deceptions during the past few years, which had made them very rich; Sarah Willard possessed none of the powers she claimed to have as Madame Amber; she had possessed them as a child (she swore on the Holy Bible) but had lost them when she reached puberty and since then had been incapable of summoning spirits of any kind whatsoever, nor had she experienced any paranormal phenomena; however, inspired by the growing vogue for spiritualism, she had fraudulently resuscitated her childhood powers, determined that the memory of those past horrors should not only give her nightmares but also line her pockets with silver; she had decided to drag herself out of poverty by posing as a medium, and not just any medium, but the greatest and most famous medium of all times; she had planned it all carefully, including her seduction of Sir Henry, since she realized her beauty and talent for acting were not enough and that she needed an accomplice who could help her with the technical aspects; despite his unimpeachable personal integrity, Sir Henry had been far easier to seduce than she had expected; the poor old man had fallen madly in love after one kiss and had instantly consented to all her proposals, driven by an inflamed passion and his lustful desire to possess her (this was the only time during the interrogation where their two confessions diverged, for Sir Henry insisted he had acted purely out of a Christian desire to help a lost soul overcome the sufferings that afflicted her); the knight of the realm had placed the extraordinary wealth of his knowledge at her service, transforming her town house, and any venue he was sent to inspect, with a maze of ingenious hidden devices designed to evade any scrutiny: trapdoors, springs, pulleys, false floors, nylon threads, powerful magnets, tubes emitting fluorescent gas, stuffed gloves that resembled floating hands, rubber masks, imprints of ghostly faces and bodies. As for Madame Amber, she confessed to being an accomplished regurgitator who could use her stomach to conceal an astonishing number of objects, thus slipping past even the most thorough examinations, even those stooping to the outrageous discourtesy of violating her most intimate cavities; the previous night, for example, disguising what she was doing with violent spasms, she had succeeded in regurgitating a rubber capsule containing hydrogen phosphide, which she had then bitten; exposed to air, the gas had created the will-o’-the-wisps and the luminous cloud. After that she had regurgitated several yards of fine gauze, onto which a face had been painted, and which gave the appearance of a ghost as it wafted above her thanks to the current of air coming from a tiny pipe under the table (the ghostly breath Colonel Garrick had felt on his hand).
Until then, the interrogation had been plain sailing for the two inspectors, but once they reached that point in the confession, both Miss Willard and Sir Henry had proved obstinate. They were willing to sign a confession and prepared to face the accusations that would be hurled at them in the coming days; they would plead guilty to fraud and be publicly derided. But they had no intention of being tried for the attempted murder of Mrs. Lansbury. That was where they drew the line. The final apparition, the menacing figure that had tried to throttle the old lady, was none of their doing. They might be charlatans, but they were not murderers. They weren’t responsible for that thing.
Clayton kicked a loose cobblestone in his path. The affair was fiendishly complicated. None of the pieces slotted together. Who, or what, was that figure he had managed to seize before Colonel Garrick fired his gun? He was almost persuaded that the sinister apparition was another trick of the performance. It had knocked into him and he had felt its muscles when he trapped it in a stranglehold, the texture of its clothes, the heat from its body, even the sour odor of sweat . . . It was true that for a moment he had the impression the apparition possessed a strange transparency or invisibility, but with hindsight he wasn’t so sure. The stranger was completely human, that much was certain, and it could not have been anyone but Sir Henry, who must have been wearing a disguise. Or perhaps he had soaked his costume in some chemical or other, possibly ether, which had created that curious illusion of transparency. And then, for some unknown reason, he had threatened the poor old lady, fled through the trapdoor, and gotten rid of the costume somewhere in the house. Yes, all the facts pointed in that direction, although Clayton had to admit there were still far too many unanswered questions. So many in fact that it almost drove him to distraction. For example: If the fictitious apparition was part of the séance, why had they decided to include it? And why assault a defenseless old lady instead of sticking to their usual fairground act, which had brought them so much success? If it was simply another trick, why then deny it? Had things got out of hand, and were they now trying to limit the damage, or did they have some motive for attacking Mrs. Lansbury? But if that were the case, doing so in front of witnesses wasn’t very wise. On the other hand, Clayton couldn’t forget what had seemed to him Madame Amber’s genuine terror. And was it precisely that terror that had made her force the trapdoor from the outside, thus breaking its delicate mechanism and throwing away many months’ work? It made no sense . . . Clayton shook his head abruptly, like a dog irritated after a sudden downpour. He felt compelled to find the missing piece in the puzzle that would finally give it meaning.
If he accepted that Miss Willard and her accomplice were telling the truth, then who was the mysterious man who had appeared out of nowhere? A murderer who was pursuing Mrs. Lansbury and had decided to kill her during a séance where two Scotland Yard detectives were in attendance? The idea was absurd, and yet it tallied with the mysterious words the figure had addressed to the old lady, and above all with the expression on her face, for she seemed to recognize him, despite denying it afterward. But how could anyone have entered that sealed room without Madame Amber’s or Sir Henry’s help? Were all three of them involved in the attempt on the old lady’s life?
There was one final possibility, the only one that would make the case worthy of being investigated by Scotland Yard’s Special Branch: the apparition was a genuine spirit that had come from the Hereafter. But one spirit summoned during a fraudulent séance by a medium who possessed no supernatural powers? And yet Miss Willard claimed to have had them as a child. Should he then believe her version and accept that Sarah Willard’s former talent had been restored that particular night, as the terrified young woman had assured him, allowing her to summon the evil spirit? As dawn approached, Sinclair had announced that, for the time being, this seemingly absurd theory was the least absurd of all, but Clayton had pursed his lips and said nothing. Old Sinclair was welcome to see ghosts on every corner if he wished, but in the recent past the inspector had learned many lessons, and foremost among them was never to underestimate the powerful combination of an ingenious disguise and an exceedingly beautiful woman.
Clayton scowled disdainfully as he recalled Sarah Willard’s face when he had left her at dawn. The conceited medium, who had beguiled almost the entire male population of England with her beauty, had been reduced to a trembling little girl in the cellars of Scotland Yard. When the interrogation was over, she had grabbed the inspector by the lapels and, looking straight at him with her deep-blue eyes, had begged him to lock her in the darkest cell if he so wished, but please to keep the spirits away from her, not to let them haunt her . . . She had assured him, amid moans, that she couldn’t face reliving the horrors of her childhood: the panic that used to seize her when she felt a cold, transparent form slip between her sheets, seeking the heat from her body as she lay completely still, reciting every prayer she knew while the phantom’s icy breath on her neck made her shiver; and the mirrors—the horror when she looked at herself in a mirror and saw the pale reflection of a figure behind her, of someone gazing at her intently, even though whenever she turned around there was no one there; and the voices, the incessant voices . . . She had begged him in this way as she struggled to control the hysteria threatening to overwhelm her, and her voice had sounded so desperate that even the guard at the door had gulped. But Clayton had simply looked at her impassively for a few seconds and then, holding her wrists firmly, plucked her tiny clenched fists from his jacket. After sitting her down in a chair where she went on sobbing, he left the room without a backward glance.
She was lying. They were both lying, he was certain. Clayton didn’t know whether spirits existed or not—he didn’t have enough information as yet to arrive at any conclusion—but one thing he did know was that the figure in Madame Amber’s drawing room was made of flesh and blood the same as he. Sinclair was welcome to go hunting ghosts if he so wished, but he, Clayton, knew exactly the direction in which to take the investigation: he had to find Sir Henry’s costume, and if that meant dismantling Madame Amber’s house brick by brick, then so be it. But before he started demolishing buildings, he needed to have a little chat with the old lady who had a penchant for spiritualism. Clayton sensed that Mrs. Lansbury knew more than she was admitting. He was convinced the key to unraveling the whole business lay behind those kindly yet mocking eyes that had so defiantly contemplated the apparition, and for that reason he had decided to go directly to her house, without even stopping off for a few hours’ sleep.
Dawn had already materialized. At that moment, when the world was scarcely illuminated by the first rays of light, all was silent, and a brisk morning breeze caressed the slumbering city like an angel’s breath, as Dickens might say. Any respectable person could now receive a visit, however unexpected, without it creating a stir. At last Inspector Clayton turned into Furnival Street and made his way to Mrs. Lansbury’s residence, a tall, neo-Gothic town house with a turrets and narrow windows. Without further ado, he mounted the front steps and rang the doorbell. Adopting an aggressive stance, hands behind his back, legs slightly apart, he prepared to confront the icy disdain of a butler outraged at such an early morning visit. But even if he had to contend with an army of sullen domestic servants and go up to the old lady’s bedroom to wake her himself, Clayton was determined to speak to Mrs. Lansbury, to force her to reveal what part she was playing in all this.
He was surprised when Mrs. Lansbury herself came to the door, and moreover that she did so almost immediately, as if she had been stationed behind it. However, he was still more taken aback by her odd appearance, and her equally odd behavior. Catherine Lansbury opened the door a crack, just enough to poke her disheveled head through the gap. Her immaculate chignon of the night before had completely unraveled, and a few grey strands of hair now hung limply over her eyes. She stood there, clutching the door with both hands, while Inspector Clayton quickly changed his threatening posture, doffing his hat and feeling suddenly ridiculous confronted by the old lady’s startled face, which in a matter of seconds went from fear through disappointment to surprise, and then almost to appreciation. She seemed unable to find the right words to express the whirl of emotions and thoughts spinning round in her head. At last she seemed to rouse herself and, cutting short Clayton’s timid greeting with a furious signal to be quiet, stepped cautiously outside, looked up and down the street, and, taking the inspector’s arm, pulled him in, swiftly closing the door behind them.
Clayton followed her across the gloomy hallway, repressing the ridiculous urge to walk on tiptoe, until they reached a doorway, which they both stepped through. While Mrs. Lansbury was turning the key in the door, checking several times that she had locked it properly and then making sure the windows were also secure, Clayton took the opportunity to examine with interest the tiny study they found themselves in, which was much better illuminated than the hallway. It was a modestly furnished room with two windows that presumably overlooked the garden. Opposite them was a fine desk piled with scribbled documents, files, and writing paraphernalia, on the corner of which a vase with what looked like freshly cut roses had pride of place. At the center of the room was a rather forlorn pedestal table on which someone had laid out a dainty tea set. Mrs. Lansbury peered anxiously around the room like a frightened mouse, forgetting the inspector’s presence until he was obliged to attract her attention.
“Ahem, Mrs. Lansbury . . .”
The old lady looked at him, her eyelids fluttering.
“Oh! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t expecting you . . . ,” she whispered.
“You were expecting someone else at this hour?” Clayton said with surprise, gesturing toward the tea tray and also speaking in a whisper.
“Oh, yes, yes . . . I was. Someone very important. I asked him to come a few hours ago. Perhaps I should have done so sooner. The moment I arrived home from the séance last night, I sent my faithful servant, Doris, to his house with an urgent message . . . begging him to come. But he hasn’t answered my call, or even replied to my message. And my maid hasn’t returned either . . . Oh, my dear Doris! If I am to blame for anything happening to her I shall never . . . She is my only servant, you see. I can’t afford more staff; I spend all my money on . . . So Doris is the only one who looks after me. Perhaps I oughtn’t to have sent her to fetch . . . But what else was I to do?” She looked beseechingly at Clayton. “Tell me, what else was I to do? I couldn’t think of any other solution. He has found me, he knows where I am hiding, and now I have run out of time.” The old lady glanced nervously about again, whispering to herself. “Yes, I’ve run out of time . . .”
“Mrs. Lansbury, I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“I forget your name, young man,” the old lady interrupted, looking again at Clayton, who was struck once more by the look of determination in her eyes, which belied their owner’s tremulous fragility.
“I’m Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. We met last night at the séance . . .”
“Oh, I remember perfectly well where we met, young man! I simply forgot your name. I’m not a senile old woman. You’re the young fellow with the broken heart. I know you a lot better than you think—oh yes, a lot better . . . But please, sit down. Would you care for some tea?”
Without waiting for his reply, Mrs. Lansbury sat down and began pouring the tea with an unsteady hand. Her lips were moving slightly, as if she was praying. Clayton sat down, taking care not to knock the table with his bony knees and send all the cups flying.
“Try one of these, young man,” the old lady said, holding out a plate. “Kemp’s biscuits. They are made with butter and aniseed, and I’ve never tasted anything quite like them. They’re delicious, my favorites. They don’t make them where I come from, you know. In any case, it’s a shame I came across them so late, I’ve scarcely been able to enjoy them for a few years . . . You see”—she tried to give a cheery smile, but Clayton noticed she was shaking—“I’m afraid today will be the last time I eat them.”
“And why is that, Mrs. Lansbury?” the inspector said, surprised.
She gazed at him in silence for a few seconds with that same appraising look, as though she were weighing up his usefulness.
“Because, young man, the Villain has found me,” she replied at last, so softly that Clayton had to lean over the table to hear her. “And he’s going to kill me.”
“The Villain?”
The old lady gestured to him to lower his voice.
“Yes, the Villain. Any story worth its salt must have a villain, don’t you agree? And ours had one, too,” she said ruefully. “The most terrible villain you could ever imagine. And now he’s coming to kill me.”
“If you’re referring to the man who attacked you at Madame Amber’s house, have no fear: I assure you, he’s behind bars,” Clayton replied, trying to set her mind at rest.
“Behind bars?” The old lady gave a benevolent chuckle, as though touched by the inspector’s naïveté. “No prison exists that can contain the Villain, son. Not one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean exactly what I said! Do you think I’m speaking in riddles? He’s going to kill me, at any moment. So don’t say another word. There isn’t time. Just listen to me,” she commanded abruptly.
She brushed the crumbs off her skirt with a determined gesture, plucked a small key from her clenched fist, and walked over to the desk. After unlocking a tiny drawer she returned holding a book, which she held out to the inspector with a strange solemnity.
“What is this?” asked Clayton tentatively.
“Take it. Hurry!”
The inspector grasped the book. It was small, scarcely larger than a missal, its covers bound in dark leather. On the front, embossed in gold, was a star with eight arrowlike points. Underneath it, also in gold, was written The Map of Chaos. Clayton examined its pages with interest. All of them were handwritten, filled with what appeared to be complex mathematical formulas interspersed with strange geometrical diagrams. Puzzled, he looked at the old lady, who drew closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. She was trembling violently, like leaves in an autumn breeze, but her gaze was courageous and her voice serene when she said, “The key to the salvation of the world lies within the pages of this book. Of the world as you know it”—she spread her arms, gesturing at their surroundings, before contemplating him in earnest—“but also of all those worlds you can only imagine. For I must warn you, young man, that the whole universe is in danger. So listen well, Inspector Clayton of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch: the man who appeared at the séance yesterday evening is looking for this book in order to destroy it. He is an evil creature; he has killed before, and he won’t hesitate to kill again. He murdered my husband”—her voice faltered for a moment—“but I managed to escape and keep the book safe . . . All this time, I’ve been trying to continue with the plan my husband and I devised to save the universe. But the Villain found me before I had time to put it into practice. Now everything depends on you.”
“On me?” said Clayton, astonished.
The old lady nodded apologetically.
“I’m afraid so, my boy. I sent for the only person I could trust hours ago. But he hasn’t come, I don’t know why . . . and now there isn’t time. I daresay I should have asked him to come sooner, years ago, when I first arrived. Yes, perhaps it was wrong of me not to. Perhaps my husband and I were mistaken to depend entirely on the Maelstrom Coordinates . . . We undoubtedly made many mistakes. But none of that matters now. We did the best we could, given the circumstances . . . What is important above all is to keep the book safe. Take it, Clayton. You must guard it with your life if necessary and give it to those who come from the Other Side and—”
“ ‘Those who come from the Other Side’?” Clayton interrupted, unable to hide his impatience. “But . . . who are they? And what is this book exactly? And why is the universe in da—”
“Didn’t anyone teach you that it is very rude to interrupt your elders?” the old lady scolded him. “Do you suppose I would give you something so precious without explaining what it is and what you must do with it? Didn’t I tell you that we had a plan, young man?”
“I . . . forgive me,” Clayton stammered.
All of a sudden they heard a resounding crash coming from the floor above. The old lady stared up at the ceiling with her eyes open wide, the blood draining from her face.
“He’s here,” she exclaimed in a faltering voice. “The Villain has come for me.”
Clayton took out his gun as he got up from his chair.
“Not if I can prevent it,” he reassured her.
Slipping the book into his coat pocket, and with the terrified Mrs. Lansbury close on his heels, he went over to the door. He unlocked it noiselessly, stepped gingerly out into the corridor, and closed it behind him, leaving the old lady alone inside.
“Lock yourself in,” he ordered in a whisper, “and don’t open the door until I—”
But before he could finish his sentence, he heard the old lady turn the key. Her extreme caution brought a smile to his lips. He turned around, gun at the ready, and confronted the hall stairs, which vanished into the thick gloom of the upper floors. He still did not know what to think of the eccentric Mrs. Lansbury, but one thing was certain: somebody had broken into the house, probably through an upstairs window. He himself had heard the loud clatter on the floor above. And if Doris was the old lady’s only servant, which the thick layer of dust on the banister and the cobwebs draped between its rails would suggest, then only an intruder could have made that noise. Yet whoever it was did not know Clayton was there, and so he had the advantage of surprise. He began to climb the stairs slowly, trying not to let their creaking give him away. He soon realized he had no need to be so cautious, for a loud din of thuds and clatters reached him from upstairs, as if the intruder was ransacking one of the rooms. Clayton hurtled up the remaining steps and found himself on a landing that gave onto a corridor with rows of doors on either side.
Mrs. Lansbury must have moved around in the gloom with the ease of a blind person, since, with the exception of the study, the rest of her house was plunged in darkness. On the landing, the dawn light streamed through the stained-glass window into bands of blue, red, and green, allowing Clayton to move forward without the aid of a candle, but he couldn’t see clearly enough to make out his surroundings plainly. Doing his best to avoid the furniture cluttering the corridor, he crept forward and soon found the door to the room from which the unearthly din was emanating. He stood to one side of it, switched his gun over to his metal hand so as to be able to turn the doorknob with his good hand, and slowly began to push the door open.
In front of him, a room inhabited by shadows slowly began to take shape. Judging from the vague outline of the furnishings, this must be the old lady’s bedroom. But from where the inspector was standing, only part of the room was visible: the door itself blocked off the rest, where the intruder must have been. All of a sudden Clayton glimpsed the man’s figure reflected in a mirror between the bed and a broken window. He watched in silence, unable to believe his eyes. The intruder had his back to the mirror and was busy rummaging through a chest of drawers. He seemed to have the same build as the man who had appeared at Madame Amber’s house. But he himself had locked Sir Henry in a cell before leaving to come here. How could it possibly be him in that room? And if it wasn’t him, then who was it? What most surprised Clayton was that, through the figure, he was able to glimpse fragments of the chest of drawers and even the wallpaper, though hazily at best, as if he were looking through a lace curtain fluttering in the breeze. In the meantime, the intruder was cursing through gritted teeth, becoming angrier and angrier as the old lady’s possessions fell about his feet. Then, through a door that the inspector couldn’t see, he moved into the adjoining room.
Clayton did the same, via the corridor. He found the corresponding door and began to turn the handle as cautiously as before. On the far side of the room, he could dimly make out the intruder’s bulky figure busy with some task, and he stole toward him, training his gun on him. But when he was only a few steps away he could see from the light filtering in from the street that what he was aiming at was an object on wheels with two mechanical arms that ended in a broom and a cloth. Before he could figure out that the intruder had switched on the old lady’s Mechanical Servant, the heavy bookcase on the wall next to him suddenly began to topple over. Clayton raised his right arm to try to stop it, but it was far too heavy and came down on top of him, crushing him painfully against the floor. Just as he felt his ribs about to crack, a savage laugh rang through the room. And then: silence. For several minutes, Clayton remained motionless, dazed by the blow. Had it not been for the Mechanical Servant brushing his face persistently with its broom, he would have passed out. The brushing roused him, and he started trying to ease out from beneath the weighty bookcase. Cursing himself for having fallen into such a stupid trap, he pricked up his ears. After pushing the bookcase on top of him, the intruder had left the room and descended the stairs, and now Clayton could hear him roaring on the ground floor as he stormed through the house, angrily flinging open doors and slamming them shut.
“Where are you hiding, damn you? Haven’t you understood yet that nothing can save you from me? You know what I’m after. Give it to me now and I might kill you painlessly!”
Terrified by the visceral rage in the intruder’s voice, Clayton understood that it wouldn’t be long before he came to the locked door, the one to the old lady’s study. Fearing for Mrs. Lansbury’s life, which he had sworn to protect, Clayton clenched his teeth and, despite the agonizing pain, continued struggling to free himself from the bookcase. At the same time, he was following the progress of the intruder, who appeared to be knocking over everything in his way. Finally, Clayton heard him let out a triumphant guffaw.
“So this is where you’re hiding, you tiresome old woman! Open up!”
That spurred Clayton on, and with a supreme effort he managed to pull himself free of the bookcase and began crawling painfully along the floor like a newborn calf. Once he was clear, the inspector dragged himself to his feet, gave the Mechanical Servant an unceremonious kick, and hobbled into the corridor as though walking on stilts. Terribly dizzy, he started to descend the stairs laboriously, clinging to the banister rail, even as the intruder hurled himself at the old lady’s study, alternately punching and kicking the locked door. Clayton had scarcely managed to negotiate a couple of steps when he heard the sound of wood splintering as the door began to give way, followed by Mrs. Lansbury’s terrified screams. Realizing the intruder would finish breaking down the door before he had time to reach the bottom of the stairs, the inspector propped his elbows on the banister rail and aimed at the stranger.
“Stop!” he cried with as much authority as he could muster. “Place your hands above your head and turn around!”
But he was unable to make himself heard above the figure’s inhuman roars. He cocked his gun and fired at the ceiling. That brought the stranger up short. The inspector watched his body tense as he realized someone was aiming at him from the stairs. But instead of turning round with his hands up, as Clayton had hoped, the intruder bolted toward the front door. The hallway was wide and long enough to allow Clayton to take steady aim from his vantage point. As if this were a target practice, he placed the gun sight level with the intruder’s back and prepared to pull the trigger. Yet he did not want to kill the intruder, only to stop him from escaping, and so Clayton lowered his weapon before firing. The intruder came to an abrupt halt, reaching down to where Clayton’s bullet had lodged itself in the back of his left thigh. Then, as though possessed by a monstrous fury that seemed to reduce the wound to little more than a minor nuisance, he resumed his escape, staggering and cursing as he went. Clayton went down the stairs, managing not to trip over, and ran across the hallway after him. He stepped through the wide-open front door and lurched down the front steps.
He looked to left and right, but to his astonishment could see no trace of the stranger. How had he managed to run the length of the street and vanish so quickly, and with a wounded leg? Clayton spun round a few times, until he was facing the old lady’s house again. He gazed silently at the open door. Could the intruder still be inside the house? Then, on the top of the steps, a strange thing began to happen: a large bloodstain started to materialize out of nowhere, as though traced that very instant by an invisible hand. As if watching a magic trick, Clayton gazed in astonishment as it spread across the wooden threshold, finally taking on the shape of a squashed crab. Seconds later, another stain appeared on the second step, and then a third on the next, and suddenly a trail of red was moving toward him like a bloody fuse. It passed between his legs, forcing him to wheel round in order to follow the miraculous apparition. Then the phenomenon ceased as quickly as it had started, right in the middle of the street, a few yards from where Clayton was standing. He turned back to face the house and began to follow the bloody trail back to its source. A larger bloodstain in the hallway, together with some conspicuous spatters on a doorjamb, seemed to indicate the exact spot where the shot had hit him. Clayton could have sworn they were not there before. He shook his head and forced himself to forget the mystery for a few moments in order to concentrate on the old lady, who must be waiting in fear of her life on the other side of the half-demolished study door.
“Open up, Mrs. Lansbury,” he said in a reassuring voice when he reached the study. “It’s me, Inspector Clayton. The intruder has fled.”
But there was no reply from inside.
“Mrs. Lansbury?” he called out.
Silence. Clayton repeated her name several times, and when she didn’t answer, he demolished the rest of the door, which gave way easily. He burst into the room, afraid he was going to find the old woman’s limp body sprawled on the floor, but there was no one there. Dumbfounded, he glanced around, examining every corner of the tiny room. The desk, the pedestal table with the tea things, the supposedly mouthwatering Kemp’s biscuits—everything was in its place: only the old lady was missing. After checking that the key was still in the lock, and the windows fastened from the inside, Clayton strode desperately around the room in search of a hiding place where he might find her. To no avail. How had Mrs. Lansbury managed to leave the room? And who could have abducted her, if the door was locked from the inside?
Spinning slowly around, Clayton surveyed the room once more, certain he had missed something. Suddenly, the giddy feeling began to intensify and he realized it had nothing to do with the blow from the bookcase. No, this dizziness was different, although familiar. And he knew that it was happening to him again.
“No, not now . . . ,” he cursed.
But before he could finish his sentence, he fainted away, dragging the vase from the desk with him as he fell. He lay sprawled flat in the empty room, ripped from consciousness, just as the rest of the world prepared to face the mystery of a new day.
This time, the darkness smelled of freshly cut roses.