The Investigation (17 page)

“I don’t know where he got the cancer story,” Gregory said, “but I’m sure there really is an enclave with a low death rate. Of course we ought to make a large-scale comparative study of all Europe to find out if there are any other enclaves like the one in Norfolk. If there are, it would knock the bottom out of his theory. I didn’t discuss any of this with him, but he’s right about one thing: if his theory is valid, this really isn’t a job for us. The idea of the police checking out a scientific hypothesis is too funny for words. Still, so far as the theory’s long-range consequences are concerned, Sciss was very clever. Instead of trying to confuse me with fantastic possibilities, he made it into a joke. But there aren’t any alternatives. I’ve been giving this theory a lot of thought. This is what I’ve come up with. I’ll give you the more conservative variant first. The assumption is that we’re facing some kind of peculiar mutation that causes cancer; an unknown virus of some kind, let’s say. The reasoning goes this way: cancer manifests itself in an organism as chaos; the organism itself, representing order as it is found in the life processes of a living body, is the antithesis of chaos. Under certain conditions, this chaos factor—that is, cancer, or, more accurately, the cancer virus—is mutated, but it remains alive, vegetating in whatever medium is its host. When the victim stops being sick, the virus goes on living in his corpse. Ultimately, it undergoes such a complete transformation that it develops entirely new powers; it changes from a factor that causes chaos to one that tries to create a new kind of order—a kind of posthumous order. In other words, for a specific period of time it fights against the chaos represented by death and the decomposition of the body that follows death. To do this, the new factor tries to restore the life process in an organism whose body is already dead. When a dead body begins moving around, it’s a sign that this process is going on. The moving corpses, in other words, are produced by a weird symbiotic relationship between the living—that is, the mutated virus—and the dead—the corpse itself. Since human reason isn’t capable of understanding everything, it’s irrelevant whether or not this explanation makes sense. It is important, however, that the order factor is able to initiate highly sophisticated, well-coordinated movements: an ordinary virus wouldn’t be able to make a corpse get up, find some clothing for it, and then sneak it away so skillfully that we can’t find it again.”

Gregory paused, seemingly awaiting Sheppard’s reaction; in reality the wall had distracted him with a gentle, repetitive pattering—it sounded as if a light rain was falling on Mr. Fenshawe’s side.

“A cancer virus is within the realm of probability,” Gregory continued, “but since the improbable can’t be explained in terms of the probable, we may have to find an improbable explanation for this case. That’s why Sciss mentioned flying saucers, although he tried to be casual about it. He wanted me to know that we may have to look for the answer in outer space. The second variant involves cosmic forces. We’re faced with something along the lines of a ‘first contact’ between Earth and a race of people from the stars. It goes this way: there are beings of some kind out there, intelligent but functioning in a manner completely beyond our comprehension. They want to study human beings at close range, so they send some kind of—information-gathering instruments, let’s call them—to Earth, using a method of transportation that we can’t understand yet. Maybe the saucers deliver them. The information-collectors are microscopic—invisible for all practical purposes. Once on Earth they ignore living organisms and are directed—programmed would be a better word—only to the dead. Why? First, so they won’t hurt anyone—this proves that the star people are humane. Second, ask yourself this. How does a mechanic learn about a machine? He starts it up and watches it in operation. The information-collectors do exactly the same thing. They start up some human corpses, getting everything they want to know in the process. If this variant is correct, there are several good reasons why we can’t understand the phenomenon. First of all, the information-collector seems to act rationally; therefore, it isn’t a device or tool in our sense of the word. It’s probably more comparable to a hunting dog: in other words, some kind of trained bacteria. Second, there’s the problem of the connection between the information-collector and cancer. If I was forced to figure out a theoretical basis for linking the second variant with the cancer phenomenon, I’d do it this way: there are just as many cancer viruses in the low-mortality enclave as anywhere else. So if most people in the enclave don’t get cancer, it’s because they’re immune to it. Therefore, human immunity to cancer is inversely proportional to immunity to the something from outer space. This theory explains everything, and we don’t have to abandon our statistics…”

Gregory paused. His room, like Mr. Fenshawe’s next door, was silent. During this whole presentation Sheppard had listened quietly, occasionally looking as if Gregory’s fervor surprised him more than his ideas.

“Obviously you don’t believe any of this…” the Chief Inspector commented.

“Not a bit,” Gregory answered in a weak voice. He suddenly felt indifferent to everything. He didn’t care whether or not the other side of the wall was quiet. All he wanted, just as when he left Sciss’s place, was to be alone. The Chief Inspector continued:

“You’ve done so much research that you hardly sound like a policeman anymore. Well, I suppose it’s a good idea to master the enemy’s language… Sciss would probably consider you a good pupil. You still suspect him, don’t you? What do you think his motive is?”

“It’s not that I suspect him,” Gregory answered. “If I did I’d make a formal accusation. Actually, I’m more on the defensive, and my position is quite hopeless. I feel like a cornered rat. I only want to defend myself against the allegedly miraculous character of this case. After all, sir, to develop this kind of theory to its full extent, you have to include everything. Let’s say, for example, that there are periodic interventions of factor X separated by long time intervals; that the last drop in cancer mortality took place about two thousand years ago—not in England but in the Near East; that there was a series of alleged resurrections then also—you know, Lazarus, and … the other one… If we take this story seriously even for one moment, the ground opens up beneath our feet, our whole civilization turns into jelly, people can appear and disappear, everything is possible, and the police should just take off their uniforms, disperse, and disappear … and not just the police. We must have a culprit. If this series has really stopped, then it will soon be nothing but past history and we won’t have anything to show for it but a couple of plaster casts, a few contradictory stories told by some not too bright mortuary workers and gravediggers—and what kind of investigation can we conduct with that? Finally, the rest of our investigation will probably concentrate on getting the bodies back. You’re absolutely right: my trick didn’t accomplish anything, the phone call didn’t surprise Sciss at all, and yet, wait a minute—”

Gregory leaped from his chair, his eyes blazing.

“Sciss told me something concrete after the phone call. He said he expects the corpses to be recovered, and he claims he can use his formula to figure out exactly where they will reappear, that is, when their energy of movement, as he calls it, will be used up… Now it’s up to us to do everything possible to make sure that the reappearances take place in front of witnesses, at least once.”

“Just a minute,” interrupted Sheppard, who had been trying for some time to get Gregory’s attention. The detective, almost running around the room in excitement, seemed for a few moments to have forgotten that the Chief Inspector was there.

“You’ve set up an either-or proposition: Sciss—or the factor. Now you’ve practically eliminated the factor, leaving us with nothing but some kind of crude fraud, a gruesome little game being played out in the mortuaries. But what if neither alternative is valid? What if the perpetrator isn’t Sciss or the factor? Or what if the perpetrator invented the factor, then injected it into the corpses as an experiment?”

“Do you really believe that?” Gregory screamed, running up to the desk. Panting breathlessly, he stood there, staring at the calm, almost complacent Chief Inspector. “Do you really believe that … that … nonsense? No one invented anything! A discovery like that would be worth a Nobel Prize! Believe me, the whole world would know about it. That’s one reason. And furthermore, Sciss—”

Gregory stopped short. During the acute silence that followed, a slow, measured, creaking sound could be heard, not from behind the wall but in the very room where he was sitting with the Chief Inspector. Gregory had heard this sound a few times before. The incidents had been several weeks apart, but each had occurred while he was lying in his bed in the dark. The first time the creaking had awakened him from a deep sleep. Absolutely certain that someone was approaching him on bare feet, Gregory had switched on the light. There was no one in the room. The second incident had occurred very late—in fact, just before dawn. Gregory, exhausted by a sleepless night of listening to Mr. Fenshawe’s acoustical gymnastics, was lying in a state of torpor, neither asleep nor awake. He’d turned on the light again; like the first time, the room was empty. The third time, having convinced himself that the wooden floors in old houses dry unevenly, and that the process can only be heard during the still hours of the night, Gregory ignored the creaking. Now, however, the room was well lit by the lamp on the desk and the furniture, undoubtedly as old as the floor, wasn’t making a sound. The parquet near the stove creaked faintly but distinctly. Soon after, somewhat closer to the middle of the room, two more creaks followed in quick succession, one in front of Gregory, the other behind him. After a minute of quiet during which Gregory remained hunched over without moving, a weak sound could be heard from Mr. Fenshawe’s room, a kind of giggling—or was it crying?—weak, senile, muffled, perhaps by a quilt—followed by weak coughing. And then it was quiet again.

“And furthermore, Sciss partially contradicted himself…”

Gregory tried to pick up the thread, but the interval had been too long and he couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened. He was at his wits’ end. Shaking his head a few times as if trying to knock some water out of his ears, he sat down.

“I’m beginning to understand,” said Sheppard, leaning back in his chair. There was a serious expression on his face. “You suspect Sciss because you think he has a compulsion to do these things. I suppose you’ve tried to determine his whereabouts during each of the nights in question. If he has a good alibi for even one of them, your suspicion collapses—unless you accept the idea of an accomplice, a miracle-worker
per procuram.
Well?”

“Is it possible that he didn’t notice anything?” flashed through Gregory’s mind. “It can’t be. Maybe … maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe it’s old age.” He struggled to concentrate. Sheppard’s words were still ringing in his ears but he couldn’t grasp their meaning.

“Well yes … of course…” he muttered. Then, regaining control of himself: “Sciss is such a loner that it’s hard to talk about a tight alibi. I should have questioned him, but I didn’t. I admit I bungled things. I bungled… I didn’t even question that woman who runs his house…”

“Woman?” Sheppard said, unable to hide his surprise. He looked at Gregory, somewhat obviously trying to restrain a smile. “That’s his sister! No, Gregory, the truth is, you haven’t accomplished very much. If you didn’t want to question her, you should at least have talked to me! The day the body disappeared in Lewes—remember, it was between three and five in the morning—Sciss was at my house.”

“At your house?” Gregory whispered.

“Yes. I was trying to talk him into helping us—in a private capacity, of course—and I wanted to show him some of the reports. He left just after midnight—I can’t say whether it was five after or twelve-thirty, but even assuming that it was midnight, I doubt whether he could have driven fast enough to get to Lewes before three in the morning. It would have been closer to four. But that’s not the most important point. You know, Lieutenant, there are many kinds of improbabilities—material ones, for instance, like the improbability of tossing a coin a hundred times and having it come up heads ninety-nine times. And certain kinds of psychological improbability verge just as closely on the impossible. I’ve known Sciss for many years. He’s an exasperating man, an egomaniac made of razor blades and glass, arrogant in every possible way, absolutely devoid of tact, or perhaps completely unaware that civilized people use good manners not so much out of politeness but for the sake of simple, comfortable coexistence. I have no illusions about him. But the insinuation that he could hide on all fours under some old coffins in a mortuary, or reinforce the jaws of a corpse with adhesive tape, or stamp footprints into the snow, or wrack his brains to figure out how to interrupt rigor mortis, or shake a dead body like a scarecrow to frighten a constable—this is all absolutely incompatible with everything I know about him. Now please try to understand. I don’t claim that Sciss couldn’t commit a misdemeanor or even a felony. But I’m sure he could never manage a crime that involves such gruesomely crude elements. There can only be one Sciss. Either he’s the man who perpetrated that tragic little farce at the cemetery, or he’s the man I know. In other words, if Sciss wanted to get away with staging the affair at the cemetery, he’d have to pretend to be completely different in his daily life from the person he really is, or, speaking more cautiously, than the one he may prove to be, if he did everything you accuse him of. Do you think that such consistent role-playing is possible?”

“I’ve already told you that as far as I’m concerned anything is possible if it frees me from the necessity of believing in miracles,” Gregory said in a dull voice, rubbing his palms together as if he suddenly felt cold. “I can’t allow myself the luxury of psychologizing. I must have a perpetrator, and I’ll get him no matter what the cost. Maybe Sciss is insane—in the full sense of the word—maybe he’s a monomaniac, maybe he has a split personality or a divided ego, maybe he has an accomplice, maybe he’s using his theory to protect the real culprit—there are more than enough possibilities.”