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.When he reached the street of Julie d'Is, Chorgeh positioned himself as he had grown accustomed to do,almost opposite the apartment building where she lived.There was a portico there, into which he couldconveniently slip and be hidden.It was a morning when, generally, she would go out, attend to herminuscule amounts of shopping, and then perambulate the park.No one was about, the day waslowering and rainy, and now and then a sharp report of thunder came.It was made for him, this day, andhe only feared it would put her off; perhaps she dreaded storms.But no, the door opened, and outstepped the creature of the legend, the serpent, clad in her squalid coat and coiled, unbecoming hat, withan umbrella to ward off the scimitars of heaven.Chorgeh followed her, without undue caution, just as before.No one had ever noted him; she herself, thedemoness, had never turned on him, never even looked over her shoulder.She went into a draper'sshop, into a shop that sold cold meats and cheeses.Did she eat these things? What did she do? He hadnever fathomed, no one had ever said, he had never seen her, crouched in her room, the spider in herweb, grooming herself and preening, smacking her lips over her kills.He was inclined to think she wentinto a cupboard in her apartment, and stayed there, like a lead soldier in its box.Whatever it was, hewould never know.In the park, which he had thought she might avoid but which she entered as ever, the black trees drippedand hissed, the paths were wet.Everything was noise, flashes and rushes and the crack of the thunder.When Chorgeh shot Julie d'Is with his father's pistol, the thunder obligingly roared and the lightningsparkled.The reek of powder was crushed in rain.He had been fifteen feet from her back and the bullethad gone in under her hat.There was a painterly wash of blood on the path, but it flushed away.Herpurchases lay scattered, sodden in their paper wrappings.She was a pathetic heap of old clothes, asOlizette had seemed, a scarecrow.Chorgeh did not approach, but kept to his plan.He knew she wasquite dead, for presumably she could be slaughtered in the normal fashion, and the bullet must haveentered her brain.He hurried away, feeling nothing, only a little bit sick, but then he had taken nobreakfast, it was probably only that.Rain fell steadily for a week, then on the first clear day, the writer came to call on Chorgeh's mother.Shewas taken aback, not having seen him for months.After a while, almost surreptitiously, the writer climbedthe house, and knocked on the door of the study-shrine of Chorgeh's father."Yes, you may come in," said Chorgeh.He sat in the leather armchair, while the writer tactfully passed about the room, examining items with thecunning reserve of a man in a museum.Presently the writer sat down also.The fire was lit.They stretchedtheir legs to it."Had you heard?" said the writer."That the Beautiful Lady had been killed? Yes.There was a small passage in some of the journals.I wasonly waiting for you to come and ask.""What did the journals say?""Couldn't you read them?""I never read them.Nasty things.I have my knowledge from another source.""Naturally.Likely you know much more than the rest of us.All that the journals said was that aMademoiselle Julie d'Is had been bizarrely shot in a garden near the Temple-Church.That there were nowitnesses.That nothing at all was known.They did add, a pair of them, that unpleasing speculation hadsurrounded Mademoiselle d'Is in her youth.But that nothing had been said against her latterly, sheseemed to have neither relatives nor friends, no one in fact with a reason or wish to slay her.""We may always rely on our relatives and friends for that," said the writer."Tell me all the rest of it, then," said Chorgeh, apparently intrigued.Under cover of his porcelain exterior he held himself tight.He knew perfectly well the "uncle" was here inhis literary capacity only.He supposed that it was Chorgeh who had murdered Julie d'Is, maybe he hadno doubts.Although such pistols as Chorgeh's father's were common, although Chorgeh, even Olizette,had no glaring link to Julie d'Is, and although the writer indeed knew nothing at all of the ultimateinvolvement of the pastry shop, yet he had deduced the obvious.Though the police would never attachChorgeh to the killing, the writer did, and the writer was here solely as that, to observe him, to see howChorgeh went on.And it was possible, if Chorgeh gave himself away to the writer, that the "uncle" mighttake over from the writer, and feel obliged to give Chorgeh up to the authorities.Chorgeh had known thismoment would come, and he had prepared for it.He was a practiced deceiver, and his youngness wason his side, for with the widespread fault of the middle-aged, the writer coupled youngness withinexperience."I know very slightly more," said the writer to Chorgeh."I know there was, of course, a post-mortem.Iknow the result of this was the news that Julie d'Is died because of the entry of a bullet into her brain,which was evident from the first.I know that a few of her erstwhile familiars were questioned.But noneof them had seen her for years.It seemed to me," said the writer, uncrossing his legs, and lighting, withoutpermission, a cigarette, "it seemed to me that you and I, say, were worthier of an interrogation.We'dbeen watching the woman and discussing her fairly recently.""Oh, not so recently as all that," said Chorgeh."I say, I'm very sorry, but you mustn't smoke in here.Mother would fly into a fit.It's awful isn't it?"The writer cast his cigarette into the fire and smiled.Chorgeh had revealed an arch-cleverness.The writercould not last for more than ten minutes longer without a cigarette.He would have to go out, and whyshould Chorgeh, plainly intent on his father's books, go with him?"You haven't, then," said the writer, "been following Julie d'Is?""Why would I do that?""Because she fascinated you.""That's true.Then I found someone else who fascinated me even more.You recollect how skittish I canbe.""What do you think of it, though?" said the writer."Of what?""Of her death.""I think it's ideal," said Chorgeh."I think it's inevitable [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]