I very much wanted to ask her what she had intended to do on the second floor. I was unable to think what business she might have had up there, though I could assume that it was the rendezvous with Simone which I had interrupted by chance. But at that moment I looked at the old man, and everything else flew out of my head. Because there in Moses’s lap lay a whip—a dark black horse-whip with a thick handle and numerous braided tails glistening with metal studs. I averted my eyes in shock.
“Thank you, madame,” I muttered. “You have been a great help to this investigation, madame.”
Feeling hopelessly tired, I made my way to the lobby and sat down next to the owner to rest. I shook my head, trying to drive out the awful sight of that horse-whip that was still hovering in front of my eyes. It was none of my business. It was a personal matter, of no concern to me… My eyes felt like they’d had sand thrown in them. No doubt I needed to get some sleep—even just a couple of hours. I still had to question the stranger, and the kid again, and then interrogate Kaisa, all of which would take strength, which meant that I had to go to sleep. But I had the feeling that I wouldn’t be able to sleep right now. Hinkus’s doubles were wandering the inn. Du Barnstoker’s kid was lying. Not to mention the fact that everything wasn’t exactly right with Mrs. Moses. Either she slept like the dead, in which case I didn’t understand why she’d lied and said that she barely slept, or she hadn’t been sleeping, in which case I didn’t understand why she hadn’t heard the avalanche, or the fracas in the neighboring room. And I absolutely didn’t understand what had happened to Simone… There were too many crazies wrapped up in this, I thought dully. Crazies, drunks and fools… But maybe I was going about things the wrong way? How would Zgut have proceeded in my place? He would have immediately picked out all those who had the strength to twist a two-meter-tall Viking’s neck and then set to work only on them. Meanwhile I was wasting my time on a feeble child, Hinkus the decrepit schizophrenic, Moses, that old alcoholic… No, that wasn’t the way to do it. Well, but I might find the killer. And then what? A typical case of a murder in a closed room. I would never be able to prove how the killer came in and how he went out… Too bad. Maybe I should get some coffee…
I looked at the owner. He was diligently pressing the adding machine’s keys and writing in his account books.
“Listen, Alek,” I said. “Is it possible that someone looking exactly like Hinkus could be hiding undetected in your inn?”
The owner raised his head and looked at me.
“Someone looking exactly like Hinkus?” he said in a businesslike manner. “Not someone else?”
“Yes. An exact double, Alek. Hinkus’s double is living in your inn. He is not paying his bill, Alek. Probably he’s been stealing food. Think of it, Alek!”
The owner thought of it.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t noticed anything like that. To tell you the truth the only thing I feel, Peter, is that you’re going about this all wrong. You’re following the most natural roads, and for that reason you’ve ended up in particularly unnatural places. You’re exploring alibis, gathering clues, looking for motives. But it seems to me that, in this particular case the usual terms of your art have lost their meaning, the same way that the concept of time changes meaning at speeds faster than light…”
“That’s your feeling?” I asked bitterly.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, all this speculating about alibis at faster than light speeds. My head starts to feel like a balloon, and god only knows what you’re talking about. Better bring me some coffee.”
The owner stood up.
“Your understanding of this is still in its infancy, Peter,” he said. “I’m waiting for you to finally ripen.”
“Why wait for that? I’m ripe enough as it is—I’m practically falling off the branch.”
“You aren’t going to fall off anything,” the owner said soothingly. “Anyway, you’ve still got some ripening to go. But when you are ripe—when I see that you’re ready, then I’ll tell you something.”
“Tell me now,” I said feebly.
“There’s no point telling you now. You’d only shake it off and forget it. I want to wait until the moment when it’ll be clear that my words are the only thing capable of unlocking this mystery for you.”
“Good lord,” I muttered. “One can only imagine the truths you’ve got in store!”
The manager smiled condescendingly and got up to go to the kitchen. On his way out the door he stopped and said:
“If you want, I’ll tell you why our great physicist was so surprised?”
“All right, try me,” I said.
“When he got in bed with Mrs. Moses, our great physicist found, not a living, breathing, woman, but an unliving, unbreathing mannequin… A doll, Peter. Cold as stone.”
11.
He stood there, grinning at me from the doorway.
“All right, then, come here,” I said. “Tell me.”
“What about the coffee?”
“To hell with the coffee! I can see you know something. Don’t play games with me, spit it out.”
He came back to the table, but didn’t sit down.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “All I can do is draw certain conclusions.”
“How did you know what Simone found?”
“Ah! My guess was correct, then…” He sat down and made himself comfortable. “Though, to be fair, I could see I’d guessed right by how blown away you looked, Peter. You must agree, that was a pretty effective delivery…”
“Listen, Alek,” I said. “I like you, I admit it.”
“I like you too,” he said.
“Shut up. I like you. But that doesn’t mean anything. I don’t think you’re a suspect, Alek. I don’t, unfortunately, have any reason to think you’re a suspect. But in this regard, you’re no different than anyone else… I don’t have any suspects. But I need one—it’s high time for me to start suspecting somebody.”
“Try to restrain yourself!” the manager said, lifting a fat finger.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up? Anyway, if you start fooling with my head, then I’m going to start suspecting you. You’ll be in trouble, Alek. I’m very inexperienced when it comes to these sorts of things, which means that you could get in quite a bit of trouble. You have no idea how much trouble an inexperienced policeman can cause a good citizen.”
“In that case,” he said. “Of course I’ll tell you everything. Let’s start with how I knew what Mr. Simone saw in Mrs. Moses’s bedroom…”
“Yes,” I said. “How did you know that?”
He sat there in his armchair, broad, heavyset, jovial, unbearably pleased with himself.
“All right, then—let’s start with a theory. The witch doctors and folk healers of certain little-known central African tribes have known for some time now how to return their dead fellow-villagers to some semblance of life.”
I groaned, and the owner raised his voice:
“This type of real world phenomenon—that is, a dead person who has the appearance of a living one, and who can execute, at first glance, quite rational and independent actions—is called a zombie. Strictly speaking, zombies are not dead…”
“Listen, Alek,” I said wearily, “none of this interests me. I understand: you’re rehearsing the speech you intend to give in front of the newspaper reporters. But none of this interests me in the least! You promised to tell me something concerning Mrs. Moses and Simone. So tell me!”
He stared at me sadly for some time.
“It’s true,” he said finally. “I thought as much. You’re not ripe yet… Well, all right, then.” He sighed. “Let’s put theory aside and look at the facts. Six days ago, when Mr. and Mrs. Moses flattered my inn with a visit, the following event took place. After making all the necessary marks in the passports of the aforementioned gentlefolk, I made my way back to Mr. Moses’s room with the object of returning their passports to him. I knocked. I was slightly distracted, which is why I opened the door without waiting for permission. My punishment for this transgression against social norms came immediately. In the armchair in the middle of the room I saw something that one might call Mrs. Moses, if they wanted to. But it wasn’t Mrs. Moses. It was a large, life-sized, and beautiful doll, which resembled Mrs. Moses very closely and was dressed exactly like her. Now you’re going to ask me how I am sure that it was a doll, and not Mrs. Moses. I could list some concrete specifics for you: the unnatural pose, the glassy eyes, the absolute immobility of the features, and so on. But in my opinion this isn’t necessary. It seems to me that any normal person is capable of recognizing, in the course of a few seconds, whether he’s looking at a model or a mannequin. And I had a few seconds. After which I was rudely grabbed by the shoulder and shoved out into the hallway. That impudent but completely justified action was executed upon my person by Mr. Moses, who’d apparently been looking over his wife’s room and attacked me from behind…