things. He paused opposite the desk.
“The mathematical perfection of this series suggests that there is no culprit. That may astound you, Gregory, but it’s true…”
“What … what are you…” the lieutenant gasped in a barely audible voice, recoiling involuntarily.
Sheppard stood absolutely still, his face unseen. Suddenly Gregory heard a short, quavering sound. The Chief Inspector was laughing.
“Did I shock you?” the Chief Inspector asked in a more serious tone. “Do you think I’m talking nonsense?
“Who makes day and night?” he continued. There was derision in his voice.
Suddenly Gregory stood up, pushing his chair backward.
“I understand,” he said. “Of course. The series has something to do with the creation of a new myth. An imitation of one of the laws of nature. A synthetic, impersonal, invisible, obviously all-powerful criminal. Oh, it’s perfect! An imitation of infinity…”
Gregory laughed, but not very happily. Then, breathing deeply, he became quiet.
“Why are you laughing?” the Chief Inspector asked gravely, perhaps even a bit sadly. “Isn’t it because you were already thinking along the same lines but rejected the idea? Imitation? Of course. But a perfect imitation, Gregory, so perfect that you’ll come back to me with your hands empty.”
“Maybe,” Gregory said coldly. “And in that case I’ll be replaced by someone else. If necessary I could manage to explain every detail right now. Even the dissecting laboratory. The window can be opened from the outside with the aid of a nylon thread looped around the lock beforehand. I tried it, and it works. But to think that the creator of a new religion of some kind, an imitator of miracles, had to begin this way…”
Gregory shrugged his shoulders.
“No, it can’t be that simple,” the Chief Inspector said. “You keep repeating the word ‘imitation.’ A wax doll is an imitation of a human being, isn’t it? What if someone made a doll that could walk and talk, wouldn’t that be an excellent imitation? And if he made a doll that could bleed? A doll that could experience unhappiness and death, what then?”
“And what does any of this have to … after all, even the most perfect imitation—even the doll you were just talking about—has to have a creator, and the creator can be held responsible!” Gregory shouted, overcome with anger, “He’s only playing with me” suddenly flashed through his mind, and he said, “Chief Inspector, please answer one question for me.”
Sheppard looked at him.
“You don’t really think this case can be solved, do you?”
“Certainly not. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk anymore. Of course there is a possibility that the solution—” The Chief Inspector broke off in mid-sentence.
“Please, sir, tell me everything.”
“I don’t know if I have the right,” Sheppard said dryly, as if displeased by Gregory’s insistence. “You might not like the solution.”
“Why? Please, explain it to me a little more clearly,”
Sheppard shook his head.
“I can’t.”
He walked over to the desk, opened the drawer, and removed a small package.
“Let’s work on the part that pertains to us,” he said, handing it to Gregory.
The package contained photographs of three men and one woman. Commonplace, banal faces, indifferent to everything, stared at Gregory from the shiny little cardboards.
“That’s them,” he said, recognizing two of the photos.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have any pictures taken after death?”
“I managed to get two.” Sheppard reached into the drawer. They had been taken at the hospital at the request of the families.
Both photographs were pictures of men. And it was a strange thing: death seemed to give a new dignity to their rather ordinary features, bestowing a kind of motionless gravity upon them. Dead they looked more expressive than they had while living, as if they finally had something to hide!
Gregory looked up at
“The mathematical perfection of this series suggests that there is no culprit. That may astound you, Gregory, but it’s true…”
“What … what are you…” the lieutenant gasped in a barely audible voice, recoiling involuntarily.
Sheppard stood absolutely still, his face unseen. Suddenly Gregory heard a short, quavering sound. The Chief Inspector was laughing.
“Did I shock you?” the Chief Inspector asked in a more serious tone. “Do you think I’m talking nonsense?
“Who makes day and night?” he continued. There was derision in his voice.
Suddenly Gregory stood up, pushing his chair backward.
“I understand,” he said. “Of course. The series has something to do with the creation of a new myth. An imitation of one of the laws of nature. A synthetic, impersonal, invisible, obviously all-powerful criminal. Oh, it’s perfect! An imitation of infinity…”
Gregory laughed, but not very happily. Then, breathing deeply, he became quiet.
“Why are you laughing?” the Chief Inspector asked gravely, perhaps even a bit sadly. “Isn’t it because you were already thinking along the same lines but rejected the idea? Imitation? Of course. But a perfect imitation, Gregory, so perfect that you’ll come back to me with your hands empty.”
“Maybe,” Gregory said coldly. “And in that case I’ll be replaced by someone else. If necessary I could manage to explain every detail right now. Even the dissecting laboratory. The window can be opened from the outside with the aid of a nylon thread looped around the lock beforehand. I tried it, and it works. But to think that the creator of a new religion of some kind, an imitator of miracles, had to begin this way…”
Gregory shrugged his shoulders.
“No, it can’t be that simple,” the Chief Inspector said. “You keep repeating the word ‘imitation.’ A wax doll is an imitation of a human being, isn’t it? What if someone made a doll that could walk and talk, wouldn’t that be an excellent imitation? And if he made a doll that could bleed? A doll that could experience unhappiness and death, what then?”
“And what does any of this have to … after all, even the most perfect imitation—even the doll you were just talking about—has to have a creator, and the creator can be held responsible!” Gregory shouted, overcome with anger, “He’s only playing with me” suddenly flashed through his mind, and he said, “Chief Inspector, please answer one question for me.”
Sheppard looked at him.
“You don’t really think this case can be solved, do you?”
“Certainly not. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk anymore. Of course there is a possibility that the solution—” The Chief Inspector broke off in mid-sentence.
“Please, sir, tell me everything.”
“I don’t know if I have the right,” Sheppard said dryly, as if displeased by Gregory’s insistence. “You might not like the solution.”
“Why? Please, explain it to me a little more clearly,”
Sheppard shook his head.
“I can’t.”
He walked over to the desk, opened the drawer, and removed a small package.
“Let’s work on the part that pertains to us,” he said, handing it to Gregory.
The package contained photographs of three men and one woman. Commonplace, banal faces, indifferent to everything, stared at Gregory from the shiny little cardboards.
“That’s them,” he said, recognizing two of the photos.
“Yes.”
“Don’t you have any pictures taken after death?”
“I managed to get two.” Sheppard reached into the drawer. They had been taken at the hospital at the request of the families.
Both photographs were pictures of men. And it was a strange thing: death seemed to give a new dignity to their rather ordinary features, bestowing a kind of motionless gravity upon them. Dead they looked more expressive than they had while living, as if they finally had something to hide!
Gregory looked up at
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