The Map of Chaos by Félix J. Palma Page A

it’s finished.”
    Once it’s finished . . . That meant nothing. What if it was never finished? What if for some reason she decided not to finish it? What if the world came to an end first? If it did, he would never know what Jane had been doing during the three or four hours she spent in her study every day. Was she writing a diary? Or perhaps a recipe book? But why be so cagey about a recipe book?
    â€œOne of the things I most hate in life is couples who keep secrets from each other,” Wells said, being deliberately dramatic.
    â€œI thought what you most hated was the fact that no one has invented an electric razor yet,” Jane chuckled. She went on talking to him as she took his arm and led him toward the door, trying not to give the impression she was getting rid of him. “But don’t be such a grouch. What does it matter what I write? Your work is the important thing, Bertie, so stop wasting your time spying on me and get writing.”
    â€œAt least you know what I’m writing,” he grumbled. “I let you see everything I do, whereas you’re . . .”
    â€œ. . . an unfathomable mystery to you, and you can’t bear it, I know. I already explained it to you once: this is the only way of keeping your interest in me alive. I have to stop you from deciphering me, dear. Because if you understood everything about me, you would soon tire of me and start looking for other mysteries, and your crowning work, your true masterpiece, would never be written . . . So go back to your study and leave me with my trivial entertainments. They’re not important. They aren’t even as good as your earlier stories.”
    â€œDon’t you think I should be the judge of that?” Wells retorted, surprised rather than annoyed at suddenly finding himself on the other side of the door. “But I suppose you’re right, as always. I should get back to my work and—”
    â€œSplendid, dear.”
    Jane gave her husband a parting wink and withdrew into her sanctuary. After shrugging, Wells went down to the ground floor, where he hid away in his study. Ensconced in his chair, he glanced wearily around him. Despite having placed all his books and knickknacks on the shelves as carefully as Jane, his room only gave off an atmosphere of sterile sedateness. However much he changed things round, the room never felt warm. Wells sighed and contemplated the sheaf of blank pages before him. He proposed to record on them all his hard-earned wisdom, everything he had seen. And who could tell: perhaps that knowledge might change the fate of the world, although Wells couldn’t help wondering how much he was driven by altruism and how much by vanity. He reached for his pen, ready to begin his “crowning’ work, as Jane had called it, while the sounds from the street and the neighboring park seeped in through his window, noises from a world that went by immersed in the smug satisfaction of believing itself unique . . .

PART ONE

1
    T HERE WAS NOTHING I NSPECTOR C ORNELIUS Clayton would have liked more than for the dinner Valerie de Bompard had organized in honor of the successful outcome of his first case to end in a sudden attack of indigestion on the part of all her guests, himself excluded, the sooner for him to remain alone with the beautiful countess. And why should such a thing not happen? he mused, raising his fork mechanically to his mouth. After all, such unfortunate incidents fell within the bounds of the possible, especially since the castle cook already had experience in these matters, having three months earlier almost poisoned the entire domestic staff by serving them rotten food. However, the guests were already well into their second course and none of them showed signs of feeling the slightest bit queasy. And so Clayton resigned himself to having to endure the wretched dinner to the very end, telling himself he might