The Map of the Sky (52 page)

Then he examined the half-dozen or so other peculiar artifacts next to the table. His attention was particularly drawn to a strange object that looked like a cross between a gramophone and a typewriter. The anomaly, bristling with rods and levers that stuck out like cactus spines, was endowed with four wheels and crowned by a species of copper-plated cornucopia.

“What is this?”

“Oh, that; it’s a metaphone,” the inspector said, giving it a cursory glance.

Wells waited for an explanation, but since none was forthcoming, he was obliged to ask, “And what the devil is it for?”

“In theory for recording voices and sounds from other dimensions, but in view of its poor results you could say it is completely useless.” Clayton continued examining his collection of fake hands, dithering. “I’m using it to try to find a boy called Owen Spurling, who went missing late last winter in a village in Staffordshire. His mother sent him out to the well to fetch water, and he never came back. When they went looking for him, they were astonished to find that his footsteps came to an abrupt halt in the snow a few yards from the well, as though an eagle or other bird of prey had carried him off. They combed the area but found no trace of him. No one could understand what had happened to him, especially since his mother had been watching him through the window and had only looked away for a few seconds. The boy literally vanished into thin air. The most likely explanation is that he has crossed into another dimension and can’t get back. The metaphone might enable me to hear him and give him instructions, assuming I manage to record anything other than the chirp of Staffordshire birds.”

“And why bring him back? Maybe this Owen is happier in that other world frolicking with five-legged dogs,” the author jested.

The inspector ignored his remark, deciding at last on one of the more real-looking fake hands, which did not appear to have been converted into a weapon, although Wells noticed some kind of screw or spring mechanism attached to the wrist.

“Perhaps the time has come to give you a first outing, my friend,” the inspector murmured with a wistful smile, cradling the prosthesis.

He screwed it on carefully and turned toward the author, slowly bobbing his head.

“I understand your reluctance to believe in such things, Mr. Wells,” he said. “Countless times I would find myself staring into the same skeptical face in the mirror, until gradually that face disappeared. Believe me, Mr. Wells, one can get used to anything. And once you have accepted that there are things in this world that have no explanation, you will be able to believe that the impossible is possible. Indeed, you will be able to believe in magic.”

“If you say so,” murmured Wells.

For a few moments, Clayton fell silent, gazing benevolently at the author, and then he said, “Let me tell you about when I was like you, when I was not yet Inspector Cornelius Clayton. Perhaps it will help. More than a decade ago, I was an ordinary man. Yes, a man who thought the world was what it was. I had the same impoverished, narrow idea of it you have now, except that then I had no difficulty picking up peas with a fork, because both my hands were made of flesh and bone.”

The inspector uttered these last words in a tone of joviality, but Wells fancied his voice contained an underlying air of melancholy like the rustle of dead leaves in autumn. He seemed reluctant to weigh up what he had lost, for fear the balance might go against the decision he had made, so long ago now that he could no longer see himself in that youth who had casually chosen his fate.

“My father was a policeman, and following in his footsteps I joined Scotland Yard to fight against crime. My dedication, together with the advice and training I received from my father, soon yielded an excellent reputation, which, added to my extreme youth, quickly won me the admiration of my superiors, who would frequently and unreservedly congratulate me. One of these, Superintendent Thomas Arnold, called me to his office when I had scarcely been two years with the force. He told me someone was keen to meet me and, there and then, introduced me to the oddest-looking fellow I had ever seen in my life, until that moment at least.

“He was about fifty years old, stout, but with a lively manner, and he wore a peculiar-looking patch over his right eye. At first I wasn’t sure whether he had lost the real one or whether it was still intact beneath the artificial one now occupying its socket. This was a kind of globular lens with a carved edge, held on by a strap that went over his forehead. Inside the globe, which appeared to move, was a smaller circle that gave off a faint reddish glow. Unflustered by my bewilderment, he stretched out a chubby yet vigorous hand laden with rings with strange symbols on them and introduced himself as Angus Sinclair, captain of a division
inside the police force that I had no knowledge of. The superintendent beat a swift retreat, leaving me alone with this eccentric fellow, who immediately ensconced himself in the superintendent’s chair, gesturing with a wave of his hand for me to sit opposite him. Once I had done so, he beamed at me, browsing with a satisfied expression through the papers in front of him, which I soon discovered was my curriculum vitae.

“‘You have a brilliant record, Inspector Clayton, I congratulate you,’ he said in a solemn tone.

“‘Thank you, sir,’ I replied, noticing the strange badge on the left-hand lapel of his black three-piece suit: a tiny winged dragon.

“‘Mmm . . . with your youth and intelligence, I imagine you’ll go far. Yes, indeed, very far. In time, you will doubtless achieve the rank of colonel. And when you reach seventy or eighty years old, you’ll die a happy man, stout like me, and with a shock of white hair, content, no doubt, to look back on what could only be seen as a happy life and a career built on solving crimes and sending wrongdoers to prison, and so forth.’

“‘Thank you for the exercise in fortune-telling,’ I replied, vexed by the provocative tone with which he had belittled not only my achievements thus far, but also my future achievements.

“The captain grinned, amused at my display of youthful insolence.

“‘Oh, they are admirable achievements, of which anyone could be proud. However, I am sure you aspire to more, much more than this.’ He stared at me fixedly for a few moments. His mechanical eye glowed intensely, and I fancied I even heard a strange buzzing noise coming from behind the lens. ‘The problem is you have no idea what this more entails, or am I mistaken?’

“He wasn’t mistaken, but I preferred not to admit it. I simply remained silent, curious to know what this fellow wanted from me.

“‘Yes, thanks to your intelligence and commitment you’ll make the grade of colonel, or whatever it is you aspire to. Yet you will know nothing of the world, my boy. Absolutely nothing, however much you might think you know everything.’ He leaned over the desk and gave me a
challenging smile. ‘That is your future. But I am offering you a far more exciting one.’

“‘What are you talking about, sir?’ I asked, startled by the eccentric fellow’s fervent tone.

“‘I am inviting you to use your talents to solve other kinds of cases. Special cases,’ he explained. ‘This is what we do in my division, Inspector Clayton, we solve special cases. However, it is not enough to have a brilliant record. You must possess a certain, shall I say . . . temperament.’

“‘I don’t understand, sir.’

“‘You need an open mind, Inspector Clayton. Do you possess such a thing?’

“I hesitated for a moment, unsure how to respond. Then I nodded vigorously; I had never stopped to think about it, but until someone told me otherwise, I had an open mind. Captain Sinclair nodded with satisfaction.

“‘Let’s see if it is true!’ he declared with theatrical enthusiasm, even as he extracted a newspaper clipping from his file and placed it before me on the table. ‘Read this carefully and tell me what conclusions you draw from it, no matter how far-fetched. What do you think the man died of?’

“The clipping dated from two years before and announced the death of a vagrant. His body had been discovered in a heap on the outskirts of the city, his face half chewed off by stray dogs, but the causes of his death were a mystery: the autopsy had revealed nothing. The journalist writing the article must have been a timid soul, for he ended by stating that the crime had been committed on the night of a full moon, and that in the sand around the body, the victim had desperately traced several crosses, as though trying to ward off the devil. After carefully rereading it several times, I relayed to the captain the various causes of death that had occurred to me. Considering that no one with enough strength to chase a dog away would allow himself to be killed by it, I told him, and since dogs rarely attack living humans, the man had probably been poisoned then dragged there, and his murderer had for some reason traced those crosses before fleeing the scene. I also suggested it might have
been an accidental death that someone was trying to cover up, and a few other explanations of a similar nature that occurred to me.’

“‘Is that all?’ asked Captain Sinclair, exaggerating his disappointment. ‘I asked for all the possibilities, no matter how far-fetched.’

“I grinned impishly and replied, ‘I also think it could have been a werewolf that killed and mauled the vagrant at the refuse heap, not the dogs. It happened during a full moon, which is when they change. And while the creature was stalking him like a two-legged wolf, the victim drew crosses around himself in an attempt to send the creature back to the Hell from whence it came.’

“Captain Sinclair asked once more, in the same disappointed tone, ‘Is that all?’

“‘No, that’s not all,’ I replied with a grin. ‘It could have been the work of a vampire, given the crime was committed at night, and this would also explain why the victim drew the crosses in the sand. Or perhaps it was a vampire imitating a werewolf, pointing the finger at his age-old adversary, with whom from time immemorial he has been vying to take over the planet. That is all, Captain. Did I get it right?’

“‘You aren’t ready to know yet.’ He leaned back in his chair and studied me with cold curiosity. ‘But tell me: are you interested in joining a division where these could be the answers, where the impossible is sometimes the only solution? Those in my division place no limits on our imagination; we carry on searching beyond the point where normal minds would give up.’

“I looked at him, not knowing what to say, and was relieved when Sinclair told me I could have a few days to think about it, also warning me that everything we had discussed in that office must be considered top secret, and that if my answer was no, I would do well to forget that the conversation had ever taken place. That was the first warning he gave me, but not the last, nor was it the most astonishing. He then handed me a note containing the address of the Special Branch, where I was to report the following week if I decided to accept his offer. I left and went home. But I only needed one sleepless night to realize that however hard
I tried I would never be able to forget our conversation. In fact, from the moment I stepped through that office door, I was doomed. I was young, ambitious, and full of myself, and now I was aware that others had access to information to which the rest of us mortals were not privy. I couldn’t go on living without wanting to know it, too. I didn’t wait a week. The following morning, I went to the address printed on the note and asked to be shown to Captain Sinclair’s office, where apparently he was expecting me. And there I sealed my fate forever.”

Clayton concluded his tale with a pained smile and waited for Wells to respond.

“Congratulations on believing in werewolves and vampires,” the author said in an almost pitying voice.

“Oh, no, Mr. Wells, you’re wrong: I didn’t believe in them. I merely told the captain what he wanted to hear. No, the young man I was then didn’t believe in vampires or in werewolves. But that fellow headed a group of special inspectors, the cream of the Scotland Yard crop. Whatever they did, I wanted to be part of it, for the thought of continuing to solve murders and apprehend common criminals no longer appealed to me. I would have told him the vagrant was killed by an elf, if necessary.” Clayton gave a bitter smile. “But that was twelve years ago, Mr. Wells, twelve years. And now I can only affirm that I believe in more things than I would like.”

“Oh, really? Do vampires exist, for instance?” Wells took the opportunity to ask.

Clayton gazed at him with a smile on his lips, like an adult enjoying a child’s curiosity.

“This house belonged to one,” Clayton avowed, watching with amusement as Wells raised his eyebrows. Then he added with a grin, “Or so the man in question believed. His name was Lord Railsberg, and he suffered from a pigmentation disease that made his skin turn red when exposed to the sun. He was also allergic to garlic and even had an enlarged sacrum, all known traits of the vampire, according to fables and novels. As you well know, the works of Polidori, Preskett Prest, Sheridan
Le Fanu, and in particular Stoker’s best-selling novel popularized the vampire myth to the point where anyone possessing these traits can think he is one. Lord Railsberg built this house and lived here with a group of acolytes who, like him, fled the light. They ventured aboveground only to abduct women, whom they callously slaughtered so they could drink and even bathe in their blood, as the Hungarian countess Elisabeth Báthory was rumored to have done. When we tracked down his lair, the place was piled with corpses and people sleeping in coffins, but I assure you none of the so-called vampires was able to escape prison by changing into a bat. So I can’t affirm the existence of vampires, but if they do exist, I expect they have more in common with the abject beasts of Slavic legend than the suave aristocrats portrayed by novelists.”

“I see,” Wells said, not taking the remark personally.

“But, naturally, we don’t only deal with madmen,” Clayton added. “As I already told you, occasionally we also discover the impossible.”

With these words, Clayton glanced mournfully at a portrait hanging on one of the walls. Wells followed the direction of his gaze and discovered a painting of a beautiful, wealthy-looking lady in a finely carved mahogany frame. The young woman looked down on the world with a mixture of melancholy and pride. Her dark eyes glittered rapaciously, and an inscrutable smile, which Wells thought betrayed a hint of cruelty, played on her lips like a dewdrop on a rose petal.