The Map of Chaos (18 page)

Dawn had already materialized. At that moment, when the world was scarcely illuminated by the first rays of light, all was silent, and a brisk morning breeze caressed the slumbering city like an angel's breath, as Dickens might say. Any respectable person could now receive a visit, however unexpected, without it creating a stir. At last Inspector Clayton turned into Furnival Street and made his way to Mrs. Lansbury's residence, a tall, neo-Gothic town house with a turrets and narrow windows. Without further ado, he mounted the front steps and rang the doorbell. Adopting an aggressive stance, hands behind his back, legs slightly apart, he prepared to confront the icy disdain of a butler outraged at such an early morning visit. But even if he had to contend with an army of sullen domestic servants and go up to the old lady's bedroom to wake her himself, Clayton was determined to speak to Mrs. Lansbury, to force her to reveal what part she was playing in all this.

He was surprised when Mrs. Lansbury herself came to the door, and moreover that she did so almost immediately, as if she had been stationed behind it. However, he was still more taken aback by her odd appearance, and her equally odd behavior. Catherine Lansbury opened the door a crack, just enough to poke her disheveled head through the gap. Her immaculate chignon of the night before had completely unraveled, and a few grey strands of hair now hung limply over her eyes. She stood there, clutching the door with both hands, while Inspector Clayton quickly changed his threatening posture, doffing his hat and feeling suddenly ridiculous confronted by the old lady's startled face, which in a matter of seconds went from fear through disappointment to surprise, and then almost to appreciation. She seemed unable to find the right words to express the whirl of emotions and thoughts spinning round in her head. At last she seemed to rouse herself and, cutting short Clayton's timid greeting with a furious signal to be quiet, stepped cautiously outside, looked up and down the street, and, taking the inspector's arm, pulled him in, swiftly closing the door behind them.

Clayton followed her across the gloomy hallway, repressing the ridiculous urge to walk on tiptoe, until they reached a doorway, which they both stepped through. While Mrs. Lansbury was turning the key in the door, checking several times that she had locked it properly and then making sure the windows were also secure, Clayton took the opportunity to examine with interest the tiny study they found themselves in, which was much better illuminated than the hallway. It was a modestly furnished room with two windows that presumably overlooked the garden. Opposite them was a fine desk piled with scribbled documents, files, and writing paraphernalia, on the corner of which a vase with what looked like freshly cut roses had pride of place. At the center of the room was a rather forlorn pedestal table on which someone had laid out a dainty tea set. Mrs. Lansbury peered anxiously around the room like a frightened mouse, forgetting the inspector's presence until he was obliged to attract her attention.

“Ahem, Mrs. Lansbury . . .”

The old lady looked at him, her eyelids fluttering.

“Oh! I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting you . . . ,” she whispered.

“You were expecting someone else at this hour?” Clayton said with surprise, gesturing toward the tea tray and also speaking in a whisper.

“Oh, yes, yes . . . I was. Someone very important. I asked him to come a few hours ago. Perhaps I should have done so sooner. The moment I arrived home from the séance last night, I sent my faithful servant, Doris, to his house with an urgent message . . . begging him to come. But he hasn't answered my call, or even replied to my message. And my maid hasn't returned either . . . Oh, my dear Doris! If I am to blame for anything happening to her I shall never . . . She is my only servant, you see. I can't afford more staff; I spend all my money on . . . So Doris is the only one who looks after me. Perhaps I oughtn't to have sent her to fetch . . . But what else was I to do?” She looked beseechingly at Clayton. “Tell me, what else was I to do? I couldn't think of any other solution. He has found me, he knows where I am hiding, and now I have run out of time.” The old lady glanced nervously about again, whispering to herself. “Yes, I've run out of time . . .”

“Mrs. Lansbury, I'm afraid I don't understand—”

“I forget your name, young man,” the old lady interrupted, looking again at Clayton, who was struck once more by the look of determination in her eyes, which belied their owner's tremulous fragility.

“I'm Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard's Special Branch. We met last night at the séance . . .”

“Oh, I remember perfectly well where we met, young man! I simply forgot your name. I'm not a senile old woman. You're the young fellow with the broken heart. I know you a lot better than you think—oh yes, a lot better . . . But please, sit down. Would you care for some tea?”

Without waiting for his reply, Mrs. Lansbury sat down and began pouring the tea with an unsteady hand. Her lips were moving slightly, as if she was praying. Clayton sat down, taking care not to knock the table with his bony knees and send all the cups flying.

“Try one of these, young man,” the old lady said, holding out a plate. “Kemp's biscuits. They are made with butter and aniseed, and I've never tasted anything quite like them. They're delicious, my favorites. They don't make them where I come from, you know. In any case, it's a shame I came across them so late, I've scarcely been able to enjoy them for a few years . . . You see”—she tried to give a cheery smile, but Clayton noticed she was shaking—“I'm afraid today will be the last time I eat them.”

“And why is that, Mrs. Lansbury?” the inspector said, surprised.

She gazed at him in silence for a few seconds with that same appraising look, as though she were weighing up his usefulness.

“Because, young man, the Villain has found me,” she replied at last, so softly that Clayton had to lean over the table to hear her. “And he's going to kill me.”

“The Villain?”

The old lady gestured to him to lower his voice.

“Yes, the Villain. Any story worth its salt must have a villain, don't you agree? And ours had one, too,” she said ruefully. “The most terrible villain you could ever imagine. And now he's coming to kill me.”

“If you're referring to the man who attacked you at Madame Amber's house, have no fear: I assure you, he's behind bars,” Clayton replied, trying to set her mind at rest.

“Behind bars?” The old lady gave a benevolent chuckle, as though touched by the inspector's naïveté. “No prison exists that can contain the Villain, son. Not one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean exactly what I said! Do you think I'm speaking in riddles? He's going to kill me, at any moment. So don't say another word. There isn't time. Just listen to me,” she commanded abruptly.

She brushed the crumbs off her skirt with a determined gesture, plucked a small key from her clenched fist, and walked over to the desk. After unlocking a tiny drawer she returned holding a book, which she held out to the inspector with a strange solemnity.

“What is this?” asked Clayton tentatively.

“Take it. Hurry!”

The inspector grasped the book. It was small, scarcely larger than a missal, its covers bound in dark leather. On the front, embossed in gold, was a star with eight arrowlike points. Underneath it, also in gold, was written
The Map of Chaos.
Clayton examined its pages with interest. All of them were handwritten, filled with what appeared to be complex mathematical formulas interspersed with strange geometrical diagrams. Puzzled, he looked at the old lady, who drew closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. She was trembling violently, like leaves in an autumn breeze, but her gaze was courageous and her voice serene when she said, “The key to the salvation of the world lies within the pages of this book. Of the world as you know it”—she spread her arms, gesturing at their surroundings, before contemplating him in earnest—“but also of all those worlds you can only imagine. For I must warn you, young man, that the whole universe is in danger. So listen well, Inspector Clayton of Scotland Yard's Special Branch: the man who appeared at the séance yesterday evening is looking for this book in order to destroy it. He is an evil creature; he has killed before, and he won't hesitate to kill again. He murdered my husband”—her voice faltered for a moment—“but I managed to escape and keep the book safe . . . All this time, I've been trying to continue with the plan my husband and I devised to save the universe. But the Villain found me before I had time to put it into practice. Now everything depends on you.”

“On me?” said Clayton, astonished.

The old lady nodded apologetically.

“I'm afraid so, my boy. I sent for the only person I could trust hours ago. But he hasn't come, I don't know why . . . and now there isn't time. I daresay I should have asked him to come sooner, years ago, when I first arrived. Yes, perhaps it was wrong of me not to. Perhaps my husband and I were mistaken to depend entirely on the Maelstrom Coordinates . . . We undoubtedly made many mistakes. But none of that matters now. We did the best we could, given the circumstances . . . What is important above all is to keep the book safe. Take it, Clayton. You must guard it with your life if necessary and give it to those who come from the Other Side and—”

“ ‘Those who come from the Other Side'?” Clayton interrupted, unable to hide his impatience. “But . . . who are they? And what is this book exactly? And why is the universe in da—”

“Didn't anyone teach you that it is very rude to interrupt your elders?” the old lady scolded him. “Do you suppose I would give you something so precious without explaining what it is and what you must do with it? Didn't I tell you that we had a plan, young man?”

“I . . . forgive me,” Clayton stammered.

All of a sudden they heard a resounding crash coming from the floor above. The old lady stared up at the ceiling with her eyes open wide, the blood draining from her face.

“He's here,” she exclaimed in a faltering voice. “The Villain has come for me.”

Clayton took out his gun as he got up from his chair.

“Not if I can prevent it,” he reassured her.

Slipping the book into his coat pocket, and with the terrified Mrs. Lansbury close on his heels, he went over to the door. He unlocked it noiselessly, stepped gingerly out into the corridor, and closed it behind him, leaving the old lady alone inside.

“Lock yourself in,” he ordered in a whisper, “and don't open the door until I—”

But before he could finish his sentence, he heard the old lady turn the key. Her extreme caution brought a smile to his lips. He turned around, gun at the ready, and confronted the hall stairs, which vanished into the thick gloom of the upper floors. He still did not know what to think of the eccentric Mrs. Lansbury, but one thing was certain: somebody had broken into the house, probably through an upstairs window. He himself had heard the loud clatter on the floor above. And if Doris was the old lady's only servant, which the thick layer of dust on the banister and the cobwebs draped between its rails would suggest, then only an intruder could have made that noise. Yet whoever it was did not know Clayton was there, and so he had the advantage of surprise. He began to climb the stairs slowly, trying not to let their creaking give him away. He soon realized he had no need to be so cautious, for a loud din of thuds and clatters reached him from upstairs, as if the intruder was ransacking one of the rooms. Clayton hurtled up the remaining steps and found himself on a landing that gave onto a corridor with rows of doors on either side.

Mrs. Lansbury must have moved around in the gloom with the ease of a blind person, since, with the exception of the study, the rest of her house was plunged in darkness. On the landing, the dawn light streamed through the stained-glass window into bands of blue, red, and green, allowing Clayton to move forward without the aid of a candle, but he couldn't see clearly enough to make out his surroundings plainly. Doing his best to avoid the furniture cluttering the corridor, he crept forward and soon found the door to the room from which the unearthly din was emanating. He stood to one side of it, switched his gun over to his metal hand so as to be able to turn the doorknob with his good hand, and slowly began to push the door open.

In front of him, a room inhabited by shadows slowly began to take shape. Judging from the vague outline of the furnishings, this must be the old lady's bedroom. But from where the inspector was standing, only part of the room was visible: the door itself blocked off the rest, where the intruder must have been. All of a sudden Clayton glimpsed the man's figure reflected in a mirror between the bed and a broken window. He watched in silence, unable to believe his eyes. The intruder had his back to the mirror and was busy rummaging through a chest of drawers. He seemed to have the same build as the man who had appeared at Madame Amber's house. But he himself had locked Sir Henry in a cell before leaving to come here. How could it possibly be him in that room? And if it wasn't him, then who was it? What most surprised Clayton was that, through the figure, he was able to glimpse fragments of the chest of drawers and even the wallpaper, though hazily at best, as if he were looking through a lace curtain fluttering in the breeze. In the meantime, the intruder was cursing through gritted teeth, becoming angrier and angrier as the old lady's possessions fell about his feet. Then, through a door that the inspector couldn't see, he moved into the adjoining room.

Clayton did the same, via the corridor. He found the corresponding door and began to turn the handle as cautiously as before. On the far side of the room, he could dimly make out the intruder's bulky figure busy with some task, and he stole toward him, training his gun on him. But when he was only a few steps away he could see from the light filtering in from the street that what he was aiming at was an object on wheels with two mechanical arms that ended in a broom and a cloth. Before he could figure out that the intruder had switched on the old lady's Mechanical Servant, the heavy bookcase on the wall next to him suddenly began to topple over. Clayton raised his right arm to try to stop it, but it was far too heavy and came down on top of him, crushing him painfully against the floor. Just as he felt his ribs about to crack, a savage laugh rang through the room. And then: silence. For several minutes, Clayton remained motionless, dazed by the blow. Had it not been for the Mechanical Servant brushing his face persistently with its broom, he would have passed out. The brushing roused him, and he started trying to ease out from beneath the weighty bookcase. Cursing himself for having fallen into such a stupid trap, he pricked up his ears. After pushing the bookcase on top of him, the intruder had left the room and descended the stairs, and now Clayton could hear him roaring on the ground floor as he stormed through the house, angrily flinging open doors and slamming them shut.