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At long last the Inspector sat down again; he forgot what he was sitting on and did not once look round to see how Private Property was arranged. Since he had outwitted the criminal, he hated him less. He thought it best to let him say his fill. His success had altered his whole life. His nose was a normal size. Deep in its pocket lay the mirror, utterly forgotten; it served no purpose. Why do people worry soi Life is elegant. New designs for ties appear daily. You must know how to wear them. Most people look like monkeys in them. He needs no looking-glass. He ties by touch. His success justifies his action. He is unassuming. Often he bows to people. His men respect him. His good reputation makes hard work a pleasure to him. He does not stop at regulations. Regulations are for criminals. He makes them confess spontaneously, for his technique is faultless.

'Hardly had the door closed behind her,' Kien began, 'when I was aware of my good fortune.' He began with a wide sweep, but it was within himself, in the depths of his determined soul. He knew exactly what things in fact led up to the event. Who should know the motives for his crime better than the perpetrator? He saw from alpha to omega, every link of the coil in which he had bound Thérèse. With a certain irony, he set forth the facts for this audience of man — and sensation — hunters. He could have spoken of more interesting things. It was a pity; but they were none of them men of learning. He treated them like men of normal education. Very probably they had not even that. He avoided quotations from the Chinese. They might interrupt him to ask who Mong Tse might be. Fundamentally, it gave him pleasure to speak of simple facts simply, and in a way to be understood by all. In his story were combined the acuteness and the sobriety which he owed to the writers of classical China. While Thérèse died again, his thoughts went back to the library, whence had flowed forth such great services to learning. Soon the flow would be resumed. His acquittal was a foregone conclusion. All the same, he planned a very different appearance before his judges. There he would unfold the ample splendour of his learning. The whole world would listen when probably the greatest sinologist of his time spoke his Defence of Learning. In this place, he spoke more modestly. He falsified nothing, he made no concessions, but he simplified.

'For weeks I left her alone. Convinced that she must die of hunger, I passed night after night at hotels. Bitterly did I miss my library, believe me; I had to content myself with a small substitute library, which, for essential needs, I kept always at hand. The locks on my door are strong — I was not tormented by the fear that burglars might release her. Imagine for yourselves her condition: all provisions are consumed. Enfeebled and full of hatred she lies on the floor, in front of that very desk in which she had so often looked for money. Her only thoughts were of money. In nothing did she resemble a flower. Of the thoughts which came into my head when I sat at that writing desk, at the time when I still shared my dwelling with her, I will not tell you to-day. For weeks I had to live, for fear that she should steal my manuscripts, petrified into a guardian-statue. This was the period or my deepest humiliation. When my head glowed for work, I had to say to myself: you are made of stone, and to remain motionless, I believed it myself. Those of you who have ever had to watch over a treasure, will readily be able to put yourselves in my place. I do not believe in fate; but she hastened towards hers. Instead of me — for by many a secret assault she brought me near to death — she now lay there, devoured by her own mad hunger. She did not know how to help herself. She had not sufficient self-control. She devoured herself. Piece by piece of her body fell a prey to her greed. Day by day she grew thinner. She was too weak to stand, but lay there in her own faith. Perhaps I seem thin to you. Compared to me she was the shadow of a being, pitiful and despicable; had she stood up a breath of wind could have snapped her in two, I verily believe even a child. I cannot particularize further. The blue skirt, which she always wore, covered her skeleton. It was starched, and thanks to this peculiarity held the repulsive remains of her body together. One day she breathed her last. Even this expression appears to me corrupt, for very probably she had no lungs left. No one was with her in her last hour; who could have remained week in, week out, with that skeleton? She was deep in filth. The flesh which she had torn off in strips from her body stank to heaven. Corruption set in before she was dead. All this happened in my library, in the presence of the books. I shall have the place cleaned. She shortened this process by no suicide. There was nothing sacred about her; she was very cruel. She pretended a hypocritical love of books as long as she thought I would make a will in her favour. Day and night she spoke ofthat will. She nursed me to sickness and left me alive only because she was uncertain of the will. I am telling you the plain truth. I have very grave doubts as to whether she could read and write fluently. Believe me, learning has made truth a duty with me. Her origins were obscure. She locked up the flat, she permitted me the use of one room, and even that she took from me. And she came to a bad end. The caretaker broke into the flat. A retired policeman, he was able to achieve what burglars had tried in vain. I regard him as a trustworthy person. He found her in her skirt, a repellent, evil-smelling, hideous skeleton, dead, completely dead, not for one moment did he doubt her death. He called in the neighbours; the joy in the entire block was universal. It was no longer possible to state the precise time when death had occurred; but it had occurred, and it was generally agreed that this was the essential fact. Not less than fifty tenants of the block filed past the body. Not one uttered a doubt; each acquiesced in a fact which could not be recalled.

Cases of apparent, but not actual, death are on record; no scholar would deny this. But I know of no occasion where apparent, but not actual death has been proved in the case of a skeleton. From the remotest times popular superstition has represented ghosts in the form of skeletons. This conception is at once profound and significant; it is also important evidence. Why is a ghost to be feared? Because it is an apparition of the dead, the undeniably dead, the decayed and buried. Would the same apprehensions be experienced if the apparition were to materialize in its old and familiar bodily shape? No! For such a sight would call up no thoughts of death; the living person, nothing else, would stand revealed. But if the ghost takes the form of a skeleton, two things are at once brought to the spectator's mind: the living person as he once was, and the dead, as he now is. The skeleton, as the conception of the ghost, became for countless peoples the symbol of death. The evidence is therefore overwhelming; the skeleton is the most irrecoverably dead of all the forms we know. Ancient burial places suffuse us with a shudder of disgust if they contain skeletons; when they are empty, we hardly think of them as burial places. And if we apply the term 'skeleton' to a living being, we mean no less than that he is near to death.

She, however, was completely dead; all the tenants of the block had convinced themselves of that and a huge disgust at her avaricious end spread among them. They feared her still. She was very dangerous. The only one masterful enough for her, the caretaker, flung her into her coffin. Immediately afterwards he washed his hands, but I greatly fear they will be stained for ever. Nevertheless, I take this occasion publicly to express my thanks to him for his brave deed. He was not afraid to accompany her on her last journey. Out of loyalty to me he called on some of the tenants to assist him in this hateful office. Not one was willing to do so. For these simple and decent pepple the mere sight of her corpse had sufficed to reveal her character. But I had lived for months on end at her side. When the coffin — far too white and glossy — trundled through the streets on a decrepit handcart, everyone guessed what was concealed within it. The few street urchins, whom my faithful servant had engaged to protect the procession from the onslaught of an enraged populace, ran away; trembling with terror and wailing loudly they spread the news through the whole town. There arose in the streets a wild howling. Indignant men left their work, women had hysterics, schools spewed forth their children, thousands streamed together, demanding the right to kill the corpse. Not since the Revolution of 1848 had there been such a riot. Clenched fists, curses, the streets themselves seemed to sob and pant, and from a great chorus of voices came the cry: Death to the corpse! Death to the corpse! I understand it all too well. Humanity is fickle. In general, I do not love it. Yet how gladly at that moment would I have joined with them. The mob brooks no jesting. Fearful is its vengeance — give it the right object and it will act justly. When they tore off the coffin lid they saw not a real corpse, but a repulsive skeleton. At that their frenzy evaporated. No man can harm a skeleton; the mob dispersed. Only a bloodhound would not let go. He sought for flesh, but found none. Enraged, he tore the coffin to the ground and bit the blue skirt into small fragments. These he devoured, without pity, to the last morsel. Thus it is that the skirt no longer exists. You will seek it in vain. So as to lessen your labours, I am informing you of all the details. You must seek out the remains on a rubbish dump outside the town. Bones, wretched bones; I doubt whether you will now be able to distinguish them from other refuse. Perhaps you will be lucky. So vile a beast deserved no honourable grave. Since she is now, on reliable evidence, dead I will not speak ill of her. The blue peril is at an end. Only fools would be afraid of a yellow one. China is the land of all lands, the Holiest Land. We must believe in death! From my earliest childhood I have doubted the existence of the soul. I regard the doctrine of transmigration as a mere impertinence and am ready to cast it in the teeth of any Indian. When they found her, on the floor before the writing desk, she was a skeleton; not a soul.

The police had long grown restive. They were only listening out of deference to the Inspector; he, however, found it difficult to return to the sober business of the interrogation. With the prize of victory already in his experienced hands, he cared nothing for prose. He would have liked to riot among new ties — innumerable patterns, guaranteed pure silk — and choose himself out the most beautiful of all, for he was a man of taste. Every Gents Outfitter knew him. He could wander among the counters for hours; he knew how to look at ties without creasing them. That was why they trusted their goods in his hands. Many would even send them on approval. But he didn't care for that. He could stand in a shop all day conversing with the proprietor. When he entered they left the other customers standing. His profession gave him a fund of interesting stories, and he recounted them. People always liked to listen to that kind of thing. Time, he only wanted time to be a smart fellow. To-morrow he'd take a walk. A pity today wasn't to-morrow. He was expected to listen to every interrogation. On principle he didn't because he knew it all. He'd trapped this one all right; there was no getting round him. His nerves were all to pieces, from too much work. All the same he had a right to feel satisfied. He'd achieved something; and could look forward to a new tie.

The caretaker pricked up his ears. He had not been mistaken in the Professor. He was telling them what kind of a man he was. He wasn't a servant. True; that was right; if he wanted to he could call up all the tenants of all the flats; they'd have come running. He could bellow loud enough for all the town to hear. He didn't know what fear was; he was a policeman. He could break into any flat. Not a lock would hold him up; he could smash the door in; with one fist. He didn't wear out shoe-leather; he didn't need to kick. Others would start kicking right away.
He
had strength — at his fingers' ends.

Thérèse kept close by Kien. Painstakingly she swallowed each one of his words. Under her skirt she described a circle first with one foot then with the other, without moving from her place. Such meaningless movements, with her, indicated fear. She was afraid of this man. For eight years she had lived with him in the flat. From moment to moment he grew more like a murderer. Earlier, he never used to utter a word. Now he talked nothing but murders. A dangerous man ! When he spoke of the skeleton before the writing desk, she said quickly to herself: he means his first wife. She too had wanted a will; she was a sensible woman, but the cowardly creature grudged every penny. The skirt was an insult. Do bloodhounds eat skirts? He'd murder anyone. The more you beat him the better he was, but he didn't get enough of it. Thinking up stories! He gave her the three rooms all on his own. What should she want with manuscripts? She wants his bankbook. The books smell of corpses? That was the first she'd heard of it. Eight years, day in, day out, she dusted those books. People screamed at the coffin in the streets. The very idea, screaming at a corpse. First he married for love, then he did you in. Hanging was too good for him. She wouldn't do anyone in. She didn't marry for love either. Let him try coming back to her at the flat ! She was afraid.
He
thinks of money because he grudges every penny. It's not true about the blue skirt. He's doing it to annoy her. There won't be any more murders. The police are here. She could cry with rage. The creature thinks women are just animals. He has her on his conscience. From six to seven he was all alone. That was when he did his murders. He'd better leave the writing desk alone. Had she found anything in it? The caretaker is such a masterful man. She wants a beautiful hearse. A coffin must be black. Horses go with it.

Quicker and quicker came Therese's fears. Sometimes he had murdered his first wife, sometimes he had murdered her. She thought the skirt away from the corpse; the skirt confused her more than anything; she was sorry for the first wife, because he'd treated her skirt so badly. She was ashamed of the wretched funeral. She hated the bloodhound. People have no manners and school children don't get the cane often enough. Men ought to work more and woman can't cook these days. She could give them a piece of her mind. What's it got to do with the tenants? They all come and peep.

She devoured his words: a starving man with a piece of bread. She listened so as not to be afraid. In a twinkling she fitted her own ideas to his sentences. So much thinking made her giddy. She wasn't used to such haste. She'd be proud of her cleverness, if she weren't half dead with fear. Ten times she nearly spoke out and said what he was: her fear of his thoughts forced her to remain silent. She tried to guess what was coming next: he took her by surprise. He was strangling her. She defended herself, she wasn't such a fool, was she, to wait till he'd choked the breath out of her? No, she'd got plenty of time; not till she was eighty she wouldn't die, in fifty years' time. Not before, Mr. Brute wanted it that way.