Pitiful.
  'What is that?' he asked the acne-ridden barman, point-ing at the picture of the dead 
gorilla.
  A shrug was the reply: indifferent to the fate of men and apes.
  'Who knows?' said Solal at his back. 'Who knows?'
  
  It was not the ape of Poe's story, that was certain. That tale had been told in 1835, 
and the photograph was far more recent. Besides, the ape in the picture was a gorilla: 
clearly a gorilla.
  Had history repeated itself? Had another ape, a different species but an ape 
nevertheless, been loosed on the streets of Paris at the turn of the century?
  And if so, if the story of the ape could repeat itself once why not twice?
  As Lewis walked through the freezing night back to the apartment at the Quai de 
Bourbon, the imagined repetition of events became more attractive; and now further 
symmetry presented itself to him. Was it possible that he, the great nephew of C. Auguste 
Dupin, might become involved in another pursuit, not entirely dissimilar from the first?
  The key to Phillipe's room at the Rue des Martyrs was icy in Lewis's hand, and though 
it was now well past midnight he couldn't help but turn off at the bridge and make his 
way up the Boulevard de Sebastopol, west on to Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, then north again 
towards the Place Pigalle. It was a long, exhausting trudge, but he felt in need of the 
cold air, to keep his head clear of emotionalism. It took him an hour and a half to reach 
the Rue des Martyrs.
  
  It was Saturday night, and there was still a lot of noise in a number of the rooms. 
Lewis made his way up the two flights as quietly as he could, his presence masked by the 
din. The key turned easily, and the door swung open.
  Street lights illuminated the room. The bed, which dominated the space, was bare. 
Presumably sheets and blankets had been taken away for forensic tests. The eruption of 
blood onto the mattress was a mulberry colour in the gloom. Otherwise, there was no sign 
of the violence the room had witnessed.
  Lewis reached for the light switch, and snapped it on. Nothing happened. He stepped 
deeply into the room and stared up at the light fixture. The bulb was shattered.
  He half thought of retreating, of leaving the room to darkness, and returning in the 
morning when there were fewer shadows. But as he stood under the broken bulb his eyes 
began to pierce the gloom a little better, and he began to make out the shape of a large 
teak chest of drawers along the far wall. Surely it was a matter of a few minutes work to 
find a change of clothes for Phillipe. Otherwise he would have to return the next day; 
another long journey through the snow. Better to do it now, and save his bones.
  The room was large, and had been left in chaos by the police. Lewis stumbled and cursed 
as he crossed to the chest of drawers, tripping over a fallen lamp, and a shattered vase. 
Downstairs the howls and shrieks of a well-advanced party drowned any noise he made. Was 
it an orgy or a fight? The noise could have been either.
  He struggled with the top drawer of the teak chest, and eventually wrenched it open, 
ferreting in the depths for the bare essentials of Phillipe's comfort: a clean 
undershirt, a pair of socks, initialed handkerchiefs, beautifully pressed.
  He sneezed. The chilly weather had thickened the catarrh on his chest and the mucus in 
his sinuses. A handkerchief was to hand, and he blew his nose, clearing his blocked 
nostrils. For the first time the smell of the room came to him.
  One odour predominated, above the damp, and the stale vegetables. Perfume, the 
lingering scent of perfume.
  He turned into the darkened room, hearing his bones creak, and his eyes fell on the 
shadow behind the bed. A huge shadow, a bulk that swelled as it rose into view.
  It was, he saw at once, the razor-wielding stranger. He was here: in waiting.
  Curiously, Lewis wasn't frightened.
  'What are you doing?' he demanded, in a loud, strong voice.
  As he emerged from his hiding place the face of the stranger came into the watery light 
from the street; a broad, flat-featured, flayed face. His eyes were deep-set, but without 
malice; and he was smiling, smiling generously, at Lewis.
  'Who are you?' Lewis asked again.
  The man shook his head; shook his body, in fact, his gloved hands gesturing around his 
mouth. Was he dumb? The shaking of the head was more violent now, as though he was about 
to have a fit.
  'Are you all right?'
  Suddenly, the shaking stopped, and to his surprise Lewis saw tears, large, syrupy tears 
well up in the stranger's eyes and roll down his rough cheeks and into the bush of his 
beard.
  As if ashamed of his display of feelings, the man turned away from the light, making a 
thick noise of sobbing in his throat, and exited. Lewis followed, more curious about this 
stranger than nervous of his intentions.
  
  'Wait!'
  The man was already half-way down the first flight of stairs, nimble despite his build.
  'Please wait, I want to talk to you,' Lewis began down the stairs after him, but the 
pursuit was lost before it was started. Lewis' joints were stiff with age and the cold, 
and it was late. No time to be running after a much younger man, along a pavement made 
lethal with ice and snow. He chased the stranger as far as the door and then watched him 
run off down the street; his gait was mincing as Catherine had said. Almost a waddle, 
ridiculous in a man so big.
  The smell of his perfume was already snatched away by the north-east wind. Breathless, 
Lewis climbed the stairs again, past the din of the party, to claim a set of clothes for 
Phillipe.
  
  The next day Paris woke to a blizzard of unprecedented ferocity. The calls to Mass went 
unrequited, the hot Sunday croissants went un-bought, the newspapers lay unread on the 
vendors' stalls. Few people had either the nerve or the motive to step outside into the 
howling gale. They sat by their fires, hugging their knees, and dreamt of spring.
  Catherine wanted to go to the prison to visit Phillipe, but Lewis insisted that he go 
alone. It was not simply the cold weather that made him cautious on her behalf; he had 
difficult words to say to Phillipe, delicate questions to ask him. After the previous 
night's encounter in his room, he had no doubt that Phillipe had a rival, probably a 
murderous rival. The only way to save Phillipe's life, it seemed, was to trace the man. 
And if that meant delving into Phillipe's sexual arrangements, then so be it. But it
  
  wasn't a conversation he, or Phillipe, would have wanted to conduct in Catherine's 
presence.
  The fresh clothes Lewis had brought were searched, then given to Phillipe, who took 
them with a nod of thanks.
  'I went to the house last night to fetch these for you.'
  'Oh.'
  'There was somebody in the room already.' Phillipe's jaw muscle began to churn, as he