Free The Map of Chaos by Félix J. Palma Page B

eyes.
    â€œBrilliant, Inspector Clayton.” She smiled. “An exposition as intelligent as it was entertaining. I have no doubt that a bright future awaits you at Scotland Yard.”
    Clayton acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow, preferring not to say anything that might break the spell of the unanimous admiration he had conjured around him, and wondered whether he hadn’t at last managed to impress the countess. He had never been confronted by a woman like her before and was ignorant of the basic rules of refined courtship: after all, he was no more than a humble policeman, perhaps too lowly for her, or too young, or too unsophisticated, doubtless too much in love. He was not even sure whether it was possible to seduce a woman like Valerie de Bompard with his intellect, or what she might want from a man like him. A night of passion, a moment’s amusement, a respite from loneliness, or perhaps an eccentric noblewoman’s mere whim? He was hoping for a great deal more. But it was pointless to surmise. Very soon, the expectations Valerie de Bompard had been sowing in the air around him would either become a reality or would vanish forever. Because the case had been solved, they had caught the werewolf, and the next day their carriage would depart for London . . . although perhaps with only one detective on board. Everything would depend on what happened once the dinner was over.
    Clayton would have been happy to remain trapped in that instant for all eternity, his gaze intertwined with that of the countess and glimpsing in her smile the promise of a happiness he had never believed existed, but at that very moment the servants, who had doubtless been waiting outside the door for him to finish his speech, burst into the room carrying trays piled high with cakes, fruit, cheese, and bottles of liqueur. The inspector tried to conceal his irritation as he watched the guests heading for their places, more excited by the prodigious array of desserts than by Clayton’s brilliant deductions, which moments before they had so passionately applauded. Accepting that he had been defeated by a pile of cakes, the inspector walked back to his seat with an ironic smile. As he passed the countess’s portrait, he could not help glancing at it with a look of frustration. But no sooner had Clayton clasped the back of his chair than something deep inside made him turn toward the portrait once more. He took two strides and found himself standing before the canvas, indifferent to whether his sudden interest might puzzle the countess or the other guests. Suddenly, the rest of the world had disappeared beneath a veil of fog. All that remained was him and the painting, which had produced a stab of anxiety he found impossible to explain.
    As the flurry of plates and glasses continued behind him, he strove to examine every inch of the canvas, which showed Valerie de Bompard in all her majestic beauty, standing beside a large table piled with neat stacks of books and papers. The day they had arrived at the castle, Captain Sinclair had praised the portrait to the skies, and afterward the countess had informed them it was the work of her late husband, the count de Bompard, a man of many talents, one of which, it seemed, was painting. In fact, the countess had posed for the portrait in her husband’s study, and now Clayton could make out in the background, purposefully made hazy by the artist, a vast library whose uppermost reaches vanished into the odd-looking shadows that enveloped the ceiling. Thick, exquisitely bound volumes lined the shelves, alongside an array of objects that Clayton scarcely recognized save for one or two. There was a gilt telescope, a collection of flasks, bottles, and funnels arranged in order of size, an enormous armillary sphere, and . . . It took him a few moments to take in what was next to the sphere. When he did, an icy fear ran though his body like snake venom, while in