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john4525

imand no
sooner were these words out of my mouth than Mrs. Dedmon
was on the phone making arrangements for me in her precise
and elegant French.
There was nothing to hold me in Paris anymoreand so I
took the train the following afternoon. This was the end of the
line for memy southward trek to oblivion. Whatever hope I
285 the locked room
might have had (the faint possibility that Fanshawe had re-
turned to Francethe illogical thought that he had found refuge
in the same place twice) evaporated by the time I got there. The
house was empty; there was no sign of anyone. On the second
dayexamining the rooms on the upper ?oorI came across a
short poem Fanshawe had written on the wall―but I knew that
poem alreadyand under it there was a date: August 251972.
He had never come back. I felt foolish now even for thinking it.
For want of anything better to doI spent several days talking
to people in the area: the nearby farmersthe villagersthe peo-
ple of surrounding towns. I introduced myself by showing them
a photograph of Fanshawepretending to be his brotherbut
feeling more like a down-and-out private eyea buffoon clutch-
ing at straws. Some people remembered himothers didn’tstill
others weren’t sure. It made no d [link widoczny dla zalogowanych]