The Investigation by Stanislaw Lem Page B

me?”
    Both men lowered their voices but they spoke angrily.
    “You saw it yourself.”
    “I’m not a doctor.”
    “All right—there’s no rigor mortis. Not a sign; someone must have interrupted it. Someone interrupted it—let’s leave it at that and call it quits.”
    “It won’t come back?”
    “Sometimes it does, at least to a certain degree, but not always. Is this very important?”
    “Are you sure there was any to begin with?”
    “There’s always rigor mortis. You should know that. And please don’t ask me any more questions because I’ve already told you all I know.”
    “Thanks a lot,” Gregory said, not bothering to hide his irritation. He walked over to the door. It was still open, but in order to go in he had to step over the body—actually, to jump over it, since the whole area had already been trampled enough and he didn’t want to leave any unnecessary footprints. Gregory took hold of the latch from the side and pulled. The door, stuck in the snow, didn’t budge. He tugged harder; this time, the door, with a shrill creak, slammed into the wall. It was pitch dark inside, and there was a wide puddle of melted snow on the doorsill. Closing his eyes and waiting patiently until they were accustomed to the darkness, Gregory stood for a moment in the unpleasant cold draft from the walls.
    The mortuary was lit slightly by some light from the small northern window—the broken one; the other window, covered with whitewash, was barely translucent. Looking around, Gregory saw a coffin strewn with shavings standing in the center of the beaten earth floor. Leaning against it was a fir and spruce mourning wreath wrapped in a black ribbon with the letters “R.I.P.” in gold. The coffin lid stood in a corner against the wall. There were more wood shavings scattered beneath the window; alongside the other wall Gregory saw a pickaxe, a shovel, and several coils of dirty, clay-encrusted rope. There were also a few wooden boards.
    Gregory went outside again, closing his eyes for a second in the painful brightness. The constable was covering the corpse with the canvas, trying very hard not to touch it.
    “You had the duty until three this morning, right?” asked Gregory, walking over to him.
    “That’s right, sir.” The constable straightened up.
    “Where was the body?”
    “When I was on duty, sir? In the coffin.”
    “How do you know? Did you check it?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “How, by opening the door?”
    “No sir, but I shined my flashlight through the window.”
    “Was the windowpane broken?”
    “No.”
    “What about the coffin?”
    “I don’t understand, sir.”
    “Was the coffin open?”
    “Yes sir,”
    “What position was the corpse in?”
    “The usual one, sir.”
    “Why wasn’t it dressed?”
    The constable livened up a little.
    “The funeral was supposed to be today, sir. About the clothing—it’s a long story, it is. When Hansel’s wife walked out on him—that was two years ago—his sister moved in. She’s a pretty difficult woman, hard to get along with. Well, he died in the middle of breakfast and she didn’t want to give up the suit he was wearing because it was too new. She was supposed to give an old suit to the undertaker, but when he came to pick up the body she told him she’d decided to take an even older suit and dye it black. The undertaker didn’t want to make another trip, so he took the body the way it was. She was supposed to bring the suit this morning—”
    “Gregory, I want to go back to London. You don’t need me here anymore,” Sorensen interrupted. “Let me take the car. You can get another one at the station house.”
    “We’ll talk about that in a minute,” Gregory snapped. Sorensen was beginning to get on his nerves. A moment later, though, he added, “I’ll try to work something out for you.” Gregory was staring at the wrinkled canvas. Though he’d only seen the corpse for a few moments, he remembered it vividly. The dead man was a