kandaurov
03-30-2007, 05:54 PM
PRELUDE: I was very much in doubt whether to also post the very last segment or not. Though it might confound, it really should reveal some clues. What do you make of it? Be brutally honest about the story in general :)
Mr Utterson, thirty-something, stout, solemn countenance, dark and lawn-short hair, clean shave, dressed in a respectable manner, closed the door behind him with a sigh. He looked quite miserable that day, as if he had spent the night tossing to and fro in his bed, but actually he had just slept eight hours straight. 'Guess it's that “Monday morning” feel', Mr Utterson had lied to himself, while he absent-mindedly stirred the coffee, which would render him capable of walking without falling asleep – literally.
He glanced about the dark blue walls of the corridor of his apartment, which was located on the fifth floor, and noticed that the daylight was as yet to break in. To his left there was the elevator. To his right, the stairs. Mr Utterson, whose first name little people knew, did not for a moment glance at the tempting elevator, for he had always preferred to take the stairs. It did not bother him too much to do a bit of exercise on a daily basis, and it was another way of sparing electric energy, and thus be more ecological. He also took as much time when using the stairs as he did when using the elevator. More importantly, though, he preferred a great deal descending on his own rather than inside that claustrophobic, pulley-manoeuvred parallelepiped.
As he went down the stairs, he found himself wondering where could Lenore be in that moment. He earnestly hoped she was alright and well accommodated, wherever she might be. He could still remember her every feature; after all, only a couple of days had gone by. We did not want them to slip away from his mind, for it was possible that she would never come back. Perhaps this time that was it. Perhaps he had seen the last of her. Utterson asked himself rhetorically, almost aloud: Was it my fault? Oh, most certainly so. I was not listening to what she was trying to get across me, all tangled and absorbed in work as I was, as I always am. I have been an awful husband these last months. His regret caused an agonizing feeling in his chest. If it is the heart, he pondered, the soul, I don't know, who the devil knows, it is just pain. Plain, fully deserved pain.
Mr Utterson was about midway through, slowed down considerably by his drowsy pace and anguished reflection, when he heard little steps going upstairs, from below. They succeeded themselves very swiftly, though one could tell that it was not a pace of hurry. As soon as the face surfaced from the shadows of dawn, Utterson flinched: it was Mr Teufel. Raphael Teufel was in his late fifties, a thin, greyish-haired though balding man, who kept smiling no matter what (which always had an awkward effect in funerals). He gave an impression of being quite a polite and helpful gentleman, but Utterson believed that there was something wrong about him. Something frighteningly wrong.
'Why, good morning, Mr Teufel!', Utterson finally managed to blurt out, all too suddenly. Only then had he become aware of the silence.
Raphael did not seem to mind this awkward moment, or even notice, for that matter. 'Good morning, Mr Utterson', he replied, with a very slow and calm voice. Every syllable was intoned with deliberation, precision and what seemed to be an inward delight. 'And how have we been?' And there it was, the kind and gentle smile that always made Utterson feel uneasy.
'Erm, hm-hm, just fine, just fine. I'm on my way to work, now.'
'So it seems', said Teufel, surveying the briefcase Utterson was holding with shallow curiosity. He then waved his always gloved hand slowly and said, 'Well, see you around.'
'Bye, then' Utterson muttered, almost inwardly. Raphael Teufel proceeded to climb the stairs, with such agility that could hardly be associated with his age, and even his manner of speaking. Utterson shrugged, and resumed his descent. The reason he had stopped on his tracks when he encountered his neighbour can be explained in a few words. Fourteen years ago, the room Utterson was now in was the only one available, and Mr Teufel had expressed his desire of living in that building, no matter what room. For some reason, it meant the world to Mr Teufel to live in that precise apartment. However, Utterson had his connections, and managed to get it for a lower price and even though Teufel had made a bid for it first. Which, Utterson thought, would be enough for Teufel to hold a grudge against him.
But now, fourteen years later, Mr Teufel had managed to buy not only a room, in the sixth floor and in which he would dwell, but the whole ten-floor building, except for Utterson's own apartment, directly below the one in which he now lived, for he would not sell for any price. He had finally paid the last rent and did not feel like getting back to paying monthly all over again, for the rest of his life. From all of this resulted the tension between the two. That is partly why Teufel's smile made Utterson feel uneasy; it was as if Mr Teufel was in denial, as if they were like two neighbours who lent to one another their mowing equipment and had barbeques on every Sunday. Did Teufel really not hold anything against him? That was a question for the ages, no one could know for sure. Utterson, however, could not help having his mind tickled by that uncertainty every time he saw the fellow.
More awake, but still slowed down by reflection, Utterson took a while before he got to the final steps. As he is about to land on the very last one, suddenly he hears a ding. He progressively halts, turning his head instinctively to where the sound came from. The elevator door opens, and off comes Mr Teufel, not noticing (or not minding?) Utterson. Long after Mr Teufel had left the premises did Utterson stand on the same spot, wondering why Mr Teufel had come back down, why he had used the elevator, and, coming to think of it, why was he getting into the building at ten past six? Where had he been? None of it mattered, Utterson reminded to himself. In fact, he was running late for work, so he shook off from his head all those gossip-like speculations and headed to the tube.
Back from a hard day's work, Utterson opened his stubborn door with fatigued patience and plunged to his worn out, once-green couch. He thought about nothing, he merely breathed, long and hard, renewing his oxygen almost entirely by means of sighing. Out of the blue a noise echoed from the kitchen. He startled; his heart thumped so hard that we has sure it was audible five meters away. Utterson rushed unhesitatingly towards the kitchen, his eyes gleaming with hope. A pan had fallen on its own. Every bit of energy that had been sparking in him faded abruptly. He did not even go through the trouble of picking it up, and returned to the couch. One might have thought he was fighting a tide, a gust and a crowd of people all at the same time, judging by the rate with which he gave each step. He starred at the unplugged TV and stuck his hair in between his fingers while reflecting. Why did I not listen to what she was trying to say? She was warning me about something... or someone. Yes, some suspicion she had about someone. Was it? I don't know. Why did I start that stupid argument? Why did I not impede her from leaving? Why? Why, why, why? The whole pan incident had gotten his mind going again, and his tears rolling down his cheeks again, and his torment would only be appeased once his eyes surrendered to fatigue and his mind were hushed by dreams.
Mr Utterson, still thirty-something and stout, slightly troubled countenance, dark and shortish hair, three day beard, dressed in an acceptable manner, closed the door behind him with a sigh. Before he had time to start moaning inwardly about how terrible his previous days had been, he got a glimpse of the bald and spotless top of Mr Teufel's head. He had not seen him since a few days ago, when they came across each other in the stairs and Teufel wound up coming from the elevator in the ground floor. Utterson felt the usual shiver down his spine and when on his way. He was surprised not to hear Mr Teufel's steps during his descent down the stairs, let alone seeing him. That would come soon enough; Utterson's left foot had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the ding announced a paradoxally both predictable and unexpected sight: Raphael Teufel, in all his might and majesticness, made his way through the elevator door and went on his way.
This completely baffled Utterson. Why would he take the elevator, since he was already so near the ground floor? He could hardly see any logic in both times Teufel almost tauntingly took the elevator. He gave the matter a rest, for he had greater problems at hand, and exited the building, now with his mind elsewhere, worried sick with his absent loved one.
Two days later, however, the same situation threatened to repeat itself. Again he saw, just in time, Mr Teufel's head hurriedly submerging into the lightlessness of not-quite-yet-daytime. Although he started by playing it down, for coincidences happen, Utterson gradually became uneasy, and before he had reached the first floor he decided to stop and wait for two minutes or so. He was a bit embarrassed by his paranoidal conduct, but he wanted to end all that nonsense for good. After three minutes or so he resumed his steps. Apparently untroubled, merely thinking about the upcoming paperwork which he always had to deal with in his office by this time of the month, there was still a thought in the back of his brain. Some sort of nervous expectation. Through his mind's eye, Utterson was already imagining himself running into Teufel in the ground floor yet again.
What should have come as no surprise, then, did in fact almost terrify Utterson: there he was, coming out of the elevator, smiling to himself and seemingly unaware of being a cause of astonishment. This was to happen a number of times in the two following weeks, (strangely enough, and even though each floor had several families, in early morning he never saw anyone but Raphael Teufel) but only once did Utterson actually run into him again. Mr Teufel was going upstairs, again before daybreak, and Utterson, by now well beyond merely perplex by sighting that man, was this time quite unable to speak, even as much as look at him without bewilderment. Mr Teufel, as though facing an acquaintance of his glad to see him, stopped short and indulged Utterson with his unnaturally soothing words: 'Mr Utterson, such a pleasant coincidence, that we should see each other here again. How do you do?'
Again Utterson remained silent. He felt more than once an impulse to ask that man what in God's name he was doing, taunting him the way he was. This inner conflict was part of the reason why he did not even have the presence of spirit to answer politely. Raphael Teufel, again, did not seem to notice, let alone be offended by it, and proceeded, 'For two weeks or so I have not seen Mrs Utterson. How is she? Is she ill?'
Finally Utterson gathered enough strength to speak. Too dumbstruck to come up with a plausible lie, he just told what was happening. He said, sorrowfully, and almost as slowly as Teufel used to speak, 'Well, unfortunately she has gone away. I'm not quite sure where to, or for how long, but she will be back soon enough'.
'Oh, I'm most sorry to hear that', Teufel replied. Though there was sincerity enough in his words, he did not seem to be surprised at all, which enticed Utterson's curiosity and uneasiness even more. Nevertheless, he smiled bitterly. The smile was meant to appreciate Mr Teufel's concern. Raphael Teufel smiled back, what can best be described as happily. Utterson could not quite put his finger on what was it that was so upsetting in that elderly, kind figure (apart from what had recently been happening), but now he felt pretty sure it was the spark in his eyes, like a mad man's spark. Not that Teufel had ever done anything that could be interpreted as being the manifestation of a deeply troubled mind; even the most recent elevator-related events were at most a strange mania. Notwithstanding, that bright twinkle in those wide open eyes denounced, to Utterson, the presence of a deranged man, with barely-contained madness.
'Well then', said Mr Teufel, still indifferent to Utterson's indiscrete muteness, 'I guess I'll be on my way now. Goodbye, Mr Utterson'.
Raphael Teufel, as if without expecting a reply, continued to climb the stairs, and soon was out first of Utterson's field of vision than of his ear range.
With a demented look in his eyes himself, Utterson descended the stairs with an uneven pace. He seemed to just let himself go, and was on the verge of losing balance more than once. This was the first time he was not the least bit amazed by sighting Mr Teufel coming out of the elevator. At work, throughout the whole day, Utterson did not touch as much as a sheet of his daily load of work. He was absolutely consumed by his obsession of trying to understand those immensely insignificant and yet intriguing acts of Mr Teufel's. He thought of nothing else, he greeted no one at work, he came up with the most delirious theories, he went through impressive calculations as an unsuccessful attempt to find a common link between the days he had seen Teufel and his elevator. On his way back home he kept on musing, increasingly more bewildered, and it started to show on his acts, on his manner, and on his shunning of social interaction whatsoever. He did not even spare a second to think about his missing Lenore, which was quite a novelty, and, as he himself would realise the day after, deeply disturbing.
Mr Utterson, still thirty-something, now a tad thinner as a result of bad nutrition, lifeless countenance, dark and longish hair, fully-grown beard, dressed in a rather careless manner, closed the door behind him with a sigh. Twenty-one days had passed since the first strange encounter with Mr Teufel. He used to only have a dim idea, but now he knew the days of all events by heart, how many times he had gone up when he saw him and how many times he had gone down, in which days he went up, in which days he went down, the maximum of interval between elevator days, and so on. His eyes were devoid of curiosity, paranoia, desires, fears, dreams, feelings in general. They were completely blank, and wandered with no other purpose than to make sure he would not bump into a wall or miss a step. His attention drifted, his thoughts were washed out of his mind. Utterson was now absolutely certain that Lenore was not to come back, for whichever reason, be it her will or her death. Due to his recent nonproductivity, the word around the office was that he was on the brink of getting the sack. A massive layoff was on the horizon, and he was surely one of the first on the list.
This did not upset him. He had now been reduced to the meaninglessness of discovering the mystery involving an elderly man and his strange use of the elevator. The purpose of his life had been reduced to that. In fact, every time he thought he was close to cracking the case, Utterson could not help feeling a bolt of terror going through him: if this was to end, if he was to finally understand why, what then? What next? And was all of this nonsense just a diversion from a once perfect life falling apart? That, however, was not even close of making him back down. He was now fully committed to his enterprise.
Just as he sighed he heard the swift and smooth steps that he knew ever so well. They were heading to him. He simply waited. Then, the man's feet entered in his field of vision. Then the old knees, with patches instead of the original fabric in that area of the trousers. Then his torso, slick and thin, disguised by four layers of blue-hued clothes. Then the chin, that annoying goatee; the mouth!, the intolerable smile!, the nose, the ears, the eyes, that twinkle, that malice, that sheer, unbound evil! Raphael Teufel, the man whom he had regretted displease and now most viscerally abhorred, was once again in front of him. His monotone, carefully rhythmical voice now pierced Utterson's ears as though they were shrieks from demonic beasts.
'Good morning, Mr Utterson. Why, doesn't that beard suit you so well? With properly ironed clothes you would look very distinguished. I have a feeling that today something extraordinary will happen, I just do. Don't you? Oh well, I know it may seem absurd, but the truth is I've never had reasons to complain from my hunches. Well, I'm off, then. Goodbye, Mr Utterson'.
The dialog (perhaps “monolog” would be a more appropriated term) lasted for no less than one minute, with long pauses to enable response from Utterson. He had no intention to communicate, not even by non-verbal means. He simply stared, in quite a passive-aggressive manner. He barely paid attention to what was being told to him, except for a few words: “something extraordinary will happen”. As Mr Teufel disappeared from his sight, it dawned on him: of course! The elevator! All of a sudden a blaze of vitality broke through the opaque, lifeless veil in his eyes. The elevator! That is it! I must go by elevator! How incredibly stupid of me, never to had thought of this!
He hastily drove his index to the button that calls the elevator. He pressed it six times before he realised that it had opened right after the first time. It was conveniently on his floor. He got in, shut the door and pressed the button equivalent to the ground floor. Right before the elevator started moving downwards, he took a quick glance at the insides of that enigmatic, but up until recently merely downright detestable, elevator. Its walls were faint green and the buttons were yellow. It had a large mirror and nothing else.
Utterson was about to go past the third floor when it occurred to him that if he did get down there all by himself he would prove nothing. Perhaps except for the fact that he had gone completely crazy. And what other possibility was there? That Raphael Teufel simply warped into the elevator midway through a fall? Utterson began to fully regain his consciousness and to perceive how utterly absurd his quest was. Instead of going out there to look for his wife, to convince her to come back, he had been obsessed with Teufel's petty excuse for an enigma, so much so that he now wondered whether he had been submitted to some kind of hypnotic domination. Why else would he become in such a bewildered state of mind?
He was now past the second floor, and all thoughtful reflections were fading, his eyes were regaining that bleak vagueness, and expectancy was almost overwhelming. Not completely, for Utterson was still more or less aware of the physical world, the world beyond his lunacy. He perceived, for instance, that it took less time from the fifth to the fourth floor than from the fourth to the third. And even more so from the third to the second. After a second's thought, Utterson trembled in horror, and rushed to press the “stop” button. Nothing happened. He started pressing every button, desperate. The speed had increased; the elevator was having a free fall. He shouted as loud as his rough, lately unused voice could allow, and kicked the door with all his might. Utterson howled for help, but not even the fastest of angels could reach him before the elevator crashed violently to the ground.
Utterson's neighbourhood was in shock for months. Such tragedy, just blocks away from my family! My God, how could this have happened in my own apartment? A once quiet urban setting was now a stage for reporters to shine in. Quite a number of vans from television channels got there in a record time, and every journalist sought from the locals' interviews another juicy, dramatic or compromising detail. After an investigation, the head of the local police station came with a verdict, and nearly a hundred of anxious and excited faces held their breath while sticking out, as far as the arm could reach without hurting the police officer, the microphone.
'What could have been a very hard case to solve turned out to be quite simple. It was not an accident, as it was rightly supposed since the beginning of the investigation. It was a qualified homicide, followed by suicide. Obviously, the elevator in which Gregor Utterson passed away didn't fall on its own. Right next to the place where it had been sabotaged was the lifeless body of Eleanor Utterson, shot in the head once. Our forensic experts have evidence that she died after Mr Utterson, but not too long afterwards. She had a gun beside her, with only her prints. Ballistic shows that the shot took place in that very spot. The crime weapon is a .40 colt, purchased in the dawn after she stormed out of her apartment, after having had a loud and fierce argument, which was overheard by several neighbours. Not one witness ever saw or heard of Mrs Lenore's return. She did show signs of having been gagged, having had her hands tied and her feet chained, but that was most probably a sick little dominatrix fetish of theirs. The facts lead us to believe that Eleanor Utterson set up her husband to death, then proceeded, like in most cases, to put an end to her life. She must have lured him somehow to the elevator. Bottom line is that Eleanor Utterson had a motive, has in the crime scene, and has not one alibi. This case is closed'.
'Mr Baron, Mr Baron, excuse me', a reporter shouted, elbowing her way to a pole position, 'Patricia Vane, for Channel Ten: why did she not kill him with the gun, then?'
'Well,' officer Robert Baron responded, scratching his head while staring at the sky, 'a witness did mention that Gregor Utterson didn't, for anything in the world, take the elevator. I guess that she wanted it to be morbidly ironic. You know how psychotic minds work, don't you? Full of twisted games, charades, symbolisms, and the like. Now if you'll excuse me, I must deliver the fully accounted report to my superiors'.
Mr Utterson, thirty-something, stout, solemn countenance, dark and lawn-short hair, clean shave, dressed in a respectable manner, closed the door behind him with a sigh. He looked quite miserable that day, as if he had spent the night tossing to and fro in his bed, but actually he had just slept eight hours straight. 'Guess it's that “Monday morning” feel', Mr Utterson had lied to himself, while he absent-mindedly stirred the coffee, which would render him capable of walking without falling asleep – literally.
He glanced about the dark blue walls of the corridor of his apartment, which was located on the fifth floor, and noticed that the daylight was as yet to break in. To his left there was the elevator. To his right, the stairs. Mr Utterson, whose first name little people knew, did not for a moment glance at the tempting elevator, for he had always preferred to take the stairs. It did not bother him too much to do a bit of exercise on a daily basis, and it was another way of sparing electric energy, and thus be more ecological. He also took as much time when using the stairs as he did when using the elevator. More importantly, though, he preferred a great deal descending on his own rather than inside that claustrophobic, pulley-manoeuvred parallelepiped.
As he went down the stairs, he found himself wondering where could Lenore be in that moment. He earnestly hoped she was alright and well accommodated, wherever she might be. He could still remember her every feature; after all, only a couple of days had gone by. We did not want them to slip away from his mind, for it was possible that she would never come back. Perhaps this time that was it. Perhaps he had seen the last of her. Utterson asked himself rhetorically, almost aloud: Was it my fault? Oh, most certainly so. I was not listening to what she was trying to get across me, all tangled and absorbed in work as I was, as I always am. I have been an awful husband these last months. His regret caused an agonizing feeling in his chest. If it is the heart, he pondered, the soul, I don't know, who the devil knows, it is just pain. Plain, fully deserved pain.
Mr Utterson was about midway through, slowed down considerably by his drowsy pace and anguished reflection, when he heard little steps going upstairs, from below. They succeeded themselves very swiftly, though one could tell that it was not a pace of hurry. As soon as the face surfaced from the shadows of dawn, Utterson flinched: it was Mr Teufel. Raphael Teufel was in his late fifties, a thin, greyish-haired though balding man, who kept smiling no matter what (which always had an awkward effect in funerals). He gave an impression of being quite a polite and helpful gentleman, but Utterson believed that there was something wrong about him. Something frighteningly wrong.
'Why, good morning, Mr Teufel!', Utterson finally managed to blurt out, all too suddenly. Only then had he become aware of the silence.
Raphael did not seem to mind this awkward moment, or even notice, for that matter. 'Good morning, Mr Utterson', he replied, with a very slow and calm voice. Every syllable was intoned with deliberation, precision and what seemed to be an inward delight. 'And how have we been?' And there it was, the kind and gentle smile that always made Utterson feel uneasy.
'Erm, hm-hm, just fine, just fine. I'm on my way to work, now.'
'So it seems', said Teufel, surveying the briefcase Utterson was holding with shallow curiosity. He then waved his always gloved hand slowly and said, 'Well, see you around.'
'Bye, then' Utterson muttered, almost inwardly. Raphael Teufel proceeded to climb the stairs, with such agility that could hardly be associated with his age, and even his manner of speaking. Utterson shrugged, and resumed his descent. The reason he had stopped on his tracks when he encountered his neighbour can be explained in a few words. Fourteen years ago, the room Utterson was now in was the only one available, and Mr Teufel had expressed his desire of living in that building, no matter what room. For some reason, it meant the world to Mr Teufel to live in that precise apartment. However, Utterson had his connections, and managed to get it for a lower price and even though Teufel had made a bid for it first. Which, Utterson thought, would be enough for Teufel to hold a grudge against him.
But now, fourteen years later, Mr Teufel had managed to buy not only a room, in the sixth floor and in which he would dwell, but the whole ten-floor building, except for Utterson's own apartment, directly below the one in which he now lived, for he would not sell for any price. He had finally paid the last rent and did not feel like getting back to paying monthly all over again, for the rest of his life. From all of this resulted the tension between the two. That is partly why Teufel's smile made Utterson feel uneasy; it was as if Mr Teufel was in denial, as if they were like two neighbours who lent to one another their mowing equipment and had barbeques on every Sunday. Did Teufel really not hold anything against him? That was a question for the ages, no one could know for sure. Utterson, however, could not help having his mind tickled by that uncertainty every time he saw the fellow.
More awake, but still slowed down by reflection, Utterson took a while before he got to the final steps. As he is about to land on the very last one, suddenly he hears a ding. He progressively halts, turning his head instinctively to where the sound came from. The elevator door opens, and off comes Mr Teufel, not noticing (or not minding?) Utterson. Long after Mr Teufel had left the premises did Utterson stand on the same spot, wondering why Mr Teufel had come back down, why he had used the elevator, and, coming to think of it, why was he getting into the building at ten past six? Where had he been? None of it mattered, Utterson reminded to himself. In fact, he was running late for work, so he shook off from his head all those gossip-like speculations and headed to the tube.
Back from a hard day's work, Utterson opened his stubborn door with fatigued patience and plunged to his worn out, once-green couch. He thought about nothing, he merely breathed, long and hard, renewing his oxygen almost entirely by means of sighing. Out of the blue a noise echoed from the kitchen. He startled; his heart thumped so hard that we has sure it was audible five meters away. Utterson rushed unhesitatingly towards the kitchen, his eyes gleaming with hope. A pan had fallen on its own. Every bit of energy that had been sparking in him faded abruptly. He did not even go through the trouble of picking it up, and returned to the couch. One might have thought he was fighting a tide, a gust and a crowd of people all at the same time, judging by the rate with which he gave each step. He starred at the unplugged TV and stuck his hair in between his fingers while reflecting. Why did I not listen to what she was trying to say? She was warning me about something... or someone. Yes, some suspicion she had about someone. Was it? I don't know. Why did I start that stupid argument? Why did I not impede her from leaving? Why? Why, why, why? The whole pan incident had gotten his mind going again, and his tears rolling down his cheeks again, and his torment would only be appeased once his eyes surrendered to fatigue and his mind were hushed by dreams.
Mr Utterson, still thirty-something and stout, slightly troubled countenance, dark and shortish hair, three day beard, dressed in an acceptable manner, closed the door behind him with a sigh. Before he had time to start moaning inwardly about how terrible his previous days had been, he got a glimpse of the bald and spotless top of Mr Teufel's head. He had not seen him since a few days ago, when they came across each other in the stairs and Teufel wound up coming from the elevator in the ground floor. Utterson felt the usual shiver down his spine and when on his way. He was surprised not to hear Mr Teufel's steps during his descent down the stairs, let alone seeing him. That would come soon enough; Utterson's left foot had just reached the bottom of the stairs when the ding announced a paradoxally both predictable and unexpected sight: Raphael Teufel, in all his might and majesticness, made his way through the elevator door and went on his way.
This completely baffled Utterson. Why would he take the elevator, since he was already so near the ground floor? He could hardly see any logic in both times Teufel almost tauntingly took the elevator. He gave the matter a rest, for he had greater problems at hand, and exited the building, now with his mind elsewhere, worried sick with his absent loved one.
Two days later, however, the same situation threatened to repeat itself. Again he saw, just in time, Mr Teufel's head hurriedly submerging into the lightlessness of not-quite-yet-daytime. Although he started by playing it down, for coincidences happen, Utterson gradually became uneasy, and before he had reached the first floor he decided to stop and wait for two minutes or so. He was a bit embarrassed by his paranoidal conduct, but he wanted to end all that nonsense for good. After three minutes or so he resumed his steps. Apparently untroubled, merely thinking about the upcoming paperwork which he always had to deal with in his office by this time of the month, there was still a thought in the back of his brain. Some sort of nervous expectation. Through his mind's eye, Utterson was already imagining himself running into Teufel in the ground floor yet again.
What should have come as no surprise, then, did in fact almost terrify Utterson: there he was, coming out of the elevator, smiling to himself and seemingly unaware of being a cause of astonishment. This was to happen a number of times in the two following weeks, (strangely enough, and even though each floor had several families, in early morning he never saw anyone but Raphael Teufel) but only once did Utterson actually run into him again. Mr Teufel was going upstairs, again before daybreak, and Utterson, by now well beyond merely perplex by sighting that man, was this time quite unable to speak, even as much as look at him without bewilderment. Mr Teufel, as though facing an acquaintance of his glad to see him, stopped short and indulged Utterson with his unnaturally soothing words: 'Mr Utterson, such a pleasant coincidence, that we should see each other here again. How do you do?'
Again Utterson remained silent. He felt more than once an impulse to ask that man what in God's name he was doing, taunting him the way he was. This inner conflict was part of the reason why he did not even have the presence of spirit to answer politely. Raphael Teufel, again, did not seem to notice, let alone be offended by it, and proceeded, 'For two weeks or so I have not seen Mrs Utterson. How is she? Is she ill?'
Finally Utterson gathered enough strength to speak. Too dumbstruck to come up with a plausible lie, he just told what was happening. He said, sorrowfully, and almost as slowly as Teufel used to speak, 'Well, unfortunately she has gone away. I'm not quite sure where to, or for how long, but she will be back soon enough'.
'Oh, I'm most sorry to hear that', Teufel replied. Though there was sincerity enough in his words, he did not seem to be surprised at all, which enticed Utterson's curiosity and uneasiness even more. Nevertheless, he smiled bitterly. The smile was meant to appreciate Mr Teufel's concern. Raphael Teufel smiled back, what can best be described as happily. Utterson could not quite put his finger on what was it that was so upsetting in that elderly, kind figure (apart from what had recently been happening), but now he felt pretty sure it was the spark in his eyes, like a mad man's spark. Not that Teufel had ever done anything that could be interpreted as being the manifestation of a deeply troubled mind; even the most recent elevator-related events were at most a strange mania. Notwithstanding, that bright twinkle in those wide open eyes denounced, to Utterson, the presence of a deranged man, with barely-contained madness.
'Well then', said Mr Teufel, still indifferent to Utterson's indiscrete muteness, 'I guess I'll be on my way now. Goodbye, Mr Utterson'.
Raphael Teufel, as if without expecting a reply, continued to climb the stairs, and soon was out first of Utterson's field of vision than of his ear range.
With a demented look in his eyes himself, Utterson descended the stairs with an uneven pace. He seemed to just let himself go, and was on the verge of losing balance more than once. This was the first time he was not the least bit amazed by sighting Mr Teufel coming out of the elevator. At work, throughout the whole day, Utterson did not touch as much as a sheet of his daily load of work. He was absolutely consumed by his obsession of trying to understand those immensely insignificant and yet intriguing acts of Mr Teufel's. He thought of nothing else, he greeted no one at work, he came up with the most delirious theories, he went through impressive calculations as an unsuccessful attempt to find a common link between the days he had seen Teufel and his elevator. On his way back home he kept on musing, increasingly more bewildered, and it started to show on his acts, on his manner, and on his shunning of social interaction whatsoever. He did not even spare a second to think about his missing Lenore, which was quite a novelty, and, as he himself would realise the day after, deeply disturbing.
Mr Utterson, still thirty-something, now a tad thinner as a result of bad nutrition, lifeless countenance, dark and longish hair, fully-grown beard, dressed in a rather careless manner, closed the door behind him with a sigh. Twenty-one days had passed since the first strange encounter with Mr Teufel. He used to only have a dim idea, but now he knew the days of all events by heart, how many times he had gone up when he saw him and how many times he had gone down, in which days he went up, in which days he went down, the maximum of interval between elevator days, and so on. His eyes were devoid of curiosity, paranoia, desires, fears, dreams, feelings in general. They were completely blank, and wandered with no other purpose than to make sure he would not bump into a wall or miss a step. His attention drifted, his thoughts were washed out of his mind. Utterson was now absolutely certain that Lenore was not to come back, for whichever reason, be it her will or her death. Due to his recent nonproductivity, the word around the office was that he was on the brink of getting the sack. A massive layoff was on the horizon, and he was surely one of the first on the list.
This did not upset him. He had now been reduced to the meaninglessness of discovering the mystery involving an elderly man and his strange use of the elevator. The purpose of his life had been reduced to that. In fact, every time he thought he was close to cracking the case, Utterson could not help feeling a bolt of terror going through him: if this was to end, if he was to finally understand why, what then? What next? And was all of this nonsense just a diversion from a once perfect life falling apart? That, however, was not even close of making him back down. He was now fully committed to his enterprise.
Just as he sighed he heard the swift and smooth steps that he knew ever so well. They were heading to him. He simply waited. Then, the man's feet entered in his field of vision. Then the old knees, with patches instead of the original fabric in that area of the trousers. Then his torso, slick and thin, disguised by four layers of blue-hued clothes. Then the chin, that annoying goatee; the mouth!, the intolerable smile!, the nose, the ears, the eyes, that twinkle, that malice, that sheer, unbound evil! Raphael Teufel, the man whom he had regretted displease and now most viscerally abhorred, was once again in front of him. His monotone, carefully rhythmical voice now pierced Utterson's ears as though they were shrieks from demonic beasts.
'Good morning, Mr Utterson. Why, doesn't that beard suit you so well? With properly ironed clothes you would look very distinguished. I have a feeling that today something extraordinary will happen, I just do. Don't you? Oh well, I know it may seem absurd, but the truth is I've never had reasons to complain from my hunches. Well, I'm off, then. Goodbye, Mr Utterson'.
The dialog (perhaps “monolog” would be a more appropriated term) lasted for no less than one minute, with long pauses to enable response from Utterson. He had no intention to communicate, not even by non-verbal means. He simply stared, in quite a passive-aggressive manner. He barely paid attention to what was being told to him, except for a few words: “something extraordinary will happen”. As Mr Teufel disappeared from his sight, it dawned on him: of course! The elevator! All of a sudden a blaze of vitality broke through the opaque, lifeless veil in his eyes. The elevator! That is it! I must go by elevator! How incredibly stupid of me, never to had thought of this!
He hastily drove his index to the button that calls the elevator. He pressed it six times before he realised that it had opened right after the first time. It was conveniently on his floor. He got in, shut the door and pressed the button equivalent to the ground floor. Right before the elevator started moving downwards, he took a quick glance at the insides of that enigmatic, but up until recently merely downright detestable, elevator. Its walls were faint green and the buttons were yellow. It had a large mirror and nothing else.
Utterson was about to go past the third floor when it occurred to him that if he did get down there all by himself he would prove nothing. Perhaps except for the fact that he had gone completely crazy. And what other possibility was there? That Raphael Teufel simply warped into the elevator midway through a fall? Utterson began to fully regain his consciousness and to perceive how utterly absurd his quest was. Instead of going out there to look for his wife, to convince her to come back, he had been obsessed with Teufel's petty excuse for an enigma, so much so that he now wondered whether he had been submitted to some kind of hypnotic domination. Why else would he become in such a bewildered state of mind?
He was now past the second floor, and all thoughtful reflections were fading, his eyes were regaining that bleak vagueness, and expectancy was almost overwhelming. Not completely, for Utterson was still more or less aware of the physical world, the world beyond his lunacy. He perceived, for instance, that it took less time from the fifth to the fourth floor than from the fourth to the third. And even more so from the third to the second. After a second's thought, Utterson trembled in horror, and rushed to press the “stop” button. Nothing happened. He started pressing every button, desperate. The speed had increased; the elevator was having a free fall. He shouted as loud as his rough, lately unused voice could allow, and kicked the door with all his might. Utterson howled for help, but not even the fastest of angels could reach him before the elevator crashed violently to the ground.
Utterson's neighbourhood was in shock for months. Such tragedy, just blocks away from my family! My God, how could this have happened in my own apartment? A once quiet urban setting was now a stage for reporters to shine in. Quite a number of vans from television channels got there in a record time, and every journalist sought from the locals' interviews another juicy, dramatic or compromising detail. After an investigation, the head of the local police station came with a verdict, and nearly a hundred of anxious and excited faces held their breath while sticking out, as far as the arm could reach without hurting the police officer, the microphone.
'What could have been a very hard case to solve turned out to be quite simple. It was not an accident, as it was rightly supposed since the beginning of the investigation. It was a qualified homicide, followed by suicide. Obviously, the elevator in which Gregor Utterson passed away didn't fall on its own. Right next to the place where it had been sabotaged was the lifeless body of Eleanor Utterson, shot in the head once. Our forensic experts have evidence that she died after Mr Utterson, but not too long afterwards. She had a gun beside her, with only her prints. Ballistic shows that the shot took place in that very spot. The crime weapon is a .40 colt, purchased in the dawn after she stormed out of her apartment, after having had a loud and fierce argument, which was overheard by several neighbours. Not one witness ever saw or heard of Mrs Lenore's return. She did show signs of having been gagged, having had her hands tied and her feet chained, but that was most probably a sick little dominatrix fetish of theirs. The facts lead us to believe that Eleanor Utterson set up her husband to death, then proceeded, like in most cases, to put an end to her life. She must have lured him somehow to the elevator. Bottom line is that Eleanor Utterson had a motive, has in the crime scene, and has not one alibi. This case is closed'.
'Mr Baron, Mr Baron, excuse me', a reporter shouted, elbowing her way to a pole position, 'Patricia Vane, for Channel Ten: why did she not kill him with the gun, then?'
'Well,' officer Robert Baron responded, scratching his head while staring at the sky, 'a witness did mention that Gregor Utterson didn't, for anything in the world, take the elevator. I guess that she wanted it to be morbidly ironic. You know how psychotic minds work, don't you? Full of twisted games, charades, symbolisms, and the like. Now if you'll excuse me, I must deliver the fully accounted report to my superiors'.