Captain Morsirisse: A Fictional Narrative

“So glad to see you, Captain Morsirisse,” said Henri de Valfort, shaking flabbily my hand, after having grabbed it despite my visible disinclination to extend it to him. “How are you, Henri,” I said, “Nice to see you too.” As soon as he let my hand go, he nodded to me with friendliness, a novel familiarity uncharacteristic of what I had been able to observe in his behavior during all our previous conversations. Suddenly, as I was precisely mingling with the memory of these conversations, I got back the vivid old sensation that there was in Henri something unusual, or at least that kept teasing my curiosity. What was it? Again! My experienced observation was, once more, unable to help me. I knew it was something obvious enough to catch my attention, but perhaps too evident to be discernible. In the confusion of my present thoughts, I was recalled to myself by the sound of Henri’s voice. “So, tell me, Captain Morsirisse! Why do you wish
I always believed he was murdered.” “Did you send me the message?” “What message?” “Never mind. Do you suspect anyone?” “No. But I’m sure my brother didn’t take his own life. I couldn’t tell you why, but I know he didn’t. And what does it matter, anyway? The Commissaire Girodot is pretty formal about his conclusion!” “The good Commissaire will have to change his tune when I bring him the proof I’m looking for.” “You won’t find anything upstairs. The room has been cleaned long ago, and the door replaced” “I know. It’s unfortunate, but if I could see the room again, I count on my subconscious to wake up. I was there, do you remember? The day we found him. I may now, remember a detail that escaped me, or even that I already noticed, and forgot. I need to find a clue! I can’t go running on empty! Alter all, since I decided to start an investigation, I might as well start from the beginning, or rather where it all