‘Something like that,’ replied Jack. He poured two fingers of whisky into each of the glasses and put the cork back into the bottle.
Both Dupree and Landru were fully aware of the purpose of Lapointe’s afternoon visit and what was riding on it, their anticipation growing.
‘Well, are you going to tell us?’ asked Dupree, sipping the delicious whisky.
Landru didn’t say anything, but was watching Jack intently. He realised that his future may well depend on what Jack was about to say.
Deliberately taking his time, Jack held up his glass and looked at it. ‘Let’s see if maturing for a quarter of a century in oloroso sherry-seasoned casks makes such a difference,’ he said. Then he brought the glass up to his nose before taking a sip. ‘I can smell sherry, cinnamon and wood smoke, and taste dried fruits and spices. Exquisite. What do you think?’
‘If what you’re about to tell us is half as exciting as this whisky, we should have an interesting evening,’ said Dupree. ‘What did the bigwigs have to say? Maurice has been dancing on coals all afternoon.’
Jack turned to Landru. ‘I can imagine. But before I tell you, I need to clear up a few things that have been bothering me.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Landru, who had been expecting something like this. The moment of truth had arrived and there was nowhere left to hide. And besides, deliberately holding back some vital information to pique Jack’s interest had done its work. Jack was in the room, his curiosity aroused, and asking questions. It was time to put all the cards on the table to get him to commit. And as far as Landru was concerned, that was absolutely essential if his plan was to succeed.
Jack put down his glass, pulled his notebook out of his pocket and looked at Landru.
‘Let’s begin. The first time we met in prison, you told me that you had carefully followed the Ritz murder cases and that something in my latest book, The Lost Symphony, opened your eyes and helped you crack the cipher code.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Could you please tell us what that was?’
‘It had to do with Frieda Malenkova. She was the missing link, or to put it more accurately, I believe she had the missing link in her possession, because she acquired it a few years ago and didn’t sell it on.’
Dupree gave Jack a meaningful look. ‘Echoes of Le Fantôme and the Black Widow, perhaps?’ he said and raised an eyebrow.
‘Could be. This case is getting stranger by the minute,’ replied Jack.
‘I believe there was a close connection between Malenkova and Mademoiselle Darrieux,’ said Landru, ignoring Dupree’s remark.
‘I’m intrigued,’ said Jack. ‘What connection?’
‘It’s complicated. A long story.’
‘We have all night, and an excellent bottle of whisky to keep us company.’
Landru nodded. ‘The Death Mask Murders, Spiridon 4, Malenkova and Darrieux are all connected. They are linked to that quest I told you about.’
‘The legendary Inca treasure of the Llanganates,’ said Jack, ‘which you have been looking for all these years?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what way? Please tell us.’
‘For you to understand this, I have to deal with Mademoiselle Darrieux first. The connection you asked about became clear to me when I read about her sensational “coming out” at Shakespeare and Company here in Paris in February last year. The papers were full of it. This is all about her extraordinary story.’
‘Seriously?’ said Jack. ‘In what way?’
‘It all began to make sense when I delved into that dossier of newspaper clippings she presented to the press with Isis on that fateful day she bared her soul. That’s when I found out that she had been working as a young prostitute in New Orleans, when she was called Maurice Moreau—’
‘Who later became Estelle Montplaisir after a sex change, and then reinvented herself again after spending some time in jail in Miami, and turned into Adrienne Darrieux a few years later?’ interjected Jack.
‘Yes. But the most important piece of information here as far as I was concerned, was the murder she had been accused of in New Orleans.’
‘The killing of Armand Baudin, a coloured man from Santo Domingo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why was this so important?’
‘Because of who Armand Baudin was. I had been following certain clues that I discovered about a shipwreck in the Caribbean at the time, and Baudin was helping me find it.’
‘And this was relevant and part of your treasure hunt?’ asked Jack.
‘It certainly was, and very much still is. That’s where the matter rested until I read those newspaper clippings last year about his murder in New Orleans,’ continued Landru, speaking softly.
‘According to the papers, Baudin was stabbed to death by a young male prostitute – Maurice Moreau – in a brothel in New Orleans. But the most significant clue that pulled everything together was a brief reference to something during an interview Darrieux gave shortly after her “coming out” last year.’
‘What kind of clue?’
‘As we know, after Estelle Montplaisir was released from jail in Miami a few years after the murder trial in New Orleans, she changed her name again, became Adrienne Darrieux and went to live in Paris. She was asked by one of the reporters how she had managed that, and it was the answer to that question that rocked me at the time.’
‘In what way?’
‘She said that she sold a rare Inca artefact on the black market in Paris, a golden burial mask she had brought with her from the US. Apparently, it was worth a fortune. That was the way she financed her new life and set herself up as the Paris socialite we know today.’
‘Extraordinary!’ said Jack, shaking his head.
‘The only thing that’s still a mystery here is how Darrieux actually got hold of the mask. Baudin had it, of that I’m sure. He was on the run and ended up in a brothel in New Orleans, where he was killed. We know that too. After that? Who knows? In a way I suppose it doesn’t really matter, because what we also know is that the mask surfaced here in Paris years later, and Darrieux sold it on the black market.’
‘Why don’t we talk to her about all this,’ suggested Jack, ‘and see what else she can remember? It could be helpful, don’t you think? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, especially when we tell her what’s at stake here.’
‘You think that could be arranged?’ asked Landru, looking stunned.
‘Sure. She’s a good friend of mine. We’ve been through a lot together last year with the lost symphony in Russia ... you would have read all about it in my book.’
Landru nodded. ‘That would be most helpful,’ he said, ‘and could perhaps even solve the final ...’ Landru stopped mid-sentence and reached for his glass. He realised he had almost gone too far. ‘I need another drink, if you don’t mind.’
Watching Landru carefully, Jack reached for the bottle.
‘But it doesn’t stop there,’ continued Landru, changing direction. ‘This was merely the first clue that helped me crack the code. The second, more important one came shortly thereafter – and that’s where your book comes into play again.’
‘In what way?’
‘Frieda Malenkova, the famous Paris fence and shady art dealer you described so eloquently in your book, was the second clue that actually helped me crack the code. I put two and two together. Somehow, she had to have been the buyer of Darrieux’ golden mask. It was a perfect fit. If not initially, then sometime later when the mask changed hands again. Everything was pointing in that direction.’
‘And that helped you crack the code?’ said Jack, unconvinced. ‘Malenkova’s dead. Her house burned down and her art collection with it. All gone.’
‘Once again, it’s complicated. But without becoming too technical and delving into cryptography, algorithms, information theory and how it all works, suffice it to say, these clues helped me come up with a solution that solved the puzzle.’
‘All right. And yo
u maintain that this golden mask is somehow connected to the lost Inca treasure?’
‘Yes, it is. It is the last missing link, the most important clue that could show us the way.’
‘The way to where?’
‘The location of the treasure.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. And in a way, Baudin was part of it all. He found the missing link and was killed because of it.’
Jack shook his head. ‘Can you explain?’
‘It all began with a pilgrimage two years after I published that fateful paper that started it all.’
‘About The Navarro Chronicles?’ said Jack.
‘Yes. I was much younger then, and struggling to come to terms with my homosexuality, which in the lofty academic circles I now found myself in, was a big taboo. It could have cost me my career, which had just taken off. For that reason, I desperately tried to hide it. I suppressed who I really was.’
‘Understandable,’ said Dupree.
‘But that made me vulnerable. Very vulnerable. Suppressing who you really are always comes at a price. In this case, a very big one. I had a nervous breakdown. That’s when I went on a pilgrimage, to sort myself out.’
‘What kind of pilgrimage?’ asked Jack, wondering where this was heading.
‘The Camino de Santiago in Spain.’
‘Ah, the Way of Saint James.’
‘Yes, the famous pilgrims’ walk,’ said Landru. ‘Which, as you no doubt know, is a large network of ancient pilgrim routes that all lead to the tomb of Saint James in Santiago de Compostela in Spain. And that’s where it happened.’
‘What happened?’
‘A revelation. The threads of my quest came unexpectedly together at the tomb of Saint James, just like the pilgrims’ routes criss-crossing Europe.’
‘How?’
‘I met someone.’
‘Who?’
‘A monk.’
‘And this is somehow connected to that quest of yours?’ said Jack, shaking his head.
‘Yes.’
‘In what way?’
‘It’s quite a story. It all began in 1721.’
‘What happened in 1721?’
‘James Mascarino was killed.’
‘Who was James Mascarino?’
‘If you pour me another whisky, I’ll tell you.’
37
Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela: 12 June 1993
Landru was kneeling in front of the magnificent main altar in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, praying. His eyes were closed, his head bowed. Utterly drained and exhausted after the long journey that had lasted almost three weeks on foot through rugged terrain, he could barely move.
The old monk sitting in one of the pews facing the altar recognised all the signs. A lonely, desperate young man searching for answers, or perhaps asking for forgiveness. In a way, the man reminded him of his younger self, embarking on a similar journey a long time ago that had brought him to Santiago de Compostela, searching for salvation. He remembered kneeling in front of the tomb of Saint James the Great, located in the crypt just below the altar, seeking guidance. That was before he became a monk, and later an eminent scholar working in the cathedral archives located in the medieval treasury.
The cathedral was almost empty and was about to close. It was time to leave, but the man kneeling in front of him seemed unaware of this, or perhaps too exhausted to notice. The monk rose awkwardly to his feet, walked slowly over to Landru and placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘It’s time to go, my son,’ he said quietly. Landru opened his eyes and looked up, surprised. The bearded face looking down at him radiated kindness and compassion.
‘I’m sorry, I lost track of time,’ said Landru and stood up.
‘No matter. It’s very easy to get lost in this place. It can be quite overwhelming.’
Landru nodded and reached for his backpack lying on the floor.
‘Have you got somewhere to stay?’ asked the monk.
Landru shook his head.
‘I thought so. Come with me. I live in a monastery close by. I can offer you a hot supper and a bed.’
Landru looked at the monk gratefully and put on his backpack. ‘Are prayers always answered so promptly in this place?’ he asked.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Must be my lucky day,’ said Landru and followed the old monk out of the cathedral.
Sitting at a large refectory table in the cathedral cloister, Landru was devouring his second bowl of a hearty soup with spicy chorizo. The old monk was sitting opposite, watching him carefully. He had earlier found out that Landru was a history professor at the Sorbonne, and asked himself why a man like this had undertaken such an arduous pilgrimage all by himself. His curiosity aroused, he decided to find out. He poured himself another cup of wine and began to make small talk about the cathedral’s history, which he was certain would be of interest to Landru.
‘Did you know that according to legend, the apostle Saint James brought Christianity to the Iberian Peninsula?’ began the monk.
Landru nodded and dunked another slice of crusty bread into his soup. ‘According to another legend, the hermit Pelagius saw strange lights in the night sky and rediscovered the tomb of Saint James,’ replied Landru. ‘That happened in AD 814. When Bishop Theodomirus of Iria heard about this, he informed King Alfonso II of Asturias and Galicia, who recognised this as a miracle and ordered the construction of a chapel on the site.’
The old monk looked at Landru, impressed. ‘You know your history, but what you may not know is that according to yet another legend, the king was the first pilgrim who prayed at the shrine of Saint James. A few years later, the first church was built and became a major place of pilgrimage.’
‘Unfortunately, in AD 997, the caliph of Cordoba had had enough of this Christian ritual in his domain,’ continued Landru, chewing contentedly as he spoke. ‘He ordered Al-Mansur Ibn Abi Aamir – his illustrious army commander – to destroy the church. This he did, but before fire devoured the sacred site, he removed the gates and the bells and took them back to Cordoba, where they were incorporated into the Aljama Mosque. This was seen as another triumph of Islam over Christianity. Fortunately, the tomb of Saint James and relics were spared.’
The old monk pushed a cup of wine across the table towards Landru. ‘You are well informed,’ he said. ‘Few know this, and fewer still know that in 1236, when Cordoba was retaken by King Ferdinand III of Castile and the Muslims were driven out, captives carried the very same gates and bells to Toledo, where they were installed in the Cathedral of Saint Mary of Toledo.’
‘I didn’t know that. Obviously, the battle of faiths continued with symbolic objects like church gates and bells, sending potent messages of struggle, triumphs and defeats far into the future.’
‘Quite so,’ said the monk and refilled Landru’s cup.
‘You asked me earlier what had brought me on this pilgrimage. In a way, it is also about a struggle that began a long time ago, and resonates until this very day. It too concerns empires and beliefs, and precious, sacred objects coveted by conquerors.’
‘Care to tell me about it?’
Feeling well-fed and relaxed, Landru stretched out his aching legs and took another sip of wine.
‘Sure. It’s quite a story, which is also closely linked to Spain and its illustrious colonial history; in this case, its bloody conquests in the Americas.’
Over the next hour, Landru told the old monk about the legendary Llanganates treasure and his recent discovery of The Navarro Chronicles in Seville, and their significance. He also told him about his personal struggle that was troubling him and which he was hoping to address during the pilgrimage. He hinted at his homosexuality, which he’d desperately tried to cover up and keep a secret, and spoke about a recent blackmail attempt that threatened to expose him and destroy his career.
The old monk listened in silence. Not once did he interrupt because he realised that with this cathartic monologue, the
healing of a damaged soul had already begun. He also realised that a higher force must have brought Landru to him that evening, as he remembered a certain document he had come across in the archives in his care, which had a direct bearing on The Navarro Chronicles and what his young guest had just told him about them.
The old monk didn’t believe in coincidences, only faith and destiny, and that everything was connected and had meaning and a purpose. He reached across the table and placed his hand on Landru’s. Translucent like parchment, the veins looked like little streams criss-crossing a dry landscape that spoke of hardship and toil. ‘Do you believe in destiny?’ he asked, speaking softly.
Landru looked at him in surprise. ‘I’m not sure. Why do you ask?’
‘Because tomorrow I will take you to the cathedral cloister,’ said the old monk, smiling, ‘and show you something in the Archive Library that will dispel any doubts you may have in that regard.’
* * *
Jack glanced at the whisky bottle next to the spluttering candle on the mantelpiece. It was almost empty and the candle was about to die. ‘That’s quite a story,’ he said. ‘But you still haven’t told us about James Mascarino and what happened.’
‘Ah. That has to do with what the old monk showed me in the Archive Library of the cathedral the next day,’ said Landru.
‘Care to tell us about that?’ said Dupree. ‘Finally?’
‘Sure. But in order to fully appreciate the impact of what I discovered in that library, you had to first understand how that find came about, because it changed everything and showed me the way.’
Jack nodded, appreciating Landru’s storytelling skills. He knows how to create curiosity and draw us in, he thought, smiling, as he recognised similar tactics to his own that he employed when telling a tale.
‘When the old monk took me to the cathedral library, he showed me something that gives me cold shivers even now when I think of it …’
‘What was it?’ asked Jack.
‘A letter sent by Francisco Rodriguez de Ledesma, colonial governor of Cuba to Charles II, King of Spain, in 1678.’
The Death Mask Murders Page 23
