“For years we initiates fought among ourselves. Gnostics, Rosicrucians, alchemical nostalgists, Valentinians, faithful of the Martinist church, Christians, anti-Christians. But now we are united. Now we all have a common enemy. Positivism, the desire to understand everything, to explain everything, is the modern disease. The tower, from which one can see the whole city, and the World’s Fair, which wants to display everything that exists, are nothing less than the symbols of a world without secrets. And your detectives encourage the builders, they encourage the scientists; they don’t know they too are alive because secrecy exists, and when it disappears, they will too.”
Isel brought his birdlike profile close to mine. “Grialet speaks the truth. The detectives have become, unwittingly, the most f lagrant sign of the philosophy that everything can be explained. They cannot be saved. None of them, except Arzaky.”
“Why Arzaky?”
“Because he’s Polish,” said Isel. “Because he hasn’t renounced his faith in Christ, even though he hides it. Because he believes in the dark forces and in the limits of Reason. But that battle takes place in his heart and it will eventually destroy him. He thinks he’s a rationalist, a materialist, but he is a soldier of Christ.”
The wine had begun to make me woozy. For a few seconds I feared it was a bewitched potion. I tried to put some order to the words that f loated around in my mouth; I slowly translated them into French.
“Darbon was investigating all of you. Darbon knew that you wanted to use the tower to disseminate your beliefs.”
“Disseminate?” Grialet laughed. “Do you think we’re journalists?” He said the word with unbounded disdain. “We’ve done everything possible to hide our beliefs. Christ preached to us, but his true message was a secret one: we are the target of that message, and we transmit it according to our rules. It doesn’t matter if they illuminate the world with electric light: the more light there is the more shadows it creates. We hide ourselves in the darkest corners, like the Christians in the catacombs.”
I wanted to jolt Grialet out of his superior posturing. I wanted to bring him back to the world of accusations, evidence, and alibis.
I asked him, “When was the last time you saw the Mermaid?”
Grialet stood up. I assumed that I had offended him and that he would kick me out right then and there. But he answered with the saddest voice I’ve ever heard.
“If only that were the case. If only I had stopped seeing her. I can’t stop seeing her. I go to the window and I think she’s about to show up.”
“Did you kill her?”
“Me? Why would I kill her?”
“Out of jealousy over Arzaky. Because she worked for him.”
“The Mermaid died of what all mermaids die of: the call of a world that doesn’t understand them.”
Grialet’s voice had begun to crack. He moved away from us and toward the window. Father Desmorins listened to everything with his gaze lowered, and didn’t interfere. The consumptive poet fixed his large damp eyes on me. It seemed that he was about to say something and he raised his hand, as if we were in school and he was awaiting the teacher’s approval, but then he lowered it quickly and regretfully. It must have been true that he burned his manuscripts because the tips of his fingers were blistered and scarred.
Isel dug his clawlike fingers into my arms.
“It is true that we are dark men, and that our rituals eventually leave us with a certain distaste for life, that sometimes leads us to lose our way. Among our predecessors, the suicide rate is higher than for other men. Lucky are those who die a quick death, a death that the Church condemns, wrote the Baron Dupotet. But don’t think that your detectives are men of the light. With the risks they run they also, unsuspectingly, seek out a death worthy of their legend. Or hadn’t you noticed how frequently they put their lives in peril for no good reason? And then there is the other temptation, crossing the line.”
“What line?”
“The one that separates them from the murderers,” said Isel.
Grialet called to me from the window. I freed myself from Isel’s grasp.
“You think you are looking for Arzaky? I think Arzaky’s following you. Come here.”
I looked through the glass at a man who was trying to hide in the darkness. He looked without daring to enter. His hair was a mess; he hadn’t changed his clothes or shaved in days. The man who used to be Reason incarnate was now seeking refuge in the shadows. Behind me, the wall whispered in black ink:
I am the Gloomy One-the Widower-the Unconsoled The Prince of Aquitaine, at his stricken Tower.
I felt a mixture of happiness and disappointment; while I was relieved to have found him; I had hoped that Arzaky was on his way to a revelation, a solution to all the enigmas. And the man who was there below, clumsy and disheveled, didn’t even look as if he knew where he was.
By the time I made it out onto the street, he had disappeared.
2
It was May 2, three days before the Grand Opening. The Numancia Hotel was a constant hubbub of travelers coming and going; many had come to the fair some time ago-secret delegates from the European crowns, technicians intent on investigating the future, inventors in search of inspiration-and thanks to their safeconducts and permits they had gone through the pavilions at their leisure, they had traveled in the coaches that went through the fair, they had exhausted themselves climbing the empty tower. But their privilege was about to come to an end: the day was approaching when the treasure would be handed over to the masses. For them it was time to leave: drawn by the constant promise of the future, for them the fair was already beginning to seem like a tired amusement park, a circus they’d already seen, a poor imitation of the modern world.
When I arrived at the Numancia, Dandavi, Caleb Lawson’s assistant warned me, “They are waiting for you.”
“For me?”
“Today’s session cannot start without you.”
“What do they need me for?”
“Since Arzaky isn’t here, you have to be. You’ll be his eyes and ears.”
“And his tongue as well?”
The Hindu looked at me with his large almond-shaped eyes and adopted a serious but ambiguous tone; it was impossible to tell if he was wise or just vague.
“When the time comes, we all learn to speak, and to be quiet.”
I entered the underground parlor. Caleb Lawson had taken Arzaky’s place. He seemed happy to be at the center of the scene, but reluctant, like an understudy who is called unexpectedly after months of waiting and realizes that he’s forgotten his lines. Now that the Mermaid was dead and the mystery was still unresolved, the instruments that filled the glass cases seemed like old, useless artifacts. It had been Arzaky’s presence that gave meaning to those objects. I looked for Craig’s cane, but I only found the label that listed its name and purpose. Wherever the Polish detective was, he had taken the weapon with him.
Caleb Lawson clapped his hands to call order. He wanted to begin, but his voice didn’t come out. He coughed, waited for Dandavi’s look, and finally spoke above the voices that continued to whisper in the corners.
“We don’t know where Viktor Arzaky is, so we’ll have to start without him. I want to remind you all that unless he has a good reason, we should consider his absence a serious breach of our rules.”
“Come on, Lawson,” interjected Magrelli. “Let’s respect Arzaky’s grief. Now is not the time to be sticklers about the rules.”
“They say he was seen in a church,” said Novarius timidly.
“And at the tower, looking out over the void, about to jump,” whispered Rojo, the Spanish detective.
“Benito told me that he’s been sighted several times,” said Zagala. “We shouldn’t give credence to these rumors.”
“It’s likely that he hasn’t been in any of those places,” said Castelvetia. “When great men disappear, instead of not being anywhere, they commence being everywhere at once.”
Caleb Lawson, hearing
Arzaky’s name mentioned over and over, wanted to change the subject, as if by speaking his name so much they might conjure him up.
“The first speaker on the list is Madorakis.”
The short, stout Greek detective stepped forward.
“This meeting came about as a result of the World’s Fair. Arzaky warned us: just as we wanted to display our knowledge with our small exhibition, meetings, and the publication of our thoughts, crime has also decided to display its arts. That is why these three murders happened here and now. And although at first they seemed unrelated, they are obviously part of a series.”
“There were only two murders,” interrupted Lawson. “The killer wants us to read his signs. We must consider the incineration of the body as the second element in the series. Which is why I say there were three, and there will be another.”
“A four t h? ”
“And on opening day. There has been one week between each two crimes, and on that day it will have been a week.”
“And since you seem to know everything, who’s the killer?” asked Zagala.
“He is someone who is obsessed with The Twelve Detectives, but especially with Arzaky. The three victims have all been connected to him. His legendary adversary, his victim (Arzaky sent Sorel to the guillotine), and his lover.”
“The private life of the detectives…” began Magrelli.
“Private life ends where crime begins.” Madorakis pointed at me. “And I would take good care of that boy, since the murderer may use him to complete the series.”
Suddenly everyone was looking at me, with a mix of surprise and compassion. It was clear that many of the detectives hadn’t been very aware of my existence.
“Why four?” asked Zagala. “Where did you get the number four from?”
“From The Four Elements, of course,” Castelvetia hastened to say.
Madorakis didn’t like anyone beating him to the punch. He looked at Castelvetia contemptuously. There couldn’t have been two more different detectives: the Greek’s crude, threadbare clothes versus the Dutchman’s refined affectation.
“Castelvetia is right. It’s possible that the killer has set some guidelines randomly. Sorel, whose body was burned, stole a painting entitled The Four Elements. And each one of the deaths was linked to one of the elements, Sorel to fire, the young lady to water, and as for Darbon-”
“Earth! ” shouted Rojo, as if he were Rodrigo de Triana. “Hitting the ground was what killed him.”
“That’s not the only possibility,” said Zagala, dampening Rojo’s enthusiasm. “The killer could consider that what killed him was his falling through the air.”
Voices in favor of one or the other were heard. Finally Madorakis made his booming voice heard above them.
“I lean toward the earth, but we don’t know how the criminal thinks. Which is why I suggest that on opening day we keep a good watch on anything that has to do with the earth or the air. I was going through the program for the fair and I found two displays that could appeal to the killer. One is the dirigible that will f ly over the fairgrounds. The other is a large globe at the entrance. The embodiment of the earth.”
“Speaking of earth,” said Zagala, “I noticed that in the Argentine pavilion they have set up a large glass container filled with dirt that visitors can sink their hands into to test the virtues of the soil in the Pampas and confirm the existence of earthworms.”
“I can’t think of who would want to do something so disgusting,” said Castelvetia. He looked at me, as if I, merely by being an Argentine, must be an ecstatic participant in such a filthy act.
Caleb Lawson tried to regain control over the meeting.
“Let’s add the Argentine dirt to our suspicions. Now we just need to decide who goes where. And since we’ve finished talking about murders, let’s move on to more important things. Let’s talk about Craig.”
3
Caleb Lawson hadn’t raised his voice when he mentioned Craig, but the name resounded like thunder, like an irretrievable scream. Without knowing why I took a step back, and I would have taken another if I hadn’t bumped into Dandavi, who seemed to have been put there to keep an eye on me.
Now there was complete silence because everyone wanted to know what Craig could possibly have to do with this matter.
“I don’t want what I say to be taken as an attack against Craig, but rather a defense of our occupation. Since forever, since our profession began (which some people like to say was in China, the nebulous origin of all things with mysterious beginnings), every time we say the word detective we whisper the other, assistant, or the word used by Craig himself, acolyte. Although we often don’t see them, here they are, beside us, silent: our assistants. The strain of logical thought sometimes pushes us toward madness, but our acolytes, with their perseverance, bring us back to reality. There are some who are guides for the others: my faithful Dandavi, for example, or old Tanner, who accompanied Arzaky in his glory days, now sadly over. Even Baldone, although he is not always as discreet as his office requires. With their chatting, often sensible and sometimes trivial, the acolytes remind us what other human beings think, and in contrast, they invite us to change our perspective, to carry out our syllogisms boldly, to astonish.”
The acolytes had imperceptibly moved closer to the center of the room, amazed at being lauded so profusely.
“Craig, however,” continued the Englishman, “disagreed with that. He wanted to be different. He wanted to forge a new path, investigate alone, tell his own stories. He wanted to be Christ and the four Evangelists at once. Now we receive news that he has been accused of lying, murder, and torture. His final case, which was supposed to have been the culmination of all his wisdom, is a murky matter; unexplainable, which Craig himself has refused to clarify. And if the version in which he actually killed the guilty party is confirmed, we can be sure that his act is a threat to all we believe in. Who would bother following clues if they are authorized to commit torture and summary execution?”
Caleb Lawson left his question f loating in the air. I bit my tongue to keep from interrupting. We acolytes were not allowed to speak. Arzaky would have shut him up immediately, but he wasn’t there. His absence gave Lawson the authority. Castelvetia followed his words indifferently, looking at his polished nails. The others were too perplexed to respond. Businessmen, criminals, and police chiefs had spread all sorts of rumors about them, but a detective had never been accused of murder by one of his own.
“But perhaps I’m being unfair. Craig deserves someone to defend him, someone who was with him during those dark days. If no one objects, I would like to give the f loor to Sigmundo Salvatrio.”
Dandavi pushed me and I stumbled forward. Caleb Lawson approached me.
“Salvatrio, what do you think of the accusations against Craig?”
I remembered the body of Kalidán the magician, with his arms open. In my memory the cloud of f lies still buzzed, I feared that the recollection would draw them in to surround me now.
“Craig was my mentor, and I owe everything to him. He would never do something like that.”
“You didn’t, at any time, think that not having an assistant could cause him to get lost in the method, lose his mind?”
“It is true that Craig worked for many years without an assistant. But some time ago he established an academy devoted to investigation. We students said that he had created it just so he could groom the finest of us to become his assistant…”
“Or a detective.”
“He didn’t say anything about detectives or assistants. We just wanted to believe it could happen.”
“And who was chosen to be his assistant?”
“No one. The finest of us was murdered. Everyone knows that.”
“Weren’t you the best?”
“No.”
“Then how did you end up here?”
“Because I was loyal to the end. Because I stayed with Craig when all the others abandoned him.”
My
words raised a murmur of approval. While all the detectives were well known in their field, they had been through many difficult moments: press scandals, unsolvable murders, traps set by criminals. An assistant’s faithfulness was never more valued than when a detective had been discredited.
“And you came here as a messenger.”
“Yes. To bring the cane.”
“Isn’t it possible that Craig’s message was more complex than just bringing an artifact? Isn’t it possible that the infection that has taken over Craig’s mind has spread to you?”
“What infection?”
“The attraction to crime. The temptation to cross the line. We’re all tempted sometimes.”
“I’m drawn to investigation. Ever since I was a kid I read the adventures that you detectives starred in and I dreamed of doing the same one day.”
“But kids grow up. And when they do their dreams change, fade, or become sullied.”
“I still long for the same things,” I replied, without knowing for sure if I was lying or telling the truth.
“Acolytes are quiet and stay in the corners, and you, the newest one, are the most invisible of all. Which is why I wanted to get to know you better, before asking you this question: did you visit Paloma Leska the night of the crime?”
“Who?” I asked, even though I knew very well who he was talking about.
“The Mermaid. Did you think she was a real mermaid? Her name was Paloma Leska.”
“I won’t deny it. I went to return a stolen object.”
“What was that object? And who had stolen it?”
“It was a photograph. And I stole it. I thought it might be useful for the investigation.”
“And you found the body and didn’t say anything?”
“The body? No, the Mermaid was alive. She still wore her green costume. I’ve never seen a woman as alive as she was.”
“And can you prove that you didn’t kill her?”
The Paris Enigma Page 19
