The Riddle of Monte Verita

by Jean-Paul Torok

  ‘I’ve already seen it,’ replied Brenner. ‘It must be worth a lot. It’s marble.’

  ‘Marble, my eye,’ muttered Lippi through clenched teeth. ‘Have you tried to move it?

  ‘And how would we do that? There isn’t the slightest crack. It’s embedded in the rock and as solid as a – as a prison door,’ joked the superintendent. ‘I’ve patted it all over to try and find a hidden spring, as the detectives in your favourite stories do. And anyway, don’t you think it’s a rather too obvious place for a secret passage?’

  ‘If my friend Garnier were here,’ the Italian replied solemnly, ‘he would surely recommend you read The Purloined Letter. It’s one of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales,’ he explained charitably.

  ‘I don’t need to read Edgar Allan Poe to know that it’s a sculpture and there’s only solid rock behind it.’

  ‘Let’s have a look!’ growled Lippi. With a forced grin, he picked up an iron bar. It was as if the sight of the goddess offended him and he mistook her for a live human being. Nobody would have been surprised to hear a cry of pain as he planted the iron bar right in her heart.

  ***

  From the cavernous depths a hollow voice could be heard:

  ‘I’ve reached a sort of tunnel, Superintendent. I’m coming back up.’

  A whitish mist floated inside the crypt, composed of particles of plaster and mortar. The stele had been largely broken open and the one intact piece was hanging from a rusted hinge cemented into the rock. Behind lay a black cavity in which could be seen the top steps of staircase that appeared to descend to the bowels of the earth. Suddenly a light pierced the darkness and a hand appeared holding a lamp, followed shortly by a head covered with dirt.

  ‘The passage leads to a series of stone tunnels which seem in fair condition,’ panted the policeman, climbing out of the black hole. He waited to catch his breath and continued: ‘They’re big enough to walk in if you’re not too tall and don’t mind rats.’

  A policeman with grey moustaches stepped forward.

  ‘Begging your permission, sir, I’m from these parts. They must be part of the old aqueduct system which brought the mountain water to the villages.’

  ‘And, on the way, it fed the fountain I told you about,’ said Lippi triumphantly. ‘When I realised the two steles were identical, I deduced they must mark the access to some sort of underground canal system. In fact, what put me on the trail was that, in ancient initiation rites, Isis was associated with the opening and closing of doors. As someone once said: “It’s elementary….” Too bad for the legend of the Sorcerer’s Grotto, but at least we now know how Rosenkreutz managed to disappear.’

  ‘“The solution to a mystery is always inferior to the mystery itself”,’ announced Prokosch.

  ‘You sound just like Harvey,’ said Lippi. ‘Is that your own?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Bravo! May I quote you?’

  ‘I would like to remind you politely, Professor,’ said Mestre, ‘that it was I who suggested the existence of a secret passage when I showed that the only place Dr. Hoenig could be was in the grotto. Prokosch can bear witness.’

  ‘If the two of you will allow me,’ replied the little Russian, with a malicious gleam in his eye, ‘the first to discover it was Dr. Hoenig himself. When Lippi challenged him to shut himself in the grotto, you can be sure he must have studied the problem. I imagine he discovered the old construction plans by looking in the municipal archives and found there was an old aqueduct passing under both the grotto and the fountain.’

  ‘Well reasoned, old boy!’ said Lippi approvingly, clapping him on the back. ‘That’s exactly the conclusion I came to myself.’

  ‘That’s enough. Gentlemen, we’re closing!’ announced Brenner. ‘You can continue your nonsense outside.’

  ‘Why do you call it nonsense?’ protested Prokosch vigorously as he moved towards the exit.

  ‘Because I was listening to you. You’re all assuming that Hoenig got into the grotto under his own steam, which implies he was alive. And we all know he was dead.’

  ***

  A little later, when they all met in the bar at the Albergo, Brenner was forced to admit that the discovery of the corpse raised more questions than it answered:

  Firstly, if – as Mestre and the others assumed – Dr. Hoenig didn’t die from the knife wound he received, how was it that more than ten other persons (starting with Mestre himself in his initial account) claimed to have witnessed the contrary? And how could Strahler, for his part, been so badly wrong in his diagnosis? Of course, the possibility the young doctor had lied couldn’t be ruled out, but what reason would anyone have for doubting his word? Not to mention that still nobody knew how the victim had managed to leave the bungalow, double-locking behind him a door to which he didn’t have the key – which led everyone back to where they started.

  Secondly, the conjecture, according to which the murderer returned to the bungalow to dispose of the body, using the same method he had used to exit previously, wasn’t -- it had to be admitted – any more convincing. How could he have carried the body over such a long distance, from the bungalow to the fountain – particularly if it were a feeble woman – and then dragged it inside the aqueduct, from the fountain to the grotto? It was absolutely impossible.

  “Unless she had an accomplice,” the policeman said to himself. That would explain a lot of things. He had suspected Solange Garnier from the beginning. In the first place, she was too pretty and Brenner, from experience, was inclined to distrust pretty women. It was true that her description didn’t fit that given by agents Mangin and Fantoni. But her only alibi was provided by her husband. There was no obvious motive, that was also true. He only had his intuition to go on. He was following his “copper’s hunch” as the hacks who wrote those penny dreadfuls would say. That was why he had waited to question her until he had found a clue to confront her with. And now he had found one.

  As for the husband, he had lied about his connections to Dr. Hoenig. Garnier was a brilliant fellow with a penchant for perversity, like so many intellectuals. Only a man gifted with a superior intelligence could have conceived such a diabolical scheme. He had planned the crime and his wife had executed it. It was amazing how everything suddenly became clear.

  He tapped the shirt pocket containing the envelope with its precious contents. A short chestnut hair. Collecting some hair samples from the lovely Madame Garnier would be child’s play. The lab would do the rest. Hairs are like fingerprints: they’re unique to each individual. So. Just a few hours more and the whole business would be wrapped up.

  ‘I’m going to have the Garniers arrested,’ he thought out loud.

  Mestre choked and knocked over his whisky. Prokosch’s eyes sparkled with amusement. Harvey, whom they had found already installed at the bar in front of his third whisky, turned to Lippi and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he was going to arrest Pierre Garnier and his wife,’ replied the Italian, with seeming indifference.

  ‘You’re completely insane,’ Mestre finally spluttered, making a sign to the barman to clean up the mess. ‘You should warn us before uttering such –.’

  ‘Listen, all of you,’ cut in Brenner brutally. ‘I’ve been extremely patient up to now. I’ve listened to all the nonsense you’ve spouted and followed your suggestions to the letter and all it’s got me is a muddled mess, even though I will acknowledge you’ve been right on a couple of points. Now it’s over. I don’t need you any more. If everyone sticks to his trade, the cows will be well guarded.’

  ‘That must be one of those old Swiss proverbs,’ muttered Lippi under his breath. ‘Better make a note of it.’

  ‘As for you, Professor, you can stop playing the court jester. One more word from you and I’ll –.’

  ‘Whoa!’ protested Harvey, seeing the superintendent turning a bright scarlet. ‘Let’s behave like gentlemen, if you please.’

  ‘Yes,’ int
erjected Prokosch, speaking for the first time. ‘I’d like to be sure that Superintendent Brenner has fully thought through the consequences. I can see the headlines now: “Two French Citizens Arrested in Switzerland for the Murder of a High-Ranking German Civil Servant.” It would cause quite a stir at a time of international tension. I wonder if Berne would appreciate it.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’ asked Brenner, suddenly turning pale.

  ‘Certainly. I can’t see what you would achieve by doing it, Superintendent. And why, if you’re expecting to arrest the Garniers, are you here talking to us instead of questioning them? Why don’t you phone Solange Garnier and ask her to come here, with or without her husband?’

  ‘That’s the first thing I did when I got here. But she’s not in her room and I haven’t seen her all day.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Mestre, frowning, ‘Garnier told us she was in her room.’

  ‘It was a lie,’ said Brenner calmly. ‘She left the hotel yesterday morning in her car. As for him, he’s gone, too. He felt the need to leave this evening around five o’clock and hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘It would seem to me that, if they were accomplices as you claim, they would have left together,’ observed the philosopher.

  ‘And they would both be a long way away by now,’ added the little Russian.

  The superintendent’s face reflected a cold determination and he looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘I have no intention of allowing myself to be distracted by your objections every time I make a move,’ he said. ‘Everything points to him having left to join her. Don’t worry, they won’t leave the country. Their description has been sent to every border station. So.’ He turned to Prokosch. ‘Tell your friends in Berne that I’ll give them one more chance. But I warn you: if the Garniers aren’t here tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, I’ll issue a warrant for their arrest.’

  ***

  The door of the baroque church had been wide open and Pierre had taken refuge there. He had strolled for a time by the side of the lake, wandered in the streets of the old town and then stopped in front of the boarding point for the little funicular that carried passengers up the mountainside to the Sanctuary of the Madonna del Sasso. The desire to return to the hotel was balanced by the apprehension of not finding Solange there and the consequent agonising wait. He decided to gain himself some time: “The later I return, the greater the chance she will be there,” he argued to himself and, without thinking twice about it, he bought himself a ticket.

  The sanctuary and the convent surrounding it were built on an esplanade affording a view across the lake for some ten kilometres, as far as the village of Luino, where it curved towards Italy. The fifteenth century church is a sumptuous religious jewel with low-arching ribbed vaults resting on marble pillars, ceilings decorated with medallions, arabesque sculptures in the round and bas-reliefs painted in trompe-l'œil . From the moment he entered, Pierre had been dazzled by the profusion of gilding on the walls and the vaults. But his gaze had inevitably been drawn to the Madonna which, at the back of the nave under its marble canopy decorated with arcatures, dominated the chancel and the altar. He had contemplated its surreal beauty, its delicate features imbued with an infinite sweetness, for a long time. And there, as though in ecstasy, Pierre, who had thought he had lost his faith, had found the words of the old supplication on his lips and had prayed for his wife.

  He had lost all notion of time and night was falling as he left the sanctuary. At his feet, the lake seemed like a slab of shale set in the drab greyness of the rocks and forests that formed a semicircle around it. The lights of the village came on and, far away at the foot of the mountains, a string of little stars pierced the contours of the dark waters. Almost mechanically he turned his wrist to catch what remained of the light. Was that the time? So late already. He tried to think of Solange but could not bring an image of her to his mind’s eye. There was only a sensation of panic and a feeling of dizziness.

  “I’m frightened,” he told himself. “Not because she’s not here. Frightened of seeing her again.” And when he found himself the only passenger in the funicular, he felt as if he were a skydiver in free-fall, mouth dry, chest tight – watching the black surface of the sleeping lake rushing toward him.

  ***

  The lobby of the Grand Hotel, by the common consent of its elegant clientele, was a rather depressing place, as is often the case with luxury establishments once they have passed their prime. A few convoluted and fussy contemporary lamps were scattered about the premises, casting their feeble glow on overstuffed furniture, floral columns and the numerous naked goddesses made from alabaster or stucco that stood in contrast to walls made of imitation marble. The only bright light in the vast gloomy space came from above the reception desk, and it made the concierge’s bald head glisten and the metallic balls attached to the room keys gleam.

  ‘Please, Dear God, let the room key not be there,’ prayed Pierre as he made his way, as if pulled by an invisible force, towards the reception counter where his fate would be decided. He was but a few steps away when he heard his name being called. Instinctively, he turned round.

  An old gentleman, half out of his armchair, was beckoning him almost joyfully with a hand waving a newspaper. In the reddish light from under the adjacent lampshade, he stood out against the greenish panels of a screen decorated with nymphs and swans. He was not very tall and appeared to be suffering from a chill even though, despite the warm air, he wore a heavy tweed coat and a Scottish scarf wrapped around his neck. Pierre was sure he’d never met the fellow and yet, as he got closer, he found there was something familiar about the face, even though he couldn’t say what.

  It would have been hard, nevertheless, to forget the bald, rather large head with its two tousled white tufts on either side; the short moustache, equally white, under a long thin nose; the narrow, stooped shoulders; and, above all, under bushy eyebrows, the eyes, shining with an intelligence both keen and benevolent and hidden behind pince-nez from another era.

  ‘Please forgive my presumptuousness,’ he said, ‘but I saw you come in and took the liberty of calling you. I’ve come a long way to meet you, sir, and I’d welcome the opportunity to have a few words.’

  He spoke text-book French with the fastidiousness of the educated Englishman.

  ‘My name is Carter Gilbert, Arthur Carter Gilbert.’

  ***

  ‘Here’s my card,’ he said, handing it solemnly to Pierre, who glanced at it before slumping into a nearby armchair opposite him. ‘I’m not surprised you didn’t recognise me, because my face no longer resembles the one my publisher insists on putting on the back cover of all my books. That photograph goes back to those far-off days when I wrote my first books and, to be perfectly candid with you, fell in love with a very young person named Solange Duvernois. She was twelve years old and I was fifty-four so, in case you’re jealous type, the age difference should reassure you. Then our paths diverged, to coin a dreary phrase. She followed her parents to Germany and I left London for Switzerland, preferring the gulls of Lake Geneva to the vultures of the British Treasury. She had promised to write and she kept her word, or at least whenever she felt the need to confide in her “Uncle Arthur,” as she was kind enough to call me affectionately. So I feel I can justly claim to know her as well as you do, or even – no offence intended – better than you do.’

  He gave a little chuckle and, fishing a silvered case out of his pocket, offered a disgusting-looking blackish cigarette to his guest.

  ‘I hope I’m not boring you, my dear sir?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ replied Pierre accepting the offer in the hope that the tobacco would calm his nerves.

  ‘Good. I must still have feelings for her, given that I agreed to drive who-knows-how-many kilometres at the ripe old age of seventy-two in a convertible with the top down, driven by your wife at breakneck speed – or, as the French say, tombeau ouvert: open tomb. I love that expression. I presume you guessed th
at she’d come to seek my help?’

  ‘Where is she right now?’

  ‘In your room, I assume, where she is no doubt taking a bath and making herself beautiful for you. Please remain seated. You have plenty of time to see her. Look here, young man,’ said the old man, leaning towards Pierre to give him a light, ‘I’ve invented and solved forty-eight impossible crimes in as many novels. The Swiss authorities, in a number of particularly thorny cases, have seen fit to call on my humble services and – without leaving my office – I’ve helped to solve quite a few of them. As a result of my success I’ve been granted access to confidential investigations and to neurologists’ reports on the psychology of notable murderers. All false modesty aside, I’ve come to be regarded as an authority in the matter. I don’t say that boastfully: merely to explain why your wife, in her bewilderment, sought me out.’

  Pierre drew on his cigarette and was seized by a coughing fit, brought on by the acrid smoke. Carter Gilbert leant back and enjoyed his with an inscrutable air.

  ‘I wonder whether you appreciate her true value,’ he said, with an amused indulgence. ‘I’m talking about your wife, naturally. She’s a woman who, although delicate, secretive and excessively vulnerable by nature, can nonetheless demonstrate great courage and energy when the occasion arises. Why has she never talked to you about her past, particularly her childhood? Most wives, including my own, can talk incessantly about the subject. Because she forbade herself to do so. All the more so because her marriage to you seemed to have freed her from the memories of her past. Her childhood years were a nightmare. Just think, she was only six when her father – .’

  ‘—I know about that,’ said Pierre. ‘Hoenig told me everything.’