The Riddle of Monte Verita

by Jean-Paul Torok

‘I was afraid of that,’ sighed the writer. ‘Do you realise that the very idea that you might learn that she was the daughter of a condemned man – whatever excuses one can make for a crime committed mindlessly for a humanitarian ideal – never ceased to torture her? And I’m sure that pig Hoenig didn’t spare you the details of her other youthful indiscretions, either. If you can’t appreciate the state of mind she was in when she feared that all the details of her past were about to be revealed, then you’re far less intelligent than I’d imagined. And, in fact, she was prepared to go to any lengths to preserve her marriage. To preserve the image she wished you to have of her: accomplished woman of the world, daughter of an eminent diplomat, educated in the best boarding schools, brought up in the world of luxury and good manners. All of which she is, by the way – and to perfection,’ he added with a generosity tinged with admiration.

  ‘None of that explains why –,’ Pierre started to observe.

  ‘— why she loves you? On the contrary, that explains everything. You have to realise that, like many women who are too beautiful, she’s never had any luck with men. One affair after another, which she described to me in her letters in a playful tone which failed to conceal her bitterness and disappointment. Some lasted longer than others, but she always knew they were after the considerable fortune left to her by her adoptive parents. Her first husband, the American engineer –.’

  ‘—her first?’ repeated Pierre. ‘You mean her third!’

  The old man sat bolt upright and the ash from his cigarette fell on his waistcoat.

  ‘The third? What kind of nonsense is this?’ he exclaimed, turning crimson.

  ‘But I thought –.’

  ‘Oh! You thought! You thought what? That she’d had three husbands before you? Why not four, or five – or a dozen while you’re at it? What on earth put that idea into your head? Are you a madman or an imbecile?’

  It was a brutal attack, but Carter Gilbert’s paternal tone and the commiseration that could be read on his face stripped it of all offensiveness.

  ‘I – I don’t understand anything anymore,’ stammered Pierre. ‘I –.’

  The old man held up his hand for silence.

  ‘I, on the other hand, believe I do understand. It’s about time, my boy, that you told me exactly what that swine said to you,’ he said with an awkward compassion.

  Pierre swallowed hard.

  ‘Everything he told me in that meeting is engraved in my mind. I’ve thought about it over and over again these last few days.’

  ‘Now’s the time to get it off your chest. It will stay between the two of us, I promise.’

  He adjusted his pince-nez and leant forward as if to concentrate harder. And his piercing eyes stayed fixed on Pierre for the whole time he was talking, displaying frequent glints of anger. The shadows of the two men became lost in the dimness of the vast lobby, its atmosphere oppressive despite the half-open picture windows behind the dusty curtains of red velvet. The hubbub of distant conversations and feminine laughter, accompanied by the noise of silverware, floated in from the terrace where the mildness of the evening had lured out the diners. The two men were unaware they were now alone in their corner of the dark hall – alone because one could not count among the humans the little bellboy standing stiffly in front of a lift that resembled a rosewood coffin, and the receptionist seated behind his counter looking every bit like an evil night-bird of prey, blinking its eyelids in its illuminated cage.

  When Pierre had finished talking, Carter Gilbert swore under his breath. He removed his pince-nez which had misted up, and, with a fierce concentration, proceeded to wipe them with a large chequered handkerchief.

  ‘Sir,’ he began after he had carefully put the glasses back on his nose, ‘you have been the victim of a hoax, the most ingenious and the most cruel it has been my misfortune to know. I can assure you of one thing right away: your wife is not a criminal. As far as I know, she has never killed anyone. All the accusations of that charlatan were but a tissue of lies and I will prove it to you point by point.’

  He used his fingers to count the arguments.

  ‘In the first place, there never was a criminology conference in London in 1933, and I’ve never heard of an Inspector Parker of Scotland Yard, except in Dorothy Sayers’ novels. Your wife never met, never married and never stabbed a rich old industrialist in a hermetically sealed room – or anywhere else, for that matter – for the simple reason such a man never existed.

  ‘Secondly, in 1931 she was not in Germany but in Argentine with the Duvernois. She could not have been guilty of shooting anyone called Käutner in his locked office in Berlin, because he probably didn’t exist either – as opposed to Superintendent Lohmann, who really does exist but only in a detective film released by the German Universal Film Studios.

  ‘Thirdly, there’s no reason to think that her so-called “third” husband died of anything other than gastroenteritis, given that individual’s notorious abuse – he was a brilliant chemist but a complete failure as a husband – of the martini cocktail. In short, my boy, this whole story about your wife being a calculating murderess is the malevolent concoction of a brilliant but perverse individual who played with your mind with a pleasure I can’t begin to imagine.’

  Pierre Garnier’s resistance to pain was put to the test: he was able to sustain red-hot embers on his skin without flinching. His cigarette burned down to a point between his index and middle fingers without him noticing. Eventually he yelped, looked at it in astonishment, and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

  ‘But why?’ he exclaimed. ‘Why did the swine tell me all that? Why?’

  ‘Who knows what goes on in the mind of a torturer? For Hoenig was certainly that. Luckily for you, you don’t know what experiments he carried out on his mental patients. As refined as they were repellent. But if you’re looking for an explanation beyond the purely pathological, my hunch is that, following his public humiliation at the hands of your friend Professor Lippi, he was out for vengeance. And you, my friend, were made to order: bookworm, idealist, overconfident, and above all deeply in love. He hit you where you were most vulnerable, where it would hurt most. And, with his morbid sense of humour, he dropped clues into the narrative that he knew you, in your distressed state, would never think of checking. Inspector Parker, Superintendent Lohmann: yet another way to humiliate you.’

  ‘I behaved like a fool,’ sighed Pierre, clenching his fists. ‘When I think –.’

  Carter Gilbert held up his hand.

  ‘Don’t feel guilty, my boy. The tale he spun was, in its way, a small masterpiece of psychology which exploited all the chinks in your armour. Like all the best lies, it was correct in certain minor details, enough to make you swallow the rest. At Solange’s request, I can now reveal – if you haven’t already guessed – that everything you learned about her birth, her childhood, and the youthful sins she committed later on are all absolutely true. And there’s no need to promise me you won’t hold a grudge. I’m willing to bet that it will only make you love her more. Now go to her, my boy!’

  ‘Let me shake your hand, sir,’ said Pierre, getting up. ‘Will you be able to tell us at some point what it all means?’

  The old man snorted and tilted his head back in order to look him in the eye.

  ‘But surely you can already see the broad outlines of this affair? The whole story is a pack of lies, but someone has made a truth out of it.’

  ***

  Pierre walked across the lobby, slowly at first, then more quickly, still not fully aware of where he was. It was as if the relief had left his mind drained and his heart beating too fast. He took the steps of the grand staircase two at a time and ran to the room where Solange was waiting for him.

  VIII

  Wednesday 28 September

  They were sitting in the dining room in front of a window overlooking the gardens and, further below, beyond the roofs of the town, the lake covered in white mist. They had got up late and were holding hands abo
ve the table covered with the remains of breakfast.

  ‘I should have told you all that when you asked me to marry you,’ murmured Solange, squeezing her husband’s hand even harder. ‘But I was ashamed and I was afraid of frightening you away. If you’d ever changed your mind or, even worse, if you’d stopped loving me….’

  ‘Don’t think about it, darling. We’ll never talk about it ever again.’

  ‘I didn’t tell you everything. I did a dreadful thing….’

  ‘Even more dreadful than stealing a diamond bracelet?’

  ‘The diamonds were paste,’ she declared.

  ‘I believe you,’ he replied with a smile. ‘So, tell me. What else did you do?’

  She drew her hand away and fiddled with a lock of hair, avoiding his eye.

  ‘Sometimes it seems too awful, but at other times it seems ridiculous. But I can’t tell you,’ she said, shaking her head so vigorously her hair rose from the nape of her slender neck. ‘Uncle Arthur forbade me.’

  Pierre frowned.

  ‘You promised there would be no more secrets between us, Solange,’ he said gently.

  She emitted a quiet scream and clutched her head with both hands.

  ‘It’s true,’ she murmured.

  She raised her head and looked at him with her limpid grey-green eyes.

  ‘You see, darling, it was I who stabbed Dr. Hoenig.’

  ‘Ah! There you are,’ said the all-too-familiar voice of Professor Lippi. ‘Have you heard the news? Arthur Carter Gilbert is amongst us.’

  He rapidly pulled up a chair and sat astride it, obviously excited.

  ‘I’ve just got back from the Albergo. The old man has taken charge of things. He had a long discussion with the superintendent in private. I don’t know what he said to him, but the other came out with a face about six foot long. By the way, do you know that last night that cretin wanted to arrest the two of you? I had my work cut out to convince him it was a stupid idea.’

  He looked at each of them in turn, feigning stupefaction.

  ‘Is that all the reaction I get?’

  ‘Where is he now?’ asked Pierre in a non-committal voice.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sir Arthur.’

  ‘Oh, he went with Brenner to look at the bungalow. But I haven’t told you the best bit! When he emerged from his little chat with Brenner, there was a crowd on the terrace, journalists and photographers from Berne, Geneva et cetera, and they bombarded him with questions. He held up his hand for silence and announced cheerfully that there would be a session tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock sharp, in the conference hall of the Albergo and that we were all invited. You’ll be coming, of course,’ he added with an engaging smile.

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Solange in a low voice.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Pierre curtly. Lippi looked at him in surprise.

  ‘One of the journalists asked Brenner – who didn’t bother to hide his displeasure – whether he wanted to say anything, but he merely stated that he was expecting the results of the autopsy and the lab report at any moment. And at that point, he said we should all leave and not get in the way of the investigation which, was, needless to say “taking its course.”’

  There was a silence. Solange was absentmindedly watching a gardener rake dead leaves from the lawn. Pierre picked up the porcelain teapot and scrutinised it intensely, as if it were a rare specimen.

  ‘Well, then…’ Lippi began, looking from one to the other with total incomprehension. He stood up and announced he had suddenly remembered some important letters he had to write, and didn’t seem particularly surprised when they didn’t press him to stay.

  ***

  All in all, the Garniers passed a delightful afternoon, even though the sky was an autumnal grey. Solange used all her seductive wiles to extract from her husband a promise not to pose her any further questions. “Be patient, darling. Uncle Arthur will explain everything at the right time. Believe me, even I am not really sure what happened.” They took the vaporetto to Magadino where, at a lakeside inn, they lunched very late on fried fillets of local perch. Pierre selected a bottle of wine from Asti: “that cheeky little sparkling wine made famous by Stendhal’s The Charterhouse of Parma” which she absolutely had to try. Resting her elbow on the table and her head on her hand, Solange raised the glass to eye level for the sheer pleasure of watching the bubbles.

  ‘Admit it, darling: this is one of the happiest moments of our lives. This horrible business has drawn us closer together, finally. But I do wonder,’ she added mischievously, ‘whether you wouldn’t have preferred being the husband of a famous criminal after all. Tell me, wouldn’t that have excited you a little bit?’

  ‘I’d like to hear you develop that theory,’ he replied, clinking their glasses.

  ‘Not now, darling. This evening, perhaps, in the room, if you’re not too tired.’

  She sipped the wine but, above the glass, she seemed to look at him anxiously. There was a hint of rings under her grey-green eyes, her hair was slightly ruffled, and a strange smile played on her lips.

  He leant across the table and kissed her on the forehead.

  ‘Tell me, just for the record: you wouldn’t have put something in my drink last Sunday evening, by any chance? That’s what’s been bothering me the most. I seem to remember falling onto the bed and sleeping like a log.’

  ‘Last Sunday? It’s quite possible. What did we do that evening? Ah, yes, we’d had a very tiring day. Still, you wouldn’t want me to wake you up each time I go out to commit a murder, surely?’

  She put her head back and he saw her shoulders trembling. But it wasn’t from the cold: Solange was laughing.

  ***

  The accumulation of surprising discoveries and incomprehensible events inhibits the emotions and plunges even the most inquisitive spirit into a torpid state.

  Such was Superintendent Brenner’s experience as he stood with Arthur Carter Gilbert at the door of the victim’s bungalow.

  ‘Is this another joke?’ he asked aloud as he realised that, despite all his efforts, the key in his hand obstinately refused to fit the lock.

  He noticed that the old man was watching him, a mischievous gleam in his eye, like a street urchin engaged in a prank.

  ‘It’s not a joke, Superintendent. You’ve simply got the wrong key.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ muttered Brenner, showing it to him. ‘It’s the key that Agent Fantoni found on the table next to the victim’s body. And it hasn’t left my pocket since he gave it to me. Look, Monsieur….’ He pointed to the copper plate on the door, inscribed with the number 12. ‘I’m not dreaming, it’s the same number.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Sir Arthur. He took the key and turned it around in his hand before handing it back to the policeman. Admittedly the numbers are fairly crudely made, but what do you see now.’

  ‘15,’ replied Brenner, stupefied.

  ‘Quite so. The 1 is a simple vertical line and the 5 is an upside-down 2. Anyone could have made that mistake. If you’re shown into a room by someone opening the door for you, and then you see a key lying on one of the pieces of furniture, you automatically assume it’s the room key, particularly if it’s showing a number that looks the same. That’s what Agent Fantoni thought, that’s what you assumed, and that’s exactly what someone wanted you to believe. It’s such a simple trick that only a truly diabolical mind could have thought of it – a mind cunning enough to know that the most effective schemes are those that deceive by their simplicity.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Brenner. ‘Let me think. There are only two keys for each bungalow, right? One is back in the Albergo. The one we have isn’t the right one. So where’s the other?’

  ‘Here!’ said the old man. And, standing on tiptoe, he reached up and swept his hand along the door lintel, collecting a key that he brandished under the superintendent’s nose.

  He inserted it in the keyhole, twisted, pushed the door open and entered.

  �
��I’m not a psychic,’ he continued. ‘I just used logic. When I read the agent’s report, I realised straight away that the key found on Hoenig’s table couldn’t be the right one. Early this morning I came down here to poke about and I found what I was looking for. Then….’

  He entered the lounge and went over to the window, opened it wide and pushed open the shutters. The light and the clean air freshened the room, which was giving off an unpleasant smell. Then he turned to the policeman who was blinking and shaking his head in astonishment.

  ‘Afterwards, I put everything back in place and returned to the Albergo where I questioned the receptionist. As I had thought, one of the keys was missing. They hadn’t been particularly concerned because it was the key to bungalow 15 which is under repair and whose door is left open because there’s nothing inside to take.’

  ‘And the murderer stole it!’ exclaimed Brenner, his face lighting up.

  Sir Arthur gave a tut-tut of disapproval.

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, Superintendent.’

  ‘But yes!’ exclaimed the other, who seemed to have come alive. ‘On the contrary, we have the solution. The woman, after committing the murder, took the good key from the table, put the other in its place, and simply walked out of the door locking it behind her. And we fell for it. What do you say?’

  ‘I say I’ve read your report. It’s right there in black and white: she wouldn’t have had enough time.’

  ‘Let’s suppose I was wrong.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time. All right, go on….’said Carter Gilbert nonchalantly. Brenner was visibly anxious. He rubbed his chin and his gaze wandered around the room before alighting on the old author’s sibylline smile. He took his courage in both hands and declared:

  ‘Well, I’d say that what happened was the murderess returned to the scene of the crime.’