The Riddle of Monte Verita

by Jean-Paul Torok

  ‘What does this mean?’ asked a familiar soft voice, slightly breathless. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for over an hour, Pierre! And you’re not even dressed for dinner!’

  Lippi stood up to greet her.

  ‘I’m sorry, dear lady, it was I who detained your husband.’

  ‘Really?’ she sighed. ‘Then you’re no more reasonable than he is.’

  She was wearing a short silk dress with a birds-of-paradise motif which showed her legs and the firm roundness of her shoulders to good effect. The indirect lighting of the bar created golden reflections in her hair and her grey-green eyes under dark brows regarded her husband with an air of exasperation that made her even more charming.

  ‘You look even more irresistible tonight in that dress, my little lady,’ purred the Italian, offering her a chair, ‘Schiaparelli?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just a little thing I found in one of those quaint boutiques in Lausanne. But, since I didn’t pay very much for it, I was afraid it might be a copy,’ she lied, removing her gloves with a studied nonchalance.

  Her gaze fell on the papers scattered on the table and she frowned daintily.

  ‘What are you two up to?’

  With studied deference, Lippi took great pains to explain exactly what had happened. In spite of himself, Pierre was impressed. He watched his wife’s reaction. As usual, her emotions could be read clearly on her face, expressing in the present case a growing enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s really exciting!’ she exclaimed, blushing with pleasure. ‘How clever you are, you men. Can I help?’

  ‘If we don’t go in right away, the dining room will be closed,’ Pierre pointed out with a feigned earnestness.

  She gave him a black look.

  ‘I’m not going in there with you dressed like that,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ll stay here and order some sandwiches. Foie gras and salmon, if possible. And I’ll have a cocktail as well. What’s that you’re drinking? Turn of the Screw? What a stupid name! Why not Monkey Wrench or Screwdriver?’

  ***

  Two and a half hours, eight sandwiches and as many Turns of the Screw later, they finally produced a translation of the complete text, which Lippi read out with a rather unsteady delivery:

  “The undead in the naos of the thaumaturge where he who united the calvary with Saint Gudule’s flower crossed the dried-up Acheron through the door of the exhausted nymph at one hundred and twenty feet in a bee-line from the Bengalese pavilion.”

  Pierre yawned.

  ‘Well, that didn’t get us very far,’ he said. ‘How can you make any sense of this gibberish? St. Gudule, exhausted nymphs, Bengali pavilions and the like?’

  ‘I confess to being totally in the dark,’ replied Lippi. ‘I propose we get some sleep and tackle the problem afresh tomorrow morning, with a clear head.’

  Solange stamped her foot.

  ‘No! We’re not going to give up now, just when we’re getting somewhere. Besides, I’m not tired. We have to continue.’

  ‘Don’t be childish, Solange.’

  ‘“Don’t be childish, Solange”,’ she simpered, mimicking her husband. ‘I’d like to tear your heart out when you talk to me like that.’

  ‘You’ve had a little too much to drink, darling. You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘Do you think so? I wouldn’t be so sure. You never take me seriously. You think I’m stupid; you constantly treat me like a child, no matter what I say or do. I get so beside myself I really want to kill you!’

  ‘Solange. Listen to me….’

  Their voices had gone up a notch in the deserted bar. In the distance, beyond the terrace windows and with a backdrop of grey mist, the necklace of streetlights could be seen as it followed the curve of the quay. The headlights of the occasional car glided silently around the invisible lake.

  Lippi gave a discreet cough.

  ‘First of all, my little lady, I don’t think –.’

  ‘You’re annoying as well! Always calling me little lady. I have a name, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Well then… little Solange… I don’t think your husband finds you stupid.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. He never misses a chance to tell me how lucky he is to have such an intelligent wife. What’s more, we’ve been three hours working on this document and now we’ve come to a dead end. If you have any suggestions as to how to proceed, we would be most grateful for them.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Well, it just so happens I have one!’ Solange announced triumphantly. ‘I’ll tell you what we’re going to do: we’re going upstairs to see someone who’ll be able to solve it just like that!’ she said, snapping her fingers. ‘Uncle Arthur!’

  ‘Uncle Arthur?’

  ‘She means Sir Arthur Carter Gilbert,’ sighed Pierre. He took her hand, which she pulled away. ‘Really, darling, you must be joking: it’s after eleven o’clock.’

  ‘You can just be quiet!’

  So saying, she gathered her gloves and handbag and stood up.

  ‘Whoever loves me follows me. Let’s go!’

  ***

  They walked along a dimly lit corridor, the thick carpet muffling the sound of their steps. Not a sound came from behind the well-polished doors of the bedrooms whose occupants – they go to bed early in Switzerland – were sleeping the sleep of the just. The halls and corridors of the old palace reeked of old-fashioned virtue and respectability. Nothing had changed. On the walls, above the panelling, incredibly melancholic paintings from the Belle Epoque depicted men in morning coats and women in bustle gowns walking along the side of the lake or taking tea in the winter garden. They reminded Pierre of a past that he had never known; a carefree past, full of peace and happiness, that made him only too aware of the dreadful times in which he was living.

  Sir Arthur’s room was right at the end of the corridor. It overlooked the back of the hotel and, more precisely, the ramp to the funicular. With stubborn insistence he had refused all suggestions to take a suite with a lake view – “the sublime stops me thinking,” he had declared bluntly. On the door knob hung a handwritten sign with the badly-printed words “PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB!!!” followed by the solemn warning in huge letters: “I’M BUSY. NO ENTRY.”

  Solange turned the knob and walked in.

  The great man was slumped in a bed covered in sheets of notepaper, his back supported by three pillows and his head leaning on his chest. The light from a tulip lamp reflected from a bald dome fringed by dishevelled tufts. His pince-nez were askew on the end of his nose. He was wearing a Chinese dressing-gown embroidered with dragons and everyone could see he was wearing red socks.

  ‘Hello, Uncle Arthur,’ the young woman called out as she walked further into the room. I just came to say goodnight.’

  ‘Go away!’ he growled, with an angry gesture. ‘Clear off! Can’t you see I’m working?’

  A cheap French romantic novel fell from his knees to the ground.

  ‘It’s me, Uncle Arthur,’ repeated Solange, taking another step forward. He shaded his eyes and peered into the darkness.

  ‘Ah! It’s you, my dear,’ he said in a gentler tone. ‘How on earth did you get in?’

  ‘You never turn the key in the door, uncle.’

  ‘Because I don’t want to be killed in a locked room. Who would solve the problem if I were gone?’

  ‘Please excuse us, sir,’ said Pierre. ‘We didn’t know you were sleeping.’

  ‘Who’s there? Well, who is it? Ah! It’s you, Garnier. I wasn’t sleeping, damn you. I was thinking. If you’d leave me alone, maybe I’d have something to tell you tomorrow morning.’

  He peered into the gloom once more.

  ‘Is there someone with you? Haven’t you read the sign? I’m busy. Busy. Keep out!’

  Lippi emerged into the light.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself, Maestro. I’m Professor Lippi from Bologna.’

  ‘Professor, indeed. Are you here to teach me ho
w to write detective stories? Something none of your compatriots has been able to do, as far as I know.’

  ‘I am one of your most fervent admirers. You may have read my study of –.’

  ‘I never read, my friend. And above all, books about me. To my mind there are only two authors of any merit: Charles Dickens and Zénaïde Fleuriot. Well, since you’re here, you’d better sit down. Sit yourself here, my dear,’ he said in a less forbidding tone and patting the bedcover next to him. ‘Well, what the devil are you waiting for? I hope for your sakes that you’re not here just to bother me. You’d better have a really good reason, or else….’

  ‘The thing is, Sir Arthur,’ began Pierre after exchanging looks with Lippi, we’re here because of a most serious problem –.’

  ‘Hold on!’ ordered the great man, raising a hand for silence. ‘Not yet. Just a second… I should have a few cigars left. Oh! There they are, my dear.’

  It was their ritual. Solange went through the motions of selecting one, rolling it next to her ear, striking a match and lighting it slowly, despite Lippi who was seething with impatience. She held it out to the old man. He took a noisy pull, exhaled a cloud of acrid and nauseating smoke and fell back on his pillows. An air of peace and contentment spread over him. He looked just like an Indian elder smoking a peace pipe, prior to bringing forth a pearl of wisdom.

  Pierre coughed. Lippi and he proceeded to recount their story.

  ‘Hell’s Bells!’ said Carter Gilbert, blinking. ‘That’s very interesting. It could be highly significant or not. We’ll have to see. I don’t want to jump to conclusions without having examined it thoroughly, but it could be the missing piece of the puzzle. I can’t say just yet.’

  Pierre took the papers out of his pocket and handed them over. Carter Gilbert took a quick look at the original message, then handed it back, keeping only the translation. He studied it for a minute of two, then let it fall on to his knees. He picked up his pince-nez, placed them on the piece of paper, crossed his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes.

  ‘Are you sleeping, sir?’ asked Pierre, hesitantly.

  The old man blinked and peered about myopically.

  ‘Ah! It’s you, Garnier,’ he replied. ‘I wasn’t sleeping, I was cogitating, sir. If you did the same instead of bothering me, you’d no doubt find the answer to this infantile puzzle.’

  He went back to his cogitation and reached out for his cigar, which had gone out. Automatically, Lippi struck a match and leant over to offer him a light, but he waved the professor away.

  ‘But before I provide it, it’s best to clarify the story a little. We mustn’t forget that we’re dealing with a man who, throughout his entire life, had engaged in manipulation and who, according to all the evidence, had prepared this senseless joke in the pursuit of rational goals. I’m summarising what you’ve told me and I’ll tell you what I think about it: on Sunday morning, before boarding the boat, Hoenig sends a letter by courier to the Grand Hotel. That way, he can be absolutely certain that our friend Garnier will find it on his return. He knows he’s dealing with a Poe expert who is certain to decipher it. But not straight away, obviously. At the time, the recipient will believe it to be a joke or a hoax and not rack his brains to find the answer to the riddle. It won’t be until the next day, when he will learn the double news of the murder and of the disappearance of the body, that he’ll make the connection between those mysterious events and the secret message. So, what will he do? He’ll get to work and translate the message immediately. After which, he’ll communicate the results to the police, which will lead them to find what they’re supposed to find at the precise time and place the plan calls for. That’s how it was supposed to happen. But things didn’t quite work out that way.’

  He sighed, eyes half-closed in contemplation of the cigar that he hadn’t got the courage to light again, and allowed himself to fall back against the pillows with his arms crossed.

  ‘Are you trying to say, Maestro, that Hoenig hid his killer’s name in the message?’ said Lippi in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

  ‘What on earth are you thinking, Professor? That the victim knew ahead of time that he was going to be stabbed and by whom? Well, I’m going to surprise you: in point of fact, you’re not very far from the truth. Indeed, one might say you were burning. But to go from there to believing that Hoenig would write down the name of his murderer and arrange for it to be known only after his death… Rubbish! You’re breaking all the rules of detective fiction by pulling a hitherto unknown clue out of a hat, and one which just happens to contain the key to the whole business. No, I won’t have it. Whoever perpetrated this crime constructed it like a good detective novel. But something didn’t work as planned. It’s as simple as that. Does anyone have a match? … Thank you.’

  Above the flame reflected in the mirrors of the room, the old man’s eyes looked at each one of them in turn. He seemed amused, although his face expressed a determined concentration.

  ‘I hope you realise, Uncle Arthur, that they don’t understand a word of what you’ve been saying,’ observed Solange gently.

  ‘I can’t tell them any more, my pretty, not yet. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. I have a vague picture of the whole business in my head, but I won’t be able to explain anything until I’ve checked out all the pieces to see precisely how they fit.’ He took the piece of paper from his knees and waved it in their direction. ‘What you did was very good. It answered the only question left open.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Lippi, who was beginning to get back his confidence. ‘Perhaps you might care to explain what it means.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’ll do,’ declared the old man, in the tone of someone who has decided to share a confidence. ‘That way, you won’t have disturbed me for nothing. Although, with a little thought, you could have saved yourself the trouble.’

  He took off his pince-nez, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and put them back.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he began. ‘In your view, what’s the meaning of undead?’

  ‘I’ve never heard that expression,’ replied Pierre. Most people say “phantom” or “spectre” or even “vampire” but nobody says “undead.”’

  ‘Well then, you haven’t read my novel The Case of the Undead Corpse which, for once the French publisher has translated intelligently as L’Affaire du cadavre vivant. In the present case, the good doctor – for it refers to Hoenig himself – simply wanted to inform you that he was still alive. It’s so obvious that there was no chance you would get it. Next: what is a naos? The professor will tell us.’

  ‘I seem to remember it’s the hidden part of the temple, the part closest to God, to which only the high priest has access.’

  ‘Perfect. I won’t insult you by asking what is a thaumaturge.’

  ‘A man who performs miracles,’ said Pierre.

  ‘A magician, a sort of sorcerer,’ added Lippi. ‘It can only mean….’

  Pierre clapped his hand to his head:

  ‘The Sorcerer’s Grotto! Of course!’

  ‘I didn’t need to tell you. The rest is exceedingly simple. The word calvary is evidently used in the sense of….’

  ‘I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it. It’s a synecdoche!’ exclaimed the Italian.

  ‘It’s more of a metonymy,’ Pierre offered timidly.

  Solange rolled her eyes.

  ‘How stupid you both are! It’s simply a cross.’

  ‘Bravo, my dear. As for Saint Gudule’s flower, even though I know nothing about the good lady, I presume it means the rose and he who united it with the cross was none other than the famous Rosenkreutz, i.e. rose plus cross.

  ‘After that discovery, the rest is plain sailing. Acheron is the river of the Underworld, so crossed the dried-up Acheron must refer to the Sorcerer’s escape from the grotto using the underground aqueduct, and I’m guessing that the door of the exhausted nymph is the dried-up fountain he used to get out.’

  Pierre
nodded.

  ‘That’s correct. Also, in Latin – you can check this with Lippi – nymph can also mean fountain.’

  ‘I thought as much. So, to summarise: the message is simple, ingenious, and at the same time, explicit. And the gist of it is: Hoenig is alive and well and can be found in the Sorcerer’s Grotto, from which Rosenkreutz escaped by using the dried-up aqueduct that leads to the fountain located one hundred and twenty feet in a beeline – a straight line – from the Bengali pavilion, in other words the bungalow.

  ‘And now that you’ve got what you came for, go, all of you. Get out and leave me alone.’

  Far away, somewhere in the town, a clock struck midnight.

  ‘That’s all well and good, Maestro,’ said Lippi firmly, ‘but it doesn’t get us anywhere. A host of problems still remain, for example –.’

  Solange made a sign for him to be quiet. The old man had closed his eyes. He remained perfectly still, but for the regular rise and fall of his chest.

  ‘OK, you two, out you go,’ she hissed forcefully.

  She held the door open and was the last to leave. Pierre could have sworn that, at the last moment, just as she was closing the door, the old man winked at her.

  IX

  Thursday 29 September

  There was another storm that night. Even though they had gone to bed at one o’clock, Pierre couldn’t sleep. For almost the whole night the thunder had rumbled, the rain had beaten down on the windows and the wind had made a loud racket all around the hotel. For her part, Solange had had a troubled sleep. At two thirty in the morning, as she was mumbling words in an incessant stream, he thought for a moment about waking her. He himself dropped off around three o’clock and only woke when the maid brought in the breakfast.