The Paris Enigma: A Novel

by Pablo De Santis

  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 Paris Enigma * 211

  "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

  C

  aleb 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 Kalidan 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 men
tor, 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?"

  "No! But why would I kill her?"

  Caleb Lawson stopped looking at me and addressed his public.

  "I want this young man to be suspended immediately and denied entrance to our meetings from now on."

  "He's Arzaky's assistant. Arzaky is the one who should decide that," said Magrelli.

  "Arzaky isn't here, so we'll be the ones who decide. This young man was at the scene of the crime at the moment it was committed. We'll have to inform the chief of police as well. . . ."

  That jarred me. I wouldn't fare well with Bazeldin, who would do anything to get rid of Arzaky.

  "I'm innocent. It would only take Arzaky a second to prove my innocence."

  "But he's not here, and you have no witness to confirm that, when you left, the Mermaid was still alive."

  Not only was my membership in the circle of assistants about to be taken away, but it also looked like I was headed to jail. I had entered the world I had read about as a child, but my storyline had unexpectedly digressed. I spoke without thinking, "Yes, I do have a witness."

  "Who?"

  Was I slow to speak? It seemed like there was an incredibly long silence, but time passes differently in dreams.

  "Castelvetia's assistant."

  Castelvetia stood up. I didn't look at him. He came toward me, to shut me up.

  "She'll tell you the truth. Greta--"

  There was a murmur of surprise. Caleb Lawson smiled. His tense body seemed to relax, his public prosecutor stance disappeared. In that moment I understood that I had been tricked, that they didn't care about the accusations against Craig. Lawson was just waiting for that word, the proof that he needed against Castelvetia.

  "She. Greta," repeated Lawson triumphantly.

  Castelvetia looked around him. There were no longer any traces of affectation in him. He had abandoned his posture, and his elegant mannerisms had fallen away like a cape descending to the ground. His hands, which had seemed to be mere objects of contemplation, were now claws. His voice had deepened.

  "She isn't an assistant in the strict sense of the word. Besides, I was about to inform The Twelve Detectives about the presence of my collaborator, once the problems we are currently dealing with were resolved."

  "Having a woman as your assistant breaks all our rules," said Caleb Lawson. "I propose that Castelvetia be suspended. I'll remind you that the voting is by simple majority. . . ."

  Lawson raised his hand. So did Madorakis and Hatter.

  "I support the motion," said Magrelli, "but only as a precautionary measure."

  There were nine detectives present; only one more vote would ensure his suspension. Rojo hesitated, but eventually raised his hand.

  "And now I call for a vote on the precautionary separation of Arzaky, and his assistant as well. . . ."

  Would The Twelve Detectives have voted against Arzaky? I don't think so. They wouldn't have dared go that far. Before anyone had the chance to make that mistake, his voice was heard.

  "What are you doing, Lawson?"

  The Englishman jumped.

  "Arzaky! Where were you?"

  "I've been in a lot of bad places these past few days, and throughout my life. But this is the worst place of all. In every dive there are rules of conduct; here it seems that the only norm is humiliation and dishonor. You wanted your revenge against Castelvetia? Well now you have it. Why go after my assistant too?"

  "Because he didn't have anyone to assist. Besides, he knew Castelvetia's secret and he didn't say anything."

  "He's an assistant, not a stool pigeon."

  "But our code of honor . . ."

  "I demand that Salvatrio be cleared of all guilt and charges, and that he continue to help me with this case."

  Lawson had turned pale. He wanted to challenge Arzaky's words, but he couldn't. Yet he didn't want to give up center stage, so he said to the Pole, "We have already realized what you've known for some time: that the killer is following a plan based on The Four Elements. We only have to decide whether the first murder was earth or air, and based on that . . ."

  Arzaky raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated look of surprise. He had lost weight during his absence, and now all his features were more prominent, as if he was wearing a mask of himself.

  "The Four Elements? Who told you that had anything to do with the case?"

  "That is what you were trying to hide from us."

  "You're missing either earth or air? Then we'll have to keep a close watch on the entire planet, because there's air and earth everywhere."

  I withdrew to the back of the room, ashamed. No one was looking at me anymore, because all eyes were fixed on Arzaky. Magrelli had approached to effusively shake his hand and Zagala was waiting for his turn. Novarius was consulting the wall clock, as if the only thing he was worried about was how many days, hours, and minutes were left before he could f lee these European complications.

  I took advantage of the distraction to open one of the cases and take out Darbon's microscope. It was a small Swiss instrument with bronze and steel pieces. When I closed the case's glass door I noticed that there was someone beside me. I feared it was Neska. I was about to give an explanation for my action, when I saw that it was Castelvetia.r />
  "I was afraid. I spoke without thinking," I told him.

  He looked at me so fixedly that I feared he was going to slap me. He spoke condescendingly.

  "No one asks for explanations from fools. At least they have that privilege."

  "But I wanted to explain it to Greta . . ."

  Castelvetia smiled, as if he had the right to a modicum of revenge.

  "You won't see her again. We are leaving Paris tomorrow."

  Castelvetia pushed me out of the way. The first member in the history of The Twelve Detectives to be expelled left the underground parlor of the Numancia Hotel with swift steps.

  4

  I

  went to the hotel, locked myself in my room and tried in vain to bring my correspondence up to date. I would begin a

  letter and abandon it; a drop of ink would accidentally fall on the page and I would watch it expand, as if it were a small octopus. I consulted a railroad schedule to see when the next train left for Amsterdam. If Castelvetia had told me the truth, perhaps I would have a last chance to see Greta.

  I put the handkerchief that Bazeldin had used to wipe the Mermaid's face under the microscope. A weak ray of sun shone through the window. It was enough to light the small mirror that in turn lit the glass. A shape was already beginning to form when someone knocked on the door. Just in case, I hid the microscope that I had taken without permission.

  It was Arzaky. Should I tell him I was sorry about the Mermaid's death? I remembered my mother writing condolence letters overf lowing with expressions of grief when someone lost a relative. My father, on the other hand, never knew what to say, and he just lowered his head to look at people's shoes, the only subject he really knew well.