by Paul Halter
‘So it was the cursed play!’
‘I may add that Chambers’ name was often associated with that of another American author, H.P. Lovecraft, known for his supernatural works featuring monstrous sea creatures, sworn enemies of mankind, whose aim was to reconquer the earth. In his works, Lovecraft made frequent reference to those of Chambers.’
‘I understand. Santerre had lapped all this stuff up and it was exerting a noxious influence on his fragile spirit.’
‘The book which has unfortunately disappeared is proof enough. But it tells us more than that: it reveals the solution to this otherwise inexplicable crime.’
The policeman picked up his sketch and stared hard at it.
‘I just don’t see it,’ he muttered. ‘Apart from the symbol, the title and its poor condition....’
‘But that’s just it! Have you ever seen a book in such a state? For a book to be worn, torn, folded and dog-eared on one corner is deplorable but common enough. But the one you drew had all four corners bent over, which is almost unheard of. Either it was done deliberately or it happened the way I think.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. What do you think happened?’
Dr. Twist evaded the question.
‘An odious reptile took advantage of a situation in order to eliminate a troublemaker. That’s the key to the whole puzzle, based on the influence of things on people, and of people on other people. You acknowledged yourself that you started seeing lizards everywhere once I put the idea of reptiles in your head. Captain Santerre never stopped seeing the monstrous creatures once he started reading about them, a phenomenon exaggerated by the state of his mental health. In the same way that this whole investigation has been influenced by the “revelations” of the séance about a diabolical murderer, Raskin’s daughter was also influenced by his insistence that the dagger was still in the bookcase on the afternoon of the séance—which was totally untrue, because it had been borrowed several days earlier by his friend Santerre. A sacrificial dagger, renowned for its magical powers to invoke the wrath of the heavens and all kinds of evil. In his disturbed state, Santerre believed he could use it.’
‘Wait a moment!’ said Boulanger, raising his hand. ‘Are you saying Raskin is our odious murderer?’
‘Precisely. What’s more, you more or less described him as the prime suspect and felicitously pointed me in the right direction. But it wasn’t a premeditated murder. He simply lent his friend the obsidian dagger, knowing full well that he was teetering on the verge of madness. As to what followed, I have to admit that I was helped by my experience, having dealt with a similar crime in the past, although the stomach wounds provided some notable surprises. Note that I’m not casting doubt on the competence of the medical examiner, who correctly determined the time of death. However, in this case, that doesn’t correspond to the time the mortal blow was struck—far from it. With that kind of wound, the time difference can be quite substantial.
‘Now let’s talk about the incredibly battered book found at the foot of the stairs, separated from the overturned bookcase by the width of the door—where the struggle took place, according to your analysis. It would have been more accurate to say “where the fall ended up.” For that’s what happened to Marc Santerre, whose faltering step was well known. He was undoubtedly on the upper floor, trying his hand at exorcising demons, a copy of The King in Yellow in one hand and the dagger in the other. Two cult objects, each emblazoned with the reptilian motif. He trips at the top of the stairs and falls all the way to the bottom, reflexively clutching the precious collector’s piece borrowed from his friend. At the foot of the stairs fate apparently turns against him, for he impales himself with his full weight on the great “sacrificial” dagger, which explains the incredible violence of the blow, the multiple bruises on the body and the battering received by The King in Yellow, which had bounced down behind him. His wound, though extremely painful, hasn’t yet deprived him of his forces. He manages to pull the dagger out. He weighs up the situation and realises that, without help from the outside, he will soon be joining his fallen comrades-in-arms. He immediately phones his friend Raskin... and that’s his fatal error. Raskin takes note of all that’s happened and reassures his friend that he’ll take care of everything. In fact, the only thing he does is go into town—on the pretext of doing some shopping for the séance—to disconnect Santerre’s phone line at the junction box there. That way, Santerre won’t be able to contact anyone else, and in two or three hours he’ll be dead. Raskin holds no particular grudge against Santerre himself, but he sees a way of getting rid of his son, who has won the heart of his own daughter. The séance with the round table, which he will control with his foot, will push Jérôme into taking action. The plan works and Jérôme rushes out to check on his uncle. Do you remember what happens when his daughter Michèle wants to go with him? Raskin persuades her to stay.
‘His plan, of course, was for Jérôme to force the chalet door and be the first person to discover the tragedy. Under the circumstances, there was a good chance he would be charged with murder. And even if the young man avoided that fate, he would still be under suspicion from many quarters, and it would be easy to make sly insinuations and thus turn his daughter away from the young man. And even if Santerre were, by some miracle, still alive, he could always dispatch him discreetly. But Jérôme returns without having dared to break his uncle’s door down! After which the whole group goes out to the scene of the tragedy. And there, Raskin commits his only error....
‘He’s relieved when Dr. Blanchard announces that Santerre died a short while before. Even though Jérôme has sworn that he didn’t go inside on his initial visit, he’s still suspected of having done so: he was the only one with the opportunity. But, for that, the theory of a murder has to be watertight. Yet Raskin knows the victim’s fingerprints must be on the handle of the dagger... He takes the opportunity, while the others are searching the house, to discreetly wipe them off. Such an operation can be done in no time, as you know... After that, all that remains will be to reconnect the phone line at the nearest opportunity.’
After a long silence, Commissaire Boulanger, who had remained frozen like a statue, announced:
‘Well, I’ll be damned! It’s incredible! You’ve succeeded, in less than an hour, in solving a puzzle that’s been causing me sleepless nights for the last two weeks... And without leaving your chair!’
‘Thanks to your sketch and your remarkable powers of observation.’
The policeman gave a weak smile.
‘You’re too kind. But why, as you say, did Raskin commit an error by wiping the handle of the dagger? I’m assuming he used gloves, which he threw away later.’
‘Of course. But if you ask him to produce them and he can’t, that puts him in a precarious position. You should then examine his coat pockets, where he must have stuffed them after wiping the dagger. There must be traces of the victim’s blood there, no matter how slight. You’ve painted a sufficiently edifying portrait of his thrifty nature for me to know that he would never have thrown the coat away.’
THE HELM OF HADES
In the art of shining in society, Owen Burns had no equal. And he had also mastered the art of provocation with the same gusto, as he demonstrated one night in the late 1930s, in our favourite London watering-hole, The Hades Club. The gloomy autumn day having ensured that the place was full, we found ourselves in the company of Lord K. and a Dutch diamond merchant by the name of Abydos. When Lord K., a veteran of the Boer wars, learnt that yours truly—Achilles Stock—was of South African origin, it was inevitable that the conversation would turn towards that terrible conflict. The discussion was courteous enough at first, until Owen—who had remained uncharacteristically silent up to that point—announced that the Crown’s decision to embark on a new colonial adventure was undoubtedly due to the influence of foreign diamond dealers. The remark caused Abydos’s dark eyes to flash briefly, whereas Lord K. not only appeared unperturbed, but p
roceeded to sing Owen’s praises as a renowned private detective, often called on by Scotland Yard for help in difficult cases. In concluding his remarks, however, his voice hardened:
‘… He’s a man who has profited financially from his talent in combating the miscreants of the realm. But let it be known that I, Burns, have always fought for the honour, not the money.’
Owen’s response was delivered with a beatific smile:
‘That’s understandable. A man will always fight for what he doesn’t possess.’
Lord K. went as white as a sheet, stood up, turned on his heels and left, followed by the dark-eyed diamond merchant.
After a painful silence, I observed:
‘Some forms of wit can turn out to be very expensive, Owen. It’s not very clever to have insulted the dignity—.’
‘What dignity are you talking about, my friend? Fighting the enemy in the most cowardly way by putting women and children in camps? Or—.’
He didn’t finish. A plump individual of some sixty years—like Owen and myself, in fact—presented himself and asked us to excuse his impertinence: he hadn’t been able to avoid overhearing what the last fellow had said about Owen before he left. With his chubby features and blue eyes made to appear larger by thick lenses, Martin Paille looked like an angel, although he had a serious expression on his face. Owen didn’t blink as the man started to talk about an unexplained murder, but he frowned at the mention of The Hades Club.
‘A mystery involving good old Hades, the god of the underworld?’ he joked. ‘That’s heartening news, my dear sir!’
‘I couldn’t have put it better: the murders appear to have been inspired by the prince of darkness himself. And even directly….’
‘What do you mean?’ said Owen in astonishment.
‘The criminal used one of the prince’s favourite weapons—the worst, in fact. For you must admit that a criminal is at his most dangerous when he’s as transparent as the air that you breathe….’
Owen cast a brief look at the bust of the evil eminence, which was sitting on the mantelpiece over the fire, and stared at the intruder with a gleam of hope in his eye:
‘Are you referring to his metal helmet?’
‘The very same.’
‘The famous Helm of Hades, which renders the wearer invisible?’
Martin Paille nodded his head sadly:
‘I know it seems improbable, and even incredible, but I was an eye witness to the events, which took place several years ago. Although the criminal seems to have been put out of the way, the mystery itself still remains. If you’re interested, Mr. Burns, I’d be happy to get your opinion about it….’
‘Willingly, sir. And if your tale is worthy of interest, I will solve it for you. For, all modesty aside, I have never failed to do so, no matter how seemingly impossible the affair.’
In an accent which betrayed his native France, Martin Paille began his strange tale. An architect by profession, he had set up office in London several years earlier, but just before his departure, whilst still living in Fontainebleau, he had been invited by the wealthy archaeologist Conrad Berry to a soirée to celebrate his latest discovery, the Helm of Hades. The local press had received the news with muted enthusiasm, due partly to its demonic reputation and partly due to the circumstances of its recovery, not to mention the nature of the object itself and its alleged powers.
After having spent two fruitless years digging in a site near Nafplio, in the Peloponnese, the archaeologist had been on the point of leaving, when one of his workers had stumbled across traces of Mycenaean civilisation on the Doric site. A hitherto unnoticed opening led to a network of underground galleries, in which Conrad Berry discovered the mythical object. Remarkably well preserved and finely wrought, the bronze helmet appeared to date from quite a distant past. But how to verify that its possessor was indeed the master of Tartarus? Initially silent on the matter, archaeologist Berry had declared that he would provide the required proof at the right moment—and this soirée seemed to be just that moment. Previously, he had talked about two workers at the site being brutally attacked at twilight on the eve of departure. Not only had they been unable to identify the assailant, they had denied even seeing one. According to them, it was as if the rocks themselves had moved before falling on them… The nature of their injuries—severe bruises and a broken arm—meant that their story could not be taken lightly.
Conrad Berry’s wealth secured his place in Fontainebleau’s high society, although to some he was an upstart and a braggart who paraded the young woman he had just married as a trophy. It must be said that the lovely Célestine—who was not even half his age—inspired jealousy and envy, with her blue-green eyes and golden brown locks. She was in the habit of gliding voluptuously around their immense residence on the edge of the forest, accompanied by a strange, raw-boned individual whose swarthy complexion contrasted strikingly with his piercing blue eyes. Little was known about Ben Ali, other than the fact that he was a Berber who had been in Berry’s service for a very long time, and that he claimed to be a hypnotist and a healer. This last attribute did not appear to apply to himself, for a recent sprain had obliged him to walk with a cane.
A beautiful evening, scented with lilac and honeysuckle, greeted the numerous visitors as they entered the Berry mansion: family friends, business acquaintances and local journalists. Altogether, about twenty chatty and thirsty people were gathered in the spacious main drawing room, eagerly awaiting the moment when their host would produce the mythical helmet—and, above all, proof of its authenticity. To temper their impatience, the gentlemen were more than happy to see the young mistress of the house moving gracefully amongst them, dispensing generous smiles.
On the stroke of eight, Conrad Berry appeared. He announced that his guests would soon be rewarded for their patience and be able to admire the authentic Helm of Hades, at present locked in a special chest, after which he would provide proof of its authenticity. However he still needed a short while—no more than half an hour—to sort out a few details. To the applause (and a few sighs of impatience) from his guests, he withdrew to his private study, situated upstairs on the first floor.
To reach it from the corridor, it was necessary to cross an antechamber behind a velvet curtain, then a private salon, at the other side of which was the door to the office. The salon itself was long and spacious, with a gently arched ceiling, and a marble fireplace to the left as one entered, surmounted by a superb Indian mirror. To the right was a wall with two windows, between which stood a magnificent Chinese vase with blue patterns. Even the most distracted of visitors could not fail to be awed by it. Near the fireplace were an aquarium and a low table with a chessboard set out. Earlier that evening, Ben Ali had started a game with a Romain Rabbier, a rich antique dealer and frequent visitor to the mansion. They were still playing when Conrad Berry crossed the salon and locked himself in his study.
Martin Paille stopped suddenly, a faraway look in his eye, as if transported into the past, then continued:
‘I arrived just afterwards, in the company of Pierre Leblanc, a general practitioner and private physician to Berry, as well as being a long-time friend and a lover of the horses. We preferred to wait in the peace and quiet of the private salon whilst the other guests remained downstairs. It must have been at around a quarter past eight, and we had barely exchanged a few words after settling into two of the armchairs, when we heard a peculiar creaking noise. A light, furtive sound… Dr. Leblanc turned to look at the velvet curtain, thinking another visitor had arrived. But nothing. Only silence. He shrugged his shoulders and we continued our conversation. A few minutes later there was another sound, but regular and repeated this time. That was when I realised they were footsteps, very light and very close. Dr. Leblanc drew the same conclusion at the same time. Removing his pince-nez, he looked first at the vase and then at the study door, which had suddenly opened slightly and then shut again cautiously, without a shadow appearing in the doorway. A raised voice c
ould be heard. Despite the thickness of the door, we could readily recognise Conrad Berry’s guttural tones, although we could not understand what was being said. Looking at Ben Ali and Romain Rabbier, it was obvious that they were as surprised as we were. In the turquoise reflection from the aquarium I could see the Berber’s eyes widen. I need to add that the only light in the room came from two table lamps: one on a coffee table between our armchairs, and one next to the chess players.
‘They resumed their game in silence. Pierre Leblanc wiped his brow and confided that he was tired, and it was time to think about retiring. Rubbing my eyes, I replied that I was feeling sleepy as well, no doubt due to the cocktails. Ten minutes later, a loud noise occurred. Coming from the archaeologist’s study, it was as if a heavy object had been knocked over. A few seconds later, the door opened again… We waited for Conrad to appear, but there was no one. A distinct sound of footsteps followed, going from one end of the private salon to the other, and the big Chinese vase swayed and then crashed down in small pieces on the floor.
‘Leblanc, who watched it in bewilderment, got up and turned towards the study, asking anxiously:
‘“Is everything all right, Conrad? What the devil’s going on?”
‘There was no response. Then, gesturing for calm, he went over to the study and went in, taking several seconds before uttering an exclamation. I strode across in turn, just in front of Ben Ali, who was hobbling because of the cane, with Romain Rabbier bringing up the rear. I drew in my breath, stunned as much by the peculiar nature of the situation as by the drama itself. Berry was lying on his back in the centre of the study, his head twisted to one side. His desk had been smashed and a bookcase overturned, and there were scattered papers all around him. Kneeling before him, his fingers on the carotid artery, Dr. Leblanc was stammering:
‘“He’s hardly got any pulse at all. Call an ambulance and the police. Hurry!”
