by Paul Halter
‘The door was opened by Berry himself, synchronised with Dutour’s footsteps, which in turn followed the sound of the bookcase falling—engineered, of course, by Berry. The second opening of the door set off the last set of footsteps, during which Berry lay down on the floor amongst the scattered books, as if he’d fainted… Dr. Leblanc manoeuvred to be the first person in the room. Ben Ali might well have got there first, but for his sprained ankle. How long did you lose sight of him after he entered the study, Paille? Ten seconds? A little more? In any case, it was long enough for the last task he had to perform: to hit the archaeologist with a block of amazonite and knock him out. This final act took considerable courage on Berry’s part, but it was necessary, in order to dispel suspicion.
‘Up to that point, everything had gone like clockwork. The four witnesses had seen and heard what Berry had intended. I should mention that the presence of the chess players Rabbier and Ben Ali was probably the result of a quiet word from Berry to the Berber. Everything now pointed to the archaeologist having been attacked by an invisible being, who had derived his powers from the helmet he had just stolen. The press, invited specifically for the occasion, would spread the news and raise the auction price. And the choice of Dutour as accomplice would ensure the investigation would proceed in the right direction.
‘But there was a grain of sand in the beautifully constructed works… Berry was unaware of the relationship between his wife and Jacques Dutour, who, for his part, had been presented with a golden opportunity. He could get rid of a rival and help himself, first to Berry’s wife and, once they were married, to her fortune.
‘And so, after he’d finished pacing in the attic, Dutour drove at breakneck speed to be present in his office when the inevitable phone call came from the Berry residence. That allowed him plausibly to return alone to the scene of the crime, where he could take his time to administer a second, mortal, blow to the back of the victim’s head. Putting pressure on the ambulance men to get the wounded man to the hospital, to be treated by experts, guaranteed that the medical examination would be delayed. But the best part of the plan was that, after Berry’s death was announced, Leblanc would feel himself responsible—thus guaranteeing his silence about the masquerade.
‘But there was a grain of sand in Dutour’s plans as well. Leblanc, overcome with remorse, decided to take his own life. And, presumably to share his guilt, the doctor alerted the policeman personally by phone. Dutour drove there immediately, in the hope of persuading him to change his mind, for such a suicide would seem like a confession, and might lead to Dutour himself being implicated. He arrived too late, however, which is why he invented a story about a cry for help, turned over some furniture, and claimed that footprints leading to the river—and soon to be obliterated by the rain—were those of a hunted man.
‘With Leblanc out of the way, our man of action Dutour turned his attention, first to Ben Ali and then to Romain Rabbier, terrorising them in order to deflect suspicion from the death of the doctor. In Rabbier’s case, in the hope of finally bringing the matter to a close, he arranged to have the legendary helmet crushed under the wheels of the antique dealer’s car. Note that, as a souvenir of your old friendship, my dear Paille, he was sensitive enough to spare you from the attacks.’
‘It’s incredible,’ stammered Martin Paille, his head between his hands. ‘I thought about every possible solution except this one. I don’t know what to say, Burns, other than your reputation is fully justified. In a few minutes, you’ve solved a mystery that’s been haunting me for years.’
‘May I offer you some advice, if you wish to forget about everything?’
‘Of course. I’m all ears.’
‘Take a trip to Nafplio, to Conrad Berry’s excavation site. Go to the underground galleries where the helmet was found. There you will undoubtedly find the other magical attribute of Hades, a rock in the form of a seat, the Throne of Oblivion. Sit on it.’
‘Is that wise?’ I offered. ‘Suppose you lose all your knowledge, like those who drank from the river Lethe?’
‘Quite right, Achilles. However, in your case, it wouldn’t make much difference.’
