The Master of the Day of Judgment (16 page)

I interrupted, not with a word or a gesture, but with a look of surprise.

"I saw you in the garden in front of the villa, walking up and down in the rain — or was I mistaken?" he went on, slightly disconcerted.

"What time was that?"

"Ten o'clock."

"That's hardly possible," I replied calmly. "At ten o'clock I was at my lawyer's. I was with him from nine to nearly eleven. "

"Then I was deceived by a quite extraordinary resemblance."

"Presumably," I said and felt anger mounting inside me. He was still convinced he had seen me standing outside the villa windows hoping to catch a glimpse of Dina, I could read that in his eyes. I could contain myself no longer, a wild desire overcame me, a desire to hurt him, to wound him in his pride. I felt for the picture, which I found at once, the picture I had never shown anyone. For a second I held it in my hand, I held it in a way that he could not fail to see it, I saw him grow pale and the hand in which he was holding a glass of water trembled — and then with a casual gesture I threw it into the fire.

Cramp seized me, I felt a stab near my heart, the memory of a winter night flashed through my mind, I wanted to grab the picture back from the flames with my bare hands, but I controlled myself and watched it burn to ashes. All was dark in front of my eyes, all I could see was the glow in the fireplace and the white-bandaged hand and nothing else.

I heard Felix's voice. "Now I have the answer for which I came here," he said. "To tell the truth, I was not sure what your intentions were and I used the night to prepare for all eventualities by committing to paper the matter that concerns us both. Now, of course — I have understood you, baron. You have made your decision, and it's final. Otherwise you would not have parted with that picture."

He produced a big white envelope from his breast pocket and held it so that I could see to whom it was addressed.

"This is the letter," he said. "It has become unnecessary. Permit me to use the opportunity that has presented itself."

He threw the letter, which was addressed to the commanding officer of my regiment, into the fire.

At that moment I realised that the time had come and that my fate was sealed and, as this certainty dawned on me, the day that was just drawing to a close underwent a strange transformation in my mind. It seemed to me that from early morning the only idea in my head had been that I must die because I had betrayed my word of honour, and everything I had been busy with that day now revealed to me its secret meaning. It had not been a mere mood that made me destroy my papers — I had done it because I wanted to die — I must leave nothing behind in this world of unremitting, prying curiosity. I had left unopened the long awaited letter from Norway, the letter from Jolanthe — whatever it contained, there was no point in opening it. And there the glass was waiting for me, the glass that meant sleep, sleep with no awakening.

"The bell rang," Felix said. "That's Solgrub. Let him come and spin his fairy tales. He won't change your decision."

I heard footsteps, Solgrub, the engineer was coming, I feared the moment when he would walk in, whatever he was going to say would sound crazy, ridiculous, absurd. I saw the derision on Felix's lips.

"Come along, Solgrub, come in," he called out. "Come in and tell us your news."

Not the engineer, but Dr Gorski appeared in the doorway.

"So it's you, doctor," Felix said. "Are you looking for Solgrub?"

"No, I was looking for you. I was at your place, and they sent me here."

"Who sent you here?"

"Dina. I haven't told her. I told her nothing. Solgrub . . ."

"What about Solgrub?"

Dr Gorski took a step forward, stopped and gazed at me.

"Solgrub — at seven o'clock, I was still holding my surgery when the telephone rang. 'Who's speaking?' — 'Doctor, for heaven's sake, doctor. ' 'Who is it?' I asked, I didn't recognise the voice — 'Doctor, for heaven's sake, tell Felix . . .' — 'Solgrub!' I exclaimed, 'is that you? What has happened?' — 'Get back,' he yelled in a voice that was no longer human, 'Get back.' After that I heard nothing except what sounded like a chair being upset. I rang again, but there was no answer. I dashed down, took a taxi, dashed upstairs, no-one opened the door — I dashed down again like a maniac and fetched a locksmith — he opened it with a skeleton key — Solgrub was lying flat on the floor, with the receiver in his hand ..."

"Suicide?" Felix asked, with a dazed look in his eyes. "No, heart failure. It was the experiment," Dr Gorski said. "There's no doubt that he was the victim of his experiment."

"And what was it he wanted to tell me in his last moments?"

"He wanted to tell you the name of his murderer, Eugen Bischoff's murderer."

"His murderer? Didn't you say it was heart failure?"

"The murderer has many weapons, and that is one of them. I know where to find him. We must make him innocuous. Solgrub is dead, and now it's up to us. Do you hear, Felix? And you, baron ..."

"Please don't count on me," I replied, "I'm engaged all day tomorrow."

Felix turned towards me, and our eyes met. "No," he said. "Not now."

He took the glass that was on the desk and emptied the contents on the floor.

EIGHTEEN

On the morning after Solgrub's funeral we met in the front garden of a small café near the city park away from the main thoroughfares. It was a bright, rather frosty day. Street traders came to our table and offered us pears, grapes, blackthorn branches and winter cherries, and a Bosnian had knives and walking sticks for sale. The proprietor's tame jackdaw hopped about looking for crumbs. Felix had asked for newspapers, but did not look at them, and we sat there gazing across at the park and exchanging monosyllabic remarks about the time of year, holiday plans, and Dr Gorski's unpunctuality.

At last, at about nine o'clock he appeared. He apologised. He came straight from the hospital, where he had done the night round, and he had performed an operation at seven a.m. He drank a cup of hot black coffee standing at the counter.

"That's my breakfast," he said. "That, followed by a cigar. Sheer poison for the nerves. My only advice to you is not to follow my example."

Then we set off.

"Swedes, cabbage, pickled herring, cheap cigarettes," Dr Gorski remarked as we climbed the stairs to the Albachary flat. "This is just the right atmosphere for the task ahead. We're humble people, baron, and it's only natural that you should need a loan. Not a big one, let us say two or three thousand kronen, and you've brought your sureties with you. The man's certainly mistrustful, we mustn't startle him. One more flight of stairs. Let us hope he's in, otherwise we shall have to wait."

Herr Gabriel Albachary was in. The red-haired manservant showed us into a drawing room cluttered with
objets d'art
of all styles and periods. Herr Albachary appeared almost immediately. He was a short gentleman of exaggerated, almost dandified elegance, with moustache dyed a deep black, a monocle and a heliotrope perfume discernible from a distance of ten paces.

"Balkan," Dr Gorski whispered to me.

Herr Albachary invited us with a gesture to sit down, and looked at us searchingly for a moment, before turning to me.

"I think I am correct, baron," he said, "in believing that you were my son's superior officer. Edmund Albachary, a one-year volunteer. Also I know your name from the turf, baron."

"Edmund Albachary, one-year volunteer," I said, vainly searching my memory. "Edmund Albachary, of course. It must have been some time ago. How is the young man?"

"How is he? Who knows? Perhaps he is well. He has not been living with me for the past year, unfortunately."

"Is he away? Is he abroad?"

"He's away, yes, he's abroad. Much farther than abroad, I'm afraid. If I travelled day and night for ten years I would not reach him. I also knew your father, blessed be his memory, baron, it must have been thirty years ago. To what can I attribute the honour of this visit?"

I felt rather embarrassed. I had not intended to mention my name. Nevertheless I decided to play the part that had been allotted me and told him what I wanted.

Herr Albachary listened politely and attentively without changing his expression, and once or twice he nodded as if in agreement with what I said.

"You have been misinformed, baron," he said when I had finished, "I'm an art dealer, though nowadays I'm only a collector. I have never been in the finance business, though occasionally I arrange loans to oblige good friends who apply to me, and I should of course gladly put myself at your disposal, baron. May I ask what sum you have in mind?"

"I need two thousand kronen," I said, and I noticed that Dr Gorski was shifting uneasily on his chair.

The old gentleman looked at me in surprise.

"I understand, baron, you have been speaking in jest. You are in urgent need of two thousand kronen, and two minutes later you offer me half a million for my Gainsborough."

I did not know what to say to this. Dr Gorski bit his lip and looked at me furiously. Felix came to the rescue.

"You are perfectly right, Herr Albachary, it was a joke," he said. "We knew you do not like showing your art treasures to every Tom, Dick and Harry, and we did not choose a very clever way of introducing ourselves to you. Is that your Gainsborough?"

He pointed to a painting on the wall facing us which I had not even noticed.

"No, that's a Romney," Herr Albachary said indulgently. "George Romney, born at Dalton, Lancashire, portrait of Miss Evelyn Lockwood. The original was in my possession, I sold it to an Englishman only a few days ago."

"So it's a copy?"

"Yes, an excellent job, not quite complete, as you see, some details are just sketched in. A brilliant young painter, recommended to me by a professor at the Academy. Too brilliant, unfortunately. He committed suicide."

"Suicide? Here, in your flat?"

"No, at home, in his own flat."

"But he worked here with you," said Dr Gorski, who intervened at this point. "In which room? Can I see?"

"In my library," the art dealer replied in surprise. "It's the best place, it has the morning sun."

"One more question, please, Herr Albachary. How long has your son been in an institution for nervous diseases?"

"Eleven months," the old man stammered, looking at the doctor with a horrified expression. "Why do you ask?"

"I have good reason to do so, Herr Albachary, as you will see in a moment. May I ask you to take us to your library?"

Gabriel Albachary led the way in silence. Dr Gorski stopped in the library doorway.

"There is the monster," he said, pointing to a huge book, of a size such as I had never seen before, on a carved Gothic lectern in the bow window. "That is the monster. That book is responsible for the disaster that happened to your son. That book was the cause of Eugen Bischoff's suicide. That book ..."

"What are you saying?" Albachary exclaimed. "It's true that he read that book the last time he was here. He came to look at pictures of old costumes, but when I left he was standing in front of the lectern. 'Stay as long as you like, Eugen, I'm going to have lunch,' I told him, we were old friends, I had known him for twenty-five years. 'If you want anything, ring for the servant,' I said, and he said he would. That was the last time I saw him, because when I came back he had gone, and the gentleman who was here three days ago also asked to see the book, and made notes, and said he would come back."

"He didn't come back, he couldn't, he died that same evening. Where did the book come from?"

"My son brought it back from Amsterdam. What is the meaning of all this, for heaven's sake? What is in the book?"

"That we shall find out straight away," Dr Gorski said, opening the heavy, copper-lined cover. Felix stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.

"Maps," Dr Gorski exclaimed in surprise. "
Theatrum orbis terrarum
, an ancient geographical work."

"Maps engraved on copper and coloured by hand," Felix read aloud.
"Dominio Fiorentino. Ducato di Ferrara. Romagna olim Flaminia.
Nothing but maps. Doctor, we've made a mistake."

"Go on turning the pages, Felix.
Patrimonio di San Pietro et Sabina. Regno di Napoli. Legionis Regnum et Asturiarum principals.
Next come the Spanish provinces . . . Stop. Don't you see? The back is covered with writing."

"Quite right, doctor, it's Italian."

"Yes, old Italian.
Nel nome di Dominedio vivo, giusto e sempiterno ed al di Lui honore. Relazione di Pompeo del Bene, organista e cittadino délia città di Firenze . . .
This is it, Felix, we have it. Herr Albachary, will you let me have the book?"

"Take it, take it away from here, I never want to see it again."

"Yes, but how, for heaven's sake? How can I take it away, I can hardly lift it."

"I'll send two strong men from my laboratory," said Felix. "It will be at my place at three o'clock this afternoon."

NINETEEN

In the name of the living, eternal and righteous Lord of heaven and in His praise. Description by Pompeo del Bene, organist and citizen of the city of Florence of the events that took place before his eyes on the night of Simon and Jude in the year MDXXXII after the incarnation of Christ. Written in his hand.

As I shall complete my fiftieth year tomorrow and as to all appearances a man in this city may lose his life before his time more easily than he believes, I shall this day, after refraining from committing it to paper for many years, confess the truth so that it may not be forgotten and relate what happened during that night to Giovansimone Chigi, known as Cattivanza, the renowned master builder and painter known today as the Master of the Day of Judgment. May God forgive him his sins as I pray He will forgive mine and those of all His creatures.

When I was a boy of sixteen I chose to devote myself to the art of painting from which I proposed to earn my livelihood, and my father, a silk-weaver in the city of Pisa, sent me to the workshop of Tommaso Gambarelli, with whom I worked on many great and fine works. But on 24 May, on the eve of the holy feast of Pentecost, on the same day as the enemy took Monte Sansovino, the said Tommaso Gambarelli died of the plague in the Spedale della Scala. So in the name of God I sought out another master and went to Giovansimone Chigi, whose workshop was next to the second-hand dealers' booths in the old market.