The Paris Enigma (21 page)

A
rzaky had promised to state the case that very night, but the detectives and assistants waited in vain for him. At first they thought he had run off again, but I arrived in time to tell them that the chief of police had taken him in for questioning about Grialet's death. Bazeldin's long interrogations, which lasted until dawn, were famous. The police chief maintained that the morning's clarity, after a night filled with conflict, stimulated confessions. The detectives' meeting was postponed until seven the next evening.

On May 7 the detectives arrived punctually. No one wanted to miss Arzaky's explanation. Grimas, the editor of
Traces
, was also there. The only one missing was Arzaky, who arrived two hours late. He made his way through the detectives and assistants without any greeting or apology. His long beard was flecked with white and he looked as if he hadn't eaten in days. He had that mix of energy and weakness that comes with a fever. Around him was a halo of silence and anticipation. The only one who seemed to have no interest in Arzaky was Neska, who stood by the door like a conference attendee who fears he will be bored and can't quite make up his mind about taking a seat. I could barely contain my nerves, thinking of the words that would be spoken that night; my fingers clenched around the handkerchief I had in my pocket.

The detectives talked about the fair: even though it had just opened, it already seemed dated, countless visitors had worn it out with their footsteps. Arzaky called for silence, but it wasn't necessary, because everyone had already grown quiet.

“In April of 1888 Renato Craig visited Paris. He stayed at this hotel, as he always did, and we spent our time together taking long walks and talking about crime. It was then that we came up with the idea (I don't know if he thought of it first or if I did, or if, as I prefer to remember, it came to both of us at once) to gather the Twelve Detectives together for the World's Fair. We got the committee to invite us. We were thinking of sharing our knowledge, our scientific advances, discussing theory relating to our craft. We wanted to rest, for a month or two, from murders and suspects, from evidence and witnesses. Wouldn't you like to live in a world without crime?” No one responded. “Of course not!”

Arzaky's joke raised only a few smiles. Nobody was in the mood for humor.

“But these days, as the fair grew, filled out, and consolidated itself, we began a rapid process of decomposition. Craig is absent, ill and maligned. Darbon has been murdered and Castelvetia expelled. I cannot restore the harmony we've lost, but at least I can solve the mystery that has been keeping us up nights lately. I can say that the deaths of Darbon and the Mermaid and the incineration of Sorel's body followed a pattern.”

Something interrupted Arzaky. There was an argument going on in the doorway. Baldone was trying to stop a short, stocky man from resolutely making his way toward Arzaky.

“What is going on over there?” asked Arzaky.

“I am Father Desmorins. You killed my friend Grialet. I want to know why.”

“This is a meeting of The Twelve Detectives. No one outside the order can be present,” interjected Caleb Lawson.

The priest was adamant, but Baldone started to drag him out of the room. All Okano had to do was press two fingers on his right collar
bone and the cleric gave in. “I'll be waiting for you outside, Arzaky!” he managed to shout. “The street will be your confessional!”

“Let him stay in the room,” said Arzaky to Baldone and Okano. “Have him sit and not say a word. If he opens his mouth, even once, send him packing.”

The priest sat down near the door. Behind him was Arthur Neska. Arzaky continued.

“My work has merely been a continuation of the investigation Darbon began and which led to his death. The World's Fair authorities assigned him to make inquiries regarding threats to the tower's builders. They were small attacks of minor consequence, and the clues led Darbon to the caves where Paris's occultists hide. The old detective encountered various sects fighting among themselves: clandestine churches, necromantists, Martinists, Rosicrucians. But his suspicions centered on a group that shared an interest in music and literature. They didn't have an official name, but Darbon called them the crypto-Catholics. This group had decided that it made no sense to continue seeing the Church of Rome as an adversary, because the only true enemy was positivism. The crypto-Catholics consider themselves heirs to the secret teachings of Christ.

“There were several members of this group: Father Desmorins, whom you've just met and who was defrocked by the Jesuits; the young writer Vilando; and Isel, the millionaire. I also know of a Russian woman, and of a former Belgian officer who pretended to be Egyptian, but they weren't in Paris at the time the events occurred. As Darbon was investigating the attacks, he came into closer contact with the group. And I believe it was Darbon's persistence that inspired Grialet, the leader, to come up with the idea of challenging all the detectives and at the same time challenging the World's Fair and the tower. Each of the incidents made a point. Grialet thought up a crime that would show that not everything can be explained. He carried this out in order to remind us that we must leave room for that which is secret. It is likely that he has struck before; I myself
investigated the Case of the Fulfilled Prophecy, whose author was a poisoner named Prodac. In that instance, I suspected that Grialet had incited the killer, but I couldn't prove it.”

Father Desmorins had tried to stand up and say something, but Baldone pushed him back into his chair. Arzaky was looking at the floor, as if he didn't know how to continue.

“Grialet moved into a house that had belonged to a printer and bookseller and he devoted himself to a new obsession: he wrote all kinds of quotes on the walls, so words would always be present. Perhaps he was trying to create the sensation of living inside a book. That house is a compendium of knowledge and superstition. It is filled with wisdom but also with the triviality, typical of occult enthusiasts, that comes from yearning to know the final meaning of all things. While Grialet was away on a trip, I took the opportunity to go into his house and read everything he had written on the walls, but I didn't find anything to link them to Darbon's death. Yet the key to unraveling the mystery was there. The key was written on the wall from the very beginning, but I didn't see it until it was too late.

“The crimes appeared to be completely unrelated: our old Darbon, a burned corpse, a mermaid. The only connection between them was that all three had something to do with me. Grialet had chosen for one of his walls an inspired phrase by Eliphas Levi, an occultist whose works Napoleon tried to ban, and with good reason. The phrase postulated God as the union of an old man, a decapitated man, and a dove: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Darbon, Sorel and the Mermaid were the three elements of this message.”

Zagala, who had spent the entire opening day under the blazing sun, waiting for the fourth crime, seemed peeved. “What about
The Four Elements
? That was a false lead?”

“Grialet led us to believe that the connection was
The Four Elements
. There weren't four elements, but three: the three baptismal elements. The first, the oil of the catechumen, like that which wrestlers in ancient times used to slip away from their opponents, and which symbolizes the
ability of the person being baptized to reject evil. The second, the illuminating flame, and the third, purifying water. Darbon died bathed in oil, like the ancient wrestlers who greased their bodies so their adversaries couldn't grab hold of them. Sorel's body was burned; the Mermaid, who was first knocked unconscious, drowned.

“After the Mermaid's death I thought about giving it all up. Overwhelmed by grief, I withdrew to think. I drank so I could think, and then so I could stop thinking. In those moments of delirium and drunkenness, when the world seemed to be coming apart, splitting into images and phrases that no one could put back together, my fickle memory showed me the words that explained everything. I went to find Grialet; I tried to take him out of the house but he resisted. I had Craig's cane in my hands, as a way to keep my old friend with me. I'll admit I didn't really know how to use it and in the middle of our struggle it went off. You already know the rest of the story.”

Arzaky went to one side of the room and Caleb Lawson took center stage. He was about to say something, but one of the detectives started clapping, I think it was Magrelli, and some of the assistants joined in. Soon everyone was applauding Arzaky's words. Even Madorakis was clapping. Lawson had no choice but to do the same, but his applause was so weak that his palms barely touched. Then he said, “Many of you have already packed your bags to return to your respective cities. Thefts and murders await you. This is our farewell evening. Before we close the meeting and go to dinner, does anyone have anything else to say?”

No one wanted anyone to speak. The assistants, in the back of the room, were already looking toward the exit. It was time for dinner and endless toasts and promises of another gathering, which would never happen. Only a wet blanket would dare to say something now. Then I raised my right hand. And since it had been tightly clutching the handkerchief in my pocket, I raised the handkerchief too. I heard some laughter; it looked like I was waving good-bye from a boat.

“I just want to give my version of the events.”

C
aleb Lawson looked at me with annoyance.

“You need authorization to speak. And I don't feel like giving it to you. We already know what you're going to say: he's innocent, he's free of all guilt and responsibility, and so on, and etcetera.”

Arzaky had collapsed into a chair, and he looked at me strangely. I avoided his eyes and said, “I'm going to talk to someone. If it isn't with you, it'll be with the press.”

I had spoken loudly, and those who were already at the stairs now headed back into the room.

“Could you possibly have something new to add to what Arzaky said?” asked Magrelli. “Something we haven't heard? Or will this be a conference on your vast experience in the world of crime?”

“I want to explain the truth as I see it.”

“Go ahead and talk already,” said Madorakis. “But keep it short. If we let one assistant prattle on, soon they'll all want to do the same.”

“Even Tamayak,” said Caleb Lawson.

Everyone looked at Arzaky. His opinion was the only one that mattered.

“I don't know what secrets my assistant is keeping, and his speak
ing without asking my permission is completely out of line. But what does it matter! I was about to fire him anyway.”

Everyone responded with forced laughter. My intervention, when everything had already been wrapped up, was the detectives' worst fear realized. Each time a case was closed, after laying out the solution rationally and convincingly, they always dreaded the appearance of something (an object, a witness, a detail that didn't fit) that could spoil the whole conclusion.

It was difficult for me to speak above the whispering.

“I arrived in Paris with two things for Arzaky: Craig's cane and a message. The message was a story that I won't tell here. Arzaky was generous enough to take me on as his assistant, especially considering that I was a novice and could hardly be expected to replace Tanner, one of the most respected of the acolytes. It was an honor for me to occupy his post. Which is why now, as I speak, I feel that I am betraying Arzaky and Craig and The Twelve Detectives. However, I must. I wasn't affected by Darbon's death, I had barely met him. And I couldn't care less if all the corpses in Paris were burned. But the Mermaid's death is something which I can't bear, and which I'll never forget as long as I live.

“I felt that I wasn't getting anywhere with this case. When I saw the truth it came to me in one momentous flash. So I don't think I owe the solution to my skill, but just to luck. To bad luck, I should say, because I would rather continue blindly. It happened this way: Arzaky knew, because of something I unwittingly conveyed to him, that this, your world, was crumbling and that soon there would be no trace left of The Twelve Detectives. He thought up a plan that would restore the world's trust in the detectives and their methods and at the same time get rid of his enemies. He killed Darbon, his competitor, and he killed the Mermaid, who had been his lover but had been unfaithful to him with Grialet. In solving the crimes, he would also do away with Grialet. And, at the same time, he would ensure his own glory by solving a crime in front of all the other detectives. His feat would not be forgotten. It was like founding The Twelve Detectives all over again.”

Lawson, who had been wanting to take Arzaky's place at the core of The Twelve, was now poised to defend him.

“No one is ever going to forget what you just said either. Get him out of this room!”

“No!” shouted Madorakis. “Let him continue. Someone is speaking to us through him.”

The whispering had stopped. Now they definitely wanted to hear what I had to say.

“In this room several models of the perfect enigma were presented. Castelvetia spoke of jigsaw puzzles, and I'm inclined to believe that common image best fits the spirit of the enigma. Magrelli spoke of Arcimboldo's paintings, which abruptly change depending on the perspective of the viewer. Madorakis set forth the image of the sphinx, who questions us as we question it. And Hatter offered Aladdin's blackboard, the toy that holds a trace of the words etched deepest even when everything has been erased, like our memory holds on to distant facts. But there was also another theory proposed….”

“By Sakawa,” recalled Rojo.

“Sakawa, the detective from Tokyo, spoke of a blank page. And Arzaky agreed with him. The enigma, the best enigma, is a blank page. He who reads it, he who deciphers it, is the true architect of the crime. Arzaky had his perfect enigma.”

Everyone waited for Arzaky to speak. Seated, but no longer slumped, and looking as if he were preparing to leap all over me, Arzaky smiled.

“Throw him out!” shouted Magrelli, his voice cracking with emotion. Other voices chimed in to banish me. But Arzaky stood up to calm everyone down.

“We'll take for granted that all this is a figment of your youthful imagination. But, by any chance, did that imagination of yours lead you to fabricate some evidence?”

I spoke without looking at Arzaky.

“I'm the son of a shoemaker. My father gave me a cream that
leaves boots shinier than any other polish; it's water resistant. I shined Arzaky's boots myself.”

I showed the handkerchief that had been kissed by the Mermaid's dead lips.

“When Arzaky went to see the Mermaid, she knew that he was going to kill her. She threw herself at his feet, she begged him, she kissed his boots. And she did it on purpose, because she knew that the mark would be left on her lips. That kiss sealed Arzaky's fate. That is the evidence. I studied the substance under Darbon's microscope.”

I held up the handkerchief with the kiss left by the Mermaid's lifeless lips.

Magrelli slapped Arzaky's back.

“Come on, Viktor. Is this monologue from your disciple another one of your jokes? Are we supposed to applaud him as well? Deny it once and for all, and get him out of this room! We have a lot of things to discuss before we leave.”

Arzaky approached me. It was perhaps the most important moment of my life, but if I had a choice I'd rather have been in bed with a pillow over my head. And everyone else would have preferred that too. Now, I thought, is when Arzaky will raise an accusing finger. Here comes the moment where the new guy, the upstart, is unmasked. The boldness they pretended to tolerate will no longer be forgiven.

But Arzaky's silence continued. It lasted for a few minutes, and during that time the faces that were red with rage grew pale, and there were no more angry gestures. Everyone was stock-still and silent, like students awaiting an exam. Magrelli looked as if he was about to cry.

Finally, Arzaky spoke. “I don't expect any kind of pardon. Now I'll leave, and you'll never hear from me again. The boy is right, he saw the truth, and he was the first one to see it, because he was close to Craig, because he was a witness to Craig's downfall. We are lost; we have been for a while. We try in vain to apply our method to an increasingly chaotic world; we need organized criminals in order for our theories to
bear fruit, but all we find is endless, unruly evil. Did Darbon solve the railroad crimes? Did I? Did Magrelli put a stop to the priest murders in Florence? Did Caleb Lawson catch Jack the Ripper? We have some minor achievements, but they can't compete with the big cases. Sometimes even the police are more adept than we are. We needed a case that had symmetry, a case that would restore faith in the method. I realized that we could no longer count on the murderers for that. I crossed the line, as many of you have wanted to do. I am the bastard child of a priest, which is why I wasn't baptized. I chose my own baptism with the oil of the catechumen, with fire and water….”

“But the Mermaid…How could you?” I asked. “She was so lovely….”

“And you think that beauty is an obstacle to murder? Beauty is murder's great inspiration, even more than money.”

Arzaky turned his eyes away from me and toward the detectives and the assistants. They were all motionless, except for one, who was rushing up the stairs to leave the hotel. It was Arthur Neska.

“All I ask for is fifteen minutes before you report me to Bazeldin. I know where to hide. I'll leave, and you'll never hear from me again.”

No one said yes, but no one objected either. Detectives and assistants stepped aside so he could leave. Arzaky began to climb the stairs with large strides. But he wasn't in any hurry; he looked as if he had all the time in the world.

I wanted to follow him, but Magrelli stopped me.

“Leave him alone. You've done enough damage already.”

I tried to escape his grasp, but the Roman, with the help of Baldone, pushed me against one of the glass display cases. The door swung open from the impact. Someone had forced the lock. I turned my attention from Magrelli to focus instead on an empty shelf. Before I had time to remember which object had been stolen, the Eye of Rome said, “Novarius's Remington.”

The Italian released me. I ran after Arzaky.