Asimov's Science Fiction - June 2014 (14 page)

Fix, too, looked as if he wanted to ask that question, and he scowled at Orphan with a hostile look, his nostrils flaring.

"Ah," Dupin said, still smiling, "but you see, it has a lot to do with you and your gathering, monsieur.'"

He turned to Orphan. "Please, describe your version of events, monsieur."

Orphan felt all eyes come to rest on him. He shuffled his feet, coughed, and felt heat rise to his face.

"Please," Dupin said again.

"I met Hoffman for the first time this morning," Orphan said, "in the company of Herb Wells and several other writers in the dining room of the hotel."

"Algernon Blackwood, M.R. James, and Arthur Machen," Dupin murmured. "Yes.

Do continue."

"Hoffman engaged me in conversation about chess. I did not know what he meant. He suggested that I should visit the cathedral. It seemed he wished to show it to me. I do not know why. I agreed to meet him there."

"Why?"

"I was intrigued," Orphan said. Dupin nodded.

"I came with Herb to the opening ceremony. Then I walked around and bought lunch. Then I went to the cathedral. I entered it and saw Hoffman already seated by the altar at the center. I came and sat beside him. He didn't talk. When I turned to him he fell over, and I saw that he was shot."

A murmur rose over the assembled guests.

"Then what happened?" Dupin asked softly. Orphan glanced at Fogg, who was almost invisible on the seat. What could he do?

"I was attacked by several men in black clothing," he said at last.

"Who were these men?"

"I don't know."

"What happened then?"

Orphan hesitated. Then he said, "A man came to my rescue. I did not know who he was. He dragged me away from there while we were pursued by the men. There were shots. He got me out. I went back to the hotel and went straight to my room."

"Why did you not contact the police?"

"I was afraid."

"Who was this man you said came to your rescue so conveniently?"

"I..." he hesitated.

"It was I," said a voice, and Fogg rose from his chair.

There was something different about him. His bearing, or the way his eyes seemed to glint now with cold amusement. The set of his shoulders, his poise—almost military, and used to command.

"You!" Fix said. His face had turned white.

"You?" Auguste Dupin said. He looked at Fogg's name tag and smiled. "I do not think your name is Lecoq," he said.

"No," Fogg agreed, and he took off the badge and threw it on the floor.

"Then who, pray tell, are you, monsieur?"

"My name," Fogg said, "is Fix. Detective Inspector Fix, of Scotland Yard. And this man is an impostor."

"Outrageous!" Fix said, and on his face the red chased away the white. "How—how
dare
you!" He turned to the two uniforms by the door and, pointing a shaking finger at Fogg, said, "Arrest this man!"

The two uniforms didn't stir. Dupin, with a delighted smile on his face, made a calming gesture with his hands. "Now this
is
interesting," he said. "Can you prove who you say you are?"

"My papers," Fogg said, "and a sealed letter from my supervisor, Inspector Adler."

Dupin took the papers from him. He opened the letter, breaking its seal, and scanned it. "The famous Inspector Adler," he said. "I have wanted to meet her for a long time now."

"She has spoken well of you, too, sir," Fogg said.

"Preposterous!" Fix said. "Dupin, I demand you arrest this man at once! He is a con-man and a knave, a rogue operator working usually under the alias of a Mr. Fogg or Mr. Myst, and I have come to Paris on his heels, believing him to have left the Empire to the continent at the behest of his master—the Bookman himself!"

A hush fell over the audience.
"L'homme de livres!"
someone exclaimed, softly.

"Sacrebleu!"

"Let's hear him out," Dupin said. "I am intrigued."

"Inconceivable!" Fix said, his face a large red splotch, like a soiled cloth of spilled wine.

Fogg addressed the silent room. "My name is Fix," he said. "I ask you to consider the following." He began ticking items on his fingers, talking rapidly.

"One:
Convention du Monde du Roman Scientifique
is announced, drawing in people from all over the world, all of whom come to Paris. Who are they? Are they as they seem? I must tell you, monsieur, that your little gathering has created a lot of interest with us at Scotland Yard—no doubt at the
Sûreté,
too." Dupin nodded, unsmiling. "Who knows what people come here under the pretext of being—what is it you call them—
fans?
"

"We are respectable members of the literary establishment!" the balding man said angrily from the crowd. Dupin, beside Fogg, shrugged. "I do not know about
respectable,
" he murmured, then shook his head. "It is no matter."

"Two," Fogg said, "the automaton known as E.T.A. Hoffman, AKA E.T., AKA The Hoff, attends the convention as an honored guest. Originally constructed by the Leibniz Korp. of Germany, it later took political asylum in the Republic, where it became a free citizen. That same automaton, I may add, of which we had a reasonable reason to suspect of being involved with a radical underground movement, Blake's Revolutionary Army, whose purpose is to overthrow the rule of
Les Lézards."

"Impossible!" the balding man said. Fogg fixed him with a cool stare that made the little man visibly wilt.

"Three—a question: Who would want Hoffman dead?"

"Indeed," Dupin said. Orphan, left unnoticed by their side, had the strange feeling that the two were almost identical: like two brothers separated at birth who still maintain a parallel personality throughout their life. "Allow me. Killing Hoffman in the cathedral, a symbol of
Les Lézards
at the very heart of the Republic, would be a message impossible to ignore. But a message to whom? To
Les Lézards
—or to those who try to fight against them?"

"It depends," Fogg said, "on who those men were who attacked us so suddenly upon discovering the body." He looked over the audience and smiled. It was not a nice smile. "I believe they were, like Hoffman, members of this convention."

"Impossible!"—"Ludicrous!"—"How dare you, sir, how
dare
you?"—and from Fix, a look full of hatred aimed at Fogg.

"Look here," he said, "surely the account of this Mr.
Chapman
—if that is even his real name—suggests that it was
this
man, this impostor who dares to claim to be
me,
who was responsible for the murder? Can't you see that this, this
pretender,
this
fraud,
is the real murderer?
He
killed Hoffman. Not some imagined men in black.
He
killed Hoffman, and now when things are desperate and he has been found out, unable to flee, he is making one last, desperate stand!"

"A valid point of view," Dupin murmured.

"Nonsense," Fogg said. "Chapman is an innocent victim of circumstances. The question we must ask ourselves is this—who were the men who skulked in the cathedral and attacked us both?
That,
I suggest, will help us most on our quest for truth."

"I may be able to help here," Dupin said. "Since Scotland Yard is not the only police force to have intelligence at their disposal." He paused and looked at the audience with glittering eyes.

"Do go on," Fogg said.

"Monsieur Hoffman was German, as you pointed out. A product of German ingenuity, and of the Liebniz Korp. engineers. For a long time we at the
Sûreté
suspected Hoffman of—how shall I put it?—not entirely giving up his loyalties to the fatherland. That he was, in other words, something of a spy."

"And you did nothing?" Fix said.

"Why catch a fly if the spider goes free?" Dupin said. "We kept our eyes on him. This convention did concern us. So many people from so many different places, all gathered together in Paris—who knows what foreign agents would attempt to use such an opportunity?"

"The men in the cathedral?" Fogg said, looking annoyed. Orphan almost smiled: the detectives were competing with each other in one-upmanship. Perhaps, he thought, both already know the conclusion they were each leading toward.

"Patience," Dupin said. He raised one hand theatrically. "As I said, we suspected Hoffman. And, when this convention came to our attention, we naturally paid particular attention to any German delegates who might be attending."

In the audience Orphan saw the young man he had spotted earlier while having his lunch. He was looking directly at Dupin, with a small smile playing on his face. "What was his name?"

"Hanns Heinz Ewers," Dupin said, and the young man rose from his seat and made a sardonic bow.

More murmurs from the audience.

"An audacious adventurer," Dupin said. "How old are you? Seventeen?"

"Eighteen," Ewers said.

"You're under arrest."

The young man continued to smile. "I think you'll find I have diplomatic immunity," he said calmly. "You can look it up with my embassy. Besides, I didn't kill Hoffman."

"But you
were
at the cathedral," Dupin said. "You were leading the group that attacked Mr. Chapman here."

"What did you expect?" Ewers said. "As far as I knew, he killed E.T."

He turned to Orphan and touched his fingers to his forehead in a salute. "My apologies, by the way."

"I saw you," Orphan said. "Were you watching me? You knew I was meant to meet him. It was you and that French man. Leroux."

"I had nothing to do with it!" said an angry voice. Gaston Leroux, looking pale and very young, rose and glared at them.

"No doubt monsieur
le fantôme
arranged for that group of thugs to be put at your disposal?" Dupin said with a smirk. "Oh, we know all about you, Leroux. You let your imagination and your life become hopelessly entangled."

"I am an artist, not a murderer," Leroux said.

"An artist, sure. And a masked vigilante at night,
non?"

"Enough!" Fix said. "I demand you stop this charade, Dupin. It is clear it is this

Fogg
who killed your man. Arrest him and be done with it."

"Silence!" Dupin said. Fogg smiled thinly.

"I don't understand," Orphan said. His palms were wet. He was growing angry. This really
was
a charade, he thought.

Dupin, playing up to the audience. The man was a fool. "Who killed Hoffman?" Dupin nodded. He was not smiling. He looked, now, as if the play was finally over. He turned and addressed the room. His voice boomed over the assembled heads the way Verne's had done. They were in the palm of his hands. A captive audience.

"Hoffman arranged to meet Chapman in the cathedral. I suspect Chapman is here on his own undeclared mission. I suspect, too, though I cannot prove it, that he is an agent of the automaton they call The Turk. But we, the French, have no fight with the Turk. That is for the lizards to deal with."

He began ticking items off on his hands in unconscious imitation of Fogg.

"One: Hoffman arranged to meet Chapman in the cathedral.

"Two: Hoffman notifies Ewers, who, together with Leroux and his gang of local misfits, hide in the cathedral as backup. My theory is that Hoffman was already sitting there when you arrived, is that not so, monsieur?"

"That's correct," Ewers said. "We stayed well away. I did not know...."

"Quite," Dupin said. "Three: Chapman arrives, discovers Hoffman's death. This man—" he pointed at Fogg, "arrives almost immediately. They make a run for it. Ewers and his boys pursue them, thinking
them
to be the killers."

"Correct," Ewers said. Dupin raised a hand to silence him. "I am speaking."

"My apologies."

"Four: it is a simple assumption to make, the only logical choice, in fact, that Hoffman was killed when he was on his own, before anyone else arrived."

"So who was it?" someone in the audience shouted.

"Why, it is as clear as glass," Dupin said, and he clicked his fingers. The two uniforms by the door stirred.

"It was Detective Fix."

"What? How dare—" The uniforms grabbed him.

"You,
monsieur, are the real culprit," Dupin said.
"You
are the true agent of that enemy of all thinking men, of
L'homme de livre!
You were seen, monsieur, observing the hotel, pretending to be Detective Fix of Scotland Yard, and then you followed Hoffman and, when he was alone, you killed him!"

His voice thundered, his hands moved majestically as if conducting an orchestra.
"You
are the murderer, and a most fiendish one! How clever of you to come to me, to pretend to work with me in solving this crime, to construct this Mr. Fogg of yours as the criminal while you, yourself, are the real Fogg! And you—" and here his voice grew even louder and more thunderous "—You are under arrest!"

The audience rose to their feet as one and gave a standing ovation. Their clapping was loud enough to bring down the roof. Dupin smiled, bowed, and led the way out of the room, the two uniformed men and their prisoner in tow.

Orphan remained standing, baffled—and quite badly needing a pee.

Events took a speedy turn. Orphan barely had time to relieve himself before Fogg whisked him out of the building and into a waiting barouche-landau with darkened windows. Orphan climbed in after Fogg and sat down, feeling light-headed. The barouche-landau pulled away and into the traffic.

"At last!" a booming voice said, and only then did Orphan register the man sitting opposite them.

It was Jules Verne.

"How tedious that man Dupin is!" He smiled, exposing teeth like jagged breakers on a stormy shore. "I must confess you had me worried there for a moment, Fogg. Or shall I say Fix?"

Fogg laughed. "Poor Fix," he said, "I'd love to see his face when they lock him up behind bars!"

"Forget Fix, it's Dupin's face I'd like to see when he realizes he got the wrong man!" Verne said.

Orphan stared at Verne. He had changed his clothes, and now wore a dark, velvet-lined cape and held a traveling-stick in his hand, a dark ebony cane capped with a silver skull.