The Paris Enigma (17 page)

A
rzaky loudly asked everyone to come to order again. Magrelli was the first to speak. His words struggled to impose themselves upon the scattered conversations that continued. Everyone knew that the important stuff was what was said in the corners, not in the center of the room. The truth is a secret, and secrets are whispered.

“When we had our first meeting, ten years ago, only five of us were present. Craig was among us then, even though he's not here today. We agreed on proposing locked-room cases as the highest art in our field, but those types of crimes are now a thing of the past. These days they don't attract anyone's attention. I want to propose, without forgetting the glory and prestige the locked room has given us, that we add the serial crime to the list of our greatest challenges.”

“I was there on that occasion, Magrelli,” interjected Lawson, “and I'm not willing to change what we established with so much effort and what made the formation of The Twelve Detectives possible. We founded an order, an orthodoxy, a set of rules. If we change one, we'll end up unraveling them all.”

“Come on, Lawson,” said Castelvetia's voice. He hadn't stood up, and the fact that he was speaking from his armchair added a defiant
note. “You just don't want to hear anything about serial murders ever since the Case of the London Ripper.”

For a few seconds there was perfect silence. We knew that it was a difficult subject for Lawson, but for Castelvetia to be the one to mention it—he who had almost ruined Lawson's reputation in the past—made us all feel in that moment that The Twelve Detectives was at risk of dissolving. What association, what club, could contain such wrath among its members—the hate in Lawson's gaze and the disdain that Castelvetia's words implied? Like so many other associations, The Twelve Detectives had functioned perfectly from a distance, through correspondence and reports. It had functioned well as long as there was the promise of a future meeting, a sum of handshakes and embraces sent over the ocean waves. But now, face to face, The Twelve Detectives' fragility was showing.

We all knew that Lawson had worked with Scotland Yard on the investigation of the infamous murders by Jack the Ripper, who even twenty years after his heinous deeds is remembered, reviled, and destined to live in infamy—every wax museum still contains a hypothetical image of the killer. But in spite of his efforts to help the police, not one single well-founded arrest was made. There were plenty of suspects, but they all paled in comparison to the murderer's audacity and savageness.

Caleb Lawson exchanged a look with his acolyte and kept quiet, as if obeying the Hindu. Why was he silent, why didn't he respond to Castelvetia's attack? It was clear to all of us that Caleb Lawson's silence meant he had some sort of surprise in store for the Dutchman. The ace up his sleeve, I would find out later, was me.

“I don't see why we can't also include serial murder among our greatest challenges,” said Arzaky. “The series and the locked room complement each other perfectly. The locked-room crime happens on a very limited stage, but one with a very high potential significance, since any seemingly circumstantial element can end up in the evidence box: a pack of cigarettes, a key, a torn-up letter, or rope strands
like in the case Castelvetia told us about during our first meeting. Serial crime, on the other hand, can spread throughout an entire city, one corpse here and another there, or even over a whole country, or the world. But the chain of signs is limited and one has to find a common pattern created by the killer's obsession or intelligence. In a minimal setting, there is the maximum possibility of combinations; in a maximum setting, the minimum possibility of combinations. I propose that we consider both variants from now on, and that we don't deem inferior the intelligence of a detective that takes on the challenge of a series of crimes to that of one who faces the famous locked door.”

“And what do you have to say about this series, Arzaky?” said a raspy voice. Madorakis, short and stout, had stepped forward. He was smoking a cigar and wore a tacky, threadbare jacket. He held tight to some sort of worn leather attaché case, tied with a cord (the catch was broken), from which yellowing papers, unbound books, and mended gloves struggled to escape. Surrounded by gentlemen, he looked like a traveling salesman. Arzaky was a good two heads taller than the Greek detective.

“And what series is that?”

“I'm talking about Louis Darbon, and your friend, Sorel, whom you sent to the guillotine.”

A murmur of surprise was heard. Several of those present weren't aware of the identity of the cadaver incinerated in the Galerie des Machines.

“That's not a serial crime. A series has to be based on a scene that the killer has imagined, inspired by a desire for revenge or by the criminal's childhood. The murderer seeks to repeat that ideal image. There is none of that here.”

Madorakis laughed.

“That is pure Platonism, and I thought that you were in favor of exiling Plato from investigative work. There is no original, archetypal scene that the criminal seeks to replicate. He starts out committing crimes by chance, until he finds an element that strikes a chord
with him, and then in the crimes that follow he tries to repeat that element. So if there is something that resembles the archetype, we'll find it at the end of the series, not at the beginning.”

Arzaky moved toward him defiantly, using his height to his advantage. Madorakis didn't back up.

“Don't think you scare me with your so-called philosophy. That's applying the third man defense. You think that the chain of similarities between one crime and another, and the vague model that inspires them, means that the true crime is nowhere to be found, the total crime that is the killer's full expression and that therefore—”

“Therefore,” Madorakis interrupted, “all the pure murderers, and history shows us this, have kept killing until someone stopped them.”

“And what sort of link can there be between these two crimes without rhyme or reason?”

Madorakis adopted a mysterious air. “When the third one happens, you'll know.”

“You sound like a fortune-teller. First you're a philosopher and now the Delphic oracle. No one understands your message.”

“I'm sure that you do, Arzaky.”

Madorakis and Arzaky weren't enemies, but they were looking at each other as if they were. What was it in the air that was canceling out past alliances? Was it the electricity of the World's Fair, the thousands of lamps prepared to make life go on even after nightfall? Arzaky himself seemed shocked by Madorakis's aggressiveness. Going up against Caleb Lawson or Castelvetia didn't bother him, or having a shouting match with his friend Magrelli, but the Greek's outburst had disconcerted him.

I took my watch out of my pocket and checked the time: the argument continued, but I had to leave. I made my way through the acolytes, who didn't even look at me, because their attention was on the detectives' increasingly heated discussions. Only the Sioux nodded his head in acknowledgment. I went past Neska, who pretended not to see me.

A
lthough no one could have any interest in following me, I walked through the night looking back every couple of steps, like a conspirator. It was late: that time of the night when we no longer check our watches, and the only people we pass on the street are entirely joyful or entirely melancholy. I was so distracted I almost got hit by a carriage. I heard an insult, but by some strange auditory hallucination it seemed like it was the horse and not the coachman who shouted at me. It was such a deep voice and a sensible tone: one couldn't help but agree. We should take a cue from horses, they never shut their eyes.

When I arrived at the theater, the last audience members were leaving. In opera, or any kind of theater performance, light or profound, you see the same phenomenon: the first audience members leave the theater chatting and laughing, eager to abandon the world of fiction and reenter the real, where they feel at home. The last ones to leave, on the other hand, have to be forced out by the ushers or the lights going up or the silence that follows the applause. If it were up to them, they would remain there in the imaginary world the performance offers them. These last stragglers came out without saying a word, grieving over having to abandon the Mermaid's island. They didn't know their place in the world outside; in real life the seats aren't numbered.

I found the side door mentioned in the note and entered without knocking. Dusty sets, papier-mâché statues, armor, and costumes from other shows. I was reminded of the Victoria Theater, where the murderous magician had performed. I thought that in some way all theaters are the same, as if their architects filled them with nooks to show that to create just one stage of illusion you need hundreds of wooden artifacts, moth-eaten curtains, and costumes covered in cobwebs.

I followed the sound of a woman's singing down a hallway. Her voice was so sweet that I longed to stop right there, not wanting to break the spell. I had been to the opera a couple of times and once to a concert, and all three times I fell asleep. I prefer unexpected music, the music one hears without seeking it out, that is unaware that I'm listening.

My footsteps made the woman's voice grow quieter; by the time I was in front of her door and read her name, The Mermaid, she had already stopped singing. She received me with a nervous smile and peeked out into the dark hallway to see if anyone had followed me. She was dressed in a green mermaid costume; some sort of oil made her hair shine as if it were wet.

“Did you bring the photograph?”

I had expected a greeting, some friendly conversation, not just an urgent demand. Once I handed over the photograph, I had no power. I held it out to her but I didn't let go of it immediately and she had to tug at it a bit. I was ashamed by my hand's attitude, acting on its own, without even consulting me. The Mermaid looked at the photo to make sure it was the one she was looking for, turned it around and read her own handwriting: “I dreamed in the Grotto where the Mermaid swims.”

She stared and stared at the green writing.

“Does Arzaky know about this postcard?”

“No,” I lied.

“You are a gentleman, and you did the right thing by returning it. I am eternally grateful.”

“I'm not a gentleman. A gentleman wouldn't have stolen it.”

“Why did you? Did you think it would help you solve the crime?”

“No. I don't know why. I've never stolen anything else in my life.”

“Now that I don't believe. There's never a first time, we've always sinned, hinting at what's to come.”

The Mermaid had barely spoken those words when I remembered another slight infraction: two months before my trip, I had gone into the Craig family kitchen and found a pile of Señora Craig's clothes on top of the wooden table, fresh off the line and still warm from the sun. I hadn't stolen anything, but I had stroked the garments for a few seconds before I heard the footsteps of the cook approaching. If someone had caught me, what would I have been able to say to them? What worried me about these behaviors was not that they were my most shameful, my most illicit, but rather that they seemed more truthful than all my polite words and kind gestures.

“Are you going to tell Arzaky about our conversation?” The Mermaid's voice pulled me from my thoughts.

“No,” I answered.

“It's better that way. Remember, I work for Arzaky too, but I can't tell him everything. Arzaky wouldn't know what to do with all the things I find. He sends me to the grottos and caves so I can bring him the clues that are submerged, the worn-out pieces of sunken ships.”

“Did he send you to Grialet?”

“Arzaky has his agents. But sometimes he doesn't trust us. Viktor believes that Grialet killed Darbon.”

“And that's not true?”

“No.”

I felt her hand on my arm.

“Come toward the light. Your boots are so shiny. Is that Argentine leather?”

“Yes, but that's not why they shine. I polish them with a cream my father makes.”

“It's raining. But your boots still gleam.”

“And my father says that this polish also cures wounds.”

“I could use a bottle of that.”

“I'll send you one when I go back to my country. Do you have black shoes?”

“No, but I'll have to get either some shoes or a wound so I can test the cream's effectiveness.”

A creaking noise was heard in the dressing room. There was a coat stand, a shapeless mountain heaped with garments. For a moment I was afraid that she had led me into a trap because it was obvious that someone was hiding there.

“You can come out,” said the Mermaid.

I thought maybe it was a hidden lover, I thought maybe it was Grialet, maybe even Arzaky, but it was Greta. I felt a mix of rage and relief.

“These theaters are labyrinths. She can show you the way out.”

I was sorry that the show ended so soon. I was starting to be like the people who always leave the theater last. The Mermaid closed the door to her dressing room. Greta and I walked out together.

“Are they hiring performers? It's a good idea to try a new career. I don't think Castelvetia can keep you much longer as an acolyte.”

“The detectives have more important things to worry about,” she said in an untroubled voice. “Castelvetia's secrets aren't a pressing subject.”

“Caleb Lawson is going to go after him, sooner or later.”

“Castelvetia doesn't care about Caleb Lawson or his Hindu. He beat him once and he'll beat him again. He's worried about Arzaky.”

“Why Arzaky?”

“He wouldn't tell me. But he talks about it in his sleep.”

It looked like she regretted having told me. I didn't dare ask her why she knew so much about Castelvetia's dreams. Did she secretly go to the Numancia Hotel for clandestine meetings? Or was he the one who came to her?

We arrived at the hotel, but had to keep a safe distance away because the detectives were talking at the entrance. The acolytes were getting ready to march, in formation, toward the Nécart.

“Why did you go to see the Mermaid?” I inquired.

“I wanted to ask her about the Case of the Fulfilled Prophecy.”

“That's an old case.”

“It's still unresolved. Castelvetia thinks that Grialet was the guilty party that time, but even though Arzaky sent the Mermaid over to investigate Grialet, they weren't able to prove anything. Perhaps the Mermaid protected Grialet then. Perhaps she's protecting him now.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“Nothing. She talked about Arzaky and she sang a song, the song she had sung the night they met. I thought after that she might be willing to talk. But something interrupted her.”

“What?”

“The footsteps of an idiot.”

Now Greta looked at the detectives and assistants, who were disappearing into the night.

“Is this the first time you've seen them?”

“No. I've been here before. I like to watch them, to imagine the day when I'll enter the circle of acolytes. If I can become a member, it will be as if my father did too.”

I didn't raise any objections to her fantasies. Who was I to pass judgment, among the ambitions and worldly matters, on what was possible and what was impossible? Greta took a step back and the streetlight illuminated her; but her face shone so brightly that it looked as if she were the one illuminating the streetlight. It was the face of a girl looking through a store window at a shiny toy she knew she would never possess.