In the days following the Mermaid’s murder, no one saw or heard from Arzaky. I am sure that it had been the shock of seeing her body that made him disappear. He had gone to the theater, alerted by one of his informants on the police force; he had looked in to see the Mermaid’s drowned body and then, without saying a word, he had completely vanished. After a few hours, the detectives began to worry. Gathered in that room at the Numancia Hotel, they were now ensconced in an uninterrupted conclave. Caleb Lawson recommended that I wait in Arzaky’s study, in case he happened to show up.
Arzaky’s absence had caused more worry than the crime itself. The next day representatives of the fair’s authorities began to arrive, with urgent messages that I piled into a cardboard box. What I had seen of Arzaky was a negligible portion of his real life, of the people he dealt with, of the numerous tasks that kept him busy: his absence made that hitherto buried world come to light. A parade of people came through the office: desperate women, men who owed him their lives, wives of the falsely accused and imprisoned, people selling secrets. I tried to get rid of them all calmly and quickly.
“Monsieur Arzaky will be back any minute.”
I grew tired of waiting and I went out to look for him. I visited all the taverns the detective frequented, I found informants who told me about other, more secret, spots; I left absinthe territory for opium dens. The more I asked around, the farther away Arzaky seemed. I wasn’t worried about the lack of clues, but rather the abundance of them. Arzaky had argued with a Hungarian, Arzaky had hit a woman, Arzaky had grabbed a dagger from a Chinese cook, that shadow on the wall is Arzaky’s shadow. A blind man, high on opium, opened his white eyes and said, “Arzaky is dead, and you are the one who killed him.”
I couldn’t go through those lairs without tasting what they offered me, so the more debased the places were, the more debased I became. First the wine, then the liquors improvised in secret stills, adulterated absinthe, which made me forget life’s troubles, and finally opium, which made me forget everything. In a few days all my money was gone. Everything Arzaky had paid me I had spent searching for him.
In my travels I noticed that what was said about Arzaky could have been said about anyone. A woman had whispered in my ear that Arzaky was sleeping in a whorehouse on the outskirts of town. When I went in, a drunken old man from Marseille attacked me with a butcher’s knife. I escaped, but I came back again the next night to ask for Arzaky. “He was here last night, a man from Marseille attacked him with a butcher’s knife,” they replied.
Aware that my stupor was clouding my good judgment, I spent an entire day in my hotel room, cleansing my system. There was no reason to think that Arzaky had given in to his grief. He could be working in secret, going back over old clues. At dusk, finally lucid, I decided to pay Grialet a visit. He opened the door himself, dressed in some sort of long black outfit. I wondered if I had interrupted a ceremony.
“Ah, my friend, the one who steals photographs. You’ll have to forgive me, I’m fresh out.”
“I’m ashamed. I already returned that photograph to its owner.” “I was its owner. What are you looking for now?”
“I wanted to ask you about Arzaky.”
“Arzaky? They say he’s gone, disappeared, that he’s dead.” “Did he pay you a visit?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure.”
“The Mermaid was Arzaky’s lover,” I told him somewhat defiantly. He didn’t bat an eyelash.
“I know. She was my lover too. He sent her to investigate me. And now he’s sending you.”
“I’m here on my own steam.”
Grialet laughed.
“The more we think we are acting on our own, the more we are being manipulated by unknown forces. Come in. We’re all friends here.”
There were three other men gathered in the living room. I recognized Isel’s birdlike profile. He greeted me with a nod of the head, leading me to believe that he remembered me too. Near the piano there was a man who wore a priest’s habit. His face was round and childlike, without any trace of a beard. The other, a younger man, wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and he looked around with the anxious eyes of a consumptive.
“Here we are: Darbon’s bêtes noires. You’ve already met Isel; the others are Father Desmorins and the poet Vilando. Desmorins was expelled from the Jesuits for dabbling in necromancy, but he hasn’t accepted that decision and still wears the habit.”
Desmorins spoke in a high-pitched voice. “The pope should go back to Avignon. Now, more than ever, the Catholic Church is not a stone, nor a cathedral, nor the nave at the heart of every cathedral. It is a broken bridge leading nowhere.”
“Desmorins insists on writing those kinds of things. He started out as the superior of all the order’s libraries, and his job was to burn all the inappropriate books, but some time ago he gave up the fire and gave in to the temptation of that literature. Young Vilando, on the other hand, has followed the opposite path: he once belonged to the circle of Count Villiers and Huysmans, but now he spends every night writing poems and then burning them. He wants them to exist only in the mind of the unknowable God.”
Grialet paused. The four men looked at me. They enjoyed being observed by others. They had spent their lives cultivating secrets, and now they wanted their faces, their slightly outlandish outfits, and their conspiratorial gestures to illustrate the power of all they were keeping quiet.
“These are the enemies of progress, the enemies of the tower and the World’s Fair,” continued Grialet. “The disciples of the secret teachings of Christ. We’re not so dangerous as Darbon suspected. Don’t you think?”
He pointed me to an empty chair. I sat with them. Soon there was a glass of spiced wine before me.
“We are against the World’s Fair. At least Darbon wasn’t wrong about that,” said Grialet.
“Why? ”
“Because we believe that secrets make the world exist. The city of Paris has been a refuge for esoteric knowledge for many years. Now they’ve decided to illuminate it. Electric light, positivism, the World’s Fair, the tower: they are all part of the same thing. Science no longer strives to collect answers, but rather to obliterate the questions.”
I drank to the bottom of the glass. Since I wasn’t a born drinker, I liked the sickly sweet taste, the scent of cinnamon, and the other overlapping f lavors that I couldn’t name. When the rock crystal cup was empty, Grialet refilled it.
“For years we initiates fought among ourselves. Gnostics, Rosicrucians, alchemical nostalgists, Valentinians, faithful of the Martinist church, Christians, anti-Christians. But now we are united. Now we all have a common enemy. Positivism, the desire to understand everything, to explain everything, is the modern disease. The tower, from which one can see the whole city, and the World’s Fair, which wants to display everything that exists, are nothing less than the symbols of a world without secrets. And your detectives encourage the builders, they encourage the scientists; they don’t know they too are alive because secrecy exists, and when it disappears, they will too.”
Isel brought his birdlike profile close to mine. “Grialet speaks the truth. The detectives have become, unwittingly, the most f lagrant sign of the philosophy that everything can be explained. They cannot be saved. None of them, except Arzaky.”
“Why Arzaky?”
“Because he’s Polish,” said Isel. “Because he hasn’t renounced his faith in Christ, even though he hides it. Because he believes in the dark forces and in the limits of Reason. But that battle takes place in his heart and it will eventually destroy him. He thinks he’s a rationalist, a materialist, but he is a soldier of Christ.”
The wine had begun to make me woozy. For a few seconds I feared it was a bewitched potion. I tried to put some order to the words that f loated around in my mouth; I slowly translated them into French.
“Darbon was investigating all of you. Darbon knew that you wanted to use the tower to disseminate your beliefs.”
“Disseminate?” Grialet laughed. “Do you think we’re journalists?” He said the word with unbounded disdain. “We’ve done everything possible to hide our beliefs. Christ preached to us, but his true message was a secret one: we are the target of that message, and we transmit it according to our rules. It doesn’t matter if they illuminate the world with electric light: the more light there is the more shadows it creates. We hide ourselves in the darkest corners, like the Christians in the catacombs.”
I wanted to jolt Grialet out of his superior posturing. I wanted to bring him back to the world of accusations, evidence, and alibis.
I asked him, “When was the last time you saw the Mermaid?”
Grialet stood up. I assumed that I had offended him and that he would kick me out right then and there. But he answered with the saddest voice I’ve ever heard.
“If only that were the case. If only I had stopped seeing her. I can’t stop seeing her. I go to the window and I think she’s about to show up.”
“Did you kill her?”
“Me? Why would I kill her?”
“Out of jealousy over Arzaky. Because she worked for him.”
“The Mermaid died of what all mermaids die of: the call of a world that doesn’t understand them.”
Grialet’s voice had begun to crack. He moved away from us and toward the window. Father Desmorins listened to everything with his gaze lowered, and didn’t interfere. The consumptive poet fixed his large damp eyes on me. It seemed that he was about to say something and he raised his hand, as if we were in school and he was awaiting the teacher’s approval, but then he lowered it quickly and regretfully. It must have been true that he burned his manuscripts because the tips of his fingers were blistered and scarred.
Isel dug his clawlike fingers into my arms.
“It is true that we are dark men, and that our rituals eventually leave us with a certain distaste for life, that sometimes leads us to lose our way. Among our predecessors, the suicide rate is higher than for other men. Lucky are those who die a quick death, a death that the Church condemns, wrote the Baron Dupotet. But don’t think that your detectives are men of the light. With the risks they run they also, unsuspectingly, seek out a death worthy of their legend. Or hadn’t you noticed how frequently they put their lives in peril for no good reason? And then there is the other temptation, crossing the line.”
“What line?”
“The one that separates them from the murderers,” said Isel.
Grialet called to me from the window. I freed myself from Isel’s grasp.
“You think you are looking for Arzaky? I think Arzaky’s following you. Come here.”
I looked through the glass at a man who was trying to hide in the darkness. He looked without daring to enter. His hair was a mess; he hadn’t changed his clothes or shaved in days. The man who used to be Reason incarnate was now seeking refuge in the shadows. Behind me, the wall whispered in black ink:
I am the Gloomy One-the Widower-the Unconsoled The Prince of Aquitaine, at his stricken Tower.
I felt a mixture of happiness and disappointment; while I was relieved to have found him; I had hoped that Arzaky was on his way to a revelation, a solution to all the enigmas. And the man who was there below, clumsy and disheveled, didn’t even look as if he knew where he was.
By the time I made it out onto the street, he had disappeared.
It was May 2, three days before the Grand Opening. The Numancia Hotel was a constant hubbub of travelers coming and going; many had come to the fair some time ago-secret delegates from the European crowns, technicians intent on investigating the future, inventors in search of inspiration-and thanks to their safeconducts and permits they had gone through the pavilions at their leisure, they had traveled in the coaches that went through the fair, they had exhausted themselves climbing the empty tower. But their privilege was about to come to an end: the day was approaching when the treasure would be handed over to the masses. For them it was time to leave: drawn by the constant promise of the future, for them the fair was already beginning to seem like a tired amusement park, a circus they’d already seen, a poor imitation of the modern world.
When I arrived at the Numancia, Dandavi, Caleb Lawson’s assistant warned me, “They are waiting for you.”
“For me?”
“Today’s session cannot start without you.”
“What do they need me for?”
“Since Arzaky isn’t here, you have to be. You’ll be his eyes and ears.”
“And his tongue as well?”
The Hindu looked at me with his large almond-shaped eyes and adopted a serious but ambiguous tone; it was impossible to tell if he was wise or just vague.
“When the time comes, we all learn to speak, and to be quiet.”
I entered the underground parlor. Caleb Lawson had taken Arzaky’s place. He seemed happy to be at the center of the scene, but reluctant, like an understudy who is called unexpectedly after months of waiting and realizes that he’s forgotten his lines. Now that the Mermaid was dead and the mystery was still unresolved, the instruments that filled the glass cases seemed like old, useless artifacts. It had been Arzaky’s presence that gave meaning to those objects. I looked for Craig’s cane, but I only found the label that listed its name and purpose. Wherever the Polish detective was, he had taken the weapon with him.
Caleb Lawson clapped his hands to call order. He wanted to begin, but his voice didn’t come out. He coughed, waited for Dandavi’s look, and finally spoke above the voices that continued to whisper in the corners.
“We don’t know where Viktor Arzaky is, so we’ll have to start without him. I want to remind you all that unless he has a good reason, we should consider his absence a serious breach of our rules.”
“Come on, Lawson,” interjected Magrelli. “Let’s respect Arzaky’s grief. Now is not the time to be sticklers about the rules.”
“They say he was seen in a church,” said Novarius timidly.
“And at the tower, looking out over the void, about to jump,” whispered Rojo, the Spanish detective.
“Benito told me that he’s been sighted several times,” said Zagala. “We shouldn’t give credence to these rumors.”
“It’s likely that he hasn’t been in any of those places,” said Castelvetia. “When great men disappear, instead of not being anywhere, they commence being everywhere at once.”
Caleb Lawson, hearing Arzaky’s name mentioned over and over, wanted to change the subject, as if by speaking his name so much they might conjure him up.
“The first speaker on the list is Madorakis.”
The short, stout Greek detective stepped forward.
“This meeting came about as a result of the World’s Fair. Arzaky warned us: just as we wanted to display our knowledge with our small exhibition, meetings, and the publication of our thoughts, crime has also decided to display its arts. That is why these three murders happened here and now. And although at first they seemed unrelated, they are obviously part of a series.”
“There were only two murders,” interrupted Lawson. “The killer wants us to read his signs. We must consider the incineration of the body as the second element in the series. Which is why I say there were three, and there will be another.”
“A four t h? ”
“And on opening day. There has been one week between each two crimes, and on that day it will have been a week.”
“And since you seem to know everything, who’s the killer?” asked Zagala.
“He is someone who is obsessed with The Twelve Detectives, but especially with Arzaky. The three victims have all been connected to him. His legendary adversary, his victim (Arzaky sent Sorel to the guillotine), and his lover.”
“The private life of the detectives…” began Magrelli.
“Private life ends where crime begins.” Madorakis pointed at me. “And I would take good care of that boy, since the murderer may use him to complete the series.”
Suddenly everyone was looking at me, with a mix of surprise and compassion. It was clear that many of the detectives hadn’t been very aware of my existence.
“Why four?” asked Zagala. “Where did you get the number four from?”
“From The Four Elements, of course,” Castelvetia hastened to say.
Madorakis didn’t like anyone beating him to the punch. He looked at Castelvetia contemptuously. There couldn’t have been two more different detectives: the Greek’s crude, threadbare clothes versus the Dutchman’s refined affectation.
“Castelvetia is right. It’s possible that the killer has set some guidelines randomly. Sorel, whose body was burned, stole a painting entitled The Four Elements. And each one of the deaths was linked to one of the elements, Sorel to fire, the young lady to water, and as for Darbon-”
“Earth! ” shouted Rojo, as if he were Rodrigo de Triana. “Hitting the ground was what killed him.”
“That’s not the only possibility,” said Zagala, dampening Rojo’s enthusiasm. “The killer could consider that what killed him was his falling through the air.”
Voices in favor of one or the other were heard. Finally Madorakis made his booming voice heard above them.
“I lean toward the earth, but we don’t know how the criminal thinks. Which is why I suggest that on opening day we keep a good watch on anything that has to do with the earth or the air. I was going through the program for the fair and I found two displays that could appeal to the killer. One is the dirigible that will f ly over the fairgrounds. The other is a large globe at the entrance. The embodiment of the earth.”
“Speaking of earth,” said Zagala, “I noticed that in the Argentine pavilion they have set up a large glass container filled with dirt that visitors can sink their hands into to test the virtues of the soil in the Pampas and confirm the existence of earthworms.”
“I can’t think of who would want to do something so disgusting,” said Castelvetia. He looked at me, as if I, merely by being an Argentine, must be an ecstatic participant in such a filthy act.
Caleb Lawson tried to regain control over the meeting.
“Let’s add the Argentine dirt to our suspicions. Now we just need to decide who goes where. And since we’ve finished talking about murders, let’s move on to more important things. Let’s talk about Craig.”
Caleb Lawson hadn’t raised his voice when he mentioned Craig, but the name resounded like thunder, like an irretrievable scream. Without knowing why I took a step back, and I would have taken another if I hadn’t bumped into Dandavi, who seemed to have been put there to keep an eye on me.
Now there was complete silence because everyone wanted to know what Craig could possibly have to do with this matter.
“I don’t want what I say to be taken as an attack against Craig, but rather a defense of our occupation. Since forever, since our profession began (which some people like to say was in China, the nebulous origin of all things with mysterious beginnings), every time we say the word detective we whisper the other, assistant, or the word used by Craig himself, acolyte. Although we often don’t see them, here they are, beside us, silent: our assistants. The strain of logical thought sometimes pushes us toward madness, but our acolytes, with their perseverance, bring us back to reality. There are some who are guides for the others: my faithful Dandavi, for example, or old Tanner, who accompanied Arzaky in his glory days, now sadly over. Even Baldone, although he is not always as discreet as his office requires. With their chatting, often sensible and sometimes trivial, the acolytes remind us what other human beings think, and in contrast, they invite us to change our perspective, to carry out our syllogisms boldly, to astonish.”
The acolytes had imperceptibly moved closer to the center of the room, amazed at being lauded so profusely.
“Craig, however,” continued the Englishman, “disagreed with that. He wanted to be different. He wanted to forge a new path, investigate alone, tell his own stories. He wanted to be Christ and the four Evangelists at once. Now we receive news that he has been accused of lying, murder, and torture. His final case, which was supposed to have been the culmination of all his wisdom, is a murky matter; unexplainable, which Craig himself has refused to clarify. And if the version in which he actually killed the guilty party is confirmed, we can be sure that his act is a threat to all we believe in. Who would bother following clues if they are authorized to commit torture and summary execution?”
Caleb Lawson left his question f loating in the air. I bit my tongue to keep from interrupting. We acolytes were not allowed to speak. Arzaky would have shut him up immediately, but he wasn’t there. His absence gave Lawson the authority. Castelvetia followed his words indifferently, looking at his polished nails. The others were too perplexed to respond. Businessmen, criminals, and police chiefs had spread all sorts of rumors about them, but a detective had never been accused of murder by one of his own.
“But perhaps I’m being unfair. Craig deserves someone to defend him, someone who was with him during those dark days. If no one objects, I would like to give the f loor to Sigmundo Salvatrio.”
Dandavi pushed me and I stumbled forward. Caleb Lawson approached me.
“Salvatrio, what do you think of the accusations against Craig?”
I remembered the body of Kalidán the magician, with his arms open. In my memory the cloud of f lies still buzzed, I feared that the recollection would draw them in to surround me now.
“Craig was my mentor, and I owe everything to him. He would never do something like that.”
“You didn’t, at any time, think that not having an assistant could cause him to get lost in the method, lose his mind?”
“It is true that Craig worked for many years without an assistant. But some time ago he established an academy devoted to investigation. We students said that he had created it just so he could groom the finest of us to become his assistant…”
“Or a detective.”
“He didn’t say anything about detectives or assistants. We just wanted to believe it could happen.”
“And who was chosen to be his assistant?”
“No one. The finest of us was murdered. Everyone knows that.”
“Weren’t you the best?”
“No.”
“Then how did you end up here?”
“Because I was loyal to the end. Because I stayed with Craig when all the others abandoned him.”
My words raised a murmur of approval. While all the detectives were well known in their field, they had been through many difficult moments: press scandals, unsolvable murders, traps set by criminals. An assistant’s faithfulness was never more valued than when a detective had been discredited.
“And you came here as a messenger.”
“Yes. To bring the cane.”
“Isn’t it possible that Craig’s message was more complex than just bringing an artifact? Isn’t it possible that the infection that has taken over Craig’s mind has spread to you?”
“What infection?”
“The attraction to crime. The temptation to cross the line. We’re all tempted sometimes.”
“I’m drawn to investigation. Ever since I was a kid I read the adventures that you detectives starred in and I dreamed of doing the same one day.”
“But kids grow up. And when they do their dreams change, fade, or become sullied.”
“I still long for the same things,” I replied, without knowing for sure if I was lying or telling the truth.
“Acolytes are quiet and stay in the corners, and you, the newest one, are the most invisible of all. Which is why I wanted to get to know you better, before asking you this question: did you visit Paloma Leska the night of the crime?”
“Who?” I asked, even though I knew very well who he was talking about.
“The Mermaid. Did you think she was a real mermaid? Her name was Paloma Leska.”
“I won’t deny it. I went to return a stolen object.”
“What was that object? And who had stolen it?”
“It was a photograph. And I stole it. I thought it might be useful for the investigation.”
“And you found the body and didn’t say anything?”
“The body? No, the Mermaid was alive. She still wore her green costume. I’ve never seen a woman as alive as she was.”
“And can you prove that you didn’t kill her?”
“No! But why would I kill her?”
Caleb Lawson stopped looking at me and addressed his public.
“I want this young man to be suspended immediately and denied entrance to our meetings from now on.”
“He’s Arzaky’s assistant. Arzaky is the one who should decide that,” said Magrelli.
“Arzaky isn’t here, so we’ll be the ones who decide. This young man was at the scene of the crime at the moment it was committed. We’ll have to inform the chief of police as well…”
That jarred me. I wouldn’t fare well with Bazeldin, who would do anything to get rid of Arzaky.
“I’m innocent. It would only take Arzaky a second to prove my innocence.”
“But he’s not here, and you have no witness to confirm that, when you left, the Mermaid was still alive.”
Not only was my membership in the circle of assistants about to be taken away, but it also looked like I was headed to jail. I had entered the world I had read about as a child, but my storyline had unexpectedly digressed. I spoke without thinking, “Yes, I do have a witness.”
“Who?”
Was I slow to speak? It seemed like there was an incredibly long silence, but time passes differently in dreams.
“Castelvetia’s assistant.”
Castelvetia stood up. I didn’t look at him. He came toward me, to shut me up.
“She’ll tell you the truth. Greta-”
There was a murmur of surprise. Caleb Lawson smiled. His tense body seemed to relax, his public prosecutor stance disappeared. In that moment I understood that I had been tricked, that they didn’t care about the accusations against Craig. Lawson was just waiting for that word, the proof that he needed against Castelvetia.
“She. Greta,” repeated Lawson triumphantly.
Castelvetia looked around him. There were no longer any traces of affectation in him. He had abandoned his posture, and his elegant mannerisms had fallen away like a cape descending to the ground. His hands, which had seemed to be mere objects of contemplation, were now claws. His voice had deepened.
“She isn’t an assistant in the strict sense of the word. Besides, I was about to inform The Twelve Detectives about the presence of my collaborator, once the problems we are currently dealing with were resolved.”
“Having a woman as your assistant breaks all our rules,” said Caleb Lawson. “I propose that Castelvetia be suspended. I’ll remind you that the voting is by simple majority…”
Lawson raised his hand. So did Madorakis and Hatter.
“I support the motion,” said Magrelli, “but only as a precautionary measure.”
There were nine detectives present; only one more vote would ensure his suspension. Rojo hesitated, but eventually raised his hand.
“And now I call for a vote on the precautionary separation of Arzaky, and his assistant as well…”
Would The Twelve Detectives have voted against Arzaky? I don’t think so. They wouldn’t have dared go that far. Before anyone had the chance to make that mistake, his voice was heard.
“What are you doing, Lawson?”
The Englishman jumped.
“Arzaky! Where were you?”
“I’ve been in a lot of bad places these past few days, and throughout my life. But this is the worst place of all. In every dive there are rules of conduct; here it seems that the only norm is humiliation and dishonor. You wanted your revenge against Castelvetia? Well now you have it. Why go after my assistant too?”
“Because he didn’t have anyone to assist. Besides, he knew Castelvetia’s secret and he didn’t say anything.”
“He’s an assistant, not a stool pigeon.”
“But our code of honor…”
“I demand that Salvatrio be cleared of all guilt and charges, and that he continue to help me with this case.”
Lawson had turned pale. He wanted to challenge Arzaky’s words, but he couldn’t. Yet he didn’t want to give up center stage, so he said to the Pole, “We have already realized what you’ve known for some time: that the killer is following a plan based on The Four Elements. We only have to decide whether the first murder was earth or air, and based on that…”
Arzaky raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated look of surprise. He had lost weight during his absence, and now all his features were more prominent, as if he was wearing a mask of himself.
“The Four Elements? Who told you that had anything to do with the case?”
“That is what you were trying to hide from us.”
“You’re missing either earth or air? Then we’ll have to keep a close watch on the entire planet, because there’s air and earth everywhere.”
I withdrew to the back of the room, ashamed. No one was looking at me anymore, because all eyes were fixed on Arzaky. Magrelli had approached to effusively shake his hand and Zagala was waiting for his turn. Novarius was consulting the wall clock, as if the only thing he was worried about was how many days, hours, and minutes were left before he could f lee these European complications.
I took advantage of the distraction to open one of the cases and take out Darbon’s microscope. It was a small Swiss instrument with bronze and steel pieces. When I closed the case’s glass door I noticed that there was someone beside me. I feared it was Neska. I was about to give an explanation for my action, when I saw that it was Castelvetia.
“I was afraid. I spoke without thinking,” I told him.
He looked at me so fixedly that I feared he was going to slap me. He spoke condescendingly.
“No one asks for explanations from fools. At least they have that privilege.”
“But I wanted to explain it to Greta…”
Castelvetia smiled, as if he had the right to a modicum of revenge.
“You won’t see her again. We are leaving Paris tomorrow.”
Castelvetia pushed me out of the way. The first member in the history of The Twelve Detectives to be expelled left the underground parlor of the Numancia Hotel with swift steps.
I went to the hotel, locked myself in my room and tried in vain to bring my correspondence up to date. I would begin a letter and abandon it; a drop of ink would accidentally fall on the page and I would watch it expand, as if it were a small octopus. I consulted a railroad schedule to see when the next train left for Amsterdam. If Castelvetia had told me the truth, perhaps I would have a last chance to see Greta.
I put the handkerchief that Bazeldin had used to wipe the Mermaid’s face under the microscope. A weak ray of sun shone through the window. It was enough to light the small mirror that in turn lit the glass. A shape was already beginning to form when someone knocked on the door. Just in case, I hid the microscope that I had taken without permission.
It was Arzaky. Should I tell him I was sorry about the Mermaid’s death? I remembered my mother writing condolence letters overf lowing with expressions of grief when someone lost a relative. My father, on the other hand, never knew what to say, and he just lowered his head to look at people’s shoes, the only subject he really knew well.
“Don’t worry about Castelvetia. He’s always been arrogant. He beat Caleb Lawson once and he thought he could always best him. The Englishman entrapped you. But the important thing is that you didn’t snitch on Craig. That story you told was meant for me and no one else.”
“But I betrayed her…”
“You didn’t only do it out of fear; you were yearning to say her name. Even when everything around you is going to hell, there is no greater pleasure than saying that word. Any excuse is valid to finally say the name of the one you love. Caleb Lawson knew it. But he didn’t get you to snitch on Craig, which was what he wanted even more. There is no greater betrayal than an assistant’s disloyalty to his detective, his mentor.”
Arzaky looked at me with a strange seriousness. I felt the same way I had when Caleb Lawson was attacking me: that something was pulling me out of the corners and my hiding places and my invisibility, to give great importance to the most insignificant of my words or deeds, and that was not a good thing for me.
“What do I have to do now? The detectives said my life is in danger.”
“Don’t give it a second thought. Await my instructions. This case is almost closed. I might need your services one last time.”
“A nd t hen? ”
“Then? You’ll go back to Buenos Aires, I imagine. With a clean conscience, knowing you’ve fulfilled your mission. Craig needs you to tell him everything that has happened, that is happening, and that will happen. He sent you here with a cane and a story; soon it will be your turn to tell him another story, when you return his cane.”
Arzaky left and I wanted to go back to my work with the microscope, but there wasn’t enough daylight left.
On May 5 the World’s Fair opened.
Never before had so much activity been concentrated in a single place. Even from my bed I could hear the noise of the footsteps that were heading to see the numerous treasures and surprises. The crowds bought up all the tickets and wandered happily through the pavilions, without knowing what to see first. They were all overtaken by a similar anxiety-perhaps the most important thing wasn’t what was in front of them, but what was around the next corner. And even those who had gotten a spot to go up on the tower suspected that the most thrilling part of the fair was somewhere else, in some tiny, secret place. Only that which we are denied kindles our true desire.
After taking advantage of the morning light, I set off toward the Numancia Hotel, carrying Darbon’s microscope wrapped in gray paper and tied with a yellow cord. It was early and the room was empty. I put the microscope back where it belonged and threw the wrapping into a wastepaper basket.
Tamayak was at the hotel’s entrance, accompanied by Baldone, Okano, and Benito, all wearing their best clothes. For a moment I thought they were there because they had discovered that something was missing from the glass case.
“I just took the microscope out for a minute to polish it,” I explained.
They looked at each other. They didn’t know what I was talking about.
“We saw you come into the hotel. We want you to come with us,” said Benito. “We’re going to the fair.”
“How are you going to spread out through the fairgrounds?” I asked.
“Novarius is in the dirigible. He won’t budge from there.”
“And you aren’t going to be with him?” I asked Tamayak.
“No. If the gods had wanted us to f ly, they would have given us wings.”
“What about the others?”
“Rojo and Zagala are keeping watch by the globe. Caleb Lawson went to guard the Argentine Pavilion, with Madorakis.”
“Then you guys aren’t going…”
“We have another mission. They’ve charged us with walking around the fair. Looking here and there. To see if we notice anything strange. If Arzaky hasn’t told you otherwise, you should come with us.”
I went because I supposed I didn’t have any other choice. In our conversations there was a sense that we were saying good-bye: Baldone mentioned that he had found a hat to bring back as a gift for his mother; Okano asked where he could buy a case of absinthe at a good price. We showed our safe-conducts at the entrance. It was so crowded that it was hard to stick together.
There was only an hour left before Castelvetia’s train departed for Amsterdam. Sometimes I thought I had managed to evade the assistants but a few steps later my guardians would appear, feigning distraction. In order to put some distance between us, I pretended to be feverishly excited about things. I rushed to the American Pavilion, but the Sioux was there at the door, so still that the visitors admired him, thinking he was part of the display. I turned and searched for the Galerie des Machines, but Baldone appeared by my side, offering me a minty soft drink he had just bought. I saw my opportunity when a Chinese delegation made their way through the crowd. They carried a dragon that swayed and twisted, with hundreds of people inside. The gigantic head leaned one way and then the other. The choreography was perfect, but the dragon hadn’t taken the crowd into account and its blind movements crashed again and again into the visitors, knocking them down. The enthusiasm for the fair’s inauguration was such that people were laughing with delight even as they got bruised and trampled. I couldn’t hope for a better chance: I went below the dragon’s scales and shared the darkness with my Chinese companions. I walked blindly, like the rest. I felt a deep sadness for the people inside that dragon; they were in a world of wonders but condemned to see nothing. Hidden in the bowels of the dragon, I escaped my four guardians.
The trains purred in the north station. I ran toward track four, from where, according to the schedule, Castelvetia’s train should be leaving. I hurried through the cars, bumping into passengers who were stowing their luggage and into guards who were giving instructions and brief ly enjoying the power bestowed upon them by their gray uniforms. I found Greta and Castelvetia in the third car. All the passengers seemed nervous about the departure, except for them, as if they were railroad staff whose job was to provide an image of tranquility for the other passengers. They sat together, without touching, both serious, as if they were strangers. She was by the window, looking out at a group of gray pigeons pecking at some breadcrumbs.
I went toward them and almost bumped into Castelvetia, who had, just at that moment, gotten up to get a book out of the case he had stored on the luggage rack. When he saw me, the Dutchman sighed, obviously annoyed.
“What? Were you planning on coming with us?”
I had run quite far, and now that it was time to speak, I needed to catch my breath. Castelvetia looked with puzzlement at the catalogue of gestures I used to replace the words I couldn’t get out. Greta looked at me seriously with her large gray eyes.
“Only one thing could excuse your betrayal,” said Castelvetia. “Only one thing. That what Lawson said was true.”
“Lawson said a lot of things.”
“You know what I’m referring to. Craig’s crime.”
I didn’t respond. I let my fatigue overcome me, as an excuse to remain quiet.
Castelvetia’s index finger jammed into my chest.
“It’s your fault I’m no longer part of The Twelve Detectives…”
“I know. And that’s why I’ve come to apologize.”
“No, you came to say good-bye. Besides, I don’t want an apology. I want the truth.”
I lowered my gaze, unable to look him in the eye. Then I realized that Castelvetia thought that my reply would be in the negative, and he was anxiously waiting for me to defend Craig’s good name.
“Say it: Craig didn’t torture the killer. Say it: Craig didn’t kill him.”
I couldn’t say anything, and my silence spoke for me. The Dutchman took a watch out of his pocket and measured the length of my silence.
“More than thirty seconds. Now I know what you aren’t saying.”
The Dutchman was pale. He came close to whisper in my ear, as if he had suspicions about the passengers around us.
“My expulsion doesn’t matter, The Twelve Detectives are finished.”
Castelvetia touched Greta’s shoulder. She had been looking out the window.
“Greta, dear, you can talk to the young man.”
“He betrayed us,” she said, without taking her eyes off the windowpane, refusing to look at me.
“We no longer have any grudge against him, because they have kicked us out of something that no longer exists. That erases the offense.”
That upset Greta, and she stood up, annoyed. Without saying a word, she made her way through the last travelers who were arriving. I went down first and tried to offer my hand to help her with the iron steps, but she refused to take it. I managed to brush her fingers, which were ice cold.
“I knew I shouldn’t say your name, but for a moment I was happy to hear it come out of my mouth. Then I realized what I had done.”
Greta now addressed me with formal distance, instead of the familiar way she used to.
“Now you can say the name as many times as you wish. As a secret, it was powerful. Once the magic word has been spoken, it loses all value.”
“The magic hasn’t lost its power.”
She looked at me for a few seconds. She was a woman, at the end of it all, and she was f lattered by my insistence, by my dishevelment, by my foolishly running all the way here.
“Shouldn’t you be working? They are expecting the fourth murder to happen today.”
“All the detectives are at their posts, keeping watch over any possible versions of air and earth.”
She pointed toward one of the train’s windows. Castelvetia was reading a book with yellow covers, decorated with interwoven roses: a romance novel.
“Castelvetia mocks their preparations. He says that they are all wrong, that it’s not about air or earth.”
“Castelvetia knows as much as the others do. At least they are at their posts. He’s leaving.”
“He’s leaving because they threw him out. He’s leaving because he has no other choice. Can you imagine what the press in Amsterdam is going to say about his expulsion?”
“Castelvetia could stay anyway. Investigate on his own. If he knows so much, he should stay, solve the mystery, and then negotiate his readmittance.”
“You should trust that Arzaky will be the one to solve the enigma. An assistant must maintain his faith even in the lowest moments.”
“I’m no more than a ghost to him. He doesn’t tell me what to do. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Since Paloma’s death…”
I said her real name to create some distance from the green costume, from the body in the water, from Nerval’s damp verses; I said her name as a way not to say anything. Greta stared as if I had uttered an unexpected blasphemy.
“Who?”
“Paloma Leska. The Mermaid.”
“I didn’t know her name was Paloma.”
I was young; my pride thought for me. I wondered if she was jealous that I had used her real name instead of her stage name. Was I going to receive, in that station amid the steam and smell of engine oil, the gift of her jealousy? The train roared. The last passengers rushed to get on board with their luggage, and they pushed their suitcases as best they could. A guard shouted, another insistently rang a bronze bell. I looked at her again, and I knew it wasn’t jealousy. She was trembling. Both of us, almost at the same time, understood. We looked at each other for the last time.
“Weren’t you talking about magic words? My name isn’t the magic word. Doesn’t paloma mean dove? This is the moment you were waiting for when you met with Craig, this is the moment that justifies your delays and betrayals. This is the moment that justifies you now saying good-bye to me, Sigmundo Salvatrio. Quickly. Quickly.”
Greta pushed me, and that was her farewell. She took the stairs a few at a time, when the train had already begun to move. I waited for it to completely disappear, as if I didn’t have the strength to leave. Some pigeons had gathered to eat the stale bread an old woman dressed in rags threw to them. When I walked past them they f lew off toward the tall glass heights.
There are people who need to be still in order to think, but I work better walking or even running. I knew where I was going, but I didn’t know why. Against the opinion of Craig and the other detectives, I didn’t think an enigma was a painting by Arcimboldo, or an Aladdin’s blackboard, or a sphinx, or a blank page. It was what it had been since my childhood: a jigsaw puzzle. My father would come home with a large box wrapped in blue silk paper. By the window, I tore off the paper, threw the pieces to the ground, and enjoyed that wonderful chaos that was waiting for me to put it in order and to find, in the many shapes, the image. Now I had the big pieces in front of me: Darbon’s body, fallen from the tower; Sorel ’s corpse, first executed by guillotine and then burned; and, the only one that pained me, the Mermaid’s lifeless silhouette. There were other, smaller pieces: the black oil that had initiated Darbon’s plunge from the tower, the witnesses’ statements, the fire, the obscure quotes on the walls of Grialet’s book of a house. I had read Nerval’s verses, which I couldn’t get out of my head, but it was those other words that were important, the ones that said: “The day will come when God will be a meeting between an old man, a decapitated man, and a dove…”
The answer was written on Grialet’s wall, in full view of everyone.
Now I knew for certain that the detectives, spread out through the fair in search of earth or air, were looking in vain: it wasn’t a series of four; it was a series of three. It wasn’t about the four elements, the four roots that the Greeks saw behind everything, but in the Trinity. The old man was Darbon, the decapitated man, Sorel; the dove, Paloma…
I arrived at Grialet’s house breathless. I climbed the marble staircase and was about to knock, when Desmorins, the priest, opened the door. He was also agitated and sweating, as if his path to me had been a symmetrical race.
“You have to stop Arzaky,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs. He thinks that Grialet is the killer. I’m going to get the police.”
Before he could leave or I could enter the shot rang out, reverberating off the walls. It sounded more like a pistol than a revolver or carbine. There was something in the sound itself that was irreparable, as if it were a bomb going off. A shot can miss its mark: an explosion always has consequences for someone. I went up the stairs, not as quickly as the scene demanded, nor as slowly as my tiredness called for. As I walked I was escorted by the words on the walls, which I didn’t read.
Arzaky was standing in a room that the morning hadn’t quite made up its mind to illuminate. He held Craig’s cane, still smoking, in his hand. It looked less like a firearm than some powerful mythological figure’s staff. On the f loor, seated, with his back against the writing that filled the wall, was Grialet. The shot had entered his neck and torn his carotid artery. For a few seconds, Grialet held a hand over the wound, which was black with gunpowder, but then, out of weakness or resignation, he gave up. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t. His legs shook two or three times, and then he was still.
Then Arzaky did something unexpected: he crossed himself. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; in the name of the Old Man, the Decapitated Man, and the Dove. He stared at me, as if struggling to remember who I was. Then he said, “Grialet was the murderer. I’ll give the details tonight.”
Arzaky held the cane out to me. At first I didn’t dare touch it. I had brought it as a relic, and now it was a murder weapon. The cane felt hot.
“Put it back in the glass case. Now it can take its rightful place.”
Arzaky 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 conf lict, 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 Tra ce s, 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 f lecked 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 collarbone 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 f loor, 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 f lame, 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.”
Caleb 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 speaking 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 f lash. 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.
I left the hotel, looking this way and that. The moon shone with a yellow light, promising rain the next day. I began to run through an alley and I heard labored breathing ahead of me. It was Desmorins, who was also pursuing Arzaky.
“I want to hear his confession,” he told me.
I ran in one direction, then the other, without any clue as to which way I should go. I was about to abandon the search, when I heard a bang. It was a single shot, but it was enough. Guided by the noise, I turned the corner. Arzaky lay on the ground, lit by the moonlight. The killer had dropped Novarius’s pistol.
I knelt down beside the fallen giant.
“I’m going to get help,” I promised without conviction as the lake of blood around me grew.
I would have liked to have gone for a doctor, just to get away from Arzaky’s death throes. But the Polish detective held me there.
“It’s too late. Neska knows how to get the job done.”
“It’s my fault, I should have spoken in private…”
“No, it was my mistake. Craig sent me a detective, not an assistant. I didn’t realize in time. You did the right thing by telling the truth.”
“The truth? I didn’t tell the truth.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. And neither did you. I don’t believe you committed those crimes to take revenge on Darbon, or for glory and recognition, or to save The Twelve Detectives. It was for love. The only one you wanted to kill was the Mermaid, because she betrayed you. You knew that she and Grialet were still seeing each other. You did all the rest to hide that crime, the only one that mattered. If they caught you, you could say you had done it for The Twelve Detectives. You didn’t care about being branded a killer, but you didn’t want the name Arzaky to be remembered for the worst of all crimes: the crime of passion.”
Arzaky tried to smile.
“Well done. But that will be a secret between you and me, Detective.”
“Detective? I’m not even an assistant.”
“From now on you are. I invoke the fourth clause: If a Detective were to use his knowledge to commit a crime and his assistant were to discover it…”
Soon Desmorins showed up, breathless. The detectives’ footsteps were heard close behind.
“I’m going to anoint you with the holy oils.”
Desmorins opened his cassock and took a small bottle of holy water from his belt. Magrelli had arrived and was with us too.
“He’s not a real priest,” I said.
“What does that matter now,” said Arzaky. “In this light, no one is what he appears. But let’s pretend that he’s a priest, that I’m a detective, and that you are my loyal assistant.”
The priest took a deep breath and said, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”
Arzaky had told the truth, for the fourth clause-the one the Japanese detective had burned in that garden-allowed an assistant who discovered that a detective was also a murderer to become a member of The Twelve. I assumed that the detectives had made that rule thinking it would never be applied. They were so despondent over what Arzaky had done that they believed that making me a member of the group would atone for the sin of having strayed from the path.
I returned to Buenos Aires two months later. My family found me a changed man.
“Getting you to talk is like pulling teeth,” said my mother.
My father had already figured out that I wouldn’t want to keep working in the shoe shop, and he was training my younger brother in the business.
It took me three weeks to do what I had to do: visit Craig, return his cane, and tell him the story of Arzaky’s downfall. He listened to me for hours, he asked for details, he insisted I go over parts of the story that I didn’t think were important. By that point they had quit bothering him about the Case of the Magician, which had been shelved. But he had stayed firm in his decision to give up detective work. I asked to rent out the lower f loor of his house and he agreed. I set up my office there. I inherited Craig’s former clients, and from then on, every time I went to solve a theft or a murder, they relentlessly praised my mentor’s skills, comparing mine unfavorably to his.
When Craig died, I have to confess I felt relieved, as if the doors of the world were opening for me, as if the secret that had been a burden on me no longer carried any weight. I still work in the lower f loor of that house, and I make sure Señora Craig is never out of sugar or green tins of British tea. In the mornings, Angela, the cook, makes French toast and yerba maté tea for me, while she gives her always inauspicious report on the weather conditions. Then I go out following some lead or en route to a crime scene, to see the man who hanged himself in the basement, the poisoned hotel guest, the girl drowned in the garden fountain.
In my study, in a glass case, I have Craig’s cane. Sometimes, when I’m working late into the night, I take out the cane and polish its lion’s head handle as I imagine how it would feel to cross the line, to taste evil’s trace. The game only lasts a few seconds. Almost immediately I close the glass case and return to my thoughts. I still don’t have an assistant. Will I take one on some day? The footsteps of Señora Craig, pacing in her insomnia, echo above my head.