Pablo De Santis - The Paris Enigma

I had ended up here by following Arzaky’s orders, and I had to speak for Arzaky. “Don’t tell anyone who I am,” said the young woman, as if I could possibly know who she was.

She invited me in, so we wouldn’t be seen together in that hallway traveled by fabulists: the shady men who were the electricians who would light up the fair; the discreet ladies who would welcome foreigners and justify the city’s reputation; the young men who seemed to be quintessentially Parisian but were actually South American journalists drunk on absinthe.

“I didn’t know the rules allowed…”

“Where are the rules written? Have you ever seen them?”

“Nowhere. In the detectives’ hearts.”

“But they only have brains. They don’t have hearts.”

I sat on the edge of a chair, as if I was about to leave at any moment. I wanted to be shocked, but my ability to be shocked was dulled by intrigue. “Wait till I tell Arzaky,” I thought.

She washed her face in a basin.

“My name is Greta Rubanova. I’m Boris Rubanov’s daughter. My father left Russia when he was twenty years old and he met my mother, a Frenchwoman, in Amsterdam. She died giving birth to me. When my father started working for him, Castelvetia was practically still a child. They had an office in Amsterdam, which Castelvetia rented from a shipping company. Together they solved dozens of cases. My father taught me everything he knew. But he had a weakness for women, especially dangerous ones. And when he walked out on a Hungarian woman, she said good-bye with her knife. By the time Castelvetia found him, my father was dying. Castelvetia asked him who had done it. My father’s reply was that some cases shouldn’t be solved. Castelvetia respected his last wish. At his funeral I asked Castelvetia to let me work for him. He accepted, at first out of sympathy, but later took me seriously.”

“And how did Castelvetia manage to keep you hidden all this time?”

“Detectives are fame seekers, and they know that their renown is an essential part of investigative work: before arriving in a city, their name precedes them, and it’s the talk of the town. Sometimes this helps their work, and other times it’s an impediment. When a detective is around, fantasies multiply. Castelvetia, on the other hand, always sought anonymity. Since joining The Twelve Detectives, his obsession with secrecy has become even greater. In Amsterdam there are few crimes: we are too polite, too accustomed to ignoring one another. We are so distanced from each other that we never reach the point of murder. There’s no need. So Castelvetia and I often have to travel. That helps our cases to go unnoticed. Castelvetia has renounced fame for me: many doubt that he is a true detective, but he did it all to keep me hidden.”

She came closer to me. She smelled of fresh clothes dried in the sun.

“We were confident that during this meeting things could finally be cleared up. Castelvetia was planning to ask that I be recognized as his assistant.”

“A woman? Never,” I said indignantly.

“Who are you, the keeper of the rules?”

“I’m simply the bearer of common sense.”

“Don’t get too alarmed, it’s not going to happen after all. Things have gotten complicated, and Castelvetia has changed his mind. Now that all the detectives are plotting against each other, they even suspect Darbon’s murderer may be among them. If he presented me now, he would have everyone at his throat. Caleb Lawson hates him, he would take full advantage of the situation.”

“Why does he hate him?”

“Lawson considers three of The Twelve Detectives his rivals: Craig, Castelvetia, and Arzaky. Craig and Arzaky are his enemies because he wants to run The Twelve Detectives. Craig has already quit the race so now only Arzaky, the more skilled and more difficult, remains. Lawson hates Castelvetia because, on a trip to London, Castelvetia solved the Case of the Princess in the Tower.”

“I’m not familiar with that one.”

“No? You can ask Lawson about it. He likes to reminisce about old times. And now that you’ve seen me, you can leave. Or did you want something more?”

“What use is an assistant who has to be hidden away?”

“I can go places that men can’t. Doors have opened for me that you couldn’t dream of walking through.”

“I’m sure I’d rather not walk through them.”

“You see? In men, curiosity is laborious, something borrowed, and in the long term, a pretense. Men ask questions that they think they already know the answer to. I ask what I don’t know.” “And you never leave here? Castelvetia has you locked up?” “I go where I like. We meet in secret.”

“Like lovers?”

“Like conspirators. Like revolutionaries. Like father and daughter.”

“Father and daughter,” I repeated incredulously.

“Father and daughter. Can I trust you?”

“No one has ever doubted my honor.”

“I am completely dependent on that dubious honor. Imagine the consequences of the scandal, now that the investigative arts are on display in full view of everyone. Who would maintain their faith in The Twelve Detectives? ”

I had to leave, but it wasn’t easy; I was comfortable in my discomfort. For a second I saw things from a distance. The detectives, the rules, the hierarchies, murder itself: it was all just a game. And I was like a stamp collector who comprehends, in a f lash, that he has been playing with worthless little slips of paper.

“Now I will ask that you keep our secret, and that you leave. I have to finish getting dressed.”

I got up from the chair that I had barely occupied. I was going to say something, but she brought her fingers to my lips. She knew how to ask for silence.

I had solved my first mystery, but I couldn’t tell anyone about it, not even Arzaky. In Madame Nécart’s hotel, at breakfast, the other assistants looked at me enviously. I had a case while they just sat around smoking, drinking, and chatting. The Japanese assistant, Okano, was always silent, and only once in a while sat at the desk to write a letter in his language, which looked like little pictures. Linker and Baldone argued over the possibility of making a rule about the relationships between detectives and their assistants.

“We live in an era dominated by science,” said Linker. “Everything has a system, and we should have one too. The Twelve Detectives should be organized just like any science academy or association. We can’t appear to be of nebulous origin like the Templar knights.”

“I’ve seen too much to believe that everything can be explained. Reality is immune to explanations. I think we are Templars, and like the Templars we’ll eventually die out.” Suddenly Baldone addressed Novarius’s assistant in a mocking tone, “What do you think? Should we have a rule?”

The Sioux remained silent. He was cleaning his knife: a large blade with a horn handle. He didn’t even look up.

Baldone noticed my presence. “The only lucky one. He just got here and he already has a case. Unlike us…”

I spoke humbly. “The other detectives are going to investigate this case too, not just Arzaky.”

“But it’s a foreign city. They don’t have informants, and they have trouble speaking the language. Arzaky’s chances of solving the case are much better. I think that all the detectives would have preferred to continue their discussion on the art of investigation, rather than actually conduct one. And meanwhile the killer is still at large.”

I didn’t want to give myself superior airs, so I stayed with them for a while, as if I were off-duty too. I was hoping that if Arzaky sent me any instructions, they would arrive discreetly, so that no one else would notice. I had almost managed to convince the others that Arzaky had chosen me just to handle the paperwork, when a tall, robust messenger with a soldierly air burst into the room and asked for me in a loud voice. He brought a note from Arzaky: I was to accompany the detective to Madame Darbon’s house.