Pablo De Santis - The Paris Enigma

“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.