The Death Mask Murders

by Gabriel Farago

  Lapointe and Dupree stared at Jack, stunned.

  ‘You can’t be serious!’ said Lapointe, breaking the silence. He lit his pipe and watched Jack carefully. After Jack’s recent involvement in the notorious Ritz murder case, Lapointe knew better than to just dismiss this comment as fantasy.

  Jack held up his hand. ‘Before I can tell you more, I want to be absolutely sure,’ continued Jack, pre-empting the barrage of questions that was about to erupt.

  ‘And you think you can do that?’ asked Lapointe, looking incredulous.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jack quietly. ‘I believe so.’

  14

  Kuragin chateau: 10 October

  Countess Kuragin tightened the belt of her dressing gown and walked into the conservatory. It was three in the morning. Earlier, she had observed from her bedroom window that the light was on – a sign that Jack was still working – and decided to find out what was keeping him up all night.

  Jack sat in his usual place by the window, surrounded by the indoor palms, open books, and bundles of loose pages covered in handwriting. His laptop was open and he was staring at the screen. Empty coffee cups and a cheese platter with a few grapes and broken crackers on the windowsill were the only evidence of any sustenance consumed during a long night of sleuthing.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ asked the countess.

  Jack looked up, surprised. ‘No idea, but what I can tell you is this …’ Jack held up a small folder like a trophy. ‘This is without doubt one of the most extraordinary things I’ve read in years.’

  The countess smiled. She had seen it all before, but Jack’s enthusiasm was infectious. ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Landru’s journal I picked up from his solicitor yesterday.’

  ‘Ah. A serial killer’s diary?’ said the countess, a teasing glint in her eyes.

  ‘It’s a lot more than that.’

  ‘I tell you what. Let’s go down into the kitchen. We’ll have a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it. What do you say?’

  Jack closed the folder and stood up. ‘You’re on.’

  After the conservatory, where he did most of his writing, the spacious, vaulted kitchen in the basement with the long wooden refectory table in front of the fireplace – a leftover from earlier days – was Jack’s favourite place in the chateau, where he had spent countless hours with the countess over the years. It was an informal place of wellbeing where he felt totally at ease and free to share some of his most intimate thoughts, and fears, with the countess, who had not only become a close friend, but his confidante as well.

  ‘How I love this place,’ said Jack and pointed to the large, ornate samovar on the kitchen table. ‘“A tea urn warming generations” you called it. And to think that it all began with Anna …’

  The countess reached for Jack’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I can never repay you for what you’ve done. You brought my only daughter back to me and saved my grandson. Without you, both would have perished.’

  ‘You’ve repaid me many times over, you know,’ said Jack, changing direction. ‘You gave me a home, a sense of belonging when I needed it most. Will’s death took a lot out of me.’ Jack looked pensively at the samovar. ‘Part of me died with him in the Kimberley that day,’ he added with sadness in his voice.

  ‘Well, you are part of the family now, like it or not. Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. I’m a little worried about Tristan.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Difficult to say, but he’s not …’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Spot on. I don’t think married life at the fancy palazzo in Venice is for him.’

  ‘Married life is an adjustment for everyone, especially someone like Tristan.’

  ‘I suppose so. He’s a different person when he’s with me.’

  ‘Hardly surprising,’ mumbled the countess and handed Jack a cup of tea. ‘Now, tell me about this journal.’

  Jack sat down on the bench and opened the folder he had brought with him. ‘Fascinating stuff,’ he said. ‘And it all began with an Inca khipu.’

  ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘The Inca had no written language. Therefore, no written records of any kind to tell us about their culture and their history except for these mysterious khipus. Khipus are knotted cords that recorded information. Strings that speak.’

  ‘Fascinating. How do they work?’

  ‘It’s complicated and to us, used to writing, quite alien. Unfortunately, this unique Inca recording system remains largely undeciphered. However, a few years ago, Landru, who as you know was a history professor at the Sorbonne specialising in the Spanish conquest of Peru and the fall of the Inca Empire, teamed up with an anthropologist and ethnohistorian in Germany to decipher a famous khipu in the Ethnological Museum in Berlin, the Morales khipu.’ Jack sipped his tea and continued. ‘Mainly made of cotton and Llama wool, khipus were produced by master weavers in a complex, traditional weaving process, and consisted of warped threads made into multicoloured knotted chords, which conveyed information in surprisingly sophisticated and effective ways. The Morales khipu was discovered in Lima in 1655 by Father Ignacio Morales, a powerful Jesuit. And judging by what I’ve read so far, that event marked the beginning of this extraordinary story, culminating in the bizarre Death Mask Murders,’ added Jack quietly.

  ‘Seriously?’

  Jack reached for Landru’s journal on the table in front of him and opened it. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Listen to this …’

  Lima Cathedral: 2 February 1655

  Dressed in simple, modest robes that belied his lofty position, Father Morales was on his knees in one of the side chapels of the cathedral, praying for guidance. An imposing edifice begun by Pizarro more than a hundred years earlier, Morales had spent the best part of his adult life building the cathedral into one of the most impressive and powerful visual representations of Catholicism in South America. A symbol of faith and European religious power, this extraordinary achievement had only been possible because of close collaboration between the Spanish Court and the Church, especially the Jesuits.

  A consummate diplomat and shrewd negotiator who understood human nature, greed, and the insatiable lust for power that were the hallmarks of the representatives of the Spanish Crown in Lima, Morales had used his considerable influence back in Spain to further the cause of the Church in South America in ways no other before him had been able to achieve. However, to be able to continue to do so, he desperately needed more than influence. He needed money.

  Morales made the sign of the cross and was about to stand up when a monk walked up to him from behind. The monk stopped, unsure of what to do. Morales noticed his shadow and turned around. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Forgive the intrusion, Father, but one of our missionaries has just returned from the mountains and is asking for you—’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ snapped Morales impatiently.

  ‘No. He’s dying and wants you to hear his confession.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the monastery.’

  Morales and the monk hurried back to the monastery, which was just behind the cathedral.

  ‘We put him in there,’ said a monk waiting at the door and pointed to a small cell. ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  The first thing Morales noticed was the foul smell. Decaying flesh, he thought and covered his nose with his sleeve as he walked slowly over to the dark shape lying motionless on top of a bunk. At first he didn’t recognise the gaunt face hidden by an unruly beard and long, sweaty hair, but when he looked into the man’s feverish eyes burning with zeal, recognition dawned.

  ‘Diego? Is that you?’ asked Morales, unable to hide his surprise and disbelief.

  ‘It is,’ said the man, his voice weak and barely audible.

  ‘It’s been more than three years. We thought you were dead.’

  ‘All the others are. I’m the last one. With the Good Lord’s help I made it back, just. As you can see
, I’m dying. We haven’t much time, yet there’s so much I have to tell you …’ Diego’s voice trailed off and he began cough, blood oozing from the corners of his mouth covered in sores.

  ‘Water!’ shouted Morales. ‘Give the man water.’

  A monk came running with a pail of water and helped Diego to drink.

  Feeling better, Diego looked at Morales. ‘We found it,’ he whispered.

  ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Morales.

  ‘’We made it all the way to the volcano. Ruminahui’s legendary treasure exists.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’ asked Morales, his voice trembling with excitement.

  ‘Not as such, but I brought you this.’ Diego reached into a deep pocket in his torn cloak and pulled out a stunning ceremonial knife of solid gold. ‘This is a tumi, a sacrificial knife. There are hundreds of them in the cave.’

  ‘What cave?’

  ‘There’s a secret cave at the base of the volcano. A deep tunnel reaching down into the fiery throat of the mountain, haunted by spirits. That is the place where Ruminahui hid the treasure after Atahualpa was murdered by Pizarro in Cajamarca. The cave is guarded by a tribe. Only the chief and the Inca priests know the exact location of the cave, which is high up in the mountains. They are descendants of the porters who carried the treasure into the mountains and hid it from the invaders. We spent several months with the tribe and I befriended the chief. He even converted—’

  ‘What about the treasure?’ interrupted Morales, well aware of the importance and urgency of the moment. ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘We were not allowed to visit the cave. I tried, but it is forbidden. I only saw a few pieces of gold kept by the priests in the village as ceremonial objects. They are all part of the treasure. This here is one of them.’

  ‘Then, it was all for nothing? It’s an impenetrable wilderness out there.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Diego, gasping for breath.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When it became clear that we wouldn’t be taken to the cave, I tried a different way.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘While we were there, the chief became very ill and was dying, just like I am right now. I told you I was able to convert him ...’

  ‘What of it?’ asked Morales, becoming increasingly frustrated.

  ‘I told him that if he wanted to enter the kingdom of heaven, he had to repent. When he asked me what that meant, I told him that he would have to deliver the treasure to God as a sign of his submission and faith.’

  Morales looked at Diego, impressed. This was exactly the kind of thing he would have done. The fear of damnation was a powerful tool he had used many times before. ‘And?’ he asked.

  ‘The chief was too weak by then to even get up, and there was no way the priests would have taken us to the cave, so he did the next best thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He told me where it was.’

  ‘Are you serious? How?’

  ‘He gave me this.’

  Diego reached into his pocket again and pulled out what looked like a knotted bundle of coloured cords and held it up, his hand shaking.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Morales.

  ‘This is a khipu.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I’ve seen these before. They record stories, numbers, quantities for trade goods, things like that.’

  ‘Yes, but not this one.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘According to the chief, this khipu records the exact location of the cave. It is a guide, using ancient landmarks known to the natives living there. It is like a map that will take us to the treasure. After he gave me this, I gave him absolution and he died. I now ask you to do the same for me,’ said Diego, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  ‘What at story,’ said the countess and refilled Jack’s cup. ‘I can see why it kept you up all night. You mentioned a murder. Something to do with this?’

  Jack opened the folder again. ‘Landru certainly seems to think so, and it would seem with good reason, especially in light of what was found in that chamber of horrors the other day.’

  ‘Care to explain?’

  ‘The anthropologist Landru was working with on the Morales khipu at the time – a man called Gerhard Blumenthal – disappeared mysteriously while working at the museum. The Morales khipu disappeared with him. At first, the authorities treated this as some kind of theft, but the day after Blumenthal’s disappearance, the police found what is believed to be a plaster death mask left on the steps of the museum.’

  ‘How bizarre.’

  ‘No trace of Blumenthal or the khipu have been found. Until now, perhaps,’ added Jack quietly.

  ‘I don’t know how these cases seem to find you, Jack, but this is definitely up your alley,’ said the countess, smiling. ‘I suppose you and Claude will be working on this?’

  Jack nodded, closed the folder and stood up. ‘You must admit, this is irresistible.’

  ‘To someone like you, definitely. Almost as good as your recent Russian adventure, I’d say.’

  ‘I would love Tristan to join me in this. His instincts would be invaluable.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple. I would hate to, you know, interfere with his marriage … again!’

  ‘I understand. Just think about it. Perhaps Lorenza wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘You think so? Because she understands that he needs this?’

  ‘No, because she loves him.’

  15

  Rome: 12 October

  Jack got out of the taxi and, shielding his eyes from the glare, looked across the busy market square teeming with morning shoppers. Buying their fresh vegetables for the weekend, they haggled excitedly about the price with the stallholders, as was expected. It was a classic Roman shopping ritual that brought a smile to Jack’s face. As he walked slowly past a stall selling tomatoes, zucchinis and artichokes, trying in vain to find house numbers, he looked up to see Bartolli standing on a balcony above him on the first floor, waving.

  ‘Wait there, I’ll come down,’ shouted Bartolli.

  Wearing an apron and her hair tied back with a scarf, Bartolli pushed through the noisy throng towards Jack. ‘I should have warned you. Friday is market day and always chaotic around here. Welcome to Travestere.’

  ‘I’m glad you saw me; no house numbers.’

  Bartolli shrugged. ‘I need some more tomatoes. Lunch is almost ready. Stay right here. I won’t be long.’ Bartolli returned moments later with a bag of tomatoes and took Jack by the hand. ‘Come, follow me.’

  Jack had arrived earlier that morning from Paris and had suggested they meet at a restaurant, but Bartolli insisted he come for lunch at her place instead. ‘I hope you didn’t mind coming here,’ said Bartolli as they walked up the stairs.

  ‘Not at all. This is absolutely delightful. I love all the bustle. Thanks for inviting me.’

  ‘Mum wanted to meet you. She’s read all of your books ...’

  Jack stopped on the landing and looked at Bartolli. ‘Now you tell me …’

  ‘She’s a fabulous cook. She’s cooking lunch. Bucatini all’Amatriciana, her speciality.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Bartolli burst out laughing. ‘You are so predictable, Jack: food!’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  Bartolli and her mother looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. Same striking facial features, same curly dark-blonde hair, same smile. Jack felt instantly at home in the kitchen as he watched them put the finishing touches to the pasta with much flair and lively gesticulation.

  ‘You can set the table on the terrace outside, if you like,’ said Bartolli. ‘In this household everyone pitches in, except Paulo.’ Bartolli pointed to the old dog sitting on a mat in the corner, looking longingly at the stove.

  Jack took off his jacket and walked out onto the terrace. ‘What a view!’ he said, letting his ey
es roam over the cupola of St Peter’s in the distance and across to the iconic ramparts of Castel Sant’Angelo. He set the table, then opened the wine he had brought, poured two glasses and took them inside into the kitchen.

  ‘A 2007 Illuminati Ilico Riserva, like last time,’ said Bartolli. ‘Very thoughtful of you. How did you manage this? You came straight here from the airport, no?’

  ‘Secret,’ said Jack and handed a glass to Bartolli and one to her mother.

  ‘I could easily get used to this,’ said the mother, giving Jack her best smile. ‘Salute!’

  After a splendid lunch on the terrace, washed down with a copious quantity of red wine, Bartolli’s mother excused herself and took Paulo for a walk.

  ‘She’s amazing. I can’t believe she’s your mother,’ said Jack.

  Bartolli smiled. ‘That’s what everybody says. She had me when she was eighteen. Same age as I had my first daughter. You are lucky my girls aren’t here. Otherwise, there would have been pandemonium. Teenagers!’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Picnic with their cousins. Now tell me what brought you here that you couldn’t tell me over the phone.’

  Jack put down his serviette and looked at Bartolli. ‘The deeper I delve into the Landru case, the more astonishing it becomes.’

  ‘His journal?’

  ‘Yes. That’s certainly part of it, but what really rocked us was that anonymous video sent to Lapointe that I mentioned.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Jack reached for his briefcase, pulled out his iPad and turned it on. ‘Here, have a look.’

  ‘I’m glad you showed this to me after lunch,’ said Bartolli after she had watched the video in silence.

  ‘According to Lapointe, this could get Landru out of jail – soon.’

  ‘And so it should. According to this, he’s definitely not the murderer. I said it all along, but nobody listened.’

  ‘No, but who is? And more importantly, why all this theatre? A series of almost ritual killings. This must have a purpose.’