The Death Mask Murders

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Ah. A good start. I’m glad we are all here, because what I’m about to tell you is—’

  ‘Extraordinary?’ Bartolli offered, using one of Jack’s favourite words.

  ‘It is that, and a lot more. And it concerns you especially, Adrienne,’ continued Jack. He poured some coffee into a cup and handed it to Darrieux sitting opposite.

  ‘Is that why you’ve asked me to drop everything and come here?’

  ‘It was Landru, actually, who asked for you.’

  ‘He did?’ said Darrieux, surprised. ‘Do you know why?’

  Jack was watching Darrieux carefully. ‘He said it had something to do with Armand Baudin, a golden mask, and why and how he was killed.’

  Darrieux sat up as if poked with a hot needle, and paled.

  ‘How could he possibly know anything about that?’ she said, her voice hoarse.

  ‘No idea. Why don’t we ask him? He wants to meet you and talk about this.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Is that a problem? Surely not, now that there are no more secrets left in your life, as you keep telling us,’ teased Jack and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  ‘Has Landru given you his answer?’ Bartolli cut in. ‘Have you been able to persuade him? I’m sure Cesaria and Lapointe would like to know.’

  ‘I bet they would. He will give us his answer once he’s spoken to Adrienne. After that, all will become clear,’ said Jack, enjoying himself. ‘He promised, but let’s have breakfast first.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, someone give the man some food and let’s get this over with,’ said Darrieux, looking exasperated. ‘He’s obviously not going to tell us anything. The suspense is killing me.’

  ‘Before we go and see Landru, there’s something I want to share with you,’ said Jack, turning serious. ‘It explains why the Squadra Mobile, and especially Grimaldi in Florence, are so keen to become involved here.’

  ‘You spoke to Cesaria about this yesterday, didn’t you?’ said Bartolli.

  ‘Yes. She took me aside just before she left for the airport to fly back to Florence.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Ah. Here comes my breakfast,’ said Jack and looked longingly at the plate that cook placed in front of him. ‘We have a small window of opportunity here, and it has to do with Omerta.’

  ‘That encrypted app the Mafia is using and the police can monitor without them knowing?’ said Bartolli.

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. As you know, that has been one of the main reasons this huge court case in Calabria is going ahead. The entire prosecution case depends on it.’

  ‘What has that to do with us here?’ said Tristan.

  ‘A great deal, as you will see in a moment.’ Jack looked at Tristan, unsure whether to tell him exactly why. ‘Riccardo Giordano, Alessandro’s father, is already in jail in Calabria awaiting trial. His son Alessandro, on the other hand, is still enjoying himself on his yacht in Monaco, directing what’s left of the family business from there. Grimaldi is furious about this, especially after the Stolzfus matter.’

  ‘We know that,’ said Tristan.

  ‘Yes, we do. We also know that Cesaria and Grimaldi strongly suspect it was Alessandro who ordered the hit in Venice ...’

  Silence fell. Bartolli reached across the table and placed her hand on Tristan’s. Tristan looked at her gratefully. ‘Intended for me,’ he whispered.

  ‘Quite so. And for that reason, more than anything else, Grimaldi is determined to nail Alessandro and bring him to justice once and for all.’

  ‘And how is he going to do that?’ said Bartolli.

  ‘By using Omerta. Cesaria believes that Alessandro and his father have been involved in these Death Mask Murder cases.’

  ‘Through Spiridon 4?’ asked Bartolli.

  ‘Yes. And that’s where the interests of the Italian police, Landru, and our French friends here in Paris overlap: they all want to find out who is behind these murders, albeit for different reasons.’

  ‘And an encrypted app is going to make that possible? How?’ asked Tristan, sounding unconvinced.

  ‘Cesaria and Lapointe have something in mind. It’s a gamble – quite literally speaking – high risk, but ingenious.’

  ‘Are you going to tell us?’ said Bartolli.

  ‘Not now. After we’ve spoken to Landru, and he has given us his answer. Cesaria has to convince Grimaldi about using Omerta first, and she can only do that if Landru agrees to go along with all this. As you can see, it all depends on that.’

  Bartolli nodded.

  ‘And where exactly do I fit into all this?’ asked Darrieux.

  ‘As soon as we go and talk to Landru, we’ll find out,’ said Jack, munching happily.

  Darrieux clenched her fists. ‘You can be so annoying!’

  ‘What else is new?’ said Tristan.

  40

  O’Hara’s Alpine Fortress, Obersalzberg: 1 November

  Hidden from view in the bushes on top of a rise overlooking the Kuragin estate, Petrinko had an uninterrupted view of the chateau and its grounds, which made surveillance easy. This allowed him to monitor all outdoor activities at and near the chateau.

  A powerful, clear-vision HD spotting telescope popular with birdwatchers made reading even car registration numbers possible, and the newly developed Nikon SR lens attached to his state-of-the-art camera took high-quality pictures he could safely transmit via his encrypted mobile phone connection. Face recognition and his contacts in various French government departments – including the police – gave him instant access to databases and confidential intelligence usually only available to high-level law enforcement and security agencies like Europol, MI5 and the CIA. This allowed Petrinko to process and interpret the information he collected, and add vital data to his reports before he sent them to O’Hara.

  A demanding client, O’Hara insisted on being informed in real time as events of note unfolded. Petrinko called him regularly and made his reports, often as he was actually watching someone arrive or leave the chateau.

  O’Hara put down his phone and looked pensively at the large computer screen in front of him. A new player had just entered the arena: Adrienne Darrieux. The fact she had arrived so early at the Kuragin chateau the day after Lapointe and two police officers from Florence had visited Landru and Dupree at the chateau was clearly significant, as there seemed to be an air of urgency about it.

  Well pleased with Petrinko and the efficient way he was handling his assignment – it had taken Petrinko only minutes to find Darrieux’ name and address through the registration number of her car – O’Hara was confident he could stay ahead of the game as usual.

  With access to a network of powerful search engines on the dark web he had modified to fit his needs, it took O’Hara no time at all to find out what he needed to know about Darrieux. Because there was so much information about her on the internet, he formulated a number of pointed questions that worked as filters, cutting out the noise and irrelevant, often-confusing material.

  As soon as he came across the dossier of newspaper clippings Darrieux had handed to the press during her ‘coming out’ appearance with Isis at Shakespeare and Company the year before, he smiled and began to drill down into Darrieux’ fascinating past. One name in particular immediately attracted his attention: Armand Baudin from Santo Domingo.

  Ah, so that’s how he did it, thought O’Hara, who immediately recognised the significance of the name and its connection to the Llanganates treasure. He also realised how this name, and the fact that Maurice Moreau, Estelle Montplaisir and Adrienne Darrieux were one and the same person, could have helped Landru crack the cipher code. The only thing that was still a mystery was how Landru had made the connection in the first place, and how he had been able to track down Darrieux so quickly and arrange a meeting.

  Has to be Rogan, thought O’Hara. He’d been part of everything that had happened so far since Landru cracked the code. He was the key here, no doubt about it, and he was sta
ying at the chateau.

  O’Hara didn’t believe in coincidences, only purpose and logic, and decided to investigate Jack further. The involvement of the French police was predictable, but the interest of the police officers from Florence in the matter, and the participation of an eccentric Paris socialite like Darrieux, was still somewhat of a mystery. But both had to be important because an astute and desperate man like Landru had made it a priority to make contact with them at the earliest possible opportunity.

  O’Hara walked over to the large window and watched the morning sun light up the snow-covered peaks like beacons showing the way to heaven.

  It was time to make contact with Landru, establish the ground rules of this game and show him who was in control. As a master manipulator who moved people and their lives around on his cyber chessboard like puppets, O’Hara knew exactly how to do this and which buttons to press. The only thing he had to be careful of, he told himself, was not to push Landru too far. The man had lost everything, and therefore had nothing left to lose except his one shot at vindication and freedom. The fact he had worked so hard trying to crack the code for years, told O’Hara everything he needed to know: the flame that had kept Landru going all this time hadn’t been extinguished in jail. On the contrary, he was certain that it was burning brighter than ever; all he had to do was fan the flames, and the best way to do this was to ignite hope.

  Had O’Hara looked a little more closely at the stunning peaks, he would have noticed a threatening bank of dark clouds approaching from the south. But he had already left the breathtaking view behind, instead using his mind’s eye to refine his strategy to wipe out his opponents and claim the victory that had eluded him for so long.

  41

  Gatekeeper’s Cottage: 1 November, morning

  If Landru was in any way surprised when Darrieux and Jack walked into the cottage, followed by Bartolli and Tristan, he certainly didn’t show it. Ignoring Darrieux’ loud, theatrical make-up and eccentric attire, he politely shook hands with her and showed her to a seat near the fireplace.

  ‘Coffee anyone?’ asked Dupree, well aware of the critical importance of the meeting and the sensitive nature of the subject about to be discussed. An experienced police officer used to tense situations, he knew how to put people at ease. ‘Nice to see you again, Adrienne,’ he said. ‘I hear you’re working on a new book?’

  ‘I am. You must come to the launch. It will be at Shakespeare and Company.’

  ‘Where else?’ mumbled Jack. ‘She’s an adored celebrity there.’

  Bartolli poked him gently in the ribs and gave him a stern look. Jack had quickly changed into a tracksuit and combed his hair, which did little to erase evidence of a late night on the booze. By contrast, Landru was neatly dressed and in control.

  ‘Thank you for arranging this meeting so quickly, Jack, and thank you all for coming, especially you, Mademoiselle Darrieux. I have been looking forward to meeting you for a long time.’

  ‘How come?’ said Darrieux and lit a cigarette, trying in vain to appear calm and casual. She found Landru intimidating, not just because of his reputation, but because the man sitting opposite unnerved her.

  Sensing the tension, Bartolli decided to step in and take over.

  ‘You asked us to come here this morning, urgently. Well, here we are. Care to tell us why?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s quite a story, and like all good stories, it’s always best to begin at the beginning. I’m sure you would agree with that, Jack?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘As there are a number of competing interests involved here, it would be helpful if we could examine them one by one, before going further.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Dupree, who appreciated Landru’s methodical and disciplined approach that mirrored his own, rarely found in a layman and even rarer still in a convicted murderer trying to prove his innocence.

  ‘So, let’s begin with my interests, because they are the most obvious and transparent. Having been convicted of a crime I didn’t commit and languishing for several years in jail, I am determined to clear my name and prove my innocence.’

  Landru looked calmly around the room, to make his point and watch for a reaction.

  ‘But, as you are all aware by now, there’s another, bigger picture involved here that is intricately intertwined with my wrongful conviction: the search for the legendary Llanganates treasure. In fact, it was my obsession with this subject that started it all. And that was almost thirty years ago. I was a young, struggling academic trying to make a name for himself when I stumbled across The Navarro Chronicles in Seville, which changed my life. How this came about is also significant, as it has a direct bearing on everything we are about to discuss. In a way, it was the first bloody domino to fall, causing a relentless chain reaction of connected events that have brought us here this morning.’

  Bartolli was carefully watching Landru, impressed by his demeanour and measured, logical approach to a very personal subject that must have caused untold heartache and pain.

  ‘It all began the night I met Louis Mendoza in a nightclub in Paris that was frequented by gays. He was without doubt the most handsome man I ever met.’

  Transported by painful memories, Landru looked dreamily at something only he could see.

  ‘Who was Louis Mendoza?’ asked Jack, trying to break the spell.

  ‘Louis was a librarian working at the Archivo General de Indias in Seville, arguably one of the most significant depositories of historical documents relating to the Spanish Empire in the Americas. He was also my lover, and the first victim in the infamous Death Mask Murders. One of the death masks found in that house of horrors you discovered recently, belongs to him.’ Landru waited, to let this sink in.

  ‘Seriously?’ said Dupree.

  ‘Yes. Louis was on holidays when I met him. I spent two of the most wonderful weeks of my life with him here in Paris, exploring museums and art galleries. We were strolling through the Tuileries Garden – hand in hand after spending a day in the Louvre – when I first told him about the Llanganates treasure and my quest to find out what happened to it. As it turned out, he knew a lot about the subject. A month after he went back to Spain, he called me and told me about an exciting discovery he had made relating to the treasure. That’s how I came across The Navarro Chronicles. It was Louis who found them in the library. I travelled to Seville and the rest, as they say, is history, albeit very sad and tragic history. Six months later, I published a paper that propelled me, almost overnight, into the academic limelight.’

  Landru reached for a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him, well aware that Bartolli was watching him carefully.

  ‘What happened to Louis?’ asked Jack.

  ‘One month after I published my paper, he was dead. Murdered in the ancient merchants’ exchange in Seville, where he had found The Navarro Chronicles buried in the archives. His body has never been found. It disappeared without a trace, and so did The Navarro Chronicles. Stolen. It was as if they had never existed. The only thing left behind on the steps of the merchants’ exchange was a white plaster death mask. Despite its notoriety at the time, the case has not been solved. That was the beginning.’

  ‘The beginning of what?’ asked Jack.

  ‘My nightmare.’

  ‘Can you elaborate?’

  ‘A few days after the murder, I received an anonymous phone call – with a proposal.’

  ‘What kind of proposal?’ asked Bartolli.

  ‘To share whatever information I discovered about the Llanganates treasure.’

  ‘Share with whom?’ asked Dupree. ‘And why?’

  ‘I wasn’t told and I never found out, to this very day. All I was told was that a Swiss bank account had been opened in my name with one hundred-thousand US dollars, a small fortune at the time, especially for a young, struggling academic like me. It was apparent that Louis’ murder, The Navarro Chronicles, and this extraordinary proposal were somehow connected—’


  ‘And you didn’t question this?’ interrupted Dupree.

  Landru looked at Dupree, sadness in his eyes. ‘It shames me to say that I didn’t. Not a day goes by that I don’t regret that decision. Instead of walking away, I accepted, and soon I enjoyed a lifestyle beyond my wildest dreams. Insane sums of money kept flowing into my bank account every time I made some progress in my investigations and reported it. I bought an apartment in Montmartre, I drove the latest BMW, holidayed in the Bahamas, and went on luxury cruises with my lovers. I became a celebrity in gay circles. Sex, drugs, designer clothes, endless parties and rivers of champagne ... I became totally dependent on this arrangement and intoxicated by my success. I became a slave of my own greed and ambitions, with no way back. That was in 1991. After Louis, other murders followed. All related to discoveries I made in connection with the Llanganates treasure. Shortly after Louis was killed, came another murder.’

  ‘Gerhard Blumenthal, the anthropologist you mentioned in your journal?’ said Jack.

  ‘Correct. After some more research in Spain, I was able to trace the Morales khipu described in The Navarro Chronicles to a museum in Berlin. For several months, I was working with Gerhard Blumenthal – a renowned anthropologist at the museum – trying to decipher it. He was brilliant and eventually, we published a paper about this together, which added significantly to my reputation as an authority on the subject, and poured more money to my already bulging bank account. But as I was soon to find out, nothing in life is free.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Dupree.

  ‘Blumenthal was murdered shortly after we published our paper in 1992. His death mask was found on the steps of the museum in Berlin, and the Morales khipu disappeared. Stolen just like The Navarro Chronicles in Seville. Again, neither his body nor his killer have ever been found.’

  ‘This is incredible,’ said Bartolli. ‘And no-one made a connection here, and followed this up?’

  Landru shook his head. ‘Obviously, different law enforcement agencies in Europe didn’t cooperate in the way they do today. Blumenthal’s murder became another unsolved case, and disappeared into the filing cabinets of the authorities. I almost had a nervous breakdown after that. A year later, in 1993, I went on a pilgrimage to sort myself out—’