The Death Mask Murders

by Gabriel Farago

  ‘Cesaria, pick it up!’ shouted Lola as she continued to twist Dragan’s left arm backwards. Dragan – well into his sixties – was physically no match for Lola, who was supremely fit and agile. Once he dropped the gun it was all over.

  Hearing the shots, Gruber and the mayor ran towards the barn, closely followed by Isis. The mayor was already on the phone calling the police as Gruber opened the barn door and looked inside. Disorientated and dizzy, Dragan was sitting on the floor, holding his limp left arm. Cesaria stood next to him with the gun pointing at his head.

  ‘One clown down, one to go,’ said Tristan, grinning. He had recognised the Uzi and the voice from the chateau.

  ‘My God, what happened here?’ said Gruber.

  ‘Tell you later. We have to act quickly, there isn’t much time,’ said Cesaria.

  ‘The police will be here shortly,’ said the mayor.

  ‘We can’t wait.’

  Tristan knelt down beside Dragan and, holding him by the collar with both hands, looked at him. ‘Remember me?’ he said. ‘We met just the other day at the Kuragin chateau. Where’s Jack Rogan?’

  ‘Fuck off!’ mumbled Dragan.

  ‘Lola, I think that shoulder needs some more attention,’ said Tristan.

  Lola reached for Dragan’s limp arm and began to twist it backwards. Dragan cried out in pain. ‘Over there, the trap door,’ he croaked, his eyes turning glassy.

  Tristan let go of the collar, went over to the trap door, opened it and looked inside. ‘A ladder,’ he said. ‘An entry into the mine, I’m sure of it. Cesaria, come. Bring the gun. We’re going down.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ said Lola and let go of Dragan’s arm. ‘This guy’s not going anywhere in a hurry. Herr Gruber, would you please make sure it stays that way until the police get here?’

  The mayor walked over to Gruber. ‘Leave him to us,’ he said, standing over Dragan holding an iron bar he had just picked up from the floor.

  ‘If you think you are leaving me behind,’ said Isis, ‘you are gravely mistaken, guys. I didn’t come all this way to miss this. Lola, lead on!’

  Cesaria slung the machine gun over her shoulder and followed Lola down the shaft leading into the darkness below.

  Grimaldi’s office, Florence: 12:30 pm

  ‘Call them again!’ said Grimaldi, without taking his eyes off the screen of the laptop.

  ‘It’s no use,’ said Samartini. ‘No-one’s answering. They must be somewhere out of range.’ Samartini had tried in vain to get in touch with Cesaria and Tristan all morning.

  ‘Great! Can you believe this? A brutal murder is happening somewhere out there right now, and we are watching it live on the dark net while some obscene betting is going on, and we are unable to do anything about it?’

  ‘The Americans are doing everything they can to track the site.’

  Mesmerised, Grimaldi kept watching the screen and lit one of his small cigars. ‘This is insane!’

  The waterwheel above Landru’s head kept turning slowly, tightening the noose around his neck. It was obvious the end was near. On the left of the screen, the seconds on a clock kept ticking over until abruptly, the clock stopped and the camera moved in for a close-up, showing Landru’s contorted face. The noose had just broken his neck. The ordeal was over.

  ‘Look at this,’ said Samartini. She pointed to a flashing number under the clock that had just appeared on the screen: 2,456,300. It was the dollar amount the winner who had picked the time closest to Landru’s death would take home.

  ‘Incredible,’ said Grimaldi as the screen went suddenly blank. ‘That’s it, I suppose.’

  ‘No, look!’ said Samartini and pointed to the screen. The short video that followed was the sequence taken by the drone as it approached the house of horrors in Paris, placed Landru’s death mask at its door, and then picked up the piece of iridium left there by Dupree, before flying quickly away and disappearing into the distance.

  ‘Can you believe this?’ said Grimaldi, staring at the blank screen. Then he reached for his phone and called Lapointe.

  * * *

  O’Hara looked at the screen on his workbench and watched the drone disappear into the distance. The amounts that had been wagered had surpassed expectation and had made him a fortune. With Landru’s death, the game that had lasted for more than thirty years had come to an end, and the final missing piece of the puzzle that would show him the way to the lost Llanganates treasure was finally within reach.

  As far as the dark net punters were concerned, the betting was over, but before O’Hara could declare himself the overall winner in this bizarre game where he set the challenges and made all the rules, one final move on his imaginary chessboard was required: the white knight who had teamed up with Landru and almost foiled his victory at the very last minute, had to perish.

  O’Hara turned on the CCTV camera showing Jack standing in the lake. The brine had almost reached the ceiling and Jack had to press his face against the smooth rock above him to be able to breathe. As instructed by O’Hara, Petrinko had set up a video camera on the steps inside a narrow tunnel leading down to the lake, and was recording Jack’s final moments with close-ups of his face.

  Unlike all the other video footage posted on the dark net, this one was for O’Hara’s eyes only. He had used Jack to defeat the French police and bend them to his will. They had followed all his instructions to the letter, without getting anything in return. The fear of embarrassment and public humiliation he had caused had been too great, O’Hara thought, pleased with himself.

  Over the years, he had committed seven spectacular murders without being caught, and was about to add one more before declaring himself the overall winner, and disappearing. Apart from France, he had outfoxed and outmanoeuvred law enforcement agencies in Germany and Spain, the UK, and even in the Canary Islands.

  O’Hara turned on the speakers, with music playing in the background. A stickler for detail, he liked it that way.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Rogan,’ he said. ‘Pity we didn’t meet earlier. I really enjoyed your company, your books, and especially our recent conversations, albeit under difficult circumstances.’

  O’Hara began to chuckle. ‘You would have made an admirable adversary,’ he continued. ‘And just like me, you like Chopin.’

  With that, O’Hara turned up the volume, sat back in his chair, and listened to his favourite nocturne echo through the underground chamber while his last opponent was about to depart from the chessboard, defeated, and he could finally declare himself the undisputed winner.

  59

  Salzbergwerk Berchtesgaden, inside the salt mine: 9 November, 1:00 pm

  Descending into the old mine was like entering a different world, where time stood still and echoes of a distant past could still be heard by those who knew how to listen. Tristan was one of those who could. For hundreds of years miners had toiled underground, facing danger every day in order to find new, more efficient ways to rob the mountain of the precious salt it had guarded for aeons.

  Not surprisingly, many miners had lost their lives inside the mine due to frequent roof collapses, and catastrophic flooding that occurred from time to time due to faulty pipes and equipment failure. It was therefore hardly surprising that Tristan could hear many voices reaching out, trying to tell their stories. With each step, the voices became louder and more urgent, but Tristan was focused on one in particular.

  The landing at the bottom of the ladder was narrow, with barely enough room for them all to stand next to each other, shoulder to shoulder.

  ‘At least there’s some light down here,’ said Lola. She pointed to a lantern dangling from a rusty hook at the entrance to a narrow shaft. The walls and the low ceiling were lined with crumbling timber beams, and other lanterns could be seen in the distance lighting the way.

  ‘My guess is this is part of the old mine, and the entry we’ve just used is much more recent,’ said Cesaria. ‘Electricity is coming from the house above us. You have seen the ca
bles in the shaft coming down?’

  Tristan held up his hand and closed his eyes, intense concentration on his face. He was trying to hear what the remaining voice was telling him, as the confusing gibberish of the other voices faded away. ‘Jack is close,’ he said. ‘I can hear him, but his voice is very faint.’ Tristan opened his eyes and looked into the distance at something only he could see. ‘It sounds like someone speaking under water.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ asked Isis, who had seen Tristan’s extraordinary intuition at work before.

  ‘I have never felt anything like this,’ continued Tristan quietly. ‘It’s very scary.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Lola.

  ‘Difficult to explain.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘It’s as if part of me is …’

  ‘What?’ asked Isis.

  ‘Dying,’ whispered Tristan, his eyes misting over.

  ‘Right. There’s only one way to go,’ said Lola, trying to break the spell. She pointed to the shaft. ‘That way. Shall we?’

  They followed the shaft for about a hundred metres until it turned sharply right, and they found themselves in a large chamber with a high ceiling that looked like an underground chapel. The only thing missing was an altar.

  ‘Wow! What an amazing place,’ said Cesaria, and began to look around. ‘The end of the road, you think?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Lola. ‘Come, have a look at this.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Looks like one of those slides Herr Wagner told us about. It’s the only way out of here, unless we go back,’ said Lola.

  Everyone walked over to have a look at the steep, polished wooden rails reaching down deep into the mountain below.

  ‘More lights down there,’ observed Isis.

  ‘All right, who’ll go first?’ said Lola.

  ‘We go down together,’ said Tristan. ‘There isn’t much time; come.’ He sat down, straddling the wooden rails. ‘Sit behind me, and hang on.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ said Cesaria and sat down behind Tristan. The others did the same.

  ‘Now hold on to the one in front of you; ready? We used to do this as kids in the park.’

  Tristan leaned back and lifted up his feet. ‘Here we go!’

  After an exhilarating fifty-metre ride to the bottom, the wooden rails they were sliding down turned upwards, bringing them gradually to a standstill.

  ‘Wow! Can we do this again?’ said Isis.

  ‘We could, but you have to walk up these stairs first.’ Lola pointed to a steep, narrow set of stairs next to the slide, leading to the top.

  ‘Ah. Perhaps later,’ said Isis. ‘What’s that over there? Something’s moving!’

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ said Lola and walked over to investigate. ‘Good Lord! Come quickly! It’s Landru!’

  Wedged into a crevasse above an alcove almost hidden from view, a large waterwheel was turning slowly. Illuminated by a ghostly light from behind, its wooden spokes sent crazy shadows creeping along the uneven, wet floor every time it turned, like claws of a demon looking for a victim.

  ‘Who could do something like that?’ said Cesaria, barely able to speak, staring at the headless body strapped into a rusty chair below the wheel. Landru’s head – glassy eyes wide open – had been severed, and was lying in his lap, with water dripping down from the wheel above turning crimson as it ran along the floor past his feet.

  ‘A deranged psychopath trying to show the world that he is smarter than anyone else,’ said Tristan. ‘Death Mask Murder number eight, only this time, the death mask was sent to Landru in advance. Crazy!’

  ‘This is bizarre,’ said Isis. ‘It looks like some scene in a fairground ghost train diorama to frighten children and young lovers. Only this is real.’

  ‘It sure is. Just like that house of horrors Jack found was real. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to kill Landru this particular way. Very theatrical. Once again, the attention to detail is remarkable. It’s like a signature.’

  ‘What does this tell you?’ asked Isis.

  ‘The human mind is a strange place,’ replied Tristan. ‘It also tells me we have to hurry. This happened just a short while ago. Look at the blood. It’s too late for Landru, I just hope it’s not too late for Jack.’

  Tristan paused and held up his hand. ‘Shhhh. Can you hear it?’

  ‘Music?’ said Lola.

  ‘Chopin,’ said Isis. ‘Here? This is crazy!’

  ‘No, it isn’t! We are close,’ said Tristan. ‘Hurry!’

  As they followed another narrow shaft leading deeper into the mountain, the music became louder.

  Cesaria, who was leading the way, saw it first: a dark shape in the distance that appeared to be moving. She stopped, held up her hand and pointed ahead. ‘Wait here,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll go and have a look.’

  Holding the machine gun with both hands, Cesaria walked slowly towards the dark shape.

  Petrinko sat on one of the stairs leading down to the flooded lake below. He was holding a video camera aimed at something in the distance. Not long now, he thought, looking through the viewfinder.

  With only his nose above water, Jack was barely able to breathe. His eyes were closed, the bleeding tip of his nose pressed against the rock ceiling above. Realising the end was near, Jack found himself drifting back to the Queensland cattle station where he grew up and had spent some of the happiest times of his youth with Gurrul, his Aboriginal friend and mentor.

  Petrinko didn’t notice the moving shadow until Cesaria was almost upon him. He turned his head and looked straight at the barrel of Cesaria’s gun pointing at him. ‘Come quickly!’ shouted Cesaria and looked around, trying to evaluate the situation.

  Tristan was the first to emerge out of the shaft. In his mind’s eye he had already seen something similar and was therefore quick to grasp what was happening. ‘Jack! He’s over there – alive!’ he shouted. He quickly took off his shoes and plunged into the water. As he waded towards Jack at the back of the small lake, the low rock ceiling began to slope downwards.

  Jack opened his eyes and looked straight at Tristan coming towards him out of the gloom. I must be dreaming, he thought. Or perhaps I’m already dead …

  But then he heard Tristan’s voice: ‘Hold on mate. I’m coming!’

  As Tristan moved closer, the water became noticeably deeper and he had to swim until the ceiling almost touched the water and he ran out of space. Taking a deep breath, he dived and quickly swam over to Jack to investigate. The chain around Jack’s chest was impossible to move, and the iron collar around his neck wouldn’t budge. Running out of air, Tristan had to swim back a few strokes where there was more headroom, and he could hold his head above water and breathe.

  ‘I need some help here!’ he shouted, waving his arms. Then he took another deep breath, took another dive, and swam back to Jack under water.

  Lola kicked off her shoes, waded into the lake and quickly swam over to Tristan to help. As he came up for more air, he told her what he had found.

  ‘I think I know how to loosen the chain, but we have to do it together.’

  ‘All right. Show me. Let’s go.’ Lola took a deep breath and followed Tristan over to Jack.

  Petrinko had dropped the camera and was holding up his hands. ‘The water is obviously rising,’ said Cesaria. ‘Can it be stopped? Tell me!’ she said and pushed the nozzle of the gun against Petrinko’s chest.

  ‘No idea,’ said Petrinko.

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  ‘The only one going to hell here is you, I promise!’

  Isis, a strong swimmer, had taken off her shoes and jumper and swam over to Jack to assist. By now, Tristan and Lola had gone back and forth several times and had managed to free Jack from the chain. That only left the iron collar, which seemed to be a problem.

  ‘How’s it going? asked Isis as Tristan came up for air. ‘The collar. We can’t take it off! He’s about to dr
own.’

  ‘Let me have a look. Isis took a deep breath and, passing Lola on the way, swam over to Jack under water.

  ‘It’s no use,’ said Lola to Tristan, gasping for air. Both were totally exhausted.

  Isis was gone for a long time. ‘Can she stay under water this long?’ asked Tristan, treading water.

  ‘She can. She’s a remarkable swimmer.’

  As Isis ran her fingers along the iron collar around Jack’s neck for a second time, she found it: a hinge at the back. As she pushed back the hinge, the collar parted, releasing Jack’s neck from its iron grip. Holding Jack under his arms, Isis kicked hard against the rock wall, pulled him free and swam back to Tristan and Lola.

  ‘My God, look!’ said Tristan as Isis surfaced next to him, holding Jack’s head above water.

  ‘I think he just went under,’ she said. ‘Help me, quickly!’

  * * *

  O’Hara kept staring at the CCTV screen showing the small green salt lake inside the mine, his mind racing. What he had just witnessed was not only a game changer, but a serious threat not to be underestimated. How a group of strangers had managed to enter his secret, private world, find his last remaining foe moments before his death and rescue him, was not only a mystery, but a matter of great concern to a man used to being in total control and always winning.

  Something had gone terribly wrong. The chess game was far from over. The white knight was back on his horse and ready to attack. And he didn’t come alone. He had powerful allies who could turn the tide.

  O’Hara realised there was only one way to deal with a situation like this: go on the attack. He was a man who recovered quickly. His analytical brain evaluated the unexpected setback, and like a seasoned general directing his troops on the battlefield, he worked out a strategy to defeat his enemies and secure victory. And he had plenty left in his arsenal to do just that. The old salt mine was his territory, his turf, and anyone trying to fight him there better be prepared for the unexpected.