The Paris Enigma

by Pablo De Santis

  “Weren’t you talking about magic words? My name isn’t the magic word. Doesn’t paloma mean dove? This is the moment you were waiting for when you met with Craig, this is the moment that justifies your delays and betrayals. This is the moment that justifies you now saying good-bye to me, Sigmundo Salvatrio. Quickly. Quickly.”

  Greta pushed me, and that was her farewell. She took the stairs a few at a time, when the train had already begun to move. I waited for it to completely disappear, as if I didn’t have the strength to leave. Some pigeons had gathered to eat the stale bread an old woman dressed in rags threw to them. When I walked past them they f lew off toward the tall glass heights.

  6

  There are people who need to be still in order to think, but I work better walking or even running. I knew where I was going, but I didn’t know why. Against the opinion of Craig and the other detectives, I didn’t think an enigma was a painting by Arcimboldo, or an Aladdin’s blackboard, or a sphinx, or a blank page. It was what it had been since my childhood: a jigsaw puzzle. My father would come home with a large box wrapped in blue silk paper. By the window, I tore off the paper, threw the pieces to the ground, and enjoyed that wonderful chaos that was waiting for me to put it in order and to find, in the many shapes, the image. Now I had the big pieces in front of me: Darbon’s body, fallen from the tower; Sorel ’s corpse, first executed by guillotine and then burned; and, the only one that pained me, the Mermaid’s lifeless silhouette. There were other, smaller pieces: the black oil that had initiated Darbon’s plunge from the tower, the witnesses’ statements, the fire, the obscure quotes on the walls of Grialet’s book of a house. I had read Nerval’s verses, which I couldn’t get out of my head, but it was those other words that were important, the ones that said: “The day will come when God will be a meeting between an old man, a decapitated man, and a dove…”

  The answer was written on Grialet’s wall, in full view of everyone.

  Now I knew for certain that the detectives, spread out through the fair in search of earth or air, were looking in vain: it wasn’t a series of four; it was a series of three. It wasn’t about the four elements, the four roots that the Greeks saw behind everything, but in the Trinity. The old man was Darbon, the decapitated man, Sorel; the dove, Paloma…

  I arrived at Grialet’s house breathless. I climbed the marble staircase and was about to knock, when Desmorins, the priest, opened the door. He was also agitated and sweating, as if his path to me had been a symmetrical race.

  “You have to stop Arzaky,” he said.

  “Where is he?”

  “Upstairs. He thinks that Grialet is the killer. I’m going to get the police.”

  Before he could leave or I could enter the shot rang out, reverberating off the walls. It sounded more like a pistol than a revolver or carbine. There was something in the sound itself that was irreparable, as if it were a bomb going off. A shot can miss its mark: an explosion always has consequences for someone. I went up the stairs, not as quickly as the scene demanded, nor as slowly as my tiredness called for. As I walked I was escorted by the words on the walls, which I didn’t read.

  Arzaky was standing in a room that the morning hadn’t quite made up its mind to illuminate. He held Craig’s cane, still smoking, in his hand. It looked less like a firearm than some powerful mythological figure’s staff. On the f loor, seated, with his back against the writing that filled the wall, was Grialet. The shot had entered his neck and torn his carotid artery. For a few seconds, Grialet held a hand over the wound, which was black with gunpowder, but then, out of weakness or resignation, he gave up. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t. His legs shook two or three times, and then he was still.

  Then Arzaky did something unexpected: he crossed himself. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost; in the name of the Old Man, the Decapitated Man, and the Dove. He stared at me, as if struggling to remember who I was. Then he said, “Grialet was the murderer. I’ll give the details tonight.”

  Arzaky held the cane out to me. At first I didn’t dare touch it. I had brought it as a relic, and now it was a murder weapon. The cane felt hot.

  “Put it back in the glass case. Now it can take its rightful place.”

  7

  Arzaky had promised to state the case that very night, but the detectives and assistants waited in vain for him. At first they thought he had run off again, but I arrived in time to tell them that the chief of police had taken him in for questioning about Grialet’s death. Bazeldin’s long interrogations, which lasted until dawn, were famous. The police chief maintained that the morning’s clarity, after a night filled with conf lict, stimulated confessions. The detectives’ meeting was postponed until seven the next evening.

  On May 7 the detectives arrived punctually. No one wanted to miss Arzaky’s explanation. Grimas, the editor of Tra ce s, was also there. The only one missing was Arzaky, who arrived two hours late. He made his way through the detectives and assistants without any greeting or apology. His long beard was f lecked with white and he looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days. He had that mix of energy and weakness that comes with a fever. Around him was a halo of silence and anticipation. The only one who seemed to have no interest in Arzaky was Neska, who stood by the door like a conference attendee who fears he will be bored and can’t quite make up his mind about taking a seat. I could barely contain my nerves, thinking of the words that would be spoken that night; my fingers clenched around the handkerchief I had in my pocket.

  The detectives talked about the fair: even though it had just opened, it already seemed dated, countless visitors had worn it out with their footsteps. Arzaky called for silence, but it wasn’t necessary, because everyone had already grown quiet.

  “In April of 1888 Renato Craig visited Paris. He stayed at this hotel, as he always did, and we spent our time together taking long walks and talking about crime. It was then that we came up with the idea (I don’t know if he thought of it first or if I did, or if, as I prefer to remember, it came to both of us at once) to gather the Twelve Detectives together for the World’s Fair. We got the committee to invite us. We were thinking of sharing our knowledge, our scientific advances, discussing theory relating to our craft. We wanted to rest, for a month or two, from murders and suspects, from evidence and witnesses. Wouldn’t you like to live in a world without crime?” No one responded. “Of course not! ”

  Arzaky’s joke raised only a few smiles. Nobody was in the mood for humor.

  “But these days, as the fair grew, filled out, and consolidated itself, we began a rapid process of decomposition. Craig is absent, ill and maligned. Darbon has been murdered and Castelvetia expelled. I cannot restore the harmony we’ve lost, but at least I can solve the mystery that has been keeping us up nights lately. I can say that the deaths of Darbon and the Mermaid and the incineration of Sorel ’s body followed a pattern.”

  Something interrupted Arzaky. There was an argument going on in the doorway. Baldone was trying to stop a short, stocky man from resolutely making his way toward Arzaky.

  “What is going on over there?” asked Arzaky.

  “I am Father Desmorins. You killed my friend Grialet. I want to know why.”

  “This is a meeting of The Twelve Detectives. No one outside the order can be present,” interjected Caleb Lawson.

  The priest was adamant, but Baldone started to drag him out of the room. All Okano had to do was press two fingers on his right collarbone and the cleric gave in. “I’ll be waiting for you outside, Arzaky! ” he managed to shout. “The street will be your confessional! ”

  “Let him stay in the room,” said Arzaky to Baldone and Okano. “Have him sit and not say a word. If he opens his mouth, even once, send him packing.”

  The priest sat down near the door. Behind him was Arthur Neska. Arzaky continued.

  “My work has merely been a continuation of the investigation Darbon began and which led to his death. The World’s Fair authorities assigned him to make inquiri
es regarding threats to the tower’s builders. They were small attacks of minor consequence, and the clues led Darbon to the caves where Paris ’s occultists hide. The old detective encountered various sects fighting among themselves: clandestine churches, necromantists, Martinists, Rosicrucians. But his suspicions centered on a group that shared an interest in music and literature. They didn’t have an official name, but Darbon called them the crypto-Catholics. This group had decided that it made no sense to continue seeing the Church of Rome as an adversary, because the only true enemy was positivism. The crypto-Catholics consider themselves heirs to the secret teachings of Christ.

  “There were several members of this group: Father Desmorins, whom you’ve just met and who was defrocked by the Jesuits; the young writer Vilando; and Isel, the millionaire. I also know of a Russian woman, and of a former Belgian officer who pretended to be Egyptian, but they weren’t in Paris at the time the events occurred. As Darbon was investigating the attacks, he came into closer contact with the group. And I believe it was Darbon’s persistence that inspired Grialet, the leader, to come up with the idea of challenging all the detectives and at the same time challenging the World’s Fair and the tower. Each of the incidents made a point. Grialet thought up a crime that would show that not everything can be explained. He carried this out in order to remind us that we must leave room for that which is secret. It is likely that he has struck before; I myself investigated the Case of the Fulfilled Prophecy, whose author was a poisoner named Prodac. In that instance, I suspected that Grialet had incited the killer, but I couldn’t prove it.”

  Father Desmorins had tried to stand up and say something, but Baldone pushed him back into his chair. Arzaky was looking at the f loor, as if he didn’t know how to continue.

  “Grialet moved into a house that had belonged to a printer and bookseller and he devoted himself to a new obsession: he wrote all kinds of quotes on the walls, so words would always be present. Perhaps he was trying to create the sensation of living inside a book. That house is a compendium of knowledge and superstition. It is filled with wisdom but also with the triviality, typical of occult enthusiasts, that comes from yearning to know the final meaning of all things. While Grialet was away on a trip, I took the opportunity to go into his house and read everything he had written on the walls, but I didn’t find anything to link them to Darbon’s death. Yet the key to unraveling the mystery was there. The key was written on the wall from the very beginning, but I didn’t see it until it was too late.

  “The crimes appeared to be completely unrelated: our old Darbon, a burned corpse, a mermaid. The only connection between them was that all three had something to do with me. Grialet had chosen for one of his walls an inspired phrase by Eliphas Levi, an occultist whose works Napoleon tried to ban, and with good reason. The phrase postulated God as the union of an old man, a decapitated man, and a dove: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Darbon, Sorel and the Mermaid were the three elements of this message.”

  Zagala, who had spent the entire opening day under the blazing sun, waiting for the fourth crime, seemed peeved. “What about The Four Elements? That was a false lead?”

  “Grialet led us to believe that the connection was The Four Elements. There weren’t four elements, but three: the three baptismal elements. The first, the oil of the catechumen, like that which wrestlers in ancient times used to slip away from their opponents, and which symbolizes the ability of the person being baptized to reject evil. The second, the illuminating f lame, and the third, purifying water. Darbon died bathed in oil, like the ancient wrestlers who greased their bodies so their adversaries couldn’t grab hold of them. Sorel ’s body was burned; the Mermaid, who was first knocked unconscious, drowned.

  “After the Mermaid’s death I thought about giving it all up. Overwhelmed by grief, I withdrew to think. I drank so I could think, and then so I could stop thinking. In those moments of delirium and drunkenness, when the world seemed to be coming apart, splitting into images and phrases that no one could put back together, my fickle memory showed me the words that explained everything. I went to find Grialet; I tried to take him out of the house but he resisted. I had Craig’s cane in my hands, as a way to keep my old friend with me. I’ll admit I didn’t really know how to use it and in the middle of our struggle it went off. You already know the rest of the story.”

  Arzaky went to one side of the room and Caleb Lawson took center stage. He was about to say something, but one of the detectives started clapping, I think it was Magrelli, and some of the assistants joined in. Soon everyone was applauding Arzaky’s words. Even Madorakis was clapping. Lawson had no choice but to do the same, but his applause was so weak that his palms barely touched. Then he said, “Many of you have already packed your bags to return to your respective cities. Thefts and murders await you. This is our farewell evening. Before we close the meeting and go to dinner, does anyone have anything else to say?”

  No one wanted anyone to speak. The assistants, in the back of the room, were already looking toward the exit. It was time for dinner and endless toasts and promises of another gathering, which would never happen. Only a wet blanket would dare to say something now. Then I raised my right hand. And since it had been tightly clutching the handkerchief in my pocket, I raised the handkerchief too. I heard some laughter; it looked like I was waving good-bye from a boat.

  “I just want to give my version of the events.”

  8

  Caleb Lawson looked at me with annoyance.

  “You need authorization to speak. And I don’t feel like giving it to you. We already know what you’re going to say: he’s innocent, he’s free of all guilt and responsibility, and so on, and etcetera.”

  Arzaky had collapsed into a chair, and he looked at me strangely. I avoided his eyes and said, “I’m going to talk to someone. If it isn’t with you, it’ll be with the press.”

  I had spoken loudly, and those who were already at the stairs now headed back into the room.

  “Could you possibly have something new to add to what Arzaky said? ” asked Magrelli. “Something we haven’t heard? Or will this be a conference on your vast experience in the world of crime?”

  “I want to explain the truth as I see it.”

  “Go ahead and talk already,” said Madorakis. “But keep it short. If we let one assistant prattle on, soon they’ll all want to do the same.”

  “Even Tamayak,” said Caleb Lawson.

  Everyone looked at Arzaky. His opinion was the only one that mattered.

  “I don’t know what secrets my assistant is keeping, and his speaking without asking my permission is completely out of line. But what does it matter! I was about to fire him anyway.”

  Everyone responded with forced laughter. My intervention, when everything had already been wrapped up, was the detectives’ worst fear realized. Each time a case was closed, after laying out the solution rationally and convincingly, they always dreaded the appearance of something (an object, a witness, a detail that didn’t fit) that could spoil the whole conclusion.

  It was difficult for me to speak above the whispering.

  “I arrived in Paris with two things for Arzaky: Craig’s cane and a message. The message was a story that I won’t tell here. Arzaky was generous enough to take me on as his assistant, especially considering that I was a novice and could hardly be expected to replace Tanner, one of the most respected of the acolytes. It was an honor for me to occupy his post. Which is why now, as I speak, I feel that I am betraying Arzaky and Craig and The Twelve Detectives. However, I must. I wasn’t affected by Darbon’s death, I had barely met him. And I couldn’t care less if all the corpses in Paris were burned. But the Mermaid’s death is something which I can’t bear, and which I’ll never forget as long as I live.

  “I felt that I wasn’t getting anywhere with this case. When I saw the truth it came to me in one momentous f lash. So I don’t think I owe the solution to my skill, but just to luck. To bad luck, I should say, because I wou
ld rather continue blindly. It happened this way: Arzaky knew, because of something I unwittingly conveyed to him, that this, your world, was crumbling and that soon there would be no trace left of The Twelve Detectives. He thought up a plan that would restore the world’s trust in the detectives and their methods and at the same time get rid of his enemies. He killed Darbon, his competitor, and he killed the Mermaid, who had been his lover but had been unfaithful to him with Grialet. In solving the crimes, he would also do away with Grialet. And, at the same time, he would ensure his own glory by solving a crime in front of all the other detectives. His feat would not be forgotten. It was like founding The Twelve Detectives all over again.”

  Lawson, who had been wanting to take Arzaky’s place at the core of The Twelve, was now poised to defend him.

  “No one is ever going to forget what you just said either. Get him out of this room! ”

  “No! ” shouted Madorakis. “Let him continue. Someone is speaking to us through him.”

  The whispering had stopped. Now they definitely wanted to hear what I had to say.

  “In this room several models of the perfect enigma were presented. Castelvetia spoke of jigsaw puzzles, and I’m inclined to believe that common image best fits the spirit of the enigma. Magrelli spoke of Arcimboldo’s paintings, which abruptly change depending on the perspective of the viewer. Madorakis set forth the image of the sphinx, who questions us as we question it. And Hatter offered Aladdin’s blackboard, the toy that holds a trace of the words etched deepest even when everything has been erased, like our memory holds on to distant facts. But there was also another theory proposed…”