“By Sakawa,” recalled Rojo.
“Sakawa, the detective from Tokyo, spoke of a blank page. And Arzaky agreed with him. The enigma, the best enigma, is a blank page. He who reads it, he who deciphers it, is the true architect of the crime. Arzaky had his perfect enigma.”
Everyone waited for Arzaky to speak. Seated, but no longer slumped, and looking as if he were preparing to leap all over me, Arzaky smiled.
“Throw him out! ” shouted Magrelli, his voice cracking with emotion. Other voices chimed in to banish me. But Arzaky stood up to calm everyone down.
“We’ll take for granted that all this is a figment of your youthful imagination. But, by any chance, did that imagination of yours lead you to fabricate some evidence?”
I spoke without looking at Arzaky.
“I’m the son of a shoemaker. My father gave me a cream that leaves boots shinier than any other polish; it’s water resistant. I shined Arzaky’s boots myself.”
I showed the handkerchief that had been kissed by the Mermaid’s dead lips.
“When Arzaky went to see the Mermaid, she knew that he was going to kill her. She threw herself at his feet, she begged him, she kissed his boots. And she did it on purpose, because she knew that the mark would be left on her lips. That kiss sealed Arzaky’s fate. That is the evidence. I studied the substance under Darbon’s microscope.”
I held up the handkerchief with the kiss left by the Mermaid’s lifeless lips.
Magrelli slapped Arzaky’s back.
“Come on, Viktor. Is this monologue from your disciple another one of your jokes? Are we supposed to applaud him as well? Deny it once and for all, and get him out of this room! We have a lot of things to discuss before we leave.”
Arzaky approached me. It was perhaps the most important moment of my life, but if I had a choice I’d rather have been in bed with a pillow over my head. And everyone else would have preferred that too. Now, I thought, is when Arzaky will raise an accusing finger. Here comes the moment where the new guy, the upstart, is unmasked. The boldness they pretended to tolerate will no longer be forgiven.
But Arzaky’s silence continued. It lasted for a few minutes, and during that time the faces that were red with rage grew pale, and there were no more angry gestures. Everyone was stock-still and silent, like students awaiting an exam. Magrelli looked as if he was about to cry.
Finally, Arzaky spoke. “I don’t expect any kind of pardon. Now I’ll leave, and you’ll never hear from me again. The boy is right, he saw the truth, and he was the first one to see it, because he was close to Craig, because he was a witness to Craig’s downfall. We are lost; we have been for a while. We try in vain to apply our method to an increasingly chaotic world; we need organized criminals in order for our theories to bear fruit, but all we find is endless, unruly evil. Did Darbon solve the railroad crimes? Did I? Did Magrelli put a stop to the priest murders in Florence? Did Caleb Lawson catch Jack the Ripper? We have some minor achievements, but they can’t compete with the big cases. Sometimes even the police are more adept than we are. We needed a case that had symmetry, a case that would restore faith in the method. I realized that we could no longer count on the murderers for that. I crossed the line, as many of you have wanted to do. I am the bastard child of a priest, which is why I wasn’t baptized. I chose my own baptism with the oil of the catechumen, with fire and water…”
“But the Mermaid… How could you?” I asked. “She was so lovely…”
“And you think that beauty is an obstacle to murder? Beauty is murder’s great inspiration, even more than money.”
Arzaky turned his eyes away from me and toward the detectives and the assistants. They were all motionless, except for one, who was rushing up the stairs to leave the hotel. It was Arthur Neska.
“All I ask for is fifteen minutes before you report me to Bazeldin. I know where to hide. I’ll leave, and you’ll never hear from me again.”
No one said yes, but no one objected either. Detectives and assistants stepped aside so he could leave. Arzaky began to climb the stairs with large strides. But he wasn’t in any hurry; he looked as if he had all the time in the world.
I wanted to follow him, but Magrelli stopped me.
“Leave him alone. You’ve done enough damage already.”
I tried to escape his grasp, but the Roman, with the help of Baldone, pushed me against one of the glass display cases. The door swung open from the impact. Someone had forced the lock. I turned my attention from Magrelli to focus instead on an empty shelf. Before I had time to remember which object had been stolen, the Eye of Rome said, “Novarius’s Remington.”
The Italian released me. I ran after Arzaky.
I left the hotel, looking this way and that. The moon shone with a yellow light, promising rain the next day. I began to run through an alley and I heard labored breathing ahead of me. It was Desmorins, who was also pursuing Arzaky.
“I want to hear his confession,” he told me.
I ran in one direction, then the other, without any clue as to which way I should go. I was about to abandon the search, when I heard a bang. It was a single shot, but it was enough. Guided by the noise, I turned the corner. Arzaky lay on the ground, lit by the moonlight. The killer had dropped Novarius’s pistol.
I knelt down beside the fallen giant.
“I’m going to get help,” I promised without conviction as the lake of blood around me grew.
I would have liked to have gone for a doctor, just to get away from Arzaky’s death throes. But the Polish detective held me there.
“It’s too late. Neska knows how to get the job done.”
“It’s my fault, I should have spoken in private…”
“No, it was my mistake. Craig sent me a detective, not an assistant. I didn’t realize in time. You did the right thing by telling the truth.”
“The truth? I didn’t tell the truth.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. And neither did you. I don’t believe you committed those crimes to take revenge on Darbon, or for glory and recognition, or to save The Twelve Detectives. It was for love. The only one you wanted to kill was the Mermaid, because she betrayed you. You knew that she and Grialet were still seeing each other. You did all the rest to hide that crime, the only one that mattered. If they caught you, you could say you had done it for The Twelve Detectives. You didn’t care about being branded a killer, but you didn’t want the name Arzaky to be remembered for the worst of all crimes: the crime of passion.”
Arzaky tried to smile.
“Well done. But that will be a secret between you and me, Detective.”
“Detective? I’m not even an assistant.”
“From now on you are. I invoke the fourth clause: If a Detective were to use his knowledge to commit a crime and his assistant were to discover it…”
Soon Desmorins showed up, breathless. The detectives’ footsteps were heard close behind.
“I’m going to anoint you with the holy oils.”
Desmorins opened his cassock and took a small bottle of holy water from his belt. Magrelli had arrived and was with us too.
“He’s not a real priest,” I said.
“What does that matter now,” said Arzaky. “In this light, no one is what he appears. But let’s pretend that he’s a priest, that I’m a detective, and that you are my loyal assistant.”
The priest took a deep breath and said, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”
Arzaky had told the truth, for the fourth clause-the one the Japanese detective had burned in that garden-allowed an assistant who discovered that a detective was also a murderer to become a member of The Twelve. I assumed that the detectives had made that rule thinking it would never be applied. They were so despondent over what Arzaky had done that they believed that making me a member of the group would atone for the sin of having strayed from the path.
I returned to Buenos Aires two months later. My family found me a changed man.
&n
bsp; “Getting you to talk is like pulling teeth,” said my mother.
My father had already figured out that I wouldn’t want to keep working in the shoe shop, and he was training my younger brother in the business.
It took me three weeks to do what I had to do: visit Craig, return his cane, and tell him the story of Arzaky’s downfall. He listened to me for hours, he asked for details, he insisted I go over parts of the story that I didn’t think were important. By that point they had quit bothering him about the Case of the Magician, which had been shelved. But he had stayed firm in his decision to give up detective work. I asked to rent out the lower f loor of his house and he agreed. I set up my office there. I inherited Craig’s former clients, and from then on, every time I went to solve a theft or a murder, they relentlessly praised my mentor’s skills, comparing mine unfavorably to his.
When Craig died, I have to confess I felt relieved, as if the doors of the world were opening for me, as if the secret that had been a burden on me no longer carried any weight. I still work in the lower f loor of that house, and I make sure Señora Craig is never out of sugar or green tins of British tea. In the mornings, Angela, the cook, makes French toast and yerba maté tea for me, while she gives her always inauspicious report on the weather conditions. Then I go out following some lead or en route to a crime scene, to see the man who hanged himself in the basement, the poisoned hotel guest, the girl drowned in the garden fountain.
In my study, in a glass case, I have Craig’s cane. Sometimes, when I’m working late into the night, I take out the cane and polish its lion’s head handle as I imagine how it would feel to cross the line, to taste evil’s trace. The game only lasts a few seconds. Almost immediately I close the glass case and return to my thoughts. I still don’t have an assistant. Will I take one on some day? The footsteps of Señora Craig, pacing in her insomnia, echo above my head.
About the Author
PABLO DE SANTIS was born in Buenos Aires, studied literature at the Universidad de Buenos Aires and subsequently worked as a journalist and comic-strip creator, becoming editor-in-chief of one of Argentina ’s leading comic magazines. Most recently, De Santis won the inaugural Premio Planeta-Casa de América de Narrativa prize for best Latin American novel for The Paris Enigma.
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The Paris Enigma Page 22