The Alchemist's Gift

by Martin Rua

  In the meantime we’d arrived at Hašek’s shop. The inspector opened the car door and invited me to get out. “You almost seem pleased it’s been stolen.”

  I smiled, knowing it could be another trap. “Oh no, but I’ll confess to one thing: I hope the thief knows how to appreciate it more than its rightful owner did.”

  Outside the Golden Bough a police cordon blocked access to the premises. Three police cars were parked in front of the entrance and a steady coming and going indicated activity still in progress.

  “Please wear these, but don’t touch anything,” Lisáček said, handing me paper shoe covers and a pair of latex gloves.

  The shop was more or less as I’d seen it a few hours before. At the back was a counter – where Hašek had been standing to welcome me – and perpendicular to that was a wooden shelving unit, crammed with books and pseudo alchemical gadgets, that bisected the small space in two. Wall shelves were also stacked with all manner of objects. The only difference from that afternoon was that a chair had been placed between the counter and the central bookshelf. Everywhere you looked there were encrusted stains of a gelatinous, dark red substance, perhaps the origin of the nauseating ferrous smell hanging in the air. Dried blood. There were also several splashes of it on the surrounding shelves.

  “Good heavens, it’s horrible,” I said, overcoming the urge to vomit for the second time in a few hours.

  “Right, and this is nothing,” Lisáček said, taking out a tablet. He switched it on and showed me the pictures. “We’ve removed the body, but I took some photos. I hope you don’t have a weak stomach.”

  I took a couple of deep breaths after I’d seen the pictures.

  “My God, poor old man…”

  Hašek’s body, stripped to the waist except for a piece of cloth knotted around his upper chest, was sitting on the large wooden chair which was now in front of me, his hands resting on his thighs. He had a large gash in his throat and various other injuries on his arms.

  “Yes, even the forensic medic took a while to get over how horrible it was,” said Lisáček. “They cut his throat and then set about his body, making another thirteen cuts. Fourteen in all, each made with extreme precision to the joints of his limbs, plus one to the heart and a clean cut with which they removed his genitals.”

  I managed to keep down another retch and forced myself to study the body in the photos. Lisáček slid his fingers over the tablet and showed me a close-up of a sign, perhaps made with the victim’s blood.

  “Ah, here we are. Come here,” the inspector said, directing me towards the right hand side of the counter. There, on a bit of wall miraculously free of racks and shelves, was a strange sign with some initials, apparently drawn with Hašek’s blood. The same sign I’d seen in the photo.

  “IPSI… ISIP… or maybe IPSI ten,” I muttered, “what does it mean?”

  “That’s one of the reasons I brought you here,” Lisáček said. “We’ve already done a quick online search, but the only things that came up were improbable things like Indonesian sports clubs and the like. Have you got any idea what it might mean?”

  “It looks like the murderer or murderers wanted to leave a very precise message. The cuts, the knot, the sign. It all seems connected.”

  Lisáček shook his head, unable to make any sense of the puzzle. “A satanic ritual or something? I’ve read about masonic murders staged in a similar way.” I gave him a sideways glance, and he, indicating the acacia badge on my jacket lapel, gave a hint of a smile for the first time.

  “And you know all about freemasonry, right, Mr Aragona?”

  Chapter 5

  Prague, the last days of spring, 12.45 a.m

  The question left me speechless.

  “Y–yes, I know something about it. But what’s it got to do with this crime?”

  Lisáček pointed at the symbol on the wall. “Prague is an esoteric city, Mr Aragona, and I’ve often found myself having to investigate crimes or criminal acts linked to sects and suchlike. This murder clearly comes into that category.”

  “Freemasonry is not a sect, Inspector, and it has nothing to do with satanism, which is what I would investigate here if I were you.”

  “All right, I understand,” Lisáček gave up. Perhaps he had a grudge against freemasonry for some reason and, sensing that I was a mason, had wanted to make things awkward for me. But he’d gone down a dead end because those symbols had absolutely nothing to do with masonry. “Do you want to have another look around?” he continued, in a conciliatory tone.

  “Sure.”

  The shop had been thoroughly ransacked. Hašek had evidently kept his mouth shut, and it had been that which had been his death sentence. I hadn’t been there long enough to tell if the murderers had taken anything, even though it would have been easy enough for them, but I’d understood perfectly well what it was they’d been looking for, and the very thought of that sent a shiver down my spine. They’d been looking for the contents of the bag.

  I pretended to study the crime scene for a bit longer, then shrugged. “I really don’t know. They were obviously looking for something here, and if Hašek was killed maybe it means that they didn’t find it or that he wouldn’t give it to them.”

  “Do you think this murder might be linked to the theft of the alchemical watch?”

  I shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t look like there’s an obvious connection.”

  As we were standing in front of the sign on the wall, the imposing form of Commissioner Bublan re-appeared. He spoke for the first time in faltering English but his tone was brusque and didn’t invite responses or refusals.

  “Lisáček, le’s not waste any more time here. Let’s take Mr Aragona to Dům U Kamenného zvonu. Kominkova is waiting for us there with Folin and the American.”

  I glanced at Lisáček who was staring at me impassively.

  Intimidated, I nodded. “C—certainly. I’d be happy to help.”

  *

  In a few minutes we’d reached Staroměstské náměstí, the Old Town’s main square and the true beating heart of Prague. It was late but the square, pedestrians only on all but one of its sides, was still full of tourists wandering from one pub to another or simply enjoying the beautiful Bohemian night. One of the colourful buildings overlooking the square was the Dům U Kamenného zvonu, the House of the Stone Bell. An interesting Gothic construction in the form of a tower, it had been built in the fourteenth century, perhaps for Elizabeth of Bohemia. The alchemy exhibition was being held inside it.

  Our car stopped next to two other police cars parked on the corner, from whence the strange stone bell which gave the building its name could be seen. We entered by the main door and walked through the dark, silent halls, escorted by security guards and the officer in charge of the investigating team, Inspector Andrea Kominkova from Czech Interpol.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she began in good Italian, a language spoken, as I’d discovered over the course of my various trips to Prague, by many locals. “It seems the theft took place shortly after the exhibition closed,” continued the young policewoman, an athletic looking woman with an attractive face and short hair, speaking in English now. We came to the room where, until that afternoon, the alchemical watch had been on show. The display case was empty. Next to it I saw Pierluigi Folin and Vinnie Maglione – ‘the American’ as Bublan had called him, the head of Quantum Spagyria, the American foundation that had helped organise the exhibition by, among other things, underwriting the insurance of the alchemical watch.

  “You already know Mr Folin and Mr Maglione, don’t you Mr Aragona?” said Lisáček.

  Folin looked decidedly less relaxed than when I’d seen him that morning. His poise was as calm as ever, but his greying hair wasn’t as neat as it had been a few hours before, and his shirt seemed oddly crumpled.

  “It’s a mess, Mr Aragona, a terrible mess,” he said, shaking my hand. Next to Folin, Vinnie Maglione trembled. Thin and completely bald, with small glasses he kept nervo
usly pushing up his nose, he was a wreck.

  “Mr Aragona, I really hope you can give us a hand here,” he said in English, with a strong New York accent.

  “I’ll do my best, Mr Maglione.”

  “The watch was stolen shortly after 8 p.m,” Kominkova said.

  “More or less the same time you say you went to the Charles Bridge to wait for Hašek,” interjected Inspector Lisáček.

  I glared at him. I had to keep my wits, though – doubting my version of events was part of his job, so I ignored the barb.

  “Was it kept in the display case at night?”

  Maglione joined the discussion. “Excellent question! No, Mr Aragona, Baron Scotto di Fasano insisted that it be put in the safe every night. And given the importance of the object, we agreed.”

  “So it was stolen from the safe?”

  Andrea Kominkova shook her head and a lock of auburn hair fell in front of her eyes. “It never got there. After the last visitors had left, the security guards began a tour of inspection before locking up and taking the watch to the building’s safe. The Baron’s assistant stayed close to the display case the whole time, and never let it out of his sight. When the security guards finished their rounds, they found him lying unconscious on the floor, his head injured, and the watch gone.”

  “A real mess. Has the Baron been notified?”

  “Naturally. Our colleagues are with him at the moment, trying to calm him down and make sense of it all,” the young woman said. “Do you want to meet him?”

  I hesitated and glanced at Lisáček. “If possible, I’d like to avoid that for now.”

  “Maybe we can talk about it more tomorrow,” Andrea said, looking at Lisáček for confirmation.

  “Lorenzo, I’m desperate!” whined Maglione, calling me by my first name. “If the watch isn’t found, Quantum Spagyria insurance will have to pay out two million euros to the Baron and our reputation will be totally compromised!”

  Around the display case where the watch had been exhibited that day, several policemen were busy looking for fingerprints. Kominkova told me that Stefano de Lucia, Scotto di Fasano’s assistant, had said that at a certain point he’d felt a sharp pain in his head followed by a sense of dizziness before everything had gone black. When, with the help of the guards, he’d come round, the watch had gone, but the display case showed no signs of forced entry.

  “The medics are still trying to work out what happened to de Lucia. He’s in shock, but we’ll soon be able to question him,” the inspector said.

  I walked around the display case, shaking my head. “I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I can’t help you lwith this. If you’re just fumbling around in the dark, imagine what it’s like for a simple antiquarian… If the watch was stolen merely for its monetary value, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you.” I stood silently for a moment, then thought some more and added, “But we’re talking about an object with very particular characteristics – an object of undoubted esoteric significance. Maybe, if you had some better quality pictures than those currently available, I could study them and try to figure out if there’s a connection between Hašek’s murder and the theft. I don’t know, I might spot some hard-to-see detail.”

  Vinnie Maglione brightened and glanced at Folin, then at the police. “Of course we do! Mr Folin, we’ve got photos that aren’t in the catalogue. We can let you have high definition copies.”

  Folin agreed. “Of course, I’ll have them prepared right away. Have you got a computer with you? I can put them on a pen drive.”

  “Yes, I’ve got a computer, but can you let me have prints as well?”

  Bublan uttered all of six words. “If it will help, go ahead.”

  “We’ll give you the photos and take you back to your hotel,” Lisáček concluded. “That way, should you want to stay up for a few more hours, you can study them more carefully.”

  Maglione looked at me, hope bursting from his every pore.

  I nodded.

  “I very much doubt I’ll get to sleep now anyway.”

  Chapter 6

  Prague, the last days of spring, 1.20 a.m

  I was exhausted by the time I got back to the hotel. That unending day, which had begun with a simple exhibition, continued with a chase, and ended with a theft and murder, had been absolute hell. What more could happen?

  While I was waiting for the lift to my room, I tried to collect my thoughts. Now, in addition to the contents of the bag, I also had to analyse the photos of the alchemical watch. I’d been vague with the police and Maglione, but my instincts were telling me that the two crimes – the theft and Hašek’s murder – were connected. However, the anxiety I was feeling was also due to the symbol the murderers had drawn on the wall at the Golden Bough with the blood of the unfortunate Hašek. Above all, though, I was disturbed by the way his body had been left for the police to find. It seemed as though it had been clumsily arranged to send a message to someone. But to whom? And why? I was persecuted by feelings of guilt too, because I’d followed the directions Hašek had emailed me and then kept quiet about the story of the bag. It might be a valuable clue that could lead the police to the killers.

  The lift doors opened on the third floor but before I’d even had time to step out into the hallway where my room was, something – or someone – dragged me violently to the ground. I let out a strangled cry, and as I fell I saw splinters flying off the wall above my head, preceded by an unmistakable thud.

  A pistol shot fired with a silencer.

  “Quickly. Round the corner!” shouted a voice, as someone pulled at my jacket. I crawled along the floor and only after I’d flattened myself against the wall of the corridor which turned off the main hallway by the lift did I turn to look at my saviour.

  “Riccardo, what are...?”

  I didn’t have time to finish my sentence before another bullet covered us with shards of plaster.

  “We’ve got to get away from here,” Riccardo Micali hissed, as he started to run. I followed him without a second thought.

  Halfway down the hall, Riccardo opened the emergency door and threw himself headlong into the stairwell. After the first flight of stairs, I turned round for an instant. The door had just closed behind us when it was violently thrown open. I recognised the two men from the Charles Bridge. The first raised his right hand and took aim.

  I threw myself forward, crashing into Riccardo who only just managed to keep his balance as a bullet smashed into the wall behind me. In the meantime, we’d reached the second floor and Riccardo returned to the hotel’s hallways via a second emergency door.

  “Quickly, this way!”

  I rushed after him and closed the door behind me. In a single movement, Riccardo took off his leather belt and tied it around the crash bar.

  “It won’t stop them for long, so let’s go,” he said, starting to run again.

  “Wait – the bag is still in my room.”

  Riccardo stopped suddenly. “What?”

  “Obviously! Was I supposed to take it with me to the police? I put it in the safe…”

  Hotel guests, curious about the commotion, had started to peer out of their rooms. Some were in pyjamas while others were fully dressed, but all were trying to figure out what the hell was going on. While we stopped to decide what to do, we heard the emergency door banging loudly.

  “Ok, let’s go!”

  Riccardo ran to the end of the corridor and I followed. Seeing us running, the other guests took fright, and when the emergency door crashed open, some people began to scream, each in their own language. It was a veritable Babel.

  We were almost at the end of the corridor when a bullet exploded a few centimetres from my right leg, shattering a patch of wall. The screams in the corridor multiplied and people began hurriedly locking themselves in their rooms. Riccardo turned and saw the first of the two men about to take aim again.

  “This way,” he shouted.

  He leapt into a room just as the door was closing, and I sl
ipped in an instant before another bullet could reach me. I slammed the door behind me and turned towards the room’s interior. Riccardo had already raced across it and was climbing out of the window.

  “Riccardo, what are you doing?”

  There was a young couple in pyjamas in the room – a man with the air of a bank clerk was standing by the door he’d just tried to close; the woman, a beautiful curvaceous brunette, was sitting on the bed. They were both terrified.

  “I'm so sorry…” I said sheepishly.

  “Oy!” shouted the man in a thick Roman accent. “Are you off your bloody heads!”

  “Excuse us,” I said, embarrassed, as I ran to the window.

  We were on the second floor and just below the window were the huge letters of the hotel sign. Riccardo shimmied along the letters N and D of the words ‘Grand Hotel’, but they began to creak under his weight.

  The screams inside the hotel continued – evidently the two gunmen were spreading pandemonium. Riccardo, managing to stay incredibly cool, landed on a cornice under one of the first floor windows. Easing myself gingerly along the ‘Grand Hotel’ sign, risking a fall of six metres to the pavement below with every movement, I reached him and flattened myself against the wall like a lizard. Riccardo bent down and peered through the window next to us.

  “It looks empty.”

  “But the window’s clos—”

  I hadn’t even finished my sentence before the Sicilian had smashed the glass. He jumped into the room and I followed him, shaking my head.

  “Look, I’ve got no intention of spending the next ten years in a Czech prison. Is that clear?” I gasped in exasperation, trying to catch my breath.

  “Would you prefer a morgue?” was his sarcastic reply.

  He had a point. Our two pursuers were not joking.

  “Of course not, but… look out!”

  Before I’d even had time to warn him he was lying on the floor of the room, unconscious. A shadow had emerged from behind the bed and having hit him over the head was preparing to launch itself at me.