by Paul Halter
‘“But what the devil happened?” I exclaimed.
‘“I don’t know any more than you do, Martin… In any case, he’s taken a severe blow to the head.”
‘He was looking at the archaeologist’s temple, where a large bruise had appeared. I saw him steal a glance at a paperweight lying amongst the papers, but he refrained from comment. I recognised it: it was the archaeologist’s mascot, a block of pure amazonite which was always on his desk. It had saved Berry’s life when he was attacked by a wild peccary during an expedition in the Mato Grosso, but when I heard about it at the time, I couldn’t help wondering whether it would one day be the cause of his death.
‘We left the premises without further ado. But before we did, I took one last look at that room with its exotic atmosphere. On the shelves, wedged between books and trinkets, bizarre and primitive statuettes seemed to be sneering down at the victim. In front of the mantelpiece, a huge polar bearskin had been disturbed by the fall of so many books. I noted that the large and only window had been carefully locked. And on the desk, amongst the items scattered there, I noticed part of a surveyor’s plan which Barry appeared to have been studying. Was this the famous proof he had been planning to show us?
‘Within twenty minutes of the call, the police arrived, in the person of the commissaire, Jacques Dutour himself. He listened briefly to our statements, but seemed more preoccupied with the condition of the victim. He asked us to leave the room, and, shortly thereafter, the ambulance arrived. Under Dutour’s energetic supervision, the injured Berry was rapidly removed. He demonstrated the same authority in calming the small assembly, racked with anxiety and curiosity. The lovely Célestine pestered him with questions, but even her judiciously fluttering eyelids failed to move him. In a coldly professional voice, he informed her that the fate of her husband was now in the hands of the medical profession.
‘Tall, dark, brooding, and on the right side of forty, Jacques Dutour was a handsome man. We had known each other at university, where he was known as an inveterate womaniser. His dazzling career was no doubt due in part to his interpersonal skills, but he was ruthlessly efficient when the occasion demanded it. Even with me he was distant at first, as if we were strangers.
‘Other officers had arrived in the meantime, and examined the archaeologist’s study under the commissaire’s stern eye, after which he joined us in the private salon to listen to our testimony once again. He asked us to follow him downstairs to join the rest of the guests, whereupon he briefed them on the state of affairs, summarising our statements with a touch of sarcasm, as if we were responsible for the strangeness of the situation. According to us, he announced, an invisible creature had traversed the private salon and entered Berry’s study, closing the door behind it, after which it had attacked him brutally and noisily. Following that, it had retraced its footsteps, knocking over a Chinese vase on the way. We had been able to hear its footsteps on the creaky floorboards, but had not seen it because it was, naturally, invisible….
‘Whilst a murmur of incredulity rippled around the large room, Dr. Leblanc protested that we had only reported what we had seen, without exaggeration, and that what had happened to Conrad was not an invention, as he, the superintendent, was well aware. In response to a question as to whether he was prepared to swear to his statement, the good doctor answered in the affirmative, and I and the chess players nodded our agreement.
‘The policeman, in a more sombre tone, retorted that, if what we claimed was true, then there was no one but Berry in the study at the time of our discovery. His men had verified that, apart from the door—which had been under our observation—and the window, which was locked, there were no other means of egress from the room. He added, with a further note of irony, that the most extraordinary aspect of the case was that the creature, according to us, had a reason to be there, given that the mansion harboured the famous Helm of Hades, capable of transforming a person into a current of air.
‘A journalist asked the commissaire whether he had checked that it was still there. The embarrassed silence that followed confirmed that he had not. Looking icily at the mistress of the house, he asked her if she would take him there. A few minutes later we found ourselves in a room adjoining the Berrys’ bedroom. A chest stood in the centre of the room, its lid forced open with a crowbar, which still lay amongst the splinters of wood. The chest was empty….
‘We hardly had time to digest what we were looking at when the telephone rang. Célestine took the call and the colour drained from her face. “It’s the hospital,” she murmured. “Conrad did not survive his injuries.”
‘Dr. Leblanc was very affected by the news. Although he said nothing, I sensed that he was reproaching himself for not having tried to resuscitate his friend before the ambulance arrived. Although the murder theory did not seem open to doubt, it was nevertheless confirmed by the medical examiner. The block of amazonite was clearly identified as the murder weapon. Although its rough, crumbly surface precluded fingerprints, minuscule fragments had been found in the wound on the victim’s temple. Conrad Berry had also received a violent blow on the back of the head.
‘The police searched in vain for the Helm of Hades in the mansion and surrounding area. As for the proof of its authenticity which Berry had promised, apart from the plan found on his desk—which was hardly proof—nothing else was found. The police allowed Romain Rabbier to verify for himself. The rich antique dealer, who did not hide his disappointment—for he would have offered a large sum to acquire the helmet—was convinced the proof was to be found elsewhere. Obviously, the fundamental question was how the crime had been committed. Despite the facts, the theory of a perpetrator rendered invisible by the helmet was difficult to swallow, and became even more so as events unfolded.
‘The following day, in the late afternoon, the criminal struck again, as if to remind us of his presence. At around five o’clock, the commissaire received an urgent call from Dr. Leblanc saying that he sensed he was in danger. Dutour lost no time driving to the doctor’s isolated house on the banks of the Seine. On his arrival, he found the door open but no sign of life. Overturned furniture and smashed trinkets in the living room caused him to fear the worst. Despite the heavy rain, he was able to make out a series of footprints leading to the nearby river. From the length of the stride, it appeared that the doctor had been running away from something. And the prints stopped at the edge of the bank….
‘The lifeless corpse of Dr. Leblanc was found the next day, on a river bank ten kilometres downstream. There were no suspicious injuries. It looked like a simple drowning, but that was difficult to believe in the circumstances. Two days later, Dutour was contacted by Ben Ali, who had been the victim of stone throwing as he was taking a stroll at nightfall. He claimed not to have seen his assailant. He could have been seriously wounded if the stones had struck him on the head. A heavy air of menace hung over our group. Dutour came to see me personally to urge me to be cautious. After Berry, Dr. Leblanc and Ben Ali, I might well be the next victim on the list. The phantom executioner seemed to have the four principal witnesses to the murder of the archaeologist in his sights. Dutour told me he had warned Romain Rabbier as well. With a confidence I didn’t feel, I assured him that I would exercise the utmost vigilance. When I suggested tracing the evil to its source—finding the Helm of Hades—he merely shrugged his shoulders. Then, with a growing embarrassment, he admitted being overwhelmed by events. He even went so far as to recall our happier days at university. He seemed to have aged considerably over the previous few days.
‘The following evening, Romain Rabbier left his residence to drive to Paris for a business appointment. As he was driving through the forest, a large rock appeared out of nowhere and hit the vehicle head-on. Losing control, he skidded for thirty metres before the vehicle turned over and hit a tree. He escaped unscathed, but only avoided by a hair’s breadth becoming the latest victim of Hades’ new disciple. But now Fate seemed to have changed sides. Had the invisible enem
y become a victim of his own stratagem? An old bronze helmet, half-flattened, was found beneath the wheels of the car, as if it had been bent during the long slide. Madame Célestine Berry and Ben Ali, the only people to have seen the helmet discovered by the archaeologist, believed it to be one and the same, but could not say with certainty. Its authenticity appeared to be borne out, however, because its last wearer was never heard from again. No doubt, as logic would have it, he had returned to the sinister underground world of the great Hades.’
‘Admirable, and so moving,’ gushed Owen Burns when Martin Paille had finished his story. ‘It almost brought tears to my eyes. As an example of the art, it could hardly be better. Your criminals are every bit as worthy as ours. But, pray tell, how did the matter conclude from the judicial point of view? Was there ever a rational explanation put forward for the murder of Conrad Berry?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ replied the other, removing his glasses and wiping them. ‘The accepted theory was that the murderer had contrived to hide in Berry’s study—before he returned and after having smashed the chest open earlier in the evening, profiting from the noisy assembly in the large drawing room. Inventing who-knows-what pretext for being there, he opened and closed the study door before mortally wounding the archaeologist. He then opened the door for the second time in order to throw a stone at the Chinese vase and break it. While we were all distracted, he concealed himself in the only hiding-place in the room, namely under the large bearskin which had, fortuitously, been rearranged by the falling books we described. After which, he only needed to wait for us to leave before escaping himself. Everything pointed to someone unknown to the other guests, for none of them could have left the reception for any extended period of time without their absence being noted. From a practical point of view, I agree that the hiding place was feasible, but as to the rest….’
Martin Paille let out a deep sigh and put his glasses back on. His eyes appeared larger.
‘You understand, Burns, I and my three companions were very close to the events as they occurred, and we definitely heard the creature walking past.’
‘Let me see now,’ said Owen, stroking his chin. ‘I’m trying to envisage the room… large and rather long… Where exactly were you and Dr. Leblanc sitting?’
‘Almost in the middle of the room. Our armchairs were facing the blue vase, some distance away. The antechamber was to our right, and the study door was to our left.’
‘So, facing the wall which our mysterious creature was closest to, as he traversed the room and brushed against the vase. You had ringside seats, so to speak. As for Rabbier and Ben Ali, they were closer to the other wall, I assume?’
‘That’s correct. But, like us, they heard the intruder’s furtive footsteps… Particularly the second time, when, in his haste he knocked over the vase.’
Owen lit a cigarette and stared at the bust of Hades on the mantelpiece. After a while, he asked:
‘Did any of you notice the curtain to the antechamber move as the creature went in and out?’
‘Yes, Dr. Leblanc did. It was more noticeable after the vase fell. At the beginning, after we heard the first suspicious noises, he said it was more of an impression.’
‘And he was the first to be eliminated… For it seems clear that, once Berry was out of the way, the killer set his sights on you four, the principal witnesses. Although less successfully with Ben Ali and Rabbier. And if Rabbier’s car hadn’t crushed the magic helmet and probably its wearer with it, you would have been next. You do realise that, my dear Paille, do you not?’
‘Only too well,’ replied the architect, passing the back of his hand across his moist brow. ‘I’ve spent quite a few sleepless nights thinking about it.’
‘In other words, everything points to you constituting a danger to him. You, or one of the other three, might have seen something which could expose him.’
‘I seem to remember Jacques Dutour reaching the same conclusion.’
‘That seems to make sense,’ I interjected, after clearing my throat to remind them of my presence. ‘But isn’t the most important thing to find out just who benefits?’
‘Obviously,’ replied Martin. ‘In the first place, that would naturally be Célestine, who inherits Berry’s considerable fortune. But she not only had an unshakeable alibi for her husband’s murder, never having left the reception area, but also for Dr. Leblanc’s murder and the other attacks. As for Romain Rabbier, he wasn’t the only art collector present on that fateful evening, prepared to pay a vast sum to acquire the Helm of Hades. But in that case, why not just stick to theft? Why take the pointless risk to kill Berry? And, besides, he had a lot of enemies in his professional life, either competitors who had lost out to him, or victims of his stock market speculations. There was never a clear trail to follow.’
‘No,’ agreed Owen. ‘This murder doesn’t fit with a cold business calculation. There’s an artist’s hand behind all this.’
‘Perhaps personal revenge?’ I suggested.
‘Do you have an idea?’ asked Owen condescendingly.
‘Well, yes. I’m thinking of Ben Ali, the mysterious and inseparable companion.’
‘Who was with us at the time of the murder,’ Martin pointed out.
‘You said he’d been in Berry’s service a long time. Perhaps he nursed a grudge for something which happened in the past.’
‘Ah, the legendary Berber vengeance,’ mocked Owen. ‘And just how did he avenge the past affront in the present situation?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ I blustered. ‘But I sense there’s a link between the Indian mirror, the turquoise light from the aquarium and the look in Ben Ali’s cold blue eyes…. It’s well known that a diffused source of light, in the appropriate half-light, is a favourable setting for hypnosis. Using his magnetic stare, and possibly a reflection in the mirror, Ben Ali might well have been able to take control of his companions’ thoughts while creating the creaking sound himself by stepping on the boards—.’
‘We understand, Achilles,’ interrupted Burns. ‘I award you maximum marks for the aesthetics of your suggestion, but zero for reality. It’s hard to believe the Berber could have tricked all three people at the same time.’
Noting that Martin Paille seemed to side with Owen, I could barely contain my irritation:
‘Very well, my friend, have you any ideas yourself?’
‘Ideas?’ he replied in astonishment. ‘Why, yes, several. And more than that: a certitude. Well, almost… But first of all, I’d like to pose a couple of questions to our friend….’
‘I don’t understand, Burns,’ stammered Paille. ‘Have you solved the mystery?’
‘Well, there,’ replied Burns, seemingly offended, ‘isn’t that what you asked me to do? So, here’s my first question: did Commissaire Dufour have a personal relationship with the young widow later on?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ confirmed Martin, stroking his chin. ‘There was even talk of marriage. But the future husband never got to the altar… Jacques Dutour was gunned down during a bank robbery.’
‘Do you think he was an accomplice to a certain Madame Berry, wishing to get rid of her husband?’ I asked.
‘No, I don’t think she had anything to do with the murders,’ said Owen thoughtfully, ‘but it seems obvious they had an intimate relationship. A notorious ladies’ man like Dutour ignoring a ravishing creature like Célestine was the first warning bell to ring. The next question concerns Dr. Leblanc. Rack your brains and tell me: when you and he went upstairs for peace and quiet, whose idea was it? Yours or his?’
‘I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure it was his.’
‘That settles it,’ declared Owen. ‘That last detail swept away the last doubt. And please stop looking at me as if it were a miracle. It’s just elementary reasoning. It’s clear that Berry himself started the whole thing. He wouldn’t be the first or the last archaeologist to pretend, after years of futile digging, to have found an unhoped-for discovery. In
this case, nothing less than the Helm of Hades. A trophy worthy of the ambitions of our cunning braggart, a man of many resources, who thought nothing of bribing two site workers, poor devils who couldn’t afford to refuse his bargain: they were to pretend to have been struck by an invisible aggressor and to suffer a few bruises, in return for a generous compensation. It’s possible that Berry was only out to cover himself in glory, but I’m willing to bet he also planned to make a huge profit. In any case, what better idea than to organise its theft, make the proof of authenticity disappear, simulate an attack on himself, and attribute it all to the magic powers of the legendary helmet?’
After an admiring chuckle, Owen continued:
‘But, as always, things didn’t work out as planned… Needless to say, Berry had accomplices. Dr. Leblanc may well have been a man of integrity, but I suspect he had gambling debts which made him easy prey for Berry. He played a central role in the masquerade about the perambulating invisible creature. He was the only one to have seen the curtain move, and the first to follow the footsteps of the pseudo-apparition with his eyes, as it first travelled from the curtain to the study door, which then opened and shut. And after that, he traced the return trip, during which the vase fell to the floor. All that to the rhythm of creaking boards—coming, not from the private salon, but from the attic above. The acoustics of the salon, with its arched ceiling, were no doubt conducive to the diffusion of sound, but it was above all Dr. Leblanc’s mimicry which pulled the wool over your eyes. Footsteps punctuated by memorable events: a door opening and closing with no shadow crossing, and a broken vase. A great example of an illusion based on the abuse of the senses. The pacing footsteps were created by the second accomplice, the only protagonist in our story who could justify his absence from the reception, and no doubt the one responsible for breaking into the chest: none other than Comissaire Dutour. Bribing a police officer must have cost Berry dearly, but, as we shall see, Dutour had other motives in mind. I can’t be sure of the precise method Dr. Leblanc used to make the vase fall at the right time, but a length of thread stuck to its base, with a loop on the other end within reach of the doctor’s shoe, would do the trick.