34

Antoine Marcas’s home

Day of his release from the hospital

Marcas greeted Guy Andrivaux with a smile and a handshake. He gestured to his second armchair and asked the brother if he wanted something to drink.

“Yes, thank you,” Andrivaux answered. “If it’s not too much trouble. I walked over from the lodge, and I didn’t realize how far it was. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Marcas said, getting two glasses, a bottle of whiskey for his friend, and a bottle of water for himself. “I’m waiting for the doctors to give me the okay to get back to work.”

“Knowing you, I’m sure that can’t be soon enough,” Andrivaux said, picking up a Masonic blue book on the table next to his armchair. “By the way, your colleague stopped by to ask a few questions. Hodecourt—that’s his name, right? I’m glad he’s a brother, but it would be better if you both attended the same lodge.”

“Officially, he’ll be the lead investigator until I get back. But I’m doing my own work from here.”

“So, do you think the killer had a vengeance degree?” Andrivaux asked.

“That’s what I understand. It seems he has a real obsession. But we both know that those who hold the degree exact a symbolic vengeance. They never actually kill anyone. Anti-Freemason groups have spread that kind of crap about us for centuries, like the stories of Devil worship.”

Andrivaux sipped his whiskey while Marcas continued.

“The degree is all play-acting developed in the eighteenth century by the bourgeoisie so they could feel like they were part of something secret. What we need to find out is how the murders relate to the man’s twisted understanding of the ritual.”

“What about the Templars?”

Marcas tried to read the grand secretary’s face. “Can you be more precise?”

“A new version of that degree came into existence after the revolution. There was interest in avenging the death of Jacques de Molay, grand master of the Templars.”

“Right,” Marcas said.

“As you know, he was burned in Paris in 1314 by order of the king. The day Louis XVI was executed in 1792, somebody jumped onto the scaffold, picked up the king’s head, and shouted, ‘Jacques de Molay, you’ve finally been avenged.’ That was more than four centuries later. To tell the truth, I think some Freemasons who held dear the ideals of the revolution saw the royalty’s destruction of the order of the Temple as a first affront to those ideals.”

“That’s a historical aberration,” Marcas said. But he did agree that the Freemasons had restored Templar imagery, partly out of nineteenth-century romanticism and partly out of a pragmatic need to invent a prestigious lineage and attract the bright minds of the time.

“Of course it’s an aberration. But there is the story of the Templars’ treasure, which was never found. Fascinating legend.”

Marcas smiled. “The Templar treasure, hidden from King Phillip and lost. As my son would say, ‘IDBI’—I don’t believe it. Let’s forget those martyred knights, who have been served up with every kind of esoteric sauce, and focus on our murderer.”

The grand secretary shrugged and looked around the room.“You’re right, Marcas. Paul was your friend. We owe it to him and the poor fellow who was stabbed in the chamber of reflection.”

“I know what I need to do,” Marcas said. “I’m not just a police investigator. I’m a brother, as well.”

“So it’s up to you to avenge his memory.”

The two men sat in silence. Outside, the night began its fight against the setting sun. The darkness rose like an underground tide.

Andrivaux broke the silence. “There’s something that you need to know. Paul left a letter for you in my office on the night he was murdered.”

“And you didn’t give it to Hodecourt?”

The grand secretary sipped his whiskey. “The letter was addressed to you, Marcas.”

Andrivaux pulled an envelope out of his jacket and handed it over. Marcas opened it and pulled out a black USB key and a business card with a message: “If something happens to me, read this and get my ancestor’s sword back, no matter what. Your brother, Paul.”

Marcas showed the card to the grand secretary. Andrivaux nodded and gave it back.

By now the sun had disappeared, and the streetlights were going on. Marcas looked at his watch.

“Damn! I’ve got to go. I promised my ex-wife that I’d have dinner with her. I’ll be finished in a couple of hours, and when I get back I’ll take a look at the flash drive. What can you tell me about the sword?”

Andrivaux looked stunned. “You’re certainly not going out, are you? You were just released from the hospital.”

“Don’t worry,” Marcas answered. “I’ll be fine, although I don’t have much of an appetite after getting a gutful of sewage. So back to the sword.”

“I can’t give you much help with that,” Andrivaux said, picking up his coat. “You already know that it’s one of the most valuable pieces in our museum collection. It’s the Marquis de Lafayette’s Masonic sword. It’s magnificent, with a flamed blade and mother-of-pearl grip. There are no others like it, and it was stolen the night Paul and the initiate were murdered.

Marcas grabbed his jacket and opened the apartment door, allowing the grand secretary to pass. “First we find the murderer. Then we find the sword. Or maybe it’ll be the other way around. But we’re going to do both. If we can’t bring back Paul, at least we can return the sword to its rightful place. I promised.”