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 conflict, 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 Traces, 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 flecked 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 inquiries 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 floor, 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 flame, 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.”