1
After the unexpected conclusion of the manor affair, I felt a particularly bitter taste in my mouth: that of dissatisfaction.
Madam Magister had been arrested for the poisoning murder of Mister Malevolum. If Captain Obsidian’s small brains also made her the culprit of her husband’s death and, by extension, those of the other conspirators of the semi-secular assassination, I knew that this was not the case.
The murderer had been careful, precise in each of its actions. It was a calculating person. Mrs. Magister had acted on impulse, without even trying to hide it, convinced of Mr. Malevolum's involvement in her husband's murder.
It was true that the regular opposition between the two characters, the designation of the feather as the next victim and Mr. Malevolum's suspicions against Mr. Magister could lead one to suspect that he was her murderer. Perhaps he was the serial killer, or had he suspected his friend of being one and, in reaction, covered his back by murdering him with the same modus operandi as the killer?
It was still necessary to manage to get the body into the building, since the victim had certainly not returned there while alive. Knowing that there was only one door and that he had to be taken to his room… For me, he must have had the complicity of at least one of the servants of the household, but I had no proof.
Mrs. Corindon had the key and could therefore let in whatever she wanted. The cook and his assistant could enter laden with heavy packages without attracting suspicion. Only the last servant did not seem to me to be necessary for the staging of this crime, which did not mean that he was necessarily innocent.
The fact that everyone had left the room, at one time or another before the discovery of the body of the former master of the house, did not help to exonerate anyone. Even the servants, according to their statements, had all been alone at several times during this short period.
Perhaps Mr. Malevolum was indeed the murderer and had succumbed to an unexpected response from one of his potential victims? Perhaps he even thought he would spare her, while he would have had no pity for his other friends?
Mr. Felix, after these sad events, had confessed to me that they had all once been in love with Alba. Even if she had finally chosen Mr. Magister as her husband, none of them, none of the eight associates, would have tried to kill her. He even supposed that if their late companion had indeed risen from the dead to pursue them with his vengeance, he would have decided to spare this woman even if she had approved of his murder.
I had then pointed out that the next day the safe opened, he would be the only one to benefit. Faced with my accusation, he had simply shrugged his shoulders. Then, without attesting to his innocence, he replied:
“Maybe I am the killer. In any case, you have no proof and therefore cannot arrest me. And besides, what would be my motive? Gold? Of all, I am the richest. I have no debts, on the contrary: the city itself and most of its major figures are my debtors.”
Oddly enough, what frustrated me the most was that my revelation scene had been disrupted by this new murder. I made up for it by explaining the rest of my discoveries to Moïra. If she didn't have the intellect to appreciate the subtlety, she was at least a good audience and was happy to be ecstatic about my explanations, without understanding them.
After the assassination of Mr. Somnum, I had sent a tube to the city of Pumilio. This allied city was indeed already connected to ours by a system of pneumatic tubes allowing messages to be projected at a prodigious speed from one end of these pipes to the other. I had thus obtained the answer to my question during the day.
Fifty years ago, a large sum in gold bars had indeed disappeared. While the war was raging, an airship carrying this cargo to a safer fortress had crashed in the mountains of Iceteeth. The gold had never been found.
Regarding the miners, whose names I had mentioned, I had been told that they had disappeared during the war, as well as the name I did not know: that of the last partner. I now had all the pieces of the puzzle: all I needed was to understand the recent murders.
One detail also disturbed me: I did not share it with my admirer. In the reply sent by the officials of Pumilio, they were surprised by my request, claiming that I had already sent them similar questions a few days earlier. Their first reply had apparently come just before the assassination of Mr. Stultus.
I could only understand this in one way: by usurping my identity in a letter, my enemy had found some way to send a tube and intercept the reply. Because there was no doubt in my mind that this was the work of Nemesis. It also explained why she had started to manifest herself after this particular murder and how she knew about the treasure.
How had she gotten to the burned house before me? I had no idea.
How would she steal the gold? That, too, eluded my powerful deductive powers.
Mr. Felix was one of the most powerful men in the city and, as such, difficult to rob. With Mrs. Magister unlikely to get out of prison for a few years, with the help of a good lawyer, he was now the only one who could open the door to a bank that led to a vault full of stolen gold, a vault that would soon open…
2
The day before the annual safe-opening date, I was called to investigate the death of Mr. Felix.
He had died in his geothermal plant, in his office. When I arrived there, I had trouble guessing what could have happened there. A pressure bomb? Although the office had been blown up as if by an explosion, the body of the deceased also showed signs of burns. A new type of bomb combining incendiary properties? But the office was not burned.
Observing the place, the answer came to me quickly when I noticed the pitiful state of a strange machinery fixed to the wall. The pipes had exploded, projecting their pieces like shrapnel across the room: many pieces were also embedded in the walls or on the corpse. The latter had probably been right next to it, sitting on his chair, at the time of the incident. There were also puddles of water on the floor.
Asking one of the secretaries, who normally worked in one of the neighboring offices, he told me that it was a kind of heating device. Hot water circulated in these pipes, guided by a pressure system, and gave a suitable temperature to the room. The place that had exploded was a concentration of these tubes, which was called a radiator. A much more efficient device than the classic coal stoves: progress could not be stopped, but it seemed to bring new dangers.
Scalded by the hot water, blown away by the explosion, pierced by the pieces, Ignis Felix had not had a good death, but it had been quick.
Having arrived on the scene before me, Captain Obsidian had already started searching the room, looking for clues. Doctor Alun had confirmed the cause of the dead man’s death, as had the employees who were working outside the room and had rushed in immediately after the explosion.
In a wastepaper basket, ripped open by the explosion, three small wooden chests and a few drafts of letters had been found, almost legible despite the water that had dampened them.
Each of the three chests, similar to the previous ones, contained one of the pathetic poems that were the criminal’s signature. I put them in order and read them:
Three dwarves on the dead man's chest...
And one more gold!
The pen has been smothered...
And one share less!
Two dwarves on the dead man's chest...
And one more gold!
The knife is put away...
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
And one share less!
One dwarf on the dead man's chest...
And one more gold!
Full of regrets, the torch has consumed...
And the dead man is avenged!
The papers that filled the trash can were a mixture of old work documents and drafts of letters, in which the same handwriting as the poems expressed the deceased's regrets. In them, he said, in various ways, that the memories of his crime haunted him and that he had decided to become the voice of the dead, to tell his forgotten story and avenge him. The last conspirator to be punished was himself, and he had prepared for it, having a pressure-boosting device installed in his heating.
We had not found a definitive version of the letter. It could just as well not have existed as it could have been blown away by the explosion or destroyed by the water, like many of the papers that had previously been on the desk.
“Well,” the captain concluded, “we finally have the answer. The murderer was indeed Ignis Felix and his motive was guilt. Case closed.”
“I don't think so,” I protested, “this is clearly a set-up.”
“Really? Aren’t you rather frustrated because the ‘great’ Goldeneye was unable to find the answer to this riddle, before it was provided to us by the culprit himself?”
“It’s not… Have you seen the writing? The one used for the letters and poems is completely different from the one used in the other documents…”
“Well, it’s always possible for someone gifted to invent another writing. The case is obvious, you’re being dishonest in claiming otherwise.”
I swallowed my anger and stopped talking to this guy. He was going to write a report closing the case and our superiors probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I took more time to study the case.
However, I knew it wasn’t that simple.
3
I went to the company responsible for installing this “radiator” and learned that the technician who had recently serviced it was a foreigner passing through, to whom they had granted some small jobs to help him pay for his continued trip.
The explanation was shaky. They were thus admitting to me, of their own free will, that they had overstepped the rules of their guilds, which were quite strict in terms of qualifications for jobs. This led me to suppose that their real failings were much more serious. They had certainly received a bribe to employ this man. He had undoubtedly claimed to be “simply” engaged in industrial espionage, when he had paid them. Of course, now, they preferred to be fined for breaking the rules, rather than being suspected of complicity in the death of the geothermal magnate.
Because I was now convinced that this technician was indeed the killer. Having knowledge of pressure systems, he had equipped it with a timer so that the explosion would take place at the moment Mr. Felix was working. It was probably at that moment that he had filled the trash can with the three small chests and the supposed suicide notes.
Threatening the company employees, I obtained a summary description of the criminal: someone quite young, in his thirties, but with a particularly thick black beard.
Inwardly, I sighed: wearing a beard in our society was rather detrimental to police investigations. Of course, it was always better that than the indecent opposite. Indeed, you sometimes came across certain individuals from other cities with disgusting customs: they wore their beards very short, or even shaved them. Some even went so far as to cut off their moustaches and many citizens thought that there should be laws against such individuals. My own beard was quite short, but my age and my blondness were responsible for this state of affairs which sometimes worried me: it was not a voluntary act.
4
Despaired by the turn of events, I then took a long walk in the city, climbing up to the surface to admire the chimneys that spat their vapors into the immense expanse that overlooked our lands. As if these emanations carried away my worries, I felt at those moments my thoughts become clearer.
However, this did not bring me any answers on what to do. I did not intend to give up the case, but I no longer knew how to continue my investigation. If the past was revealed, the present remained foggy.
Returning to the Watch post, I discovered Moïra waiting for me.
At this point, I preferred to endure her conversation rather than the mockery of my colleagues, so I headed of my own accord towards the bench where she was waiting.
Her big azure eyes rose happily as I approached and she trotted towards me. She was holding a small round cardboard package against her, which was getting in the way a little. Her parasol was folded and she was holding it in a way that didn't make me fear another incident due to her natural clumsiness.
“Goldeneye! Er, excuse me, Mr. Goldeneye, greetings, I'm very glad to see you again.”
“I also greet you, Miss Marble. Were you expecting me?”
She made a strange little pout, oscillating between happy surprise and a little mischief. Without being really intelligent, she could be a little observant: Moïra had probably guessed that my mood was not the best, but could be conducive to her conversation.
Yet she immediately assumed a conspiratorial air: the kind that true conspirators avoid, not wanting to attract attention.
“Goldeneye, may I… I would like to talk to you about something… But not here…”
Intrigued in spite of myself, I agreed to walk with her for a bit of the way that led us to a path intended for walking, where hardly anyone passed by at this time of day. The walls of the tunnels were decorated with ornamental moss and mushrooms while stalactites hung harmoniously from the ceiling, slightly chiseled to give them a more artistic shape.
Looking from one side to the other, she handed me her package.
“Here… This is for you…”
When I opened the box, I discovered a beige felt hat, the crown of which was surrounded by a strip of brown fabric that gave it the most beautiful effect. Blushing slightly, Moïra briefly explained her reasons:
“Here... I was thinking that you hadn't really had the time to buy yourself a hat lately, but... Um... I suppose it must be embarrassing not to have one, when you frequently walk the public galleries... So, I found this one, which goes well with that coat you like so much, in terms of color... so... here... Do you like it?”
Contradictory thoughts clashed in my head. Was it appropriate to receive a gift from a young lady without being engaged to her? Wouldn't accepting risk encouraging this clingy friend? Should I refuse the gift? At the same time, I really needed a new hat and I could feel it from the contemptuous looks that many passersby threw me as I walked bareheaded. But, to accept the gift solely on social and financial grounds, would that not be taking advantage of Moïra? Such an attitude would be unworthy of a gentleman, even a penniless one.
I had already taken the hat out of the box and saw, with my keen sense of observation, that it was exactly my size. I decided to put it back, when Moïra seemed to understand my intention.
“I hope it suits you: I would feel a bit stupid not knowing what to do with it if I had it left. Oh, and don't worry about its price: my uncle provides me with a considerable sum each month for my pocket money...”
Her clever turns of phrase and the hope in her big azure eyes convinced me. I placed the hat on my head, where it perched perfectly.
“Thank you, Moïra,” I said, “that's very kind of you...”
Her blue eyes sparkled and I saw that she was barely holding back a big smile... Then, I realized that I had called her by her first name, despite the conventions and I bit my lip. She finally hid her face behind a fan, hiding the smile she was letting blossom, but it remained visible at the corners of her eyes. Without pushing her advantage too much, satisfied with her small victory, she couldn't help but notice, by this mistake, that I was particularly troubled.
“How are you doing at the moment? You seem a little disturbed... Maybe that's even the reason why you hadn't bought a hat yet?”
She probably didn't believe a word of that last sentence and, perhaps, she suspected the truth about my financial means. So, I preferred to steer the conversation towards this investigation that was marking time, to divert her thoughts away from the subjects that bothered me the most.
So, I told her the latest news, the details of Mr. Felix's death and my opinion on the matter.
“You're right,” she agreed, “it's certainly not a suicide.”
Of course: she always approved of my theories. I had to admit that her gift had put me in a good mood, pulling me out of the dark thoughts that were clouding my mind. I also had to admit that I tended to be a little cruel to her when I was happy, without really realizing it at the time. So, I immediately asked her why she thought that. As expected, she was embarrassed but still tried to find an explanation.
“Well... It's... You said that the technician who touched the radiator, the one who killed Mister Felix, had disappeared? That's quite suspicious, isn't it?... Well, I suppose that's not enough to make him a murderer? Right?... It's like Mister Chrome, who worked at the Magister mansion. He disappeared too, but that doesn't mean he had anything to do with the terrible events that happened there...”
“How that? He disappeared?” I interrupted him in surprise. “And how do you know that?”
“Oh, that? I learned about it the other day, when I was talking about the case to some well-informed friends and they were able to tell me where Mr. Kunzite, Mr. Emeri and Mrs. Corindon were now employed. On the other hand, no more traces of Mr. Chrome. Since these friends are rather diligent gossips, they conducted quite thorough research through their servants, but no trace! I suppose that doesn't mean anything: Mr. Chrome was probably just a passing stranger, perhaps he left the city. In any case, none of the Chromes residing in Bruma, according to my friends, know him.”
I was speechless for a moment. How could simple idle chatterboxes eager for scandal be more efficient than the Bruma police in assembling this information?
Beyond the need for some structural reforms, this information began to raise doubts in me.
“What if...”
I began my sentence without finishing it, as the puzzle came together. It remained a theory, but it was possible that the Magister's kitchen assistant and the heating technician were the same person. He could have dyed his beard, or worse: shaved it and used toupees.
Such a degree of improperness was rare, even from a criminal. However, there were some individuals who would not hesitate...
I had to focus my research on two categories: the foreigners in Bruma, who sometimes had these grotesque customs; and the most depraved criminals, those who did not hesitate to sacrifice their beards to achieve their ends.
Leaving Moïra there, I ran towards the Watch post. The recent census of foreigners by the captain and the criminal records would perhaps provide me with a suspect worthy of the name!
Despite the somewhat cavalier manner in which I left her, I saw that an amused smile lit up the face of my incorrigible admirer: she seemed to rejoice in my renewed enthusiasm.
I promised myself that I owed her something: it was thanks to her that I was finding a lead. Perhaps I should save up a little money to give her a little present? Or resolve to invite her to the theater or the opera? In any case, I felt indebted.