This affair had begun one autumn day, when the natural mists mingled with those of the city''s vapors. I have always loved to observe the enormous chimneys that seem to spring from the earth like the mouths of swallowed giants, blowing their hot and humid breath in the face of the world. But it was underground that I was called, far from the surface, into the deep mines where a crime had been committed.


    Like most of the old cities of Zerkr?m, Bruma extended deep beneath the surface and the districts of dwellings and buried factories followed one another like artificial geological layers.


    The mine gallery where the incident had taken place was already blocked and monitored by the watchmen: all they were waiting for was the arrival of the brilliant Ga?n Goldeneye to find out what had happened.


    Of course, any incident brings the crowds together. Journalists and curious onlookers formed chattering masses who, commenting on the event, allowed me to learn a few about it before arriving there. In the crowd, there was also a parasite tougher than the others…


    I frowned as I recognized a face and a hand that was waving happily to catch my eye. Quickening my pace, I pretended in vain not to have spotted her.


    But, as if equipped with a better instinct for splitting crowds than what I could boast, she found herself in front of me when I had emerged.


    Mo?ra Marbel: magnificent and naive blue eyes stuck in the beautiful face of a superb creature with jet black hair now styled in a complex bun. Apart from that, it seemed that the Creator had deemed it unnecessary to add, after such assets, a brain.


    “Greetings, Mr. Goldeneye!” she said happily. “What a coincidence to meet you here!”


    Coincidence? It was not, of course. Could I ever go anywhere without meeting this adorable pest? But what could I do? My natural charm and the notoriety that my unrivaled intelligence brought me could only seduce the fairer sex. At least, this excited one could be fierce enough with others to keep them at a distance, minimizing the sources of futile distractions that could paralyze the smooth running of my investigations.


    “Miss Marble,” I sighed, “what are you doing around here?”


    She glanced around, obviously trying to invent a plausible pretext to deceive the greatest detective of all time.


    “Oh... I... Well, I was visiting... There, I was visiting.”


    “You were visiting?”


    “Yes... I was visiting.”


    “You were visiting a mining gallery?”


    Her azure eyes darted from right to left, avoiding landing on mine, as her confusion grew. Having no time to waste with her, I decided not to torment her any further and continued on my way, without commenting on the fact that she accompanied me.


    When she followed me through the security cordon delimiting the area of ??the incident, I hesitated for a moment to have her stopped by the guards present. But, knowing her, she was capable of making a scandal, a tantrum, screaming and even crying in public. If such a method would not be very effective in opening the way for her, it could however harm my reputation in the presence of so many journalists: I therefore avoided such an error and accepted once again this superfluous presence.


    I was greeted by the captain of the watch, Pebble Obsidian. Tall and more muscular than the average guard, he sported a thick black beard with coarse braids. His eyebrows, very thick, made the features of his face disappear so that it appeared as a mass of shaggy hair from which two small black eyes with a mean air vaguely emerged. If accidentally he were shaved, these cruel eyes would allow me to recognize him without the slightest hesitation. In his forties, this arrogant man could not bear that someone not yet thirty was his superior and always treated me with the greatest coldness.


    Nevertheless competent, he briefly explained the situation to me as I arrived on the scene.


    It was a still recent mine gallery, but one could see at a glance that the carpentry had been erected with considerable care, which made the enormous wooden beam that practically blocked the way all the more incongruous. A few red spots spread around, soaking the earth and only one of the victim''s arms seemed to emerge from the ground, his hands clenched, practically folded into a fist reaching towards the criminal vault from which his misfortune had fallen...


    The dead man’s name was Pala Sternutatio, one of the co-owners of the mine. On their way to work that morning, the workers had found this beam detached and immediately understood that there was nothing more to be done for the victim. Immediately alerting the police, they had left the murder site – because I had immediately guessed that it was not a simple accident – ??intact, allowing me to observe it and draw my first deductions.


    The identity of the deceased had been confirmed by his disappearance and the presence on his wrist of a mechanical gold watch. This unique model had been immediately recognized by the workers.


    Observing the surroundings, I saw only a few objects, very commonplace in a mine. A pickaxe broken in two, a shovel, a hatchet, a torch, a small knife… the fact that they were lying like this near the accident – ??as it was then supposed to be, officially – could have been a coincidence. There was also a compass, probably intended to orient oneself when digging the galleries. I then saw an empty purse and a feather that I immediately considered as interesting clues, although I did not yet know what these objects should indicate. They could just as well be possessions of the victim, dropped shortly before the fatal event.


    I picked up a strange object that I was examining when an event momentarily diverted the course of my thoughts.


    The parasite was still following me, because of course Mr. Obsidian had not chased her away, knowing perfectly well that her presence was getting on my nerves. A pathetic revenge of a jealous, resentful and limited character.


    “Oh,” she said, “it''s all red on the ground... What''s that? It looks like a hand holding... A hand? Iiiiiiiiiih!”


    Although the captain was closer, she moved to me to grab and crumple my long coat, while she hid behind my back as if the furious ghost of the deceased was going to extricate itself from his corpse to threaten her.


    I snatched my precious coat from between her thin fingers, being careful not to tear the fabric: despite its solidity, this garment had lived well and I was particularly attached to it. I then approached the body, hoping that the young lady would stay away... Hope springs eternal, they say... She stuck to me again, casting wary glances at the hand, over my shoulder.


    A detail then caught my eye: the dead man was firmly holding a piece of parchment in his grip... no: paper, a more expensive and rare material in our lands, especially when it is of such good quality.


    “Look,” I said, “it seems as if he’s holding something in his hand.”


    The captain made a rather ugly face when he realized that he had omitted this detail. But, not having my quick wit, it was not his fault if he was so slow to observe and deduce. Unfolding the paper, I read a short and strange poem:


    Eight dwarves on the dead man''s chest...


    And one more gold!


    The pickaxe dug too deep...If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    And one share less!


    “That’s strange,” I whispered a little too loudly, “did the deceased like poetry?”


    The captain scratched his head, unsure of the importance of this detail.


    “Uh?” he said. “I don’t know. Is it important? We can always ask Mr. Timere, the other co-owner. He should be here soon.”


    Trembling with horror behind me, Moira disrupted my thoughts with her fearful whispers.


    “That’s… that’s horrible… I never would have believed that… Poor man: crushed from so high by something so heavy… At least he probably won’t have suffered… Oh… I’ll have nightmares about it for days…”


    Her moans were etched in my memories instead of the clues I was trying to gather. I was about to look for a way to get rid of this parasite, when a detail in her words caught my attention. From this height… It was true that this gallery was particularly high and the beam in question had fallen from over five meters. Judging from the angle of this arm in relation to the beam, it should have been severed by the violence of such an impact…


    “Captain!” I exclaimed. “We must lift this beam. I suspect there must be some tackle up there that must have been used to lower this one in the first place!”


    There was a strong rope in one corner, just waiting to be used for this purpose. The reason for its presence was obvious. Projecting the light of a miner’s lamp towards the vault, I saw a tackle there, also placed in exactly the right place.


    I took off my coat and handed it to Moira, then hooked the end of the rope around my waist and began climbing the support beams. Although I was of a suitably athletic physique, I must admit that someone less fit would have had no problem making the climb: there were so many holds. Notches in the beams, or holes in the walls that had once supported the scaffolding needed to break through to the top of this gallery, allowed me to reach the top in no time.


    As I passed the rope through the pulleys, my eyes searched in vain for any clues. But it was not by the light projected from below by the lantern held by Captain Obsidian that I could discover something. In any case, there certainly were nothing, except for the hoist itself. Several pulleys formed it, firmly nailed to a beam parallel to the position of the one that had fallen. This system had been placed a few months earlier during the digging of this gallery, as the employees I questioned later confirmed to me, but I already guessed that it had not been installed there for the occasion by the murderer.


    The missing beam did not destabilize, in the short term, the solidity of the gallery, indicating that the person who had detached it surely knew what he was doing. If an ignorant person had undertaken to free a beam from the ceiling in this way, without a perfect knowledge of this science, they would have taken the risk of dying from an accident that they would have triggered themself. Unless it was completely unconscious, it was unlikely that the murderer had not realized it. We were therefore dealing with a mining specialist, or a passionate amateur like there was no shortage of in our population.


    Back on the ground, I saw that the captain had managed to wrap the rope around the beam and that it looked quite solid. So, I gave him a piece of the part that had gone through the pulleys and began to explain my initial conclusions as we pulled together.


    Without us having to make a big effort, the beam lifted and we pushed it aside before letting it fall gently. This confirmed to us that the device could be easily manipulated by anyone, even alone.


    “So, you think murder?” asked the captain, who was always slow to accept the slightest word that came out of my mouth.


    Turning his gaze towards the deceased, he did not need my explanations to spot what was obvious to any police officer sufficiently senior in his career.


    “Ah yes,” he grumbled, “it is certain that he is in too good a condition to have been crushed naturally. And there, in what is left of his skull…”


    I nodded, having also recognized the characteristic hole of a projectile. Although having fallen from less height than what we were led to believe, the beam had caused considerable damage, but the hole remained visible to our eyes trained to see this kind of wound.


    There was a toile bag, left there by the Watch to serve as a funeral linen. I used it to protect my hands in order to handle the body and make its face visible. Alas, it had been crushed by the shock, offering me no additional information.


    I heard Mo?ra''s shocked exclamation and turned towards her. Very pale, she hid her face with my coat, leaning her back against the wall of the tunnel despite the dirt that would be embedded in her clothes: the poor thing must have taken a look at the corpse, a quick glance but one that made her turn her head.


    “Miss Marble?”


    “Y... yes?”


    “Could you give me back my coat?”


    I preferred to take my property back before she decided to throw up the contents of her stomach on it. As I put on the coat, a new distraction came to change Mo?ra''s mind and therefore improve her condition: the arrival of the co-owner of the mine.


    Like the deceased, he was an elderly man, probably in his sixties. He retained the vivacity of someone who had had to struggle in his youth, leading me to assume that he had not inherited his wealth but had acquired it through hard work. The man seemed hesitant, nervously fiddling with his beard in a movement that seemed to me to reveal more of a habitual tic than a consequence of the recent events. I greeted him and he introduced himself in return.


    “I… I a… am… Mist… Mister Pala Timere. I… I was… I was warned… I… poor Sternutatio…”


    His diction was as hesitant as his general attitude. He looked away from my inquisitive gaze, but I immediately guessed that this foreshadowed more of an unease with social interactions than a clue that would irremediably betray the culprit.


    “Pala? So, you have the same first name as your… unfortunate colleague?”


    “Y… yes… They… they… they called us… the two… the two Pala. How… what happened? Do you know?”


    Pointing to the mush that served as a face for our deceased, I asked his still-living colleague:


    “Do you recognize Mr. Sternutatio?”


    Uncomfortable in front of the corpse, which is a most usual attitude, the mine owner nevertheless took the time to examine it, overcoming the natural repulsion towards its state. He finally looked away and confirmed.


    “It''s... it''s him. He wears... wore... always wore... his beard braided like that.”


    I placed the shroud on the body, hiding its horror from view. I immediately felt a wave of relief refresh the atmosphere, cheering up even the veteran that was the captain. For some mysterious reason, the dead worried people more than the living, although the former were, by their condition, incapable of committing new crimes.


    I then drew the newcomer''s attention to the poem, which meant nothing to him, according to what he claimed. I began to study the words carefully and everyone made their own comments:


    “Gold? S… so that… that doesn’t… refer to… our mines. We… we have… uh… I… I have… copper… silver… diamonds… No gold.”


    “Dwarves?” Captain Obsidian growled. “Why dwarves?”


    “People outside our people,” I explained, “in the lands beyond Zerkr?m, are a tall species. They call us Dwarves.”


    “So, it was a foreigner from the West who did this?”


    “Don’t jump to conclusions too quickly. It might be interesting to know if there’s even a single foreigner to Zerkr?m in our city, but the term ‘dwarf’ is sometimes used by our own people, usually in a crude way.”


    The real question was, “Why did the murderer bother to leave that note to sign their crime?” Wasn’t this a trace that could somehow lead back to them? Could it be a madman? What was their motive, anyway?


    My attention was then drawn to a comment from Moira:


    “Oh, it’s really well carved. I wonder what’s inside…”


    She was playing with a small wooden chest, so small that it fit in her palm. This was the curious object I had been examining before the discovery of poetry. I had absently put it away in my coat and this pest had taken advantage of the moment I gave it to her to pick my pockets.


    Moira was not really what one might call a “kleptomaniac.” She did not take other people’s property for herself. She was one of those people who liked to fiddle with objects that came within reach of their hands, playing with them for a moment, before putting them down in a different place from where they had picked them up. This annoying habit forced me to pay her some attention every time she lingered in my crime scenes, for fear that she would carelessly move the evidence without even realizing it.


    Taking the chest from her hands, I was about to explain to her that the weight of this object indicated that it was not hollow, when it opened in two. She had probably played with the latch that served as a lock, which meant that when I grabbed the top of the chest, the lower part came apart, only holding on to the other by the hinges.


    Indeed, I was right: the chest was not hollow. However, a piece of paper was stuck between the two parts and escaped before our eyes. There followed a moment of confusion, as we tried to catch it, hindering each other with our movements. The paper ended up on the ground and Moira''s hand, in my face.


    Not dwelling on her clumsiness, I told her that she could stop apologizing and focused on the essential: the paper.


    Folded until it was small enough to fit into that tiny space, it contained a few mysterious lines, written in the same handwriting as the poem. I read them aloud.


    My old friend, it has been a long time.


    We have to talk: come and find me, where you killed me.


    Come alone and be there before midnight.


    Otherwise, everyone will learn our story.


    “Well,” exclaimed the captain, “this is a very mysterious message. I suppose it meant something to the victim and that it was used to lure him into an ambush. Some secrets he was afraid of being revealed and that made him forget all caution.”


    “That’s obvious,” I agreed, “but why leave this note here, if the murder took place elsewhere. It must have been the culprit who left it there. Why did the murderer want us to know how he lured his victim?”


    Not to be outdone, Moira added her two cents:


    “And then,” she said, “it’s pretty ridiculous. He says he was killed. If he’s dead, how could he talk, or even write? Dead people don’t tell stories.”


    But the extreme paleness on Mr. Timere''s face indicated that there was at least one person in that room who feared otherwise.