《Eight Dwarves on a chest》 Chapter 1 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 ¨C because I had immediately guessed that it was not a simple accident ¨C ??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 ¨C ??as it was then supposed to be, officially ¨C 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. Chapter 2 1 The rest of the investigation brought us little information. So, in the following days, we had other concerns, although these strange poems still echoed in my head, going around in circles trying to make sense. Pebble Obsidian had continued his idea about the ¡°dwarves¡± of these bad rhymes. He had begun, without much success, to try to list all the foreigners residing in the city, in order to discover some from the Disc, to the West. Leaving him to chase narwhals[1], I occupied myself more usefully. Between two ordinary tasks, I reread the list of all the murders in the region, solved or not, for a century. Not going as far as a hundred years, I concentrated on the period corresponding to the life expectancy of the victim. It seemed to me then to be a story of revenge. However, when I discussed it with the captain, I affirmed that the culprit was most certainly Mr. Timere. He seemed in fact the only person who gained something from the affair, because the law allowed him to buy for nothing the shares of his partner, who died without an heir and whose considerable fortune therefore returned to the city. Of course, this was just one hypothesis among many, although the captain understood that this was my final conclusion. We had no evidence against the suspect anyway, so we could do nothing. However, it seemed unlikely to me, judging by his reactions, that he was the author of the papers. If some people fear the dead who are dead, I am haunted by someone who should be dead, but was not. A ghost from my past, known to the press as ¡°Nemesis.¡± A strange creature, with blood-red hair, pursuing with hatred what she considered injustices. Abusive possessors and unknown murderers feared her intervention. I thought for a moment that she was the author of this masquerade, but I brushed aside this fleeting doubt myself. It was not her writing style and it lacked the symbol of her crimes. Moreover, her modus operandi did not include killing the culprits herself. However, in this case, it was obvious that it was not a suicide and that there was still a murderer on the loose. I was then occupying a small apartment in the underground center of Bruma, in a pension with an acceptable rent run by an old lady: Mrs. Granite. She was a person with a changeable character depending on the time of day. The agents of the Watch had quickly learned, at their expense, that it was better not to knock on her door during the night hours and that she was quick to hit with her cane when she was half awake. So, when a case came up late, on nights when I was off duty, I often found an agent asleep on the porch in the morning. That morning, while the street lamp adjusters were adjusting their brightness to match dawn, the one who came to get me was still awake. So, hastily swallowing a slice of bread for breakfast, I was quickly at the scene of a new crime. The corpse had been discovered in the ornamental garden of the mining guild, a whim of this very rich association. Installing trees and flowers so far underground involved special oxygen ventilation, chosen temperatures and significant brightness during the day cycles, which was not cheap to allow their visitors to stroll in this vegetated environment. During the night, a hand sticking out of the ground had scared a band of drunks who had entered it, but they had had the good sense to report their discovery to the Watch. This one had been a little less savvy about its handling of the crime. I found the body already dug up, the clues carefully piled up in a mess and a scene manager unable to tell me exactly what the initial positions of each element looked like. The captain was also on the scene, but Mister Obsidian simply shrugged his shoulders at my complaint, disregarding the importance that the initial positioning of each object could have. Because, the case was similar to the previous one and the victim was Pala Timere, the other owner of the mining company. The fact that he was buried like this, near the guild managing the questions regarding his activity, could just as much be a clue as a false lead. In a murderous mood, quite justifiable, I sifted through the piled objects, while Doctor Alun, the doctor, took care of studying the remains. A broken shovel, an old rusty war axe, a butcher''s knife, an empty purse, a duck quill, a piece of wood, and a compass. None of these objects were in their place in this garden, confirming my suspicions about their importance. There was also a tiny chest, identical to the previous one and also containing a message. Of course, the corpse''s hand was also clutching a piece of paper filled with mediocre verses. The type of writing was the same as the first time, and once this detail was confirmed, I began my reading with the poetry: Seven dwarves on the dead man''s chest... And one more gold! The shovel is buried... And one share less! So, there were six or seven victims left that this strange maniac wanted to eliminate, depending on whether one assumed that the last one had to survive to seize the chest, and whether the dead man was the eighth or one of the seven mentioned at the beginning. There could even be eight victims left, depending on the interpretation¡­ I was leaning towards the number six. My old friend, I feel a little less alone now. I would like to reunite us all once more, though. Meet me where the oath was taken. You have nothing to fear from me. Nothing to fear? An obvious lie, but perhaps it had been enough to deceive the victim. So, there was an oath¡­ That didn¡¯t help me much. Turning to the doctor, I looked for other clues. ¡°So, doctor?¡± I asked. ¡°What can you tell me?¡± Doctor Ponce Alun was a thin individual with an extremely short white beard, deliberately ravaged so, he said, that it wouldn¡¯t get dipped in the blood of his patients. Although he also treated the living, this ironic old man had gradually become the police¡¯s official doctor, specializing in criminology. ¡°Oh,¡± he replied, ¡°I can tell you a lot of things. Did you know that air ducts sweeps can be subject to claustrophobia after an accident? I had a case like that the other day¡­¡± ¡°On the victim!¡± Of course, he knew that this was the subject that interested me at the moment. This talkative old man liked to dissertate about anything and everything, to keep his interlocutors waiting and patiently choose the moment when he would finally give them the answer to their question. Knowing that this could take the form of ¡°Sorry, you won¡¯t make it through the night.¡± or ¡°Maybe it¡¯s time to write your testament, don¡¯t you think?¡±, it was likely that this babbling was initially intended to occupy the patients¡¯ minds to soften the harshness of the revelations. When he worked for the police, this kind of attitude was only a sinister form of amusement, perhaps to distract himself from the horrors that his expert eyes analyzed with coldness. ¡°Of course, my dear investigator, of course... So, cause of death: strangulation. There is the mark of the rope, here. Judging from the state of his nails, the victim tried in vain to remove this rope that caused death, but I did not detect any trace of a real struggle. I suppose he was surprised. The agony was not too long and the death dates back to... I would say a little more than a day... Certainly not less.¡± ¡°The gardeners come every day to maintain this place,¡± I noted, ¡°and there are also many members of the guild passing by during opening hours... I imagine that like the previous one, this one did not die where we found him...¡± 2 Having learned nothing more, after questioning the gardeners and guild staff, I found myself in a very bad mood all day. The elements of this story passed and replayed in my head, without anything indicating to me what it could mean.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Without heirs, the fortune of the two owners went to the State, while the mines would be sold at auction by their guild. The competition in this field was not fierce enough to justify the physical elimination of a competitor, so the motives for these murders seemed to me all the more to be revenge. From whom? Certainly not from a dead. Why? I had not the shadow of the beginning of an idea. The following days taught me nothing more and the few common affairs made little demand on my superior intellect. 3 As an event finally brought me some hope of a clue, I was walking briskly towards my destination when a voice called out to me. ¡°Mr. Goldeneye! Mr. Goldeneye!¡± I considered running, but that would not have been an elegant attitude. My eyes nevertheless searched the surroundings for an escape route, before I resigned myself and turned around. ¡°Miss Marble... You never seem busy whenever my path crosses yours...¡± Of course, Mo?ra Marble lived with her uncle, a wealthy merchant: she did not need to work to live, like any self-respecting lady of good society. However, I dared to hope that she would find another hobby than hanging around after me. Embroidery, dominoes, gossip... anything, but something that would keep her a little busy, but especially away from me. She was holding a newspaper in her hand, the poor-quality paper already tearing under the agitation to which she subjected it. As she handed it to me, with the same hand that held her umbrella, she almost bumped into me with the latter. I thought then that I would never understand why women''s fashion involved wearing useless accessories, but the umbrella was certainly the most ridiculous of all, especially given the predominantly underground nature of our city. ¡°Look!¡± she exclaimed. ¡°Did you see?¡± I squinted at the crumpled sheet that was flailing, much too close to my face, catching a few lines in passing. ¡°The inauguration of the Kyanite Square Opera House, after its renovation?¡± She glanced in surprise at the news I was reading, then adjusted the newspaper as best she could to point to the obituaries section. I saw there the announcement of the funeral of Pala Sternutatio and Pala Timere, which would take place in a room of the former headquarters of their company. Nothing new for me. ¡°Did you see? You should go there, maybe you would find some clues?¡± ¡°I know: where did you think I was going?¡± ¡°Oh?¡± She looked disappointed, certainly hoping to be useful to me within the narrow limits of her weak abilities. That did not prevent her from accompanying me and questioning me about this ¡°fascinating affair¡±. Although I doubted that she would be able to understand half of my reasoning or remember a quarter of my explanations, I told her during our trip what I had found at the second crime scene. Her interest in criminal matters was probably not genuine, although it was a persistent fashion in bourgeois circles. I nevertheless enjoyed these monologues with her, using her as a soundbox: my own explanations coming back to me, distorted by the naive young woman, allowed me to see them in a new light that helped me develop new theories. Not having much new to say, due to the mismanagement of the Watch whose incompetence I emphasized, I soon found myself short of material for a conversation. This one therefore drifted towards trivialities; subjects of which Moira never seemed to be short. ¡°Mr. Golden Eye, I was wondering a question, which I hope is not indiscreet... There you go... I have seen you without a hat for several days. You were also without a cane, until today, so I assume that you had lost it, but fortunately found it. What a pity that the hat was not present where you found it!¡± I took it upon myself to keep an impassive face, but the question was disturbing. It was obvious that a man, especially of my condition, had to go out properly dressed. If wearing a hat was a social necessity, wearing a cane demonstrated a certain dignity. My poverty was very great at that time and I was certainly not going to expose it in public, and even less in front of Mo?ra. The month''s salary had allowed me to get my cane back from the pawnbroker where I had left it. However, considering the money needed for my daily expenses and the significant debts left by my late father, I had not had the means to get my hat back and had had to resolve to leave it permanently. If I had chosen the cane over the hat, it was because the latter was a work tool, hiding a long, sharp blade in its cylindrical shape. However, I wondered if, for my prestige, I should not have chosen the opposite. ¡°I don''t have much time to think about such details anymore,¡± I claimed, ¡°while this affair occupies my thoughts.¡± She looked at my apparent dedication to work with admiration, but I couldn''t help but feel worried that she might one day discover my destitution. She might then insist that I accept some money from her, which would be very humiliating. Fortunately, we were approaching my destination and I quickened my pace to get there more quickly. 4 The great hall of the Sternutatio & Timere society was now the property of the city, but it was bound to hold a proper wake there for those whose deaths brought a lot of money. I imagined for a moment a plot by our leaders to get our finances back on track, but I immediately abandoned this grotesque idea when I remembered the lamentable way in which they managed public money... if only they used it to increase the emoluments of the inspectors... A servant opened the door for us and dared to throw me a contemptuous look. I clearly saw his eyes go from my bare head to my old coat, stopping in astonishment on the cane with the engraved knob. He changed his attitude when I introduced myself and brandished the ring certifying my rank. Now refraining from displaying his judgment on his face, he let us in, arbitrarily assuming that Mo?ra was also authorized to enter since she was accompanying me. There was a funeral buffet and beer, as was the custom. The deceased had already been sealed in stone recumbent effigies that would later be taken to the city¡¯s catacombs. Despite the impressive size of the room, there were few people, which was not surprising given the absence of an heir. Excluding the servants who brought refreshments, I counted six people, a figure that immediately resonated with my theories. Seeing us arrive, the friends of the deceased approached with an expression of curiosity on their faces. There were five men and a woman, all well-dressed. One of them had a natural ascendant and addressed me without waiting for the others, as if he were their representative. Sexagenarian, like the others, he wore small pince-nez on the end of his nose. His beard had been curled before being braided, which prevented it from hanging too low. His chic clothes were embroidered with the coat of arms of the Science Guild. ¡°Greetings,¡± he said, ¡°my name is Circino Magister, an esteemed member of the Academy of Sciences and a rank eight researcher¡­ soon to be nine, in fact, without wanting to brag. We didn¡¯t expect anyone more.¡± While being cordial, the man imposed his authority. It wasn¡¯t just pride, but I could sense a defensive posture, wary of me. Without letting myself be put off, I answered humbly, introducing myself: ¡°I am the famous detective Ga?n Goldeneye, whom you must have heard of since you seem like cultured people. I am also the inspector in charge of the present case.¡± The man said he was delighted, but I immediately sensed a tenseness in the features of my interlocutors, a few glances exchanged¡­ they didn¡¯t seem delighted by the presence of a police officer at their little funeral gathering. ¡°And who is this charming young lady?¡± Ah, yes, I said to myself, I had forgotten. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s just Mo?ra¡­ er, I mean, Miss Marble. A friend who accompanied me.¡± A friend? Was she? Surely, to the extent that friends are a kind of parasite that one must put up with on a daily basis while avoiding grimacing too much. I was not myself a great specialist in questions of friendship, but that had no importance in my work: I had seen many so-called friends of victims who turned out to be their murderers, so my lack of knowledge in the field prevented me from having the bias of believing them innocent under the pretext of their relationship. The others also introduced themselves one by one and, following an example initiated by Mr. Magister, hand-kissing Mo?ra, with the exception of course of the lady who contented herself with a curtsy to which Miss Marble responded somewhat awkwardly. She seemed a little embarrassed by all this sudden attention, and perhaps also by the fact that some, doubtless not accustomed to courtesy, had slightly drooled on her gloves. But the attention she was momentarily the object of was only illusory: I could see from their looks that she did not matter to them. I was the only one who worried them. So, there was, in order of introduction: First of all, Alba Magister, who happened to be the wife of Circino Magister. Tall, a good head taller than her husband, she was a good lady with a pleasant air. She wore an elegant dress with puffed sleeves, with a velvet jacket. Clothing that dated from a fashion that had been gone for a decade. Nevertheless, subtle details, such as the shape of her hat and the various ribbons on her outfit, indicated that she still took care of her wardrobe. She also wore some jewelry that, like the brooches her husband wore, indicated a follower of scholarly fashion, namely this habit of representing stylized gears in these trinkets for no good reason. She and her husband also displayed gold pocket watches, slipped into pockets of their jackets and vests, small enough to allow half of the device to emerge. Then it was Pluma Malevolum, a cantankerous notary squeezed into a very formal outfit but denoting a certain ease. He eyed me with more suspicion than all the others and tried to crush my hand when he shook it, denoting a strength uncommon in a man accustomed to handling the pen. He then walked away, careful not to turn his back on me, his hostility barely concealed. Then there was Securis Stultus, a bald and beardless man who was once the leader of the Guard, before his retirement. I already knew him from having met him on another occasion, but he was less cordial than I remembered, although always smiling. He was not a very smart man, but he was considered brave and honest. I did not exclude, however, that he could have some agenda hidden behind his innocent appearance. Then, looking exhausted and with a very long beard, came Pera Somnum. He was an important banker in our city, even having a permanent seat on the city council, although he did not do much there. I did not think I had met him before, but it was possible that his presence, so insignificant, had not marked me enough for me to deign to engrave it in my infallible memory. Finally, I knew the last person: Ignis Felix. This jovial man was the owner of the Bruma geothermal plants, which made him one of the richest men in the city. Although I did not appreciate such a friendly character, Mr. Felix seemed to consider himself my friend. However, in his greetings and his circumstantial questions, I noted a stiffness that slightly tightened his smile. Considering these six characters, I told myself that they were probably all future victims, unless one of them, if not several, was the murderer. In any case, they were hiding something because their confusion went well beyond that of simple usual suspects.
[1] ¡°Chasing narwhals¡±: Unlike chimeras, which are the result of sordid experiments, and unicorns, which are a rare but real fairy species, it is obvious that narwhals, a kind of sea unicorn, are legendary creatures born from the fertile imagination of some authors of ancient times. Chasing narwhals is an expression indicating the pursuit of imaginary things...