Free The Paris Enigma by Pablo De Santis Page A

satisfied with something stripped of all scientific rigor; Tobias Hatter doesn’t want to be taken for a toy maker and instead gives me nothing. You’re all hiding your secrets and I’m stuck with empty cases.”
    I edged close to Baldone and, whispering, asked him to identify the detectives. Many I knew from the magazines I read in BuenosAires, which compiled their exploits with hagiographic devotion. But seeing them in person wasn’t the same as looking at the ink drawings that illustrated The Key to Crime and Suspicion . The artists usually emphasized one feature or expression yet, in the parlor, each face said many things at once.
    Up until now they had all been speaking in a playful, slightly exaggerated tone, but now a serious, impatient voice was heard.
    â€œSirs, you may be on vacation, but this is my city and I still have to work just like any other day.”
    The man who had spoken was about sixty years old, with white hair and beard. While all the others had some exotic touch to their attire, as if they wanted to be recognized as exceptional beings, this veteran detective was indistinguishable from any other Parisian gentleman.
    â€œThat’s Louis Darbon,” said Baldone into my ear. “Arzaky and Darbon have both claimed the title of Detective of Paris. But since Arzaky is Polish, he faces a lot of resistance. Some time ago, Arzaky proposed they each take one side of the Seine, but Darbon refused.”
    â€œWe understand your situation, and your shock at our appetite for leisure, and we’ll forgive your early departure, Mr. Darbon,” said Arzaky with a smile.
    Darbon approached Arzaky defiantly. They were almost the same height.
    â€œBefore leaving I want to express my displeasure at the way things are being handled. What are all these meetings that you insist on having? Should we bow down before methodology? Are we priests of a new cult? A sect? No, we are detectives and we have to show results.”
    â€œResults aren’t everything, Mr. Darbon. There is a beauty in the enigma that sometimes makes us forget the result…. Also we need a bit of leisure, after-dinner chats. We are professionals, but there is no detective that isn’t also a bit of a dilettante. We are travelers, driven by the winds of coincidence and distraction to the locked room that hides the crime.”
    â€œTravelers? I’m no traveler, no foreigner, God help me. But I am in a hurry, and I am not going to argue with you of all people, Arzaky, over principles or countries of origin.”
    Louis Darbon made a general gesture of farewell. Arthur Neska, his assistant, moved to follow him, but Darbon made a spirited gesture that told him to stay.
    â€œDarbon is leaving, but he wants to find out every word Arzaky says,” said Baldone into my ear.
    A gentleman dressed in a white suit with bright blue details, more appropriate to a theatrical costume than to a detective’s work clothing, came forward. He clapped with reprehensible affectation; behind me I heard the acolytes’ stifled laughter. I gestured to Baldone, silently asking him who it was.
    â€œThat’s Andres Castelvetia.”
    â€œThe Dutchman?”
    â€œYes, Magrelli tried to block his acceptance as a full member, but it didn’t work.”
    Arzaky gave Castelvetia the floor.
    â€œIf you’ll allow me, gentlemen, I’ll be the first to talk about enigmas. And I will do so, if you’ll forgive me, with a metaphor.”
    â€œGo ahead,” said Arzaky. “Free us from our obsession with invisible clues, cigarette butts, and train schedules. And don’t be embarrassed: during the day we worship syllogisms, but the night belongs to the metaphor.”

5
    T hus spoke Castelvetia:
    â€œThere is an oft-used image that best defines our work: the jigsaw puzzle. It’s a cliché, but what is more like our investigations than the patient search for a hidden picture? We put the