ã€ŠEight Dwarves on a chestã€‹


 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...The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    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]</a>, 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.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

    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.

    <hr>

    [1]</a> ¡°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...

 Chapter 3

    1

    We then engaged in discussion, progressing slowly towards the subject of the deaths of their two friends, Mr. Magister being my main interlocutor. Knowing the high position, or the loquacity, of some of the other guests, I found this fact strange. What could give this scholar the prerogative over his friends? I suspected some old connections and noticed a detail that had been running through my mind since they had introduced themselves:

    ¡°Tell me,¡± I said, ¡°your names all have strange connotations, without wishing to offend you. They are not among the most common last name.¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± agreed Mr. Magister, ¡°it is that we are originally from the city of Pumilio. We once immigrated together, nearly half a century ago, settling in Bruma and its vicinity. Although we have each taken up a different activity since then, we have kept in annual contact... Our meeting this year will unfortunately have been brought forward, due to these tragic circumstances.¡±

    Pumilio was an allied city that was located to the west of our territory, beyond the Iceteeth Mountains. This major geographical obstacle had contributed greatly to maintaining good relations between our kingdoms, as it drastically limited any significant expansion into the other''s territory. It had been quite natural for our common ancestors to ally against the other cities. The last war was about half a century ago and had not turned out to Pumilio''s advantage, its territory having been raided by the enemy, which had at the time generated a wave of refugees among their allies, including Bruma. Some had obviously stayed when the situation had calmed down.

    ¡°Do you have any idea what could have happened?¡±

    ¡°Not the slightest. We were told that the police suspected a murder and, given your presence here, I believe that the investigation is still ongoing.¡±

    ¡°Oh, so you don''t know the details?¡±

    ¡°Well, not yet. I suppose you could enlighten us on this subject, to the extent of the elements you can divulge.¡±

    There was no reason to hide this information: if the murderer were among them, which I suspected without certainty, he would already know the ins and outs of the case. It would always be interesting to judge the reaction of these people to the various elements, to detect some clues, perhaps even false leads which, by their existence, could reveal many things.

    So, I explained the case, keeping to myself the fact that we knew that the bodies had been moved from the place of their murder: the criminal could be unaware that we had discovered this.

    They listened to me, reacting with grimaces and clenched teeth to the description of the state of the deceased. The mention of the found objects seemed to intrigue them, but without any real reservation on their part. However, the content of the poem sent a chill through the room.

    ¡°Do you have any idea what that could mean?¡±

    Mister Magister pretended to think, then shrugged.

    ¡°Not the slightest idea. I suppose the murderers were after their mining business. Some internal problem in their guild, perhaps.¡±

    ¡°However,¡± I replied, ¡°the deceased did not own any gold mines¡­¡±

    ¡°Gold most likely refers to the currency produced by the exploitation of their mines.¡±

    He hadn''t let me finish my sentence, which increased my suspicions. Fortunately, the least smart of the group then spoke up:

    ¡°Maybe it''s about our common gold mine?¡±

    Furious looks fell on Mr. Stultus. The less hostile ones, that of Ignis Felix in particular, indicated more weariness than annoyance. Bouncing on the question, I immediately asked what mine he was talking about. Immediately, Mr. Magister walked in front of Mr. Stultus, so that he was no longer facing me, but he himself was beaten by Mr. Malevolum who stood in front of me with a threatening air.

    Without flinching or backing down, I gave him an icy look in return.

    ¡°That''s none of your business!¡± he protested. ¡°You have no right to poke your nose into our private affairs!¡±

    ¡°Wait, Pluma,¡± said Mr. Magister, ¡°if we don''t answer a little, our friend the inspector will imagine anything...¡±

    The notary had to bow reluctantly, but he did not admit his wrongdoing. He turned his back on me, so that he could still keep an eye on me, and crossed his arms with an angry look.

    ¡°Would you believe that," explained Mr. Magister, ¡°we were originally a mining company. A mining association, to be exact. We had a mine, somewhere in the foothills of Iceteeth.¡±

    ¡°The gold mine...¡±

    ¡°Well no. It was...¡±

    ¡°A diamond mine!¡± interrupted Mr. Stultus excitedly. ¡°Beautiful diamonds of all colors!¡±

    Mr. Magister scowled without saying anything, but Mr. Malevolum took the initiative to reprimand his comrade:

    ¡°Good Lord, do you always need to talk nonsense? In any case, it doesn''t concern the inspector. He has the right to ask us questions related to the investigation, but here, it touches on our personal history: he is overstepping his prerogatives!¡±

    I instinctively brought my hand to my beard, as my suspicions grew. Indeed, Mr. Malevolum was a competent notary who knew the law... Above all, all these characters were influential enough to seriously limit my possibilities of questioning, where someone less important would be more uncertain of the limits of my right.

    However, Mr. Magister calmed the situation and slightly reduced my suspicions.

    ¡°Well, Pluma,¡± he said, ¡°these are not big secrets. I suppose that if the inspector suspects us of something, it is better to tell him everything...¡±

    This seemed to encourage Mr. Stultus who began to babble a few explanations before the cantankerous Mr. Malevolum gagged him with his hand:

    ¡°Ah, then in that case, I will continue: there were lots of diamonds of all colors there. It was really magnificent. We went to work every morning and I broke the defective diamonds to make powder and... Mmm? Mmm?¡±

    Looks of satisfaction or compassion greeted the break in these explanations and the scholar Magister continued:

    ¡°They were not really diamonds. You must excuse my friend Securis: he has always said a lot of stupid things and it doesn''t get any better with age. He has a certain natural condition that makes him... naiver than average. He is often a little lost in his own world...¡±

    ¡°And if it wasn''t diamonds or gold, what was it?¡±

    ¡°Glass. To be exact, it was a particular category of sandy earth that had been vitrified by particular emanations of the Gas, this famous source of the strange powers of the Greats and the Elves. The latter bought from us those of these crystals that had a certain quality...¡±

    ¡°And at a low price!¡± Mr. Malevolum growled. ¡°I always told you that you should have negotiated more: I am sure that at home, they resold them for a thousand times more! But, no: you never listen to my advice, because Mister Magister knows better than everyone else¡±

    ¡°Ah, no: you are not going to start again! It was a long time ago...¡±

    ¡°And I was right.¡±

    ¡°So be it, so be it... let''s say you were right.¡±

    But, visibly rolling his eyes, the scholar clearly indicated that he didn''t think a word of what he was saying. The notary saw it and with an angry ¡°Bah!¡±, walked away to brood in his corner. I resumed the conversation with the leader of their little group:

    ¡°And, this ¡®diamond¡¯ powder?¡±

    ¡°Well... let''s say it was a material sought after by... chemists... In any case, it was half a century ago: there is a prescription. And then, it wasn''t even on Bruma territory.¡±

    I could see perfectly well what kind of chemist would use this type of material. I did not have enough knowledge in the field to know its exact use, but given the confusion of my interlocutors, I easily assumed that it could be the production of some drugs or other illegal substances. However, it had indeed taken place a long time ago and in another territory: it was therefore of no importance.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°And how did you come to the gold mine?¡±

    ¡°The war, of course. We had heard that there were many enemy soldiers who were combing the countryside and several mining operations had seen their members massacred by these thugs. So, we preferred to abandon everything and cross the mountains to reach the territory of Bruma...¡±

    ¡°And it was on the way that we found gold,¡± Mr. Malevolum interrupted, ¡°end of story, goodbye.¡±

    Mr. Magister grimaced, unhappy to have been interrupted, but nodded:

    ¡°There you go. An almost inaccessible mine, deep in the Iceteeth Mountains, on the Bruma side. So, we registered our mine locally and it brought us enough to give each of us a good start in this city, which is now our home. As you can see, there is little connection with the misfortune that befell our friends. If I were you, I would rather look towards their mine. Perhaps they had a dispute with some of their workers? They are quite rough people and some are worse than that.¡±

    He seemed to have forgotten that he had started his career in this category of population that he was currently decrying. I found his eagerness to redirect my investigation in this direction suspicious, especially since we had already vaguely explored this idea, without the slightest success. Of course, the captain continued this lead even though I had told him that it was futile.

    After a few more questions about the deceased, which told me nothing except that these men were unaware of any problems their unfortunate comrades had, I was about to leave when a detail caught my attention. Among the trinkets that adorned Mr. Magister¡¯s jacket, there was one, worn, made of fabric, a simple embroidered circle that contrasted with the luxury of his other insignia. What caught my eye was that this same badge also appeared on Mr. Somnum¡¯s waistcoat, on Mr. Felix¡¯s and on a shoulder pin of Mrs. Magister. I also remembered seeing it pinned to the jacket of the second victim, a detail that had not seemed very important to me at the time but which had remained in my memory. The image of the small embroidered badge represented a pickaxe.

    ¡°Excuse me,¡± I said to Mr. Magister, ¡°what does this badge you are wearing mean?¡±

    I saw in his gaze that he briefly checked the visibility of these objects among his comrades, confirming that my question came from this observation. He was an intelligent person whose words I would have to carefully dissect, once I would have some peace, for fear that he had played me with answers that distracted me from what they were trying to hide.

    ¡°Oh, that? Well, it''s simply the symbol of our mining company. Although the mine is in the process of being exhausted, it represents what binds us...¡±

    ¡°I see that you don''t all wear it.¡±

    ¡°Well, I suppose that my friend Securis lost his... You should think about asking Alba for another one.¡±

    The former head of the guards smiled sheepishly and nodded. It was amusing to see that this man, who had a certain authority during his military career, was so submissive in this circle of his friends. Alba sighed slightly, but addressed the bald man sympathetically and assured him that there was no problem. Digging through her purse, she found several copies that she was keeping for this specific case and promised that she would take a moment to sew it, if he would let her have his vest after the ceremony.

    ¡°As for Pluma,¡± the scholar continued, ¡°he tends to swim a bit against the tide...¡±

    ¡°I do what I want!¡± protested the man. ¡°And I don''t have to justify it!¡±

    2

    I took my leave, this time for good. I had thought of leaving Mo?ra behind, but she also said her goodbyes and joined me. Having hoped for a quiet moment to review the elements of this investigation in my head, I decided to be patient and endure her chatter.

    While I was questioning the victims'' friends, she had apparently been talking to Mrs. Magister about unimportant feminine subjects. The old lady with a long-life experience, informing the silly young lady about points that did not concern me and that I did not want to take the trouble to imagine. Apparently, something in their discussion had bothered Mo?ra and, after having mentioned a few subjects that she herself did not consider to be the heart of the conversation, I felt from the oscillation in her voice that she was finally bringing up the point that interested her:

    ¡°Tell me, Goldeneye, do you think that a good wife must also be a good cook?¡±

    I glanced at her, observing a certain worry on her face, then I made up my mind and gave her an affirmative answer.

    Not having much of an opinion on the matter, I stuck to the generally accepted view. Even ladies of high quality boasted of having some cooking skills and, from time to time, produced themselves, without servants, small cakes for their friends. A way of discreetly showing off. However, I guessed that Moira¡¯s concern was on another level and therefore considered that the affirmative answer might be the one that embarrassed her the most and that, potentially, could force her to find something to do, other than accompanying me.

    ¡°Oh,¡± she said with an air of disappointment, ¡°I¡­ maybe I should get started then¡­ Madam Magister said she could teach me the basics, if I wanted. She is an accomplished cook herself. Besides, it was as a cook and a housekeeper that she had joined the group when they were still in Pumilio territory. While they were working at their mine, she took care of the household chores¡­ Ah, she wasn¡¯t a high society lady back then, but now she¡¯s one of the most respectable in town¡­ Still¡­ Is cooking so complicated? My uncle taught me the basics of chemistry, so I guess I could manage¡­ After all, cooking is another form of chemistry, isn¡¯t it? With generally less dangerous ingredients, huh?¡±

    The chatterbox was feverish, waiting for a word of encouragement from me. I had no doubt that she was capable of messing up even a simple dish, but it was better for me that she continues on this path, allowing me to benefit more often from the peace and quiet essential to my intellectual activity.

    ¡°Well,¡± I told her, ¡°you have to try. There will inevitably be failures, lots of failures, but if you work at it long, long hours, you might be able to do more or less well in a few decades.¡±

    I felt a little remorse at these words: thinking about it a little more, I realized that she might well decide to let me taste the results of her culinary experiments.

    She remained silent for a moment, looking a little shocked at the idea of ??the task that now seemed essential to her. Of course, she finally spoke again:

    ¡°I¡­ I suppose I¡¯ll try to contact Madam Magister again, to take her up on her offer. She left me her address: I should write her a letter to tell her. She¡¯s a very nice lady, you know? She even gave me this, for my collection.¡±

    I stopped abruptly, to avoid my nose crushing against her small, slender-fingered hand that proudly held up a little something between its fingers. Stepping back slightly, I saw that it was the crest of the small group''s mining association.

    In a black circle, there was a stylized pickaxe, upright. It was embroidered in color with great attention to detail, including an excellent representation of the curves of the metal part, with a pick part and a spade part, separated by a sort of schematic diamond. The handle was crossed with nine slanted lines, which I quickly assumed to be a representation of leather straps: I had heard that some miners preferred to wrap them around the wooden handles of their tools, to avoid splinters due to rough carvings done by themselves, for reasons of economy. Under the pickaxe, the motto of the association was ¡°AURUM CONGREGA¡±, in yellow letters. It meant ¡°collecting gold¡± or ¡°gold brings us together¡±: a fairly basic motto, but classic in small mining associations. On the rest of the edge, seven mountains were drawn, the last one surmounting the pickaxe, and I thought that this must indicate in some way the location of the mine. Observing the diamond more closely, I saw that it had eight visible facets and that it was surrounded by a golden circle.

    Of course, I had already observed all these details before. Nevertheless, determined not to just waste my time with this poison that occupied my precious minutes with her imposed presence, I took advantage of this moment to engrave more carefully the smallest detail in my memories.

    ¡°For your collection, you say?¡±

    I still sometimes found myself intrigued by the whims that could agitate this little brain that admired me so much.

    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, ¡°a collection of guild insignias.¡±

    ¡°How many do you have, at the moment?¡±

    ¡°That is to say¡­ two¡­ I just started the collection¡­¡±

    I raised my eyebrows, surprised in spite of myself. The simple little mysteries of Mo?ra¡¯s life remained mysteries and, by that very fact, sometimes drew my attention away from essential things, such as my investigation.

    ¡°Well. It¡¯s sudden¡­¡±

    ¡°But¡­ but¡­ I know a lot about it. I mean, guild badges.¡±

    ¡°Is it related to the other badge in your new collection?¡±

    ¡°Exactly! It¡¯s extraordinary: how did you guess? I already have, through my uncle, a guild badge, the Chemistry one¡­ Well, this new badge is that of a company and not a guild, but they follow the same customary rules¡­ Ah, in fact, I even have three badges in my collection, since I also have the one from my uncle¡¯s company. It must be in my bedside table¡­ Or in my clothes chest¡­ Or maybe in my wardrobe? Ah¡­ I¡¯ll have to find it to add it to my collection¡­¡±

    I sighed: Mo?ra was herself and, fortunately, unique¡­

    ¡°So, you really know about it?¡±

    ¡°Of course, I know about guild customs. My uncle is a valued member of the Chemistry Guild. It''s a guild that brings together all professions that handle the transformation of substances. Chemical designers, cosmetic producers, pharmacists, and a certain number of scientist professions are part of it...¡±

    She talked a lot, like all those who have little to say and try to show off the smallest bits of knowledge they have been able to gather. Quickly running out of information to transmit, she bounced back to the new badge of her recent collection:

    ¡°And... uh... for example, by looking at these symbols, I can say... Well, there''s a pickaxe, so it''s a mining company.¡±

    I waited a moment for her to speak again and couldn''t help but smile at her silence that was driving her to despair. It was like a spur that forced her to find something else to say.

    ¡°And, uh¡­ there¡¯s a diamond¡­ Maybe they found diamonds in their gold mine?¡±

    ¡°That would be quite surprising.¡±

    It wasn¡¯t impossible, actually. Some of the largest known gold mines had started out as diamond mines. However, in this case, I assumed it was a reference to their previous activity, having some knowledge of guild customs myself. Even though it was far from my field of expertise, I had always considered it important to take an interest in various subjects, never knowing what knowledge might be useful to my investigations.

    ¡°Then, I can also say that they found their gold in mountains, that¡¯s¡­ probably why there are mountains.¡±

    I thought of an ironic remark about her deductive abilities, but I immediately abandoned the idea, for fear that she would not grasp the second degree and would now overestimate her abilities. Nevertheless, she seemed desperate to impress me and pulled out her trump card:

    ¡°And they chose the word ¡®Congrega¡¯, because it contains eight letters and there are eight of them.¡±

    ¡°Are you sure about that? Did Madam Magister tell you?¡±

    ¡°No... I mean, yes, I am sure, but no: Madam Magister did not mention this detail to me. She only translated for me the fact that the word ¡®Aurum¡¯ means ¡®gold¡¯. However, I know that the custom of associations is to inscribe on their crest some detail indicating the initial number of associates. Here, it is most certainly the eight letters of this word.¡±

    ¡°Or the eight faces of the diamond.¡±

    ¡°That is... that is also possible.¡±

    It was even more likely than her absurd hypothesis. However, I had to admit to myself that, for once, Mo?ra had taught me something. It didn''t really matter then, but anything that could enrich my immense knowledge was welcome.

 Chapter 4

    1

    I almost welcomed the news of a new murder similar to the others. Of course, I didn''t show this feeling, but I felt even better when I realized that this time, probably still remembering my threats from the last time, the Watch had not made a mess of my crime scene: everything was in its place.

    This time, I had the feeling that I was finally going to solve the mystery that had been occupying my brain for the past few days.

    The dead man was found by his housekeeper, hanging from a beam of his home by a strong rope. The good lady had immediately fled the scene screaming and the Watch had intervened, securing the scene of the crime.

    The victim was Securis Stultus. His empty gaze, hardly more intelligent than when he was alive but clearly less friendly, contemplated those who entered the small house he owned in a very ordinary part of the city.

    Despite the share he was to receive annually from the gold of their association and despite his pension as former head of the Guards, the man seemed of a spendthrift nature that had not allowed him as great a success as his comrades. This was evident in the ordinary appearance of his house and in the pile of miscellaneous objects, most of them useless, that occupied it.

    The housekeeper assured us that he was a good man, very generous, and that she was in no way responsible for his murder. He had even lent her large sums of money on several occasions, without ever asking her to return them.

    My keen eye immediately detected the usual clues. A cord closed the dead man''s right hand, certainly holding a piece of paper in it.

    On the ground, at her feet, a circle of now too familiar objects surrounded an axe with a broken handle. I saw a quill pen, a bread knife, a lantern, a compass and an apparently empty purse.

    I ordered a Watch agent, Sergeant Thorg Rubis, to go and get me a stepladder high enough to reach the deceased. He came back with the object, but accompanied by Mo?ra.

    I threw a furious look at my colleague who made discreet signs to assure me that he had nothing to do with it and that she had followed him. If that was indeed the case, he could have refused her access! Captain Obsidian''s smirk informed me that there was indeed a plot on his part and that the unfortunate sergeant had received instructions.

    But other visitors were arriving on their heels. In full, the five other assistants of the funeral wake were there. Leaving the captain to manage their arrival, I went up to the corpse and removed from his hand the poem that was indeed there. I also discovered a surprising deformation of one of his pockets, which turned out to be a small carved chest like those of the other times.

    ¡°Detective!¡± Mr. Magister ordered. ¡°Tell us what happened.¡±

    Going down to their level, I signaled to Doctor Alun, who had just entered, to take care of the dead man. Me, I would make sure that the living did not disturb my crime scene too much.

    ¡°You claimed that this case did not concern you. But it is now clear that it¡¯s indeed you that this mysterious murderer has it in for.¡±

    The scholar gritted his teeth, but did not reply. There was some whispering within their group, then Mr. Malevolum rather impolitely demanded that I read them the documents I had just found. Although I didn''t appreciate his manners, I complied, carefully observing the audience''s reactions.

    Six dwarves on the dead man''s chest...

    And one more gold!

    The axe has been hung up...

    And one share less!

    They shifted uncomfortably, but did nothing more suspicious. So, I moved on to reading the paper in the little chest, as I had done the other times:

    Stultus, I am very glad to see you again.

    Do you remember our discovery in the mountains?

    Do you remember when you remained silent while I was being killed?

    We hope to hear from you again, where we are.

    Looking suspiciously at the next five ¡°Dwarves¡±, I urged them to tell me the truth:

    ¡°Okay. What''s this story? I know you all know something you haven''t told me.¡±

    ¡°You''re making it up,¡± protested Mr. Magister, trying to remain polite. ¡°We don''t understand this charade at all, except that it''s the work of a madman. It''s probably a way to divert your investigation from the real suspect. A false lead.¡±

    ¡°However,¡± I affirmed, ¡°I''m sure Mr. Stultus would have many things to tell me, if he weren''t dead. From the little I knew him; he had always been a man who answered honestly and without thinking too much... I have the impression that if he''s the victim this time, it''s to silence him, to conceal what you''re hiding from me.¡±

    They all began to protest at the same time, in an inaudible cacophony. Inwardly, I still wondered. On the one hand, the murderer was leaving us clues about their motive. On the other, they were eliminating the one who might have inadvertently divulged the truth? I concluded that the murderer wanted their victims to understand their intention, but without me understanding it myself. For what reason?

    ¡°If you have nothing to tell me,¡± I replied, ¡°then go out, go home and take precautions. I think the killer will not stop there and that you are all, potentially, their future victims.¡±

    I then turned my back on them and concentrated on the clues. Mo?ra was circling around, now that the body had been unhooked and placed in the opposite corner of the room.

    ¡°Don''t touch anything!¡± I ordered her.

    But, continuing her gesture, she picked up the compass. Sheepishly, she put it down and tried to apologize.

    ¡°I¡­ I just wanted to set the time.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a compass, Miss Marble,¡± I sighed, ¡°not a watch.¡±

    ¡°Yes, yes, that''s what I meant. But it doesn''t point north. I guess you have to wind up its mechanism or something like that...¡±

    Not having time to waste explaining to her how these devices worked, I pushed the young woman aside with a little more rudeness than courtesy allowed.

    The compass was indeed not pointing north. Taking it in my hands, to understand this phenomenon, I immediately saw the needle return to the right position. I knew it was the right position, because my advanced sense of directions constantly reminded me where the cardinal points were in relation to where I was in the city.

    Putting it back in place, I noticed that the compass was now pointing towards the purse. Lifting it, I noticed that it was not empty but filled with a large piece of lodestone: a mineral used to make magnets and therefore having the property of disrupting compasses.

    Had there been a similar oddity the previous times? I ordered a Watch agent to go and check the evidence from the previous murders, then I sat down on a chair and remained motionless, to the astonishment of those who did not know me.

    ¡°What is he doing?¡± asked Mr. Magister.

    Mister Malevolum sneered: ¡°The inspector is broken, it seems...¡±

    He corrected himself and scowled, casting an uneasy glance at the corpse of his late friend. There was no reason to laugh. Mo?ra felt obliged to explain to them:

    ¡°Shush: Mr. Goldeneye is thinking. We must not make any noise. You know, he has a very good memory, so when he concentrates like that, it''s because he remembers what he saw before, with great clarity and...¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

    ¡°Miss Marble!¡± I growled. ¡°Could you be quiet?¡±

    She stammered a few confused excuses for a moment before understanding, from my annoyed look, that she would do better to keep quiet. Once calm had returned, I closed my eyes and projected the memory of the previous crime scenes into my thoughts. As the images became clearer in my head, I murmured.

    ¡°Yes. The compass from the first time didn''t point north... It pointed... The one from the second time, although it had been moved, also seemed slightly disturbed by something... Had there also been magnetite in that pile of objects? Ah, there you go¡­ I see¡­ The first time, the compass pointed to the shovel¡­ The shovel¡­ The object pointing to the second victim¡­ Could it be¡­¡±

    I opened my eyes again and looked at the five survivors of this old mining association. Five survivors and five remaining objects. A compass, a quill, a knife, a lamp, and a purse¡­ Who was which object? Who was the purse? Who was the next victim?

    If I didn¡¯t formulate these questions out loud, I could see that the fragments of my deductions, the ones I had expressed orally, had been enough to give the other people in the room these same thoughts¡­ Except perhaps Mo?ra, who had a perplexed look.

    The pickaxe and the shovel had been eliminated. This probably referred to their identity as miners. The axe. The weapon of a warrior, of the former head of the guard¡­ The remaining objects were less obvious. Did the purse designate the richest person in the group? The one who had formerly managed their finances, whoever it was? The banker, Mr. Somnum?

    I was leaning towards Mr. Somnum, but I only mentioned it to the captain. He could think of nothing better than to contradict me, betting on Mr. Felix, who was the richest of all, or Mrs. Magister, because in many households it was the women who managed the expenses and therefore held the purse strings. I admitted that his reasoning seemed correct: we had no idea of ??the murderer''s thoughts or their motives.

    We searched the house, discovering in particular the ladder that the murderer had probably used and a large sum of money, which had not been stolen, indicating that the killer was not destitute or had not bothered to search the premises. We also questioned the neighbors who could tell us nothing, except that there is a lot of traffic in this neighborhood and that Mr. Stultus would easily open the door to anyone who knocked at it. No clue on that side: this character was undoubtedly the easiest to assassinate of the three.

    After a careful examination of the body, Doctor Alun finally found that the cause of death was not strangulation. A dart had been fired at close range into the neck. Despite the damage caused by the rope, the hole was still visible. It could be assumed that the killer had entered the house under some pretext and had shot the unfortunate man in the neck, preventing him from screaming and beginning his agony. A second dart had been fired at the heart, very cleanly, without bloodshed, one of the victim''s handkerchiefs having been used to immediately stop the bleeding.

    I understood this as a sort of mark of respect for the victim, to spare him a long agony. This increased my suspicions about the survivors, who were his friends.

    As we left the scene, I ordered Sergeant Rubis to discreetly follow the group of future victims and report their actions to me before they dispersed.

    I learned that all five of them went to Mr. Somnum''s, who had a villa in the city center, not far from his bank. They didn''t stay there too late and then went their separate ways, each going home, it was assumed.

    Magnetized stones were also found in the clues from the last few times, one on the shovel, the other on the rusty axe. Thus ended the third crime.

    2

    The day after tomorrow, an agent was waiting for me on the doorstep to take me to the place where Mr. Somnum had died.

    The murderer had not been idle: two murders in three days. Was he speeding up his movements? Was he afraid that I was on a trail? Was this a result of my discovery of the lodestone?

    The evidence hit me: that was it. Now that the mechanism of his clues was known, the victims most certainly knew who was next, which, for some obscure reason, was the killer''s intention. They had to know what object each of them represented!

    Probably warned by servants charged with monitoring the case, the four survivors were already there. I glanced around and saw no trace of the Mo?ra: she was probably still asleep at that time, or passing back and forth ¡°by chance¡± near the main post of the Watch, where my office was.

    Mr. Somnum had died in his villa, sitting at his desk, in the middle of his paperwork.

    He was a quiet man, who never hurried but always finished his work one day or another. He was well organized, with a large table for mail marked urgent, and a huge chest for those that did not have that mark.

    His personal servant, a certain Sam Tallow, was in one hell of a state, which was perfectly understandable with the death of his master.

    ¡°At first,¡± he said between two fits of tears, ¡°I thought that Master Somnum had fallen asleep, as often happens to him at any time. You see, my master is... was...¡±

    And after another fit of tears, the servant continued:

    ¡°My master was narcoleptic. He would nod off regularly, fall asleep for a few minutes, then wake up suddenly, in order to continue his task. At first, I thought he was still taking one of his naps, so I didn¡¯t disturb him. But, passing back and forth by his office, depending on the tasks I was finishing, I noticed that his pile of letters to read was no longer decreasing. Worried, I tried to wake him up¡­¡±

    ¡°Why did you try to wake him up?¡±

    ¡°Well, those are his instructions. He hates... hated falling asleep before finishing the pile of ¡®urgent¡¯ mail. He said it gave him nightmares to fall asleep for good without finishing his work. Since he wouldn''t wake up even though I shook him, I tried other methods...¡±

    I noticed that the deceased''s hair and beard were still dripping with water and that the table was soaked. The servant, who was nevertheless competent, had pushed aside the letters his master was reading before splashing him with water. He blushed, however, when he saw my gaze fall on the puddle and justified himself:

    ¡°He allowed me... well... I mean... I knew him well and he wouldn''t have been the type to get angry with me, even if this method had successfully woken him up. I even made him swallow one of those new tubes of vitamin tablets that we had received¡­¡±

    The detail caught my attention and my gaze fell on a cardboard tube from which a few small round tablets were still sticking out.

    ¡°Is that it?¡± I asked. ¡°Had he ever taken any before?¡±

    ¡°Yes¡­ Yes, that''s it. It''s a sample sent by the Royal Society of Chemistry, one of the most important societies in the Chemistry Guild. The master has been buying drugs for narcolepsy from them for a long time. We received this tube in the evening mail, a new stimulant that they were offering exclusively to one of their best customers¡­ and my master tried it right away¡­¡±

    The word ¡°poison¡± circulated quickly in the room. Old Doctor Alun, who had just entered, merely took a quick look in the corpse''s mouth before nodding. Contrary to his habit, he made no comment. I learned later that he knew Mr. Somnum well, who had consulted him on several occasions. He was doubtless greatly distressed by his death, but did not show it.

    The murder seemed to me at first quite different from the previous ones. The corpse was not holding anything in its hands and there were no objects out of place lying around.

    I began to examine the letters surrounding the corpse. I seized the one praising the new medicine. It seemed quite official. Tallow told us that it was the first letter his master had opened: he always opened the letters from the Royal Society of Chemistry first, in the hope that they would tell him that they had discovered the miracle cure.

    Turning to the victim¡¯s friends, I asked them if they were aware of this fact.

    ¡°We don¡¯t have to answer you!¡± the notary replied.

    Raising his hands in a peaceful gesture that earned him the wrath of the previous one, the scholar spoke:

    ¡°Everyone knows. It¡¯s not limited to us: it¡¯s common knowledge. Pera, since we became rich, has invested large sums of money in this company¡­¡±

    I heard voices from outside. A voice I knew well, insisting to the doorman that she be let in.

    While part of me was happy about this opportunity to keep Mo?ra at a distance, the pragmatic part of me sighed and I left the crime scene to head for the entrance. The doorman, a good-natured man with a gray beard, probably in his fifties, looked at me hopefully:

    ¡°Mr. Policeman, there is a young lady outside who demands to come in. She even claims to know you. If she doesn''t, can you send one of your officers to force her to stop her racket?¡±

    ¡°Unfortunately,¡± I sighed, ¡°I''m going to need her. Open the door for her...¡±

    When the door opened and she saw me on the other side, the young woman''s angry little face lit up with a big smile. I had to admit that, whatever her expression, she was still very cute.

    ¡°Miss Marble,¡± I said, ¡°follow me.¡±

    Without giving her time to answer, I returned to the scene of the crime. There, I grabbed the letter from the Royal Society of Chemistry and showed it to Mo?ra.

    ¡°You told me you knew the Chemistry Guild well? So, tell me if this letter is authentic.¡±

    Surprised to be entrusted with such an important task, she stared at me with her big blue eyes, as if convinced that I was playing a bad joke on her. I wondered myself if that wasn''t the case. Then, she focused on the sheet.

    ¡°It''s their seal... The filagrams are authentic... Unless there''s an excellent forger, the paper is real... On the other hand... I don''t really know why; I don''t have the impression of seeing a real letter from this society. My uncle sometimes exchanges with them and, they generally use a better register of language... There''s even a spelling mistake there... and another one here... Such a respectable guild would never use a secretary who makes such mistakes...¡±

    Of course, I could have noticed it myself. Taking the sheet from her hands, I looked at it as the light from one of the lamps in the room shone through. As I had begun to suspect, the sheet was more transparent towards its center, as if it were thinner there.

    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± I grumbled, ¡°the culprit used an authentic document, but scratched the ink, and thus thinned the sheet, in order to rewrite a message¡­¡±

    Returning to the mail table, I quickly scanned it and discovered two suspicious letters, because they were marked urgent, without having the sender¡¯s address. There was a letter and a small package.

    Without much surprise, I discovered that the letter contained the poem and that the small package contained a small chest with a message. So, I read them to the assembled audience:

    Five dwarves on the dead man''s chest...

    And one more gold!

    The purse has fallen asleep...

    And one share less!

    ¡°The purse has fallen asleep?¡± I commented. ¡°It seems that this bad poet has lacked imagination more than usual.¡±

    Mister Malevolum retorted to my remark:

    ¡°Well, maybe they lacked time... Me, I would have found something to put on.¡±

    ¡°I didn''t know you were a poet.¡± I retorted.

    The man looked at me maliciously before replying:

    ¡°Well yes, I am one, in my spare time.¡±

    ¡°Can I hear some of your verses then?¡±

    ¡°No.¡±

    The answer was categorical. His reaction seemed suspicious to me and two leads came to mind. Perhaps he was the author of these lines, and therefore also of these crimes? Or perhaps he simply had a critical nature that could not help but try to contradict me?

    Before I could read the contents of the small chest, a Watch agent suddenly burst into the room: they had just found where, this time, the clues for the next murder were.

 Chapter 5

    1

    There had been a fire in a house of an old residential area. Since most of the dwellings were made of stone, the fire had been quickly contained by the Guard soldiers and the city¡¯s volunteer firefighters. This happened occasionally and would not have caused much of a stir, if the firefighters had not discovered something surprising in the rubble of the house.

    Four objects surrounding a small torn bag. A compass, a knife, a quill and an oil lamp. The affair having been leaked to the press and being very fresh in people¡¯s memories, those who had discovered these objects were even able to tell us that the compass pointed to the quill, this time, which was planted in a large piece of lodestone.

    We went to the scene anyway. And by ¡°we¡±, I mean the Guard agents, Mo?ra and the four future victims.

    The arrangement of the objects was as indicated. For the sake of my conscience, I searched the rubble, listening to the story of the soldier guarding the place. He told me that everything suggested that it was arson, which caused a lot of smoke and alarm, but without much danger, certainly with the aim of making us discover the clues. In short, he didn''t tell me anything new.

    This time, the killer had not found a way to personally enter the victim''s home to sign his crime. The number of servants had probably limited this possibility. Access to the mine was possible, despite the absence of any trace of a break-in: one could always find a more subtle way to open a lock as simple as that of the door leading to this place. The garden was easily accessible and Mr. Stultus'' house opened to anyone who rang the bell...

    I heard a small exclamation of stifled surprise and I turned to Mo?ra. She had obviously just hidden something in a pocket of her dress and her gaze avoided meeting mine, easily letting me assume that she had a reason to feel guilty.

    ¡°Miss Marble,¡± I said with a sigh, ¡°what did you find?¡±

    ¡°Huh? Found something? Me?¡±

    A child would probably have looked less suspicious trying to excuse itself from a foolishness. I held out my hand and looked at her sternly:

    ¡°Marble, give me what you found!¡±

    I saw her thinking pass through her eyes, as if I could know her thoughts like the powers of the Chaotiuns. But no need for telepathy or genius to read her like an open book. With an annoyed sigh, she took a small circular object out of her pocket and placed it in my hand.

    ¡°There you go,¡± she sighed, ¡°but I think it would have been better if you hadn¡¯t found that: you always get all worked up whenever this person is involved¡­¡±

    She wasn¡¯t entirely wrong: as I stared at the small embroidered badge, resting in the palm of my hand, I felt my heartbeat quicken. Anger? Fear? Other feelings? I always had trouble knowing what I felt when I confronted this terror from my past, this elusive criminal who haunted my present.

    In a black circle, slightly frayed this time and covered in ash, a red flame divided into three sparks framed a similar light blue flame with a gold border. The symbol of Nemesis, Bruma¡¯s most wanted criminal!

    Gritting my teeth, I unfolded a small piece of paper hidden in the lining of the small sewing: Nemesis''s latest mockery to me. I didn''t read it out loud.

    ¡°Ut quisque suum debitum¡±

    ¡°To each his due¡±, or ¡°To each his debt¡±: the motto that began each of her messages.

    Death strikes and once again, Goldeneye sees nothing.

    It seems that a dead man is not dead and that he gives death.

    The inspector will not find the answer,

    before the tale of the dead man is revealed.

    I know the song; everyone dies on the chest.

    I would take the chest.

    Nemesis

    What did she mean? Had this thousand times cursed criminal already found the answer to the riddle? No: most likely she wanted me to spread her message and that, driven by fear, the victims would go to this famous chest, allowing her to discover the access to it¡­

    Yes, what was that chest? It couldn¡¯t be the gold mine¡­ But how could I guess, if these powerful men refused to talk?

    My thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Malevolum¡¯s shouts:

    ¡°And I tell you that it¡¯s me who¡¯s been designated! The quill? It¡¯s certainly not Ignis or Alba, but one of us two. But, it¡¯s more likely to be me, huh? The compass, that¡¯s you. You were always the one who took care of it when we were at the mine, and you have a degree in mechanical science.¡±

    ¡°Come on,¡± Mr. Magister protested, ¡°you¡¯re overreacting¡­¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m overreacting? They¡¯re all dead! Securis, Pala S., Pala T., Pera and¡­ They¡¯re all dead, and I¡¯m next. No one knows about all this, except the four of us! He was dead, so it can¡¯t be him! This is not the Zyxhanar here: the dead do not rise again...¡±

    But he was very pale as he said this, as if he was no longer sure. Sweeping his gaze over his comrades, he pointed an accusing finger at Mr. Magister.

    ¡°And then, why is it that the compass is pointing to the next victims? Huh? Maybe you''re the murderer!¡±

    Mr. Magister''s gaze filled with anger, but a glance in my direction indicated that he was more bothered by the fact that these revelations were made in my presence than by the accusation itself.

    ¡°You''re crazy Pluma! None of us would do such a thing...¡±

    ¡°Really? We did it, once!¡±

    ¡°Silence! Idiot!¡±

    ¡°You''re the idiot... Oh...¡±

    He saw the not very discreet sign that the scholar made to indicate my presence and the notary bit his lip. Not giving them a break to organize their pretexts, I approached and questioned them sharply:

    ¡°You have just confessed to having already committed a murder.¡±

    ¡°Not exactly,¡± replied Mr. Magister who was very quick-witted, ¡°we have already killed someone... It was... self-defense... You see, the enemy soldiers that I mentioned to you the other day, the reason for our departure. My friend, Pluma, implied that since we had already killed people, quite legitimately, we could more easily have done it again... but, we would never kill our own friends...¡±

    ¡°But,¡± interrupted Mr. Malevolum, ¡°even if we had done it, the statute of limitations has now expired!¡±

    I caught the hostile look that the first sent to the second, who returned it with his usual spite. In my mind, the outline of a story was beginning to form, mixing the revelations of the supposed dead man and the slips of the tongue that I had just heard. A story that was not really to the glory of this small group.

    ¡°Yes,¡± I said, ¡°the statute of limitations has expired... if I understood what you were talking about correctly. You''re going to have to tell me all this, if you want the police to be able to protect you...¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    ¡°Okay,¡± the scholar replied, ¡°we''ll talk to you about it... but not here.¡±

    He made a discreet gesture indicating the onlookers who were crowding outside and other unwanted witnesses. Even if he seemed to want to confess to crimes that would no longer be punished, he feared the public outcry and certainly did not want to see them published in the newspapers.

    ¡°So where?¡±

    ¡°In my manor. By... Let''s say, at afternoon snack time...¡±

    ¡°Oh yeah?¡± protested the notary. ¡°And who says I wouldn¡¯t already be dead by that time?¡±

    ¡°I can provide you,¡± I suggested, ¡°with a Watch agent for your protection¡­¡±

    ¡°What? No way: I¡¯m doing just fine on my own! You¡¯ll see, I¡¯ll be there¡­ I won¡¯t let myself be killed!¡±

    With these words, he strode away, scolding the curious onlookers who were blocking his way as he left. The others took their leave and left less noisily. The crowd also ended up dispersing for lack of anything to watch.

    I found myself in a more peaceful environment, except for the presence of Mo?ra, Captain Obsidian, and a few Watch agents. The Guard soldier had also taken his leave.

    Sitting against a wall, in a place free of soot, I murmured the words of Nemesis¡¯s riddle. Although her sole purpose was to humiliate me and snatch the loot, she also gave me an advantage: clues different from those of the assassin, clues intended for me. It was possible that she thought she would use me against the killer, in order to reap the benefits of the crime in its place, but she could also have simply made fun of me.

    ¡°The chest¡­¡± I murmured. ¡°Where is this chest and what does it contain? And the song? What song?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s true,¡± said Captain Obsidian, ¡°that it sounds a bit like a drinking song. A pirate thing¡­ Even if I don¡¯t know if there were really pirates, one day, to sing that¡­ More likely that it was miners or drunks who invented it¡­¡±

    The pieces of the puzzle were coming together¡­ The rhythm of these bad poems must have been modeled on some drinking song¡­ I wasn¡¯t surprised that the captain had guessed it. If everyone died at the end¡­ What could that mean? That Nemesis would arrange to eliminate the murderer and take the loot?

    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t sit here,¡± Mo?ra advised me, ¡°you risk getting yourselves dirty¡­¡±

    ¡°Get out¡­ Get out, everyone!¡±

    Finally, alone, I concentrated more intensely than ever, during this week.

    2

    I was beginning to understand what had happened half a century ago in the mountains of Iceteeth. But it still didn¡¯t tell me the motive or the murderer¡­

    This period of calm had also allowed me to remember that I hadn¡¯t read the message from the little chest of Mr. Somnum¡¯s murder. It said:

    Dear Somnum, when someone reads these lines, you will be with us in Hell.

    I have been saving the place for you for a long time,

    Murderers being worse than thieves, I had feared that we would be separated.

    You will agree that it does not change much, given the place.

    This mainly confirmed that the killer knew the deceased''s reading habits and knew that he would not open these letters before taking the poison. The mention of ¡°thieves¡± was also an interesting clue that could help me understand everything once I did some research.

    Leaving the room after a good hour of intense reflection, I headed towards the town hall. I needed more precise information to support my hypotheses and the archives could provide it to me, on the condition that I could access it.

    I could prevent the new murders, if only these rich people would accept the protection of my agents. This possibility remaining theoretical, I had to concentrate on what I could actually do, in order to finally untangle the skein of this mystery.

    There was, working in the municipal archives, a most shady, but most useful character. Luvu Sugilite was a thin man, a little taller than average. Being about my age, his beard was still quite short and he cut it into a goatee of the most undesirable effect. His eyes, damaged by reading too intensely multiple documents, were continually surmounted by a too-narrow pair of glasses behind which he squinted.

    When I arrived, he hurriedly hid the papers he was working on, adding other documents on top, and smiled at me, in that honest way that the worst scoundrels have when they see a police officer coming to meet them.

    ¡°In¡­ Inspector Goldeneye, what a pleasure to see you here¡­ I thought you were busy with your investigation.¡±

    I gave an icy look to the tall official, who bent a little more in his chair, his hands firmly placed on the desk, for fear that I would lift the documents covering it.

    ¡°Sugilite,¡± I said, ¡°I imagine you know what I am investigating at the moment.¡±

    Of course: he did. This weasel always knew everything and often even beyond the rumors.

    ¡°Ah, yes¡­ On that subject, I must tell you that your request concerning ¡®the increase in the remuneration of the police forces who valiantly ensure our security¡¯ has been refused. I suppose you had assumed that the recent deaths of all those rich people had been extremely positive for our city¡­ I suppose that once the remaining ones are gone, there will be something, but most of the deceased were in debt¡­¡±

    ¡°They were in debt,¡± I said in surprise, ¡°how much?¡±

    ¡°Well¡­ For Mr. Somnum, let¡¯s say that he had invested and borrowed a lot¡­ For the owners of the mine, it would seem that their activities had not been very profitable in recent years¡­ Especially Mr. Sternutatio, who had taken out large loans¡­ As for Mr. Stultus¡­ you know how he was¡­ Well, overall, the balance of all these deaths, once the burials and debts are paid, remains positive for the city. It is far from enough, however, for an increase in the budget¡­¡±

    ¡°And their shares in the gold mine? What will happen to them if... let''s say, if they all die?¡±

    ¡°Well... since none of them have an heir, they would return to the city, according to the special statutes concerning its location in the Iceteeth Mountains... but it would still have to be found, so that it would be worth something to someone... I didn''t find a map, just coordinates corresponding to an inaccessible point: I suppose there must be a secret miners'' path...¡±

    He briefly looked away from my scrutinizing gaze, then pulled himself together so as not to let anything show. So, he had already thought about stealing the mine in the event that the last owners disappeared. Not having the soul of an adventurer, he would never have dared to venture so far from Bruma to find it and this project would have remained a dead letter, even if he had found the information... which also meant that he would not have hidden it from me if he had had more precise data.

    ¡°In any case,¡± he continued, ¡°the city gets nothing for the moment, the shares are redistributed among the members of the company. They just pay the tax on mining companies, which is a fixed value, not very high for mines so far away.¡±

    ¡°Can you get me the statutes of their association?¡±

    ¡°No, no: this type of statute is only available for consultation a hundred years after the initial oath... You''ll have to wait half a century.¡±

    I glared at the official and decided to increase the pressure. Following the rules would not lead me to the resolution of the investigation and it was sometimes necessary to push the limits of the laws a little so that justice could triumph... Because, of course, I was doing this for justice and not, as my detractors often claimed, for a question of personal pride.

    ¡°It seems to me,¡± I said, ¡°that your sister receives twice the widows'' pension. Which surprises me, since she was never married. The handwriting on the official documents looks a lot like yours, by the way.¡±

    The crook''s smile grew wider, but it had to be said that he hid his confusion remarkably well, which was mainly expressed by a greater hesitation in his choice of words.

    ¡°Ah... I see... But I really can''t get you these statutes: I don''t have access to them myself. They are sealed archives... But... But... I can perhaps do some research and get you... a little more information on their customs... For example, I have the day they meet... I can find the place for you without too much trouble...¡±

    A smile of triumph lit up my face. I suspected that Sugilite would have already done some research on the subject. Whether it was in order to acquire something or out of simple curiosity, a case that had attracted the attention of the newspapers could not fail to put him on the trail of more refined information.

    I demanded some additional information and asked him to bring it to me before the time of my appointment at the Magister manor. Before leaving, I still slipped in a warning:

    ¡°Ah, remember to double-check your sister''s file, to avoid such payments remaining. I suppose that we can forget to ask for the reimbursement of the sums already received, but it would be in your interest that this... error, does not repeat itself.¡±

    He approved, his devious brain probably already imagining a new scheme that I should detect for the next time I would have demands.

    3

    When the hours defined as afternoon came, in our undergrounds living to the rhythms of the intensity of their lamps, I was ready. Advancing at a brisk pace towards the mansion owned by the Magisters, in a posh neighborhood close to the surface, I mentally reviewed the details I had just acquired, preparing my big reveal scene. If they didn¡¯t speak for themselves, I now had enough cards in my hand to change the situation.

    I heard the trotting of boots echoing on the stony ground of the city¡¯s corridors, getting closer to me. Without turning around, I spoke:

    ¡°Miss Marble?¡±

    A surprised exclamation answered me as she finally reached my height.

    ¡°How did you guess?¡±

    I didn¡¯t answer, contenting myself with an amused smile as I glanced at her sideways. She was a little out of breath from her short run. I saw that she had braided her hair into four plaits that fell on either side of her shoulders and were adorned with intricate brooches. Her hat, which she had taken off as she ran to catch up with me, was a very large model that was fashionable, stuffed inside with a few rags to keep it from swallowing her head: fashions were strange. She also wore an elegant and rather large dress, which gave a strange impression: she was still elegant, was probably more so than usual, but I had never seen her wear this one before¡­ not that I cared.

    ¡°You dressed well,¡± I remarked.

    She blushed for no reason, probably excited at the idea that I was paying her some attention.

    ¡°Ah... Yes... Well, they are very important people... Even more so than my uncle, so I thought I should make a good impression when they invited us...¡±

    I didn''t like the embarrassed look she then gave my threadbare coat and I was probably a little harsh in my way of reminding her of the situation, when I answered her in a sardonic tone:

    ¡°You would have done better to adopt mourning clothes: we are not going to a social party but to a deadly rendezvous... Because, I fear that it will take a few more corpses for this affair to reveal its last secrets.¡±

    As she shivered while contemplating the monumental gates of the manor, I did not know to what extent what I had told her would be true.

 Chapter 6

    1

    The door opened to reveal a liveried maid, a small brunette woman who looked at us intently in a short space of time before inquiring about the reason for our visit.

    ¡°I am the famous Inspector Goldeneye,¡± I answered simply, ¡°and she is Mo?ra Marble.¡±

    The maid cast a wary glance at the young girl.

    ¡°Welcome Inspector Goldeneye: my mistress is waiting for you... But I was not told that there would be two of you.¡±

    The detail struck me: absorbed in my investigation and accustomed to continually putting up with the young lady, I had not realized that she had not been expressly invited. She blushed deeply and stammered a few random words before coming up with a coherent sentence:

    ¡°I... I''m sorry: I thought the invitation was for me too... And then, Madame Magister told me I could come see her whenever it suited me... I suppose that, indeed, this is not the time for a cooking lesson... That''s not why I came, anyway...¡±

    I sighed, but as my duty as a gentleman demanded and as it was not proper to let the young woman leave alone after having walked here with me, I came to her rescue.

    ¡°Miss Marble is accompanying me. As for the possibility of her attending my conversation with your masters, that will be up to them to decide. Have any of their friends arrived yet?¡±

    The maid let us in before answering:

    ¡°Yes, Mr. Felix and Mr. Malevolum are already here. They are waiting for you with Mistress Magister in the great hall. I will guide you to them.¡±

    After locking the door, she went ahead of us and led us through sumptuous corridors. There was a lot of furniture, often topped with rather ugly, but prestigious decorations. Marble busts of famous people, tribal sculptures imported from the lands of the Disc or even from the inaccessible lands of the men of Gard, elven trinkets emitting mysterious lights¡­ Rich men often needed to show off this state of affairs with completely useless purchases.

    The large living room was no less filled with these vain trinkets, but in a larger space and lit by chandeliers adorned with precious stones. The origin of their glow being hidden, I could not say if they were elven lamps running on Gas, or those new uses of electricity that were sometimes mentioned in the newspapers, but they were certainly not oil lamps or candles.

    A warm blaze roared in a hearth as large as three men, a sort of glass wall separating the flames from precious carpets that covered the floor. There were several luxurious-looking armchairs and sofas and some of them were occupied. There were the three people mentioned by the maid, and I assumed that Mr. Magister must still be busy with some business. We were indeed slightly early, as I saw on a mechanical clock that adorned one of the walls.

    Turning her head sharply in my direction, I saw several expressions evolve on the face of the mistress of the house. She seemed pleased at first, then having noticed who was entering, she scowled. Surprise was also visible when she saw Mo?ra, but this seemed to put her at ease because she gave her a look less full of suspicion than the one she gave me when I arrived. Regaining complete control of her appearance, she greeted us with a graceful curtsy to which we responded according to the decorum.

    ¡°Inspector Goldeneye. Miss Marble?¡±

    Looking confused, Mo?ra immediately tried to apologize by stammering the same excuses as she had to the maid, but with more confusion and just as much blushing. This amused Madame Magister who placed a hand on the young lady''s shoulder and reassured her: her presence was in no way unwelcome.

    The other two people present, because the maid had left us, were not as polite but nevertheless greeted Mo?ra. Mr. Malevolum was the only one who did not speak to me, acting for the moment as if I was not there.

    ¡°Inspector,¡± the mistress of the house asked me, ¡°did you meet my husband on your way here?¡±

    The worry was written all over her face and it was contagious. A bad feeling was starting to form inside me and I turned to Mo?ra to see if she felt the same way. A look of confusion appeared on her face as she looked at me in her turn, indicating that she did not understand why I was looking at her and did not know whether to take it positively or negatively. I sighed inwardly: what did I expect from her? At least, if nothing serious had happened, she would be the only one who had not worried unnecessarily. I could see that the other two ¡°dwarves¡± were also troubled, although the exact nature of their emotions was uncertain.

    ¡°I haven''t seen him since the house burned down,¡± I replied, ¡°did he go somewhere?¡±

    ¡°He went away for work. As we were returning, a messenger came to warn him that his team was having some problems with the development of their latest prototype. I haven''t seen him since... But he should be here on time: he''s always been perfectly punctual...¡±

    All eyes turned to the clock: there were ten minutes left.

    Mr. Malevolum moved away from the group and opened one of the doors of the room that opened onto another corridor. When I asked him about his destination, he answered me roughly:

    ¡°What do you think? I''m going to a place where no one can go in my place, if you know what I mean.¡±

    It was then Mo?ra¡¯s turn to slip away, citing the same reason. However, she was more discreet, contenting herself with murmuring a few words in a low voice to Mrs. Magister, who went out with her to show her where the lavatory[1]</a> were.

    I remained alone with Mr. Felix, but he was visibly uncomfortable, perhaps fearing that I would question him while the others were away.

    ¡°Oh,¡± he said, ¡°there are no more cakes¡­ I¡¯ll be right back: I¡¯ll ask the kitchen to bring us a new tray.¡±

    ¡°Are there no servants you could call for this task?¡±

    ¡°Well... Er... I could... But I prefer to tell them verbally how much to bring. I will be back shortly.¡±

    Left alone, I paced the living room, contemplating the decoration and wondering if it could give me some clues, other than the fact that the masters of the house do not have very good taste. The clock continued to tick away the minutes.

    A chime like that of a small gong indicated that the hour had been reached. Shortly after, Mo?ra arrived in the room, through the door from which she had come. Her gaze wandered around the living room in surprise, then she asked me with the ingenuous spontaneity with which she was familiar:

    ¡°Where are the others?¡±

    ¡°Isn''t madam Magister with you?¡±

    ¡°No: hasn''t she come back?¡±

    Another door opened, allowing Ignis Felix and a servant to pass through. They were both carrying several trays overflowing with cakes that they placed on a round table that was in front of the fireplace. The rich owner¡¯s cheeks were a little puffy as he finished chewing the cakes he had eaten on the way.

    At that moment, Pluma Malevolum arrived and immediately glanced at the clock.

    ¡°Ah,¡± he said, ¡°it¡¯s time. Is he still not here?¡±

    A heavy silence answered him. Everyone seemed to sense that something was wrong. Even Mo?ra seemed to be starting to worry; it was visible on her face.

    A minute passed like this, before Mrs. Magister entered, looking deeply worried. She explained that she had just come from the entrance and had been waiting for her husband to arrive with Saphira; that was the name of the woman who had opened the door for us.

    ¡°Perhaps,¡± I supposed, ¡°he was delayed by some unforeseen event? We could begin this revelation session without him: which of you could begin this sordid tale of your past? Mister Felix?¡±

    The man jumped and shoveled another handful of cakes into his mouth. Knowing that it was impolite to speak with one¡¯s mouth full, he was giving himself a reprieve before having to answer.

    Suddenly, a high-pitched scream echoed through the manor, startling everyone. A woman¡¯s scream.

    ¡°It¡¯s coming from upstairs!¡± Malevolum exclaimed.

    We rushed toward the stairs, quickly joined by the servant who had brought the cakes, a man in his thirties with a thick black beard.

    As we emerged onto the upper floor, Mister Malevolum, who was in the lead, bumped into Saphira, who was running towards us. The maid was in a state of shock and clutched at Malevolum¡¯s vest, shaking, unable to speak coherently. She pointed with a trembling finger at an open door further down the hall.

    The black-bearded servant frowned and commented:

    ¡°This is the master bedroom¡­ What the¡­¡±

    He didn¡¯t finish his sentence as we continued on our way and discovered a sight of horror.

    It was a fairly large room, with luxurious drapes and less bad taste than the parts of the manor where visitors might pass. On a large four-poster bed lay Circino Magister, his arms crossed over his chest. A stinger hole in the middle of his forehead indicated that there was no need for a specialist to declare him dead.

    Mr. Malevolum cursed rudely at the sight of the scene. Mrs. Magister fainted and was caught in the nick of time by Mr. Felix. Without wasting a moment, I grabbed the black-bearded servant by the shoulder.

    ¡°You! What''s your name?¡±

    ¡°Huh? I... My name is Spod... uh... Kunzite. Spod Kunzite...¡±

    ¡°How many people are here? Is there a way to leave the place without being spotted?¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    The man blinked, apparently a little slow-witted in situations requiring reactivity. He finally told me that the staff of the place consisted of four people. Besides him, the servants included Saphira Corindon, whom we already knew. There was also the cook, Spin Emeri, as well as his assistant, a certain Croc Chrome, who was on trial. It was impossible to leave the manor without going through the front door, to which madam Corindon kept the key. Built into the rock itself, the structure had no windows.

    As the scream had echoed through the corridors, the two remaining suspects were on the scene very quickly.

    Spin Emeri was a very strong man but was almost sixty years old. He had a slightly grayed black beard and seemed in shock after discovering the murder. Croc Chrome was a young man with a red beard, probably older than me. I immediately thought that the color of his skin did not match that of the redheads I knew, but that could happen, unless he dyed his beard, which would denote a total lack of pride but did happen sometimes.

    I ordered Mrs. Corindon to give me the keys to the house and demanded everyone to go to the large living room. Remaining in the murder room, I quickly found what I was looking for: at the foot of the bed, a shattered compass was surrounded by a feather, a kitchen knife and a candle. It seemed that the object representing one of the last victims frequently changed between a torch, an oil lamp or a candle.

    The dead man held tight to his chest, between his crossed arms, the usual little piece of what seemed like poetry.

    Four dwarves on the dead man''s chest...

    And one more gold!

    The compass is frozen...

    And one share less!

    I found the chest on the bedside table, placed in the candlestick from which the fourth object must have been taken. I read its contents then went down to the front door. I opened it and took the police horn out of a lining of my coat and blew into it. The noise echoed through the galleries of the city and the agents of the Watch soon arrived. They were the sentries that I had had posted discreetly around the manor.

    I learned that they had not seen anyone pass by and a brief inspection of the manor did not allow us to find any intruders. I therefore ordered them to guard the door while waiting for reinforcements to arrive.

    2

    As I entered the large living room, a quick glance told me that I didn¡¯t need to announce ¡°the murderer is among us¡±: a heavy and oppressive atmosphere reigned. Everyone was in their corner, at a relative distance from the others. I saw in particular that Madam Magister was on the opposite side of the room from Mister Malevolum and was looking at him angrily, her skin paler than before. She had a liqueur glass in her hand, empty, but didn¡¯t put it down.

    As soon as I arrived, Mo?ra rushed towards me and stayed as close to my arm as respectability allowed her.

    ¡°Ah, you¡¯re finally here,¡± she murmured, ¡°it¡¯s terrible¡­ Madam Magister accused Mister Malevolum of killing her husband¡­ it¡¯s true that it seemed that the two didn¡¯t get along too well, but¡­ In any case, he denied the facts¡­ Do you¡­ Do you have the answer?¡±

    I placed my hand on the young woman¡¯s shoulder and she fell silent. I felt the tension she was feeling diminish slightly at this cordial contact. The poor girl was quite impressionable at times, and the palpable atmosphere of distrust was upsetting her.

    ¡°I have some interesting elements,¡± I said, ¡°but first I would like to clarify some points. Allow me to read the latest clue.¡±

    Circino, even if we were equals, it was always you who was turned to for decisions.

    More than anyone else, you are guilty of my death¡­

    And all this, just because you were afraid that I would leave with the gold?

    Where you will find us, we will all be equal, in the bad sense of the word.

    The suspects had little reaction, except for Alba Magister who immediately turned a suspicious look on Pluma Malevolum. I also read the little poem and commented:

    ¡°More bad poetry.¡±

    Pluma Malevolum glared at me, but said nothing. Considering the character, he could just as well be the author of these lines as be indignant at the visible suspicion that I was subtly expressing against him. In the first case, he remained smart enough not to betray himself by inappropriate words.

    ¡°Now,¡± I said, ¡°I want to know who you killed and why. I already have the answer, but I would like to hear it from your voices.¡±

    There was an awkward silence. Finally, Mr. Felix opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Magister beat him to it:

    ¡°So be it!¡± she said. ¡°Let''s get this over with. I''ll tell you everything.¡±

    ¡°Wait,¡± Mr. Malevolum cut her off, ¡°we should¡­ talk about it in a smaller group.¡±

    He glanced at the servants and the mistress of the house nodded in approval.

    ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right¡­ Oh¡­ also¡­ I¡¯m sorry Pluma: I got carried away by my emotions earlier¡­ I know that you and my husband often argued, but I also know that you liked each other despite that. To accuse you like that¡­ I¡¯m ashamed¡­¡±

    Mr. Malevolum scratched his beard nervously.

    ¡°Yeah, yeah¡­ I didn¡¯t blame you, Alba. I know you didn¡¯t think so¡­ Still, I really thought before that Circino was the murderer, so I can¡¯t blame you for accusing me now that he¡­ Yeah¡­ sorry too¡­¡±

    I noticed that Mr. Malevolum, who was quite harsh with everyone, seemed to have a soft spot for Mrs. Magister, or at least a certain respect.

    Granting to the request, I told the servants to go into the next room. The probability that they were all accomplices was practically nil, so I wasn¡¯t taking a big risk. I nevertheless ordered them not to separate, under any circumstances.

    Madam Magister then began her story:

    ¡°When you¡¯ve lived as long as we have, there are always things you regret¡­ Choices you should have made differently. Of course, some decisions are worse than others¡­ I think that most people our age don¡¯t have such a heavy weight on their conscience. My dear Mo?ra, I hope that I don¡¯t seem¡­ too monstrous to you for these¡­ bad decisions that I made almost fifty years ago. When I think about it, neither you nor the inspector were born, maybe after even half that long.¡±

    Mo?ra gave her a shy, encouraging smile. She and Madam Magister were only vague and recent acquaintances, but they seemed to have developed a very cordial relationship, to the point that the old lady was afraid of disappointing the young woman.

    ¡°We had brought back gold, lots of gold, mountains of it. In fact, we no longer really had a mine, but a treasure. We had then entrusted a craftsman with the task of making a solid chest equipped with an advanced mechanism. It was to be opened only on a specific date, each year, when we would meet to share part of the remaining sum. This thus prevented... uh... it prevented us... some of us, from wasting our shares too quickly.¡±

    She sighed, acting a little more theatrically than necessary, as if her crime weighed on her and she had not committed it voluntarily.

    ¡°And then,¡± she continued, ¡°we said to ourselves that the craftsman could very well access the chest without our knowledge, since he knew the secret mechanism...¡±

    ¡°Yes, added Mr. Malevolum, it was Pala S. who had asked the question first. I don¡¯t say that to speak ill of the dead, eh, besides it wasn¡¯t him who had¡­ suggested eliminating the problem.¡±

    ¡°Indeed,¡± intervened Mr. Felix with a mirthless smile, ¡°it was you.¡±

    ¡°It was a joke,¡± defended the notary, ¡°or maybe just a cynical remark¡­ But the idea made its way and we all agreed. There was Securis who refused to choose, but silence means consent. In short, yes, we killed the designer of the safe. Was it wrong? Yes. We shouldn¡¯t have. Certainly. But, it¡¯s an old story now. And we¡¯re the only ones who know about it.¡±

    Mrs. Magister got up with difficulty from her chair, her legs wobbly slightly. She walked over to a sideboard, from which she pulled out a small tray containing several small bottles of liqueurs.

    ¡°Sorry,¡± she said, ¡°but I think I need another tonic. Anyone else want some?¡±

    Mr. Felix and Mr. Malevolum said yes. I declined, seeing no point in diminishing my reasoning ability by ingesting an alcoholic substance. I declined as well for Mo?ra, because I knew she didn¡¯t hold her liquor very well and became more annoying than usual after just one sip.

    ¡°Did that¡­ chest designer,¡± I asked, ¡°have any descendants? Anyone who might want to avenge him?¡±

    Taking the glass that Mrs. Magister handed him, Mr. Malevolum looked appreciatively at the red and black velvets of his drink, probably a mixture of two liqueurs. For his part, Mr. Felix had received a glass containing a sort of sparkling mead. Mrs. Magister knew her friends'' tastes well, which did not surprise me, from what I knew. I held back an untimely smile, as the moment of revelation approached. Well, partial revelation, because the culprit escaped my reasoning for the moment, for reasons that would later be obvious.

    ¡°No,¡± replied Mr. Felix, ¡°he had no descendants, no relatives who could avenge him. Besides, we were the only ones who knew of our crime¡­¡±

    ¡°Of course,¡± I said, ¡°since the only relatives who could have avenged him were his murderers.¡±

    Mr. Felix nearly choked on his mead, Mr. Malevolum put his glass down on a small table for fear of breaking it in his emotion, and Mrs. Magister turned pale. They quickly pulled themselves together.

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked the notary. ¡°What do you know?¡±

    ¡°Everything,¡± I said, ¡°or almost. Your victim was one of your associates!¡±

    The three criminals looked at me without saying a word, waiting for the rest of my revelation. I didn¡¯t need to be asked twice and continued:

    ¡°Your association originally had nine members, as indicated by your company¡¯s crest: the nine lines on the pickaxe handle actually correspond to the nine associate members, while the eight-sided diamond represents your previous association which only had eight members.¡±

    They didn¡¯t answer and I felt that they were anxiously waiting for the rest in order to know how far I had penetrated their secrets. I pointed a finger at Madam Magister:

    ¡°And the new member was you, madam. One might wonder: why would members of a mining company elevate their maid, since that was the position you held at the time, to the rank of associate? The fact that you married Mr. Magister, even if it was probably later, would not justify such conduct since it would amount to reducing the shares of the other partners for the benefit of the same couple. So, why this action?¡±

    They still did not answer. Mr. Felix''s gaze had lost all cordiality to become severe, Mrs. Magister could not turn any paler without taking on the color of snow and Mr. Malevolum drank his glass in one gulp while giving me a murderous look.

    ¡°The answer is simple,¡± I continued, ¡°it is that there was something to hide. A theft. We will come back to that. It was therefore necessary to force the servant to silence. It would undoubtedly have been possible to kill her, but you were not yet at that level, at that time. Corruption remained the best way to force her to silence. You then went to Bruma and your friend built a chest there to protect your loot. A safe that would only open on a specific day, every year¡­¡±

    ¡°How do you know that?¡±

    The sentence had escaped Mr. Felix''s lips. Mr. Malevolum, who I would have thought would be quicker to answer, seemed to barely contain himself from vomiting his usual stream of disapproval, puffing out his cheeks in an almost comical manner.

    ¡°I could continue,¡± I said, ¡°by giving the address of the bank where the safe is located and specifying that it is in any case only accessible through an elven door. I could also specify that this one only opens in exchange for a drop of fresh blood from one of the authorized persons.¡±

    ¡°I suppose that''s where your investigation stopped¡­¡±

    ¡°Not really: this is second-hand information. As you know, the police have no power over the territory of the banks, without a warrant signed by the king himself. Their private army is also entitled to defend itself against such illegal intrusion.¡±

    I symbolically brushed these considerations aside and resumed my story.

    ¡°So, rich thieves, you had a decent stash to settle in a foreign land. But doubt and suspicion came hand in hand with wealth. These tortuous thoughts made their way. What if your associate and friend, designer of this chest, went there secretly during the year and diverted the riches by some tricks, he who knew the secrets of the mechanism? Perhaps he would even leave with all the contents in order to settle elsewhere? Thus, greedy for wealth and poor in trust, have you murdered your friend.¡±

    The silence that answered me was worth approval. Just an irritated cough from Mr. Malevolum disturbed the quietude, while his bloodshot eyes stared at me fiercely. He seemed on the verge of having an attack.

    ¡°You should, moreover, tell me the place where you murdered him. I would then know where Mr. Sternutatio was also killed and perhaps, I would discover some additional clues there¡­¡±

    ¡°Eh, what? Mr. Felix interrupted me abruptly. Okay, you found this: congratulations. But how does that help us in finding the culprit? Yes, we had killed Ultio Cophinus. No one can know because the company statutes are sealed and the notary who drew them up was Pluma, so no outside member. How does this event, so old, lead to today? You have found nothing, Inspector. The deaths will continue and nothing you have announced points to the culprit. Do you¡­ Uh? ...¡±

    He interrupted himself, disturbed by the violent coughing fit that suddenly shook Mr. Malevolum. The latter suddenly collapsed to the ground, falling from his chair. As he opened his mouth wide, a particularly dark stream of blood flowed out. A few convulsions later, the man was no longer moving, before I could even get close to him.

    With a burst of laughter that showed madness, while tears were streaming down her face, Madam Magister stood up and pointed at the deceased:

    ¡°And there you have it! You pay for daring to murder my Circino!¡±

    <hr>

    [1]</a> I can''t find an English word that matches the formal language of my original version, so I''ve gone with this one.

 Chapter 7

    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 Mo?ra. 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...This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    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 Mo?ra 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: Mo?ra 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, Mo?ra 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 Mo?ra? 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 Mo?ra 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, Mo?ra,¡± 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 Mo?ra 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.

 Chapter 8 (final)

    1

    Delving into the documentation, I began to draw up a list of suspects. While the files on foreigners were recent and severely limited in their information, those on arrested criminals were much more comprehensive.

    I made a list of the bandits who had served their sentences, or who had been released prematurely, limiting my search to those approaching thirty. This first list was quite extensive, but one candidate particularly caught my attention.

    Thaur Khr?ma, thirty-two years old, former member of a gang. He had been arrested and convicted for criminal complicity and was suspected, without sufficient concrete evidence, of several murders. This individual had not hesitated to cut off part of his beard during his arrest: it had gotten stuck in a door while he was trying to escape, he had sacrificed his honor to fail anyway.

    During his time in prison, he had learned the basics of plumbing during his community service and he had been released almost a month earlier, before the murders. He was the most obvious suspect and my instinct told me that I was not wrong. The bail for his early release had been paid by a foreign tycoon who had recently arrived in town, but he had apparently had to add a bribe, since an ink stain filled the space where his name should have been.

    I sent the Watch to question the officials in order to find the culprit. They could provide me with a description of the wealthy philanthropist who had freed the criminal. However, the latter was on bail and forbidden from leaving the city, having to check in regularly with the Jailers to confirm his presence in Bruma.

    The case was finally moving forward. Even if the answers still eluded me, the keys to the enigma were within reach¡­

    At least that was what I told myself before Thaur Khr?ma was found that evening.

    The individual had not checked in the day before and a search warrant had already been issued. The combined efforts of the Jailers and the Watch allowed to found him during the day, but I understood then that the solution was still far away.

    Khroma''s body was discovered by technicians in charge of maintaining the mechanisms that powered the steam turbines. Between the chimneys, a beardless body lay, the back of the head pierced by a dart.

    Despite the lack of a beard, the Watch¡¯s facial recognition services were able to immediately confirm the identity of the deceased by comparing him to the data provided by the Jailers. For me, it was a new lead that ended in a dead end.

    But I would not let myself be discouraged. I had the order given to have all foreigners of high economic class who attempted to leave the city monitored and to hold them for as long as was legally possible.

    Once the official capable of recognizing the wealthy foreigner would be arrested, he would allow me to sift through this list of suspects. I also ordered a few of the agents to discreetly monitor the entrance to the bank of Goldentree, where the victims¡¯ loot was kept.

    The law forbade me from having my men enter the bank and I could not order their staff to betray the secrets guaranteed to their clients. So, I could only rely on the sketchers at the Watch to draw a portrait of anyone who entered the building on the day the vault was opened. I had no way of knowing, however, whether the gold would be taken away or left there, perhaps in another vault.

    2

    After the opening day, I obtained the suspect¡¯s portrait. The arrested official confirmed that it was indeed him among the various images and the list of foreigners provided me with a name: Aurum Ictu.

    However, we could not find his trace. I guessed that he had probably changed his identity, perhaps with the help of one of the false beards of his murdered accomplice.

    The investigation was therefore left in suspense, for lack of new evidence. Bitterly, I continued my usual activities, without the questions about this mystery ceasing to haunt me: who were the killer, finally, and where were they?

    3

    It was a week later that a final body finally shed light on the whole affair.

    An elderly man, with a fairly short beard, was hanging in the middle of the luxurious suite he had booked a little over a week ago in one of the city''s chic hotels.

    As I entered the room, Captain Obsidian gave me a look that was halfway between annoyed and embarrassed. I immediately understood why when I observed the crime scene.

    There were no signs of a struggle, but around the corpse was a circle of all too familiar objects. A small shovel, a purse, a quill pen, a hatchet, a letter opener, the Gas lamp that should have been at the head of the bed, a compass and a small wooden box, formed a circle around a little axe.

    Obsidian was annoyed because this case proved that he had been wrong to close the case. He claimed, of course, that it was probably a murderer copying the other''s modus operandi, hoping to lead us down a false trail. However, his face clearly indicated that he did not believe it himself.

    Finding nothing unusual in the examination of the corpse, I authorized Doctor Alun to lower it from his rope for a more scholarly study. I observed the surroundings while listening distractedly to the statements of the hotel staff.

    The deceased gave his name as Dives Ventus and claimed to have recently arrived in Bruma. Having paid generously for his suite and left behind good tips, he was certainly a rich man.

    However, I found no trace of money in his room. A few empty chests, at most, which could have contained some. Looking more closely at the clues, I saw that several gold shavings were lying on the ground and Dr. Alun reported that he had found others in the victim''s pockets. The small quantity of the precious metal was in no way a fortune. They seemed to be pieces that had been scraped from some ingots.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    On the walls were words similar to the previous messages addressed to the victims. Pieces of paper delicately calligraphed and attached to the walls with some glues. I found a total of eight words addressed to ¡°Pala¡±. They expressed regret at his attitude and his responsibility in the death of their supposed authors.

    One of them, signed in the name of ¡°Ultio Cophinus¡±, seemed more cheerful and said that he had appreciated that ¡°Pala¡± usurped his identity and pretended to take revenge, but that it was now time for him to join them too.

    Alba''s one was also different, saying that she would join them in her time and that she thanked Pala for sparing her life during his murders: sentences that the real Alba Magister, given the fury that had filled her at the death of her husband, would never have written herself.

    The identity of the deceased seemed obvious to me then: the last piece I was missing in this sinister puzzle.

    Driven by a presentiment, I headed towards the circle of objects and opened the small chest. I noticed in passing that it was different from the others, indicating a different craftsman. As I had suspected, it contained a paper filled with the same writing as the words on the walls. A writing different from that of the previous murders. A writing that I knew. I read the message:

    All dead on the dead man''s chest...

    And the gold is gone!

    The chest is empty...

    The dead man is avenged!

    The pickaxe was the culprit,

    And the inspector saw nothing

    Ut quisque suum debitum

    I noticed that the paper was crumpled, as if someone had read it just before, that their hands had clenched on it, then put it back in place. On the other side of the sheet, the outlines in black ink of the symbol of Nemesis removed any doubts I might have had about the author of this message.

    Gritting my teeth in rage, I continued my study of the crime scene. I still had to discover how this murder had taken place.

    4

    I was sitting on a bench in the city park the day after the case. The forest of giant mushrooms gave off a heady scent as the artificial light reflected off the luminous bays that adorned the vines descending from the ceiling. Although I preferred to gaze at the desolate moors above ground and the steam from the chimneys overlooking the city, I also sometimes went there when I was feeling a little depressed.

    Once again, I had solved the case. But, once again, Nemesis had escaped me.

    I noticed out of the corner of my eye a figure sitting down next to me. Mo?ra, of course.

    After we greeted each other, she remained silent for a long time, perhaps understanding that I was not in the mood to talk. Of course, she eventually gave in to her curiosity.

    ¡°So?¡± I heard that the case of the ¡®Dwarf Chest¡¯ was finally solved. Yet, it doesn''t seem to please you?"

    I resolved to tell her the case in detail. Although annoyed at first, I felt better by speaking.

    As I explained, the last victim was the culprit of the other murders: Pala Sternutatio. The first body we had found must have belonged to a poor man who, by his morphology, must have resembled Sternutatio. Someone whose disappearance went unnoticed. His beard had been braided as Sternutatio was accustomed to and he had been murdered, before or after that. Having access to his mine, Sternutatio had had no trouble bringing the body there, probably helped by his associate: Thaur Khr?ma, a criminal whose bail he had paid under a false name. He had probably already cut his beard and was wearing one of the hairpieces he had had prepared for his crimes, when he had paid the sum. The body of their victim was placed in the theatrical manner necessary for their plan, then the murderers had disfigured his face in such a way as to prevent real identification.

    They then began to eliminate the other associates one by one. Knowing their habits, Sternutatio had had no trouble setting up ambushes for them. The clues left had increased the distrust between the remaining shareholders and it was likely that the criminal had anticipated Alba Magister''s reaction, which had led to eliminating two conspirators at once without any further action on his part.

    Once all those who could access the gold were dead, or incapacitated, the killer had gotten rid of his accomplice. Unrecognizable under his disguise, he had then gone to the bank where he had withdrawn all that was left of the treasure, to take it to where he now resided.

    In economic deficit and riddled with debt, the old man had decided to seize all that was left of the gold and start a new life elsewhere. To do this, he had not hesitated to borrow a lot of money, which he had used as funds after faking his death. Then he had killed his former friends and played on their mutual feelings of guilt and suspicion to prevent any coordinated action to stop the murders.

    But once he had done his deed, Nemesis had struck. The hotel staff had told me that a red-haired lady, hiding her face with a mask, had rented the next suite. They had told me about her hoarse voice that sounded like a crackling fire, which had removed any doubt I could have about her identity.

    It probably hadn¡¯t been too difficult for the thief to force the lock at night. She had probably used a sleeping gas to keep the owner of the place asleep while she plundered the riches and staged his future death.

    One of the dead man¡¯s chests had wheels and a steam-powered movement system, which had allowed the deceased to transport the gold there and the thief to make it take the opposite route. She had then taken the stairlift back down to the ground floor and left the hotel despite the late hour, as confirmed to me by the night staff, to whom she had left a generous tip. She had thus bought off any suspicions they might have had about her hasty departure, for such is the power of money.

    This is where Mr. Sternutatio¡¯s weakness had come into play. The man, indeed, suffered from several allergies that made him dependent on medication. Doctor Alun had analyzed these and concluded that they had been replaced by powerful hallucinogens.

    When he got up in the morning, his first instinct had been to take these products. Then, he had probably progressed through the rest of the room in a semi-conscious state. While the papers on the walls and the objects in the center of the room reminded him of his own guilt for the murder of his friends, amplified by the narcotic, he had discovered that his ill-gotten gold had been stolen from him.

    Ruined after all these highly dishonorable acts, his mind troubled by the drug, the man must have considered the rope hanging from the ceiling and a small table that allowed easy access to it. He had climbed onto the latter, put the rope around his neck and taken the last step of his criminal life.

    My story finished, I looked at the plants diving from the vault and sighed.

    ¡°So,¡± concluded Mo?ra, ¡°the case is solved? You should be happy?¡±

    ¡°But I could not prevent these murders. Nemesis got there before me, knowing in advance what was going to happen. She waited for the last dead and pushed the criminal to join them, playing the avenger again on behalf of this man, dead fifty years ago...¡±

    ¡°And she stole the gold.¡±

    ¡°Yes, there is also that...¡±

    ¡°There is still something exciting and romantic about it, don''t you think? The story of the dead man, told as if by himself by one of his murderers, himself supposed to be dead...¡±

    ¡°I suppose...¡±

    ¡°And in the end, justice is done and the forgotten crimes have been punished...¡±

    ¡°Maybe... But one day, Nemesis will also answer for her crimes. My hunt will eventually succeed, even if I have to pursue her to the edge of the world, to the abyss that overlooks the great void, where the lands of Zerkr?m end¡­¡±

    Mo?ra burst out with her little clear laugh. With amusement and simplicity, she answered me:

    ¡°You don''t need to go that far.¡±

    It was true: Nemesis was hiding in my city of Bruma and, one day, I would surely capture her!

    THE END