The Death of Achilles

TWO

That September morning in 1872 had begun as usual. Achimas and Azalea had breakfasted alone together. She was a slim, loose-limbed Chinese girl with a remarkable voice like a small crystal bell. Her real name was something different, but in Chinese it meant ‘Azalea’ — or so the agency had informed him. She had been sent to Achimas on approval, as a sample of the oriental goods that had only recently begun to appear on the European market. The price asked was only half of the usual, and if Monsieur Welde wished to return the girl early, his money would be refunded. In exchange for such preferential conditions the agency had requested him, as a connoisseur and regular client, to give his authoritative opinion both on Azalea’s abilities and the prospects for yellow goods in general.

Achimas was inclined to award her the highest possible rating. In the mornings, when Azalea sang quietly to herself as she sat in front of the Venetian mirror, Achimas felt a strange tightness in his chest, and he did not like the feeling. The Chinese girl was simply too good. What if he were to grow accustomed to her and not wish to let her go? He had already decided that he would send her back ahead of time. But he would not demand a refund and he would give the girl excellent references, in order not to spoil her career.

Following his invariable custom, that afternoon Achimas entered the gaming hall at two-fifteen precisely. He was wearing a jacket the color of cocoa with milk, checked trousers, and yellow gloves. Attendants came dashing up to take the regular client’s cane and top hat. Herr Welde was a very familiar figure in the gambling houses of Ruletenburg. At first his manner of gambling had been accepted begrudgingly as an inevitable evil, but then they had noticed that the constant doubling-up of the stake practiced by the taciturn blond with the cold, pale eyes inflamed the passions of his neighbors at the table. Achimas had then become a most welcome guest.

He drank his usual coffee with liqueur and looked through the newspapers. England and Russia could not reach an agreement over customs duties. France was delaying the payment of reparations and in response Bismarck had sent a threatening diplomatic note to Paris. In Belgium the trial of the Pied Piper of Brussels was just about to begin.

After he had smoked a cigar, Achimas went over to table 12, where they were playing for high stakes.

There were three players and a gray-haired gentleman simply sitting there, nervously clicking the lid of his gold watch. Catching sight of Achimas, he fastened his eyes on him like limpets. Experience and intuition told Achimas that he was a client. His presence here was not accidental; he was waiting. But Achimas gave the gentleman no sign — let him make the first approach.

Eight and a half minutes later the required third of the wheel had been selected — the last one, from 24 to 36. Achimas staked a Friedrichs-dor. He won three. The gray-haired man kept on watching. His face was pale. Achimas waited for another eleven minutes before the next sector was determined. He staked a gold coin on the first third, from 1 to 12. Number 13 came up. The second time he staked two gold coins. Zero came up. He staked four gold coins. Number 8 came up. He had won twelve Friedrichsdors and was now five gold coins to the good. Everything was proceeding as usual, with no surprises. At this point the gray- haired man finally stood up. He came over and inquired in a low voice: “Mr. Welde?” Achimas nodded, continuing to follow the spinning of the wheel. “I have come to you on the recommendation of the Baron de —.” The gray-haired man named Achimas’s intermediary in Brussels. He was becoming more and more agitated and lowered his voice to a whisper as he explained. “I have a very important matter to discuss with you.”

“Would you perhaps care to take a stroll?” Achimas interrupted, slipping the gold coins into his purse.

The gray-haired gentleman proved to be Leon Fechtel, the owner of a banking house famous throughout Europe — Fechtel and Fechtel. The banker had a serious problem. “Have you read about the Pied Piper of Brussels?” he asked when they were seated on a bench in the park.

All the newspapers were full of the story: The maniac who had been kidnapping little girls had been captured at last. The Petit Parisien said that the police had arrested ‘Mr. F.,’ the owner of a suburban villa outside Brussels. The gardener reported that he had heard the muffled groans of children coming from the basement at night. When the police entered the house in secret, in the course of their search they had discovered a concealed door in the basement, and behind it things so horrible that the newspaper claimed ‘paper could never bear the description of this monstrous scene’. The scene was, however, described in lurid detail in the very next paragraph. In several oak barrels the police had discovered pickled parts of the bodies of seven of the little girls who had disappeared in Brussels and its environs during the previous two years. One body was still quite fresh and it bore the traces of indescribable tortures. In recent years fourteen girls ages six to thirteen had disappeared without a trace. On several occasions people had seen a respectably dressed gentleman with thick black sideburns offering a seat in his carriage to little flower girls or cigarette girls. On one occasion a witness had actually heard the man with sideburns urging the eleven-year-old flower girl Lucille Lanoux to bring her entire basket of flowers to his house and promising that if she did, he would show her a mechanical piano that played wonderful melodies all on its own. This was the occasion that had prompted the newspapers to stop calling the monster ‘Blue Beard’ and christen him ‘the Pied Piper of Brussels,’ by analogy with the fairy-tale Pied Piper who had lured the children of Hamlin away with the music of his magical flute.

Concerning the prisoner, Mr. R, it was reported that he was a member of the gilded youth from the very highest social circles, that he did indeed possess thick black sideburns, and that he had a mechanical piano at his villa. The motive for the crimes was clear, wrote the Evening Standard — it was perverted sensual gratification in the manner of the Marquis de Sade. The date and location of the court hearing had already been determined: the twenty-fourth of September in the little town of Merlain, only half an hour’s journey from the Belgian capital.

“I have read about the Pied Piper of Brussels,” said Achimas, with an impatient glance at the banker, who had said nothing for a long time. Wringing his plump hands spangled with rings, Fechtel exclaimed: “Mr. F. is my only son, Pierre Fechtel! He is destined for the gallows! Save him!”

“You have been misinformed about the nature of my activities. I do not save life, I take it away,” said Achimas, smiling with his thin lips. The banker whispered fervently: “They told me that you work miracles. If you will not take this job, then there is no hope. I implore you. I will pay. I am a very rich man, Mr. Welde, very rich.”

After a pause Achimas asked: “Are you certain that you even want such a son?” Fechtel senior replied without hesitation; it was clear that he had already asked himself that question. “I have no other son and never shall have. He was always rather wild as a boy, but he has a kind heart. If I can only extricate him from this business, he will learn a lesson that will last for the rest of his life. I have been to see him in prison. He is so frightened!”

Then Achimas asked the banker to tell him about the forthcoming trial.

The ‘rather wild’ heir was to be defended by two extremely expensive lawyers. The line of defense was based on proving that the accused was insane. However, according to the banker, the chances of a favorable verdict from the medical experts were slim — they were so obdurately set against the boy that they would not even agree to an unprecedentedly high fee. This latter circumstance had apparently astounded Fechtel senior more than any other.

On the first day of the trial the lawyers had to announce whether their client admitted his guilt. If he did, sentence would be pronounced by a judge; if he did not, the verdict would be delivered by a jury. If the conclusion of the psychiatric examination was that Pierre Fechtel was responsible for his own actions, the defense lawyers had recommended choosing the first route.

The inconsolable father explained angrily that the hangmen in the Ministry of Justice had deliberately chosen Merlain for the trial — three of the girls who had disappeared had lived in the little town. “There can be no fair trial in Merlain,” the banker complained. The population of the small town was in a state of high fever. At night they lit bonfires around the court building. The day before yesterday a crowd had tried to break into the prison and tear the suspect to pieces — they had had to treble the guard.

Mr. Fechtel had conducted secret negotiations with the judge, and he had proved to be a reasonable man. If the decision were to depend on him, the boy would receive a life sentence. But that would not really mean much. The general prejudice against the Pied Piper of Brussels was so great that the public prosecutor would be sure to appeal against such a verdict and a second court hearing would be scheduled.

“You are my only hope, Mr. Welde,” the banker concluded. “I have always regarded myself as a man for whom nothing is impossible. But in this instance I am powerless, and it is a matter of my own son’s life.”

Achimas looked curiously at the millionaire’s crimson face. It was clear that here was a man unused to displaying emotions. For instance now, at a moment of the most powerful agitation, his thick lips were extended in an absurd smile and there was a tear dribbling from one of his eyes. It was interesting: A face unused to molding itself for the expression of feeling was unable to portray a mask of grief. “How much?” asked Achimas. Fechtel swallowed convulsively. “If the boy remains alive, half a million francs. French francs, not Belgian,” he added hastily when his companion gave no reply.

Achimas nodded and an insane glow lit up the banker’s eyes. It was exactly the same glow that lit up the eyes of the madmen who staked all their money on zero at the roulette wheel. This glow had a name: It was called ‘just maybe’. The only difference was that this was clearly not all the money that Mr. Fechtel possessed. “And if you succeed…” The banker’s voice trembled. “If somehow you should succeed not only in saving Pierre’s life but also giving him back his freedom, you will receive a million.”

Achimas had never been offered such a huge fee. Following his usual habit, he translated the sum into pounds sterling (almost thirty thousand), American dollars (seventy-five thousand), and rubles (more than three hundred thousand). It was a very large amount indeed.

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Achimas said slowly and clearly: “Your son must refuse the psychiatric examination, declare himself not guilty, and demand trial by jury. And you must dismiss your expensive lawyers. I shall find a new lawyer.”