The Legacy of Erich Zann and Other Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos Page 3

  As we got into the carriage, Dupin said: “My intuition should have told me that something was amiss when you began our discussion this evening with mention of Guiseppe Tartini, and even prompted me to mention Erich Zann.”

  “But you didn’t mention Erich Zann,” I pointed out.

  “Not by name, admittedly—he was the violinist of genius I mentioned in connection with scordatura techniques: the one who could retune his instrument mid-piece. Zann was once a pupil in Tartini’s famous school, although Tartini was then very old—he died in 1770, I believe. Zann was scarcely more than a youth then, although he was not quite as old as he seemed when he perished in his turn.

  “Is this the Devil’s work to which you referred in jest, then?” I quipped. “I had not realized that you meant t-a-l-e rather than t-a-i-l.”

  “One should not be tempted to make jokes,” Dupin muttered, as he settled back into a corner of the capacious carriage, as if trying to melt into the upholstery. “There are, alas, far too many true words accidentally spoken in jest.”

  Dupin then became stubbornly mute, though, presumably because we were not alone. The Prefect had one of his employees waiting in the carriage: a burly agent who obviously served as his bodyguard, and regarded us both with a suspicious air, signifying that he was ready to leap upon us and render us helpless if we made any suspicious movement.

  3.

  I took the opportunity provided by Dupin’s silence to rack my memory for any information about Giuseppe Tartini that might have been stored there for future use, but I could not discover anything except the famous anecdote that had provided the inspiration for the melodrama I had been to see the night before last.

  Tartini had once told the astronomer Jérôme Lalande that he had dreamed of making a pact with the Devil, who had been prepared to grant his every wish in return for his soul. In his dream, Tartini had handed over his violin, in order to investigate the Adversary’s musical talents, and the Devil had played a sonata so spectacularly beautiful and original that the composer had woken up with a start and tried to play it himself. He had failed to recapture it, but the inferior piece thus inspired had nevertheless been the finest of all his works: Il Trillo del Diavolo, usually known in English as The Devil’s Sonata, although the original title referred to the spectacularly difficult double-stop trills that the piece required. The rumor had been put about after his death that Tartini had had six fingers on his left hand, and could not have played the trills otherwise, but it seemed more likely to my prosaic mind that he had simply had unusually long fingers, like Signor Paganini—who made the execution of such trills, and even more esoteric notes, seem like child’s play.

  When the Prefect had given his coachman instructions to return to the Rue Serpente as quickly as possible, and had taken a seat beside the man who had been waiting in the carriage—introduced to us as Inspector Lestrade of the Sûreté—I looked at Dupin, hoping that he might at least continue his discussion of the facts of Bernard Clamart’s murder, but the logician continued to hold his tongue while the carriage was in progress, seemingly losing himself in memory and reflection. At that time of night, fortunately, the journey from the Faubourg Saint-Germain to the Rue Serpente did not take long, and we were soon climbing down again, in the inner courtyard of the tall house that contained Clamart’s apartment and place of business.

  We went upstairs to the first floor, where his consulting-room was—conveniently sandwiched between the apartment above and the principal servants’ quarters beneath. The building had one other tenant on the first floor, two others on the third and another alongside further servant’s quarters in the mansards, but the Commissaire had, apparently, already ruled them out as likely suspects in the murder. The mysterious individual seen running away from the external staircase was the present focus of attention and interest.

  Thanks to my acquaintance with Dupin, I had seen dead bodies before, but it is a sight to which one does not become readily accustomed. This one had bled very profusely, and many of the papers that had been recklessly scattered around the corpse had become spotted and edged with absorbed blood, thus being remade—at least in my imagination—in the image of the diabolical contracts of legend.

  Careless of the clotted stains, Dupin knelt down beside the body and inspected the corpse closely. He seemed disappointed when he finally proclaimed: “The appearances are not deceptive. Clamart was, indeed, taken by surprise while he was seated in the armchair, and hit from behind. The first blow certainly did not kill him, for he appears to have been able to turn his head, if not to stand up—that is why the second blow landed on the top of his head. He fell forward out of the chair then, on to his knees, and the third blow finished the job. The angle at which the blows were struck confirm that the murderer was not tall, which fits with the concierge’s scant description of the person seen descending the external stairway. The blows were not particularly forceful, suggesting a relatively weak arm—again consonant with the concierge’s description.

  “The fact that the murderer does not appear to have been tall or strong suggests that the crime was not planned in advance. Had murder been premeditated, the assassin would surely have taken the trouble to bring a dagger with which to stab his victim quickly and cleanly. I half-expected to find that a stiletto had been thrust into his skull beneath the occiput, and that the wound thus made had been superficially disguised, but that is not the case. Perhaps the burglar did not expect to find Clamart in his study, although it is highly unlikely that he would have been in bed at the hour when the crime was committed. There is a more likely possibility.” Instead of continuing immediately, he waited, rather coquettishly.

  “What is the more likely possibility?” the Prefect asked, automatically responding to the cue.

  “That it was only the attack that was unexpected by either party, and that the visitor was here by appointment—although any record of that appointment made by Clamart, and any notes he made in the course of it, will surely have been removed by the murderer. At any rate, Clamart and his killer might well have been engaged in a seemingly-amicable conversation—amicable enough for Clamart to have allowed his visitor to move behind him without turning his head to keep a close eye on him...or her.”

  “You think the murderer might have been a woman?” the Prefect asked.

  “If Clamart really was sufficiently relaxed and self-confident to give his murderer the opportunity to move behind his chair and pick up the candlestick, yes, there must be a possibility that the short and slender figure seen making a hasty exit was female.”

  “You think she killed him in the course of an assignation? That we’re dealing with a crime of passion?”

  “To the first question, possibly—although, as a notary, Monsieur Clamart might well have had female clients who had reasons for maintaining strict secrecy with respect to their consultations, so there is no need to assume an assignation. To the second, it depends what you mean by a crime of passion. There is more than one kind of passion, and all of them may become motives for murder.” He looked around the room, contemplating the scattered papers, then added: “We have no time now to sort through this welter of irrelevancy, although it will have to be done—I leave that to your agents. If the murderer left behind any documents of interest, we shall have to trust that your men will be able to identify them. What we really need to know is whether the culprit took away any other documents, in addition to Clamart’s pocket-book—but we shall not be able to discover that, or figure out what they were, by inspecting those left behind. There are more urgent matters requiring my personal attention.”

  “Are you going to see Palaiseau?” The Prefect asked.

  “That seems the best course of action. It might easily be a fruitless mission, but if he has developed loose lips in his old age, it will be useful to discover what he has said, and to whom. You can leave that to me if you wish—your presence might intimidate him, and you doubtless have official duties to perform. I can easily take a fiacre to th
e Boulevard du Temple. Is he still working at the Ambigu and living just round the corner?”

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Groix, but hastened to add, “although the Ambigu no longer has that name, and if you were give it to a cab-driver nowadays, he’d take you to the Ambigu-Comique in the Boulevard Saint-Martin. The old Ambigu is now called the Délassements-Comique.”

  Even Dupin was subject to moments of temporary fallibility. He struggled to remember where he had recently heard that name for a full three seconds before he suddenly rounded on me and said: “You reached for your pocket when you mentioned program-notes for the performance you attended two nights ago. May I see it?”

  I could play the coquette too, and was harboring a certain smoldering resentment about being kept in the dark. “There’s no need,” I said, airily, “Monsieur Paul Palaiseau was indeed one of the performers—the lead violinist in fact.”

  “I had already deduced that,” he told me, frostily. “What I need to know is whether he was playing a particular instrument. Is there any special mention in the notes regarding his violin?”

  “Yes there is,” I replied. “The theater is obviously very proud to be able to feature such an instrument, violins of that manufacture being rarely seen outside the concert hall. The notes refer to it as the Lost Stradivarius.”

  I had never heard Dupin groan before, and had not realized that his exceedingly pale face could get any paler. He looked at Monsieur Groix, to whom this news was similarly unwelcome.

  “Oh, the fool,” the Prefect murmured. “He swore that the instrument was unplayable, a mere curiosity. He said that he would never...but he did not see what you and I saw, did he? Nor did Clamart—only poor Fourmont, whose death it surely hastened, and the author of the deposition.”

  “Again,” Dupin murmured, “it might simply be the influence of this Paganini fellow. I should have done my eavesdropping more assiduously, and paid more attention to the potential corollaries of what I heard.” He was moving out of the room as he spoke, but his steps were slow, as if his sense of urgency had been compromised by the need to think.

  “You’re right,” the Prefect said. “Paganini has repopularized scordatura, and has demonstrated new playing techniques. Palaiseau always fancied himself an undeveloped genius. He must be as envious of Paganini, albeit at a far greater distance, as he once was of Erich Zann. Paganini’s celebrity, and the fact that Soulié and Bazailles have tried to cash in on it, in their own way, might well have stirred up all kinds of memories and desires that should have been as safely buried as poor Zann’s corpse. But still....” He left the sentence dangling; like Dupin, he had no faith in the possibility that Paganini’s interest in Erich Zann had prompted further interest of no great significance. Both men obviously felt that something more sinister was afoot—something that they both dreaded.

  Dupin rounded on Clamart’s valet who was waiting patiently in the corridor outside the consulting-room, holding himself available for questioning. “Tell me,” he said, “has Monsieur Clamart been to the theater recently?”

  The valet glanced at the Prefect, obviously wondering whether he was obliged to answer questions addressed to him by such an eccentric and slightly shabby individual. The Prefect nodded.

  “Why, yes, Monsieur,” the valet said. “He normally goes no further than the Opéra, but three days ago he went to the Boulevard du Temple to see the play that everyone is talking about—the one with the boy soprano playing the Devil.”

  “You don’t think he actually called on Palaiseau, do you?” The Prefect asked Dupin.

  “He might have done, once he read the program note about the violin,” Dupin replied, tautly. “What he should have done was to notify you—or me—immediately. As you just pointed out, however, he did not see what Fourmont, you and I saw. He swore the oath along with the rest of us, but he did not understand its true significance, any more than Palaiseau did.”

  “Do you think that his conversation with Palaiseau might somehow have sealed his death-warrant?” the Prefect asked. “Palaiseau cannot have committed the murder, for he would have been performing in the orchestra-pit when the fatal blow was delivered.”

  “That’s right,” I put in, still relying on my memory and having no need to consult my program notes. “The play has three acts, with the customary brief intervals in between. Palaiseau plays in all three, on behalf of the actor playing the lead, and cannot possibly have left the theater between dusk and nine-thirty.”

  “Palaiseau is a highly unlikely murderer, in any case,” Dupin opined. “If he believes that his great opportunity has come at last, though, and that he has finally succeeded, by means of assiduous and secret practice, in mastering Zann’s recalcitrant instrument, he might well have sacrificed discretion in talking to the composer, his fellow players, and even the gentlemen of the press. I must find out what he has said, and to whom. If someone was willing to murder Clamart, with no particularly powerful motive that I can see—given than the worst that Clamart might have done was to send a warning to you or me, once he realized what his visitor wanted—then I, at least, might well be in danger of a similar fate.”

  “I have Lestrade to protect me, thank God, and the entire resources of the Sûreté to call upon, if necessary,” Monsieur Groix observed, “although that’s less than you might imagine, now that all the finest agents available are laboring in the political police, rooting out legitimists, Bonapartists, anarchists and God only knows how many other enemies of the State. Would you care to deliver Zann’s documents into my custody, for safe keeping?”

  “I can’t,” Dupin replied, brusquely. “In any case, it would too late to buy any immunity by that means. Palaiseau was never party to the terms of the testament, so he probably never knew of the existence of the second component of Zann’s legacy, but if Clamart revealed its existence and nature, then I might be the murderer’s next target. I told Clamart what I had done with the manuscript, but he might not have had the time or the inclination to mention that, and his killer probably would not have believed him if he did.”

  “The Préfeture still has the deposition,” the Prefect remarked. “Palaiseau knows that that document exists, and that it’s properly filed in the Archives.”

  “The murderer is welcome to consult the deposition, at this stage of the game,” Dupin said, reflectively, “although it’s unlikely to occasion any retreat. I need to find out exactly what Palaiseau has let slip, though, and to whom. He won’t be eager to tell me, but I shall have to winkle it out of him.”

  “Be careful, Monsieur Dupin,” the Prefect advised. “The Boulevard du Temple is not a safe place at this time of night, even if there were no further consequences of the present affair to be feared. I do have official duties to perform, as you said, but the key to this mystery probably lies with Palaiseau. I’ll follow you to the Boulevard du Temple as soon as the formalities have been completed here, so that you can inform me as to what you’ve learned and we can discuss what steps to take next—but I repeat, you must be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, Monsieur Groix,” Dupin said airily, gesturing casually in my direction. “I have a bodyguard of my own—not one as accomplished, I dare say, as your faithful Lestrade, but a reliable one nevertheless. All Americans are fighting-men at heart, even bookish ones so shy that they feel compelled to employ an intermediary in order to publish anecdotes and tales in popular magazines.”

  4.

  We walked down to the Quai in search of a fiacre, at a pace that quickly rendered us both breathless. Mercifully, we found one readily enough. It was not until Dupin had given the coachman the address of the Délassements-Comique and settled back into a corner of the vehicle in his customary fashion that he finally condescended to begin the explanation that he had promised to give me.

  “As I mentioned briefly,” he said, “Erich Zann was an Austrian violinist who studied at Giuseppe Tartini’s school during the famous virtuoso’s latter years. Tartini had, by then, become very interested in the theory
of harmony and acoustics, publishing various treatises on those subjects, and Zann shared his interest, although he approached the problem from a different direction. To borrow a metaphor from our earlier discussion, Tartini took a fundamentally physiological approach to questions of musical theory and the effects of music on the human mind, while Zann’s approach was essentially spiritualistic—focused, like Alexandre Bertrand’s theory of Mesmerism, on the ecstatic quality and potential of music. In spite of this difference in attitude—or perhaps because of it—Erich Zann became Tartini’s favorite pupil in his later years

  “The young Zann brought from his homeland a strong interest in the scordatura techniques employed by the Bohemian composer Heinrich von Biber in his famous Rosary Sonatas. Knowing that von Biber had drawn his inspiration from such Italian masters as Marini and Uccellini, and had had been a powerful influence in his turn on Tartini’s less celebrated contemporary Pietro Locatelli, it seemed only logical to Zann that he should study in Italy. Again, this interest intrigued Tartini, whose interest in vibrato, tremolo and trillo ornamentation complemented Zann’s fascination with scordatura. Zann was particularly fascinated by Il Trillo del Diavolo, and must have heard Tartini’s account of its composition long before it was confided to Lalande, who did not broadcast the anecdote until the year before Tartini’s death.”

  “In 1769, that is,” I put in, to reassure him that I was keeping up.

  “Exactly. Zann remained in Italy for some while after Tartini’s demise, but eventually returned to his homeland to continue his research and experimentation. Unfortunately, the Empire was in turmoil long before the outbreak of the Napoleonic Wars, and Zann somehow fell foul of the remnants of the vehmgerichte—unofficial tribunals based in old secret societies, which were enjoying a renaissance of sorts in consequence of the upheavals—and he was forced to flee to France. The poor fellow was dumb, and such conversation as we had was therefore very limited, so I never contrived to find out exactly what it was of which the vehmgerichte considered him guilty, although I deduced that he was suspected of practicing witchcraft—which is to say, diabolism. Such fantasies routinely rear their ugly heads in times of social stress and strife, even in a so-called Age of Enlightenment. At any rate, he was forced to abandon his plans to play in one of the great orchestras of Europe and became a reclusive scholar laboring in obscurity.