The Paris Enigma by Pablo De Santis Page A

assistant to embellish the tales of his investigations beyond the credible in order to keep the true stories secret.
    Sunk into an armchair and looking like he was about to fall asleep was Garganus, the assistant to the Greek detective Madorakis, who stuck out a weary hand to me. I knew that Madorakis had come up against Arzaky on some theoretical aspects of their profession. Craig had told me a bit about their rivalry:
    â€œEvery detective is either Platonic or Aristotelian. But we’re not always what we believe ourselves to be. Madorakis thinks he’s Platonic, but he’s Aristotelian; Arzaky thinks he’s Aristotelian, but he’s a hopeless Platonic.”
    At the time I hadn’t understood my teacher’s words. I knew that Arzaky’s other rival—his true rival, because his competition with the Greek didn’t go beyond intellectual folly—was Louis Darbon, with whom he vied for control of Paris. Darbon had always considered Arzaky a foreigner who had no right to practice the trade in his city. Arthur Neska, his assistant, was dressed entirely in black and stood in a corner, looking as if he was about to leave. As the days passed I came to understand that he was always like that: in doorways, on staircases, never seated or settled or absorbed in conversation. He was slim and had a youthful air about him, and thin feminine lips that seemed to convey displeasure toward everything and everyone.When I approached him in greeting he didn’t move to shake my hand until the very last second.
    Since my childhood, I had followed the adventures of some of these men in The Key to Crime , as well as in other magazines like The Red Mark and Suspicion ; and now I was actually shaking their hands. Even though they were assistants and not detectives, to me they were legendary characters who lived in another world, another time, and yet here we were, in the same room, surrounded by the same cloud of cigarette smoke.
    Mario Baldone raised his voice so he could be heard over the murmuring.
    â€œDear sirs, I would like to welcome Sigmundo Salvatrio, from the Argentine Republic, who has come on behalf of the founder of The Twelve Detectives: Renato Craig.”
    Everyone applauded upon hearing Craig’s name, and it was gratifying for me to see how respected my mentor was. Stammering in French, I explained that I was inexperienced, and that only a series of unfortunate coincidences had brought me there. My modesty made a good impression among those around me: in that moment I saw a tall Japanese man at the back of the room, who wore some sort of blue silk shirt with bright yellow details: it was Okano, the assistant to Sakawa, the detective from Tokyo. Okano looked to be one of the youngest—he must have been about thirty years old—but it has always been hard for me to guess the age of people from the Orient. They always seem younger or older than they actually are, as if even their features speak an exotic foreign tongue.
    Problems always bring us around and keep us alert, but when everything’s going well, as on that night, we forget about possible dangers. They served me cognac, and since I’m not used to drinking, I overdid it somewhat. Modesty began to seem insipid and I thought it was time to highlight a few of my virtues. I left out the fact that I was a cobbler’s son, but I did mention my skill with footprints.
    â€œThose are qualities of a detective, not an assistant,” said Linker. Ilooked at his too-pale eyes, and I recognized, luckily not aloud, that his imitation of a dullard was perfect.
    But he wasn’t the only one who was bothered by what I had said.
    â€œWhere did you learn these skills?” asked Arthur Neska, Louis Darbon’s assistant, from a doorway, as always.
    I should have kept my mouth shut, but alcohol loosens the tongue and firmly ties up the mind.
    â€œIn the Academy,” I said, “Detective Craig taught us all types of