The Death of Achilles (31 page)

“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.”

Etienne Licolle ‘s only regret was that his mother had not lived to see this day. How she had dreamed of the time when her boy would qualify as an advocate and array himself in the black robe with the rectangular white tie! But paying for his studies at the university had consumed all of her widow’s pension and skimping on doctors and medicine had shortened her life — she had died the previous spring. Etienne had gritted his teeth and refused to be defeated. Dashing from one lesson to another in the afternoon and poring over his textbooks at night, he had completed his studies after all — and the coveted diploma with the royal seal had been duly awarded. His mother could be proud of her son.

His fellow graduates and newly fledged advocates had invited him to go to a restaurant in the country — to ‘christen the gown’ — but Etienne had refused. He had no money for revels, but more important than that, on a day like this he wanted to be alone. He walked slowly down the broad marble staircase of the Palais de Justice, where the solemn ceremony had taken place. The entire city, with its spires, towers, and statues on rooftops, lay spread out below him, at the foot of the hill. Etienne stopped and admired the view, which seemed to be offering him a hospitable welcome. As if Brussels had opened its arms wide to embrace the new Maitre Licolle, enticing him with the prospect of every possible kind of surprise — for the most part, of course, pleasant ones.

Of course, who could dispute the fact that a diploma was only the beginning? Without useful connections and acquaintances he would not be able to find good clients. And in any case he lacked the means required to establish his own firm. He would have to work as an assistant to Maitre Wiener or Maitre Van Gelen. But that was not so bad — at least they would pay him some kind of salary.

Etienne Licolle pressed the folder containing the diploma with the red seal against his chest, turned his face toward the warm September sunshine, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut in an excess of emotion.

He was surprised in this absurd position by Achimas Welde.

Achimas had picked the young lad out while the hall was echoing to the boring, pompous speeches of the award ceremony. The youth’s appearance was ideally suited to requirements: pleasant-looking, but no Adonis. Slim, with narrow shoulders. Wide, honest eyes. When he stepped up to pronounce the words of the oath, his voice had proved ideally suited, too — clear, boyish, trembling with excitement. But best of all, it was immediately obvious that he was no rich gentleman’s son, but genuine plebeian stock and a hard worker.

While the interminable ceremony continued, Achimas had been able to make inquiries. His final doubts had been laid to rest; this was indeed ideal material. The rest could not have been simpler.

He walked up to the thin youth without making a sound and then cleared his throat.

Etienne started, opened his eyes, and turned around to find himself facing a gentleman in a traveling coat with a walking cane who had appeared out of nowhere. The stranger’s eyes were regarding him with keen seriousness. They were a rather unusual color, too, very pale. “Maitre Licolle?” the man inquired with a slight accent. It was the first time Etienne had been addressed as ‘Maitre’ and he liked the feeling.

As was only to be expected, the boy was at first exultant to learn that he was being offered a case, but when the client’s name was mentioned he was horrified. Achimas remained silent while he indignantly objected, gesticulating wildly and declaring that he would never defend that villain, that monster, for anything. He only spoke after Licolle, having exhausted his reserves of indignation, muttered: “Anyway, I couldn’t cope with a case like that. You see, monsieur, I am still very inexperienced. I have only just received my diploma.”

Now it was Achimas’s turn. He said: “Do you wish to work for a pittance for twenty or even thirty years, earning money and glory for other lawyers? Yes, sometime about 1900 you may manage to scrape together enough centimes to set up in practice for yourself, but by that time you will be a bald, toothless failure with a sick liver and life will already have squeezed you dry. Your vital juices will have oozed out through your fingers drop by drop, maitre, in exchange for those hard-earned centimes. But I am offering you far more than that right here and now. Now, while you are still twenty-three, you can earn good money and make a big name for yourself — even if you should happen to lose the case. In your profession, a name is even more important than money. Certainly your reputation will be tinged with scandal, but that is better than wasting your entire life as someone else’s errand boy. You will receive enough money to open your own firm. Many people will hate you, but there will be others who will appreciate the courage of a young lawyer who was not afraid to stand up against the whole of society.”

Achimas waited for a minute, to give the lad time to grasp what he had said. Then he moved on to the second stage of his argument, which, as he understood matters, ought to prove more decisive.

“Or could it be that you are simply afraid? Have I not just heard you swear ‘to uphold justice and a man’s right to legal representation regardless of all obstacles and pressures’? Do you know why I chose you out of all the graduates? Because you are the only one who pronounced those words with genuine feeling. Or at least, so it seemed to me.”

Etienne said nothing, horrified as he felt himself being swept away by a raging torrent that was quite impossible to resist. “And most important of all,” said the stranger, lowering his voice suggestively, “Pierre Fechtel is innocent. He is no Pied Piper; he is the victim of a confluence of circumstances and the zealous determination of the police. If you do not intervene, an innocent man will go to the scaffold. Yes, it will be very difficult for you. You will be overwhelmed with insults; no one will want to testify in defense of a monster. But you will not be alone. I shall be helping you. I shall remain in the shadows, your eyes and ears. I am already in possession of certain items of evidence which, while they do not entirely confirm Pierre Fechtel’s innocence, do at least cast doubt on the prosecution’s case. And I shall obtain more.”

“What items of evidence?” Etienne asked in a weak voice.

At least three hundred people were crammed into the little hall of the Merlain Municipal Court, which was designed to hold only a hundred, and there were even more people thronging the corridor, standing under the windows, and waiting on the square outside.

The appearance of public prosecutor Renan was greeted with a thunderous ovation. But when they brought in the felon, a pale, thin-lipped man with close- set black eyes and sideburns that had once been well-groomed but had now grown ragged and uneven, a deadly silence fell in the hall, followed by such a thunderous uproar that the judge, Maitre Viksen, broke his bell trying to call the assembly to order.

The judge called out the counsel for the defense and for the first time everyone noticed the puny young man whose advocate’s robes were clearly too large for him. First turning pale, then bright red, Maitre Li-colle babbled a few barely audible words and then, in reply to the judge’s impatient question as to whether the accused admitted his guilt, he suddenly squeaked quite clearly: “No, Your Honor!” The hall erupted indignantly once again. “And such a decent-looking young man, too,” shouted one of the women.

The trial went on for three days.

On the first day the witnesses for the prosecution testified. First came the policemen who had found the terrible room and then interrogated the accused. According to the commissioner of police, Pierre Fechtel had trembled and given contradictory answers to questions, been quite unable to explain anything, and offered the police huge sums of money if they would leave him alone.

The gardener who had reported suspicious screams to the police did not appear in court, but his presence was not necessary. The public prosecutor summoned witnesses who provided vivid descriptions of Fechtel’s debauchery and depravity and his constant demands for the youngest and slenderest girls in brothels. The madam of one of these bawdy houses told the court how the accused had tortured her ‘little daughters’ with red-hot curling tongs, but the poor darlings had put up with it because the villain paid them a gold coin for every burn.

The hall burst into applause when a man who had seen the flower girl Lucille Lanoux ride away in the carriage (her head was later found in a barrel with the eyes gouged out and the nose cut off) identified Fechtel as the very same man who had described the miraculous abilities of his mechanical piano in such glowing terms.

The jurors were presented with items of evidence: implements of torture, a photographic camera and photographic plates discovered in the concealed room. There was also testimony from Monsieur Briihl, who had taught Pierre Fechtel the art of taking photographs three years previously.

In conclusion the jurors were shown an album of photographic cards found in the ghastly basement. These photographs were not shown to the public and the journalists, but one of the jurors fainted and another vomited.

The advocate Licolle sat there with his head bowed like a student at a lecture, assiduously taking down all the testimony in a notebook. When he was shown the photographs he turned as white as chalk and swayed on his feet. “That’s right, take a good look, you puny weakling!” someone shouted from the hall.

That evening there was an unpleasant incident at the end of the session: As Licolle was leaving the hall, the mother of one of the murdered girls came up to him and spat in his face.