My icy discovery didn't surprise me at all, for my unerring instinct had already let me know a few days earlier that for some time Father Joker was no longer among the living and breathing. What astonished me was how easy the killer had had it this time. For unlike the other victims, Joker's neck had not been torn open. Merely the outlines of fang bites could be recognized, as if Count Dracula had left his monogram behind, from which a pathetically thin trickle of blood had flowed and frozen. The intact porcelain figures and glasses around the corpse were also testimony to the fact that Joker had put up no resistance. Even the pretense of resistance would have tipped over all that junk and made it tumble onto the floor. Yes, probably the murderer and his victim had retreated to this remote place to take care of business between themselves in all secrecy.
It had been an execution, and Joker had been in complete agreement with it. The reason was obvious. The Master of Ceremonies had heard that others had gotten wind of the fact that he was the murderer's accomplice. In the course of an interrogation by someone whose suspicion had been aroused, it became evident that sooner or later he doubtlessly would have broken down and revealed the murderer, and the murderer had also known this. Naturally the murderer could absolutely not afford to take this risk, and so he forced Joker to take this inconceivable but necessary step. And Joker had obeyed, had let the beast kill him without protest. Yet what was so unbelievably important at stake that Joker was willing to sacrifice himself for it? Was the secret more important than his own life?
Claudandus! He had saved his own life to take the lives of others!
Solving a puzzle usually gives normal mortals a feeling of pride and satisfaction. Degenerate brains like mine, however, obey other laws, something I had known even before I solved the Claudandus case. Solving puzzles is, by nature, a pleasure; the solution of puzzles is, however, a ludicrous reward. It is delightful beyond description when a mystery is hidden within a mystery, which in turn is hidden within still another mystery and on and on … Puzzle solvers are a unique species, and it is their most ardent wish that someday someone will come and pose them a question they cannot answer. But on occasion a puzzle solver must face crushing defeat. And not because he discovers that he can't solve a riddle, but because he solves it so well—and afterwards he wishes that he had left the riddle unsolved.
That's how Yours Truly felt that crazy night when I got to the bottom of the mystery. It was at one and the same time exciting and depressing.
I became disillusioned with puzzle solving only a few minutes after I returned to our apartment. In the same suicidal way I climbed up, I crossed to the connecting branch from the roof and climbed down. The whole time I was so intensely busy in my mind putting together the pieces of the puzzle that I executed every heart-stopping move like a sleepwalker, not even enjoying the pleasant prickle of fear accompanying the dangerous descent. Meanwhile, the snow flurries had turned into a shrieking and howling dragon that spewed forth an icy, white lava. Next morning the world would resemble the kitschy landscape of a Merry Xmas postcard, and its hominess would work Christmas fans up into orgasms.
Still engrossed in hundreds of abstruse theories, I trudged back home in a blizzard worthy of Dr. Zhivago and slipped through the bathroom window, which Gustav had left open for me, into the apartment. I found my poor friend in the study, where he was sleeping with his whole upper torso sprawled over his desk, totally soused. No doubt he had made a few sad attempts to celebrate the celebration of celebrations all by himself, until he realized how senseless and sad his efforts were and decided instead to spend his precious time on his work. Amid the many books on his desk were two empty wine bottles and a half-full glass, proof that work alone had not sufficed to numb the pain of loneliness.
I sprang up onto the desk and mournfully regarded the man who prepared my meals day after day, dragged me to the doctor at the least sign of indisposition, played silly games with me with a cork or rubber mouse (which I went along with to humor him), worried terribly if I were away for longer than usual, and loved me more than this whole damned spruced-up apartment. Unfortunately, once again he was snoring barbarically, which cast an ugly shadow on my wistful feelings for him. He had laid his watermelon head on the side on an oversized volume of illustrations, which was open to the middle and dimly illuminated by a reading lamp.
Continuing to brood on Gustav's meaningless life, I glanced fleetingly at the right page of the book. On it was an Egyptian painting, illustrious in its original colors. "Tomb painting from Theban, about 1400 B.C." was
