The Chain of Chance (15 page)

“How do your experts explain that?”

“I’m not really sure I can answer that. Some ascribed it to the patient’s metabolism, to the formation of acetone derivatives that might possibly have acted as an antidote, though this was challenged by some of the less distinguished—but in my opinion more honest—experts. Acetone derivatives form in the blood when an organism begins to suffer the effects of an insulin deficiency. But nowadays every diabetic is warned to take his prescribed medicine regularly. The next requirement is an allergy. Hypersensitivity to grass, hay fever, asthma. But then there were people who met all of the above conditions and still managed to escape unharmed. Take the patient with the strawberry allergy, or the one with hay fever.”

“Single, well-to-do men who took the mineral baths, were athletic in build, suffered from an allergy, and didn’t know Italian?”

“They even used the same antihistamines as the others, in addition to Plimasine.”

“What’s that?”

“An antihistamine with the added ingredient Ritalin. Ritalin is α-phenyl-α-piperidineacetic acid methyl ester hydrochloride. The first substance in Plimasine, Pyribenzamine, neutralizes the symptoms of allergic reaction but causes drowsiness and a diminution of the reflexes. That’s why drivers are advised to take it in combination with Ritalin, which is classified as a stimulant.”

“You’re quite a chemist, I see!”

“I’ve been taking Plimasine for years. Anyone who has an allergy is to some extent his own doctor. In the States I used to take an equivalent medication, since Plimasine is manufactured in Switzerland. Charles Decker, the man with the hay fever, was also on Plimasine, yet no one touched a hair on his head—Wait a moment.”

I sat there with gaping mouth like a moron. Barth stared at me in silence.

“They all showed signs of baldness,” I said at last. “Baldness?”

“The beginning stages, at least. Wait a minute. Right, Decker had a bald spot, too … at the back of the head. But that still doesn’t … oh, never mind.”

“But you’re not exactly bald,” observed Barth.

“Sorry? Oh, right—I’m not. That was an oversight. But if Decker escaped injury … even though he showed signs of baldness… But what connection could there be between baldness and insanity?”

“Or between insanity and diabetes?”

“You’re right, doctor, that’s not a valid question.”

“Was the question of baldness completely overlooked?”

“The situation was like this. We compared those who died with those who left Naples unharmed. The question of baldness certainly came up. The problem was that verification was possible only in the case of the victims, since most of the survivors would have been reluctant to admit they were wearing a toupee. Human pride being what it is, this is one area where people tend to be extremely sensitive, and getting people to submit willingly to an on-the-spot examination would have been tricky. Also, it would have meant trying to locate the place where the wig or hair transplant had been ordered, and we simply had neither the time nor the staff for that.”

“Wasn’t it considered very relevant?”

“People were divided. Some thought it was a waste of time trying to establish whether any of the survivors was anxious to conceal his baldness, and didn’t see what connection that would have with the tragic fates of the others.”

“Well, then, if you had taken the hair factor into consideration, why did you act so startled a moment ago?”

“It was a negative correlation, I’m afraid. What startled me was that none of the deceased had tried to conceal his baldness. Not one of them had worn a toupee or undergone a hair transplant. There are such operations, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. Anything else?”

“Nothing—except that all the victims were in the process of going bald and made no effort to conceal it, whereas the survivors included both those who were balding and those with a normal head of hair. A minute ago I was reminded of Decker’s bald spot, that’s all. For a moment I thought I’d stumbled onto something. It wouldn’t have been the first time, either. You see, I’ve been at this for so long that now and then I begin seeing things, phantoms…”

“Oh, that smacks of magic spells, spirits from the other world… But maybe there’s something to it.”

“Do you believe in the existence of spirits?” A long and hard stare.

“It’s probably enough if
they
believed in them, isn’t it? Let’s suppose some fortuneteller was operating in Naples, someone who went after rich foreign clients…”

“All right. Supposing there was such a person,” I said, sitting up in my chair, “what then?”

“Let’s assume this fortuneteller tries to win people’s confidence through various kinds of tricks and séances, gives away samples of some miraculous elixir imported from Tibet, some type of narcotic that makes the client totally dependent on him or is passed off as a cure-all for every conceivable ailment… Now let’s suppose that out of a hundred such cases there are some ten or eleven who rashly consume an overdose of the stuff…”

“Right!” I exclaimed. “But in that case wouldn’t the Italians have been wise to his little game? The Italian police, I mean? The fact is that in some cases we were so familiar with the victim’s routine we knew exactly when he left the hotel, what he liked to wear, which were his favorite newsstands and even which papers he bought, which cabin he used for changing clothes at the beach, what and where he ate, which opera performances he saw… Now we might have missed such a quack or guru in one or two instances, but not in every single case. No, there never was any such person. Besides, the whole thing sounds too far-fetched. It’s not just that none of them knew Italian; but would a Swede with a university education, a rare-book dealer, and a respectable businessman be likely to visit an Italian fortuneteller? Besides, none of them would have had the time…”

“Refuted but not defeated. Here goes another wild shot.” He sat up in his chair. “If something had them hooked, then it must have strung them along gently and without leaving a trace. Right?”

“Right.”

“No what else could have hooked them in a purely private, intimate, and casual sort of way but—sex!”

I hesitated before answering.

“No. Granted, there were a few brief erotic encounters, but that’s hardly the same thing. Believe me, we did such a thorough background check we couldn’t possibly have overlooked anything as ‘big’ as a woman, a sex orgy, or a brothel. No, it must have been something else, something utterly banal…”

I was a little surprised by these last words of mine, since I’d never thought of it in such terms before. But it turned out to be grist for Barth’s mill.

“Banal but lethal… Yes, why not! Some shameful and hidden desire, some secret lust that had to be satisfied… Not shameful to us, perhaps, but something that might have meant a horrible scandal for others if it were ever made public…”

“The circle has closed,” I said. “Because now you’ve come around to the very same position you forced me to abandon a while ago, namely, psychology…”

Someone honked outside. Looking very young at that moment, the doctor stood up, peered down below, and shook his finger threateningly. The honking stopped. I was surprised to notice it had already grown dark. I consulted my watch and was shocked to discover that I’d taken up three hours of Barth’s time. I stood up to say good-bye, but he refused to hear anything of the sort.

“Oh, no, you don’t. First of all, you’ll stay with us for dinner. Second, we didn’t settle anything. And third, or, rather, first and foremost, I’d like to apologize for reversing the roles and grilling you like some examining magistrate. I’ll admit I had an ulterior motive, one not exactly worthy of a host… I wanted to find out certain things—both about you and from you—things I couldn’t get from the files. It’s always been my feeling that only a person can convey the atmosphere of a case. At times I was even out to provoke you a little, to needle you, but I must say you took it very well, though you haven’t nearly as good a poker face as you imagine you do… If there’s any thing that can redeem me in your eyes, then let it be my good intentions, because I’m ready to offer you my services. But let’s sit down until dinner’s served. They’ll ring when it’s ready.”

We sat down again. I felt enormously relieved.

“I’ll work on the case,” he continued, “though I don’t believe we’ll have much luck… May I ask exactly how you envision my role?”

“This is a case lending itself to a multifactorial analysis,” I began cautiously, selecting my words with care. “I’m not familiar with your program but I am familiar with a number of GPSS-type programs, and I assume your computer is somewhat analogous. The problem is not so much a criminal as an intellectual one. Obviously the computer won’t be able to identify the culprit, but it might be able to eliminate the culprit as an unknown factor. Solving the case would mean positing a theory to account for the fatalities, a law governing these deaths…”

Dr, Barth looked at me almost with sympathy. Or perhaps is was only the way the light fell from above, gently modulating his features every time he made the slightest movement.

“When I said
we
I had in mind a team of men, not electrons. I’ve assembled a brilliant interdisciplinary team, including some of the best minds of France, and I’m sure they’d jump at the chance… But as for the computer… True, we’ve managed to program one, and so far the test results have been satisfactory, but with such a case—never…” He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Very simple. The computer won’t work without hard data.” He spread out his arms. “And what are we supposed to use as hard data in this case? Let’s suppose a new narcotics ring is operating in Naples, that a hotel is being used as a drop, and they are delivering the stuff by substituting it for the salt in certain salt shakers. Now isn’t it possible for the salt shakers to get switched around occasionally on the dining-room tables? In that case wouldn’t only those who like salt on their food run the risk of getting drugged? And how, may I ask, is a computer supposed to process this if the processing data include nothing about the salt shakers, the drugs, or the culinary habits of the victims?”

I looked at him with admiration. How adept he was at manipulating such ideas. The dinner bell rang, louder and louder till it reached a shrill intensity, then suddenly stopped, and a woman’s voice could be heard scolding a child.

“It’s time for us to go downstairs… We always eat on schedule.”

The dining room was lit by a long row of pink candles on the table. On the way down Barth whispered that his grandmother would be joining them for dinner, adding that for a ninety-year-old woman she was still extremely fit, if a little on the eccentric side. I took this as a warning of sorts, but before I had a chance to reply I found myself being introduced to the other members of the family. Besides the three children whom I’d already met, and Mrs. Barth, who was already seated across the table in a hand-carved chair identical to the one in the library, I saw an elderly lady dressed in a gown of royal purple. An old-fashioned lorgnette trimmed with diamonds glittered on her chest, and her small black eyes transfixed me like a couple of shiny pebbles. She held out her hand, but so high and with such enthusiasm that I kissed it, something I otherwise never do; and in a surprisingly deep and masculine voice, one that sounded as false as a voice in a poorly dubbed film, she said:

“So you’re an astronaut, are you? I’ve never sat at the same table with an astronaut before.”

Even the doctor was taken by surprise. Mrs. Barth was quick to remark that the children had announced my arrival. The old lady told me to sit down next to her and to speak in a loud voice, as she was hard of hearing. Next to her table setting was a kidney-shaped hearing aid, but at no time during the meal did she use it.

“You can keep me entertained,” she said. “I doubt whether I shall have a similar occasion so soon again. Please, be so kind as to tell me how the earth
really
looks from up there? I don’t trust the photographs.”

“And rightly so,” I said, passing her the salad bowl, secretly charmed by her blunt and unceremonious manner. “No photo can ever match it, especially not when the orbital path is close and the earth gradually takes the place of the sky. It doesn’t block the sky, it
becomes
the sky. That’s the impression one gets.”

“Is it really as beautiful as they say?” Her voice expressed doubt.

“It was to me, anyhow. What impressed me most was the emptiness of it, the desolation. Not a sign of any cities, highways, or seaports—nothing but oceans, continents, and clouds. By the way, the oceans and continents look much the same as we were taught at school. But the clouds… I found the clouds to be the most uncanny thing of all, maybe because they didn’t look like clouds.”

“What
did
they look like?”

“That depends on the altitude. From very far away they look like the old and wrinkly hide of a rhinoceros, all cracked and bluish-gray. But the closer you get, the more they look like different shades of sheep’s wool after it’s been combed out.”

“Were you ever on the moon?”

“I’m sorry to say I never was.”

I was preparing myself for more questions of a cosmological nature when she abruptly changed the subject.

“You speak French so fluently, but with a strange accent and a slightly different vocabulary. You’re not from Canada, are you?”

“My family was Canadian; I was born in the States.”

“Just as I thought: Then your mother is French?”

“Was
French.”

I could see that both husband and wife were trying to dampen the old lady’s curiosity by means of glances from across the table, but she simply ignored them.

“And did your mother speak French with you?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Your first name is John, So she must have called you Jean.”

“She did.”

“Then I shall call you that. Please take away the asparagus, Jean—I’m not supposed to eat it. The secret of growing old, Jean, is having lots of experience you can no longer use. They’re right”—she said, indicating the rest of the family—“not to pay me any attention. You’re still too young to know, but there’s quite a difference between being seventy and being ninety. A
fundamental
difference,” she added for emphasis. She stopped talking and began eating her meal, and came to life again only when the table was being cleared in preparation for the next course.