Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [75]
He looked at my student card, turning it over a few times. “Philosophy student, eh?”
“There are lots of us,” I said.
“Far too many. And you’re studying the Templars. Suppose I wanted to get some background on them—what should I read?”
I suggested two books, popular but fairly serious. I also told him he would find reliable information only up to the trial. After that it was all raving nonsense.
“I see,” he said. “Now it’s the Templars, too. One splinter group I haven’t run into yet.”
The policeman named Annunziata came in with a telegram: “The reply from Paris, sir.”
De Angelis read it. “Great,” he said. “No one in Paris has heard of Rakosky, and the passport number shows that it was stolen two years ago. Now we’re really stuck. Monsieur Rakosky doesn’t exist. You say he’s the editor of a magazine—what was it called?” He made a note. “Well, we’ll try, but I bet we find that the magazine doesn’t exist either, or else it folded ages ago. All right, gentlemen, thanks for your help. I may trouble you again at some point. Oh, yes, one last question: Did Argenti indicate that he had connections with any political organization?”
“No,” Belbo said. “He seemed to have given up politics for treasures.”
“And confidence games.” He turned to me. “You seem not to have liked him much.”
“Not my style,” I said. “But it wouldn’t have occurred to me to strangle him with a length of wire. Except in theory.”
“Naturally. Too much trouble. Relax, Signer Casaubon. I’m not one of those cops who think all students are criminals. Good luck, also, on your thesis.”
“Excuse me,” Belbo asked, “but just out of curiosity, are you homicide or political?’’
“Good question. My opposite number from homicide was here last night. After they found a bit more on Ardenti in the records, he turned the case over to me. Yes, I’m from political. But I’m really not sure I’m the right man. Life isn’t simple, the way it is in detective stories.”
“I guess not,” Belbo said, shaking his hand.
We left, but I was still troubled. Not because of De Angelis, who seemed nice enough, but because for the first time in my life I found myself involved in something shady. I had lied. And so had Belbo.
We parted at the door of the Garamond office, and we were both embarrassed.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Belbo said defensively. “It won’t make any difference if the police don’t learn about Ingolf and the Cathars. It was all raving anyway. Maybe Ardenti had to disappear for other reasons; there could be a thousand reasons. Maybe Rakosky was an Israeli secret-service agent settling old scores. Or maybe he was sent by some big shot the colonel had conned. Or maybe they were in the Foreign Legion together and there was some old grudge. Or maybe Rakosky was an Algerian assassin. And maybe this Templar-treasure story was only a minor episode in the life of our colonel. All right, the briefcase is missing, red or brown. By the way, it was good that you contradicted me: that made it clear we had only had a quick glimpse of it.”
I said nothing, and Belbo didn’t know how to conclude.
“You’ll say I’ve run away again. Like Via Larga.”
“Nonsense. We did the right thing. I’ll see you.”
I was sorry for him, because he felt like a coward. But I didn’t. I had learned in school that when you deal with the police, you lie. As a matter of principle. But a guilty conscience can poison a friendship.
I didn’t see Belbo for a long time after that. I was his remorse, and he was mine.
I worked for another year and produced two hundred and fifty typewritten pages on the trial of the Templars. It was then