After a wait of several minutes a tall, rotund man dressed in a fine black suit and pressed white shirt and cravat barged into the room. He sported a curled mustache and a monocle over one eye. When he first laid eyes on me, for a moment that lasted no more than a heartbeat, his entire body froze, his facial expression—eyes widened, mouth agape—that of one beholding a vision, before he snapped back to reality. He approached me, enveloped my outstretched hand between both of his, and introduced himself to me as Aristide Artopoulos. He was, he said, the president of the Baudelaire Society.

“I’m on my way out the door to dine,” he boomed. “Would you care to join me? It will give us a chance to discuss Baudelaire to our hearts’ content.”

My natural inclination was to refuse the invitation, but before I could speak he had taken me by the arm and marched me out with him. There was something compelling about the man. Besides, what harm could it do to luncheon with him if it allowed me to interrogate him? I followed him out the door and into his waiting buggy.

We trotted across town to La Maison Dorée, with Artopoulos talking the whole way, invariably about himself. I bided my time, waiting for an opportunity to turn the conversation to Mathilde and Lucien. At the restaurant, he asked for a private cabinet and, once we were seated, a swarm of waiters descended upon us. He ordered—without any consultation—lobster thermidor for us both, accompanied by a bottle of Les Clos Chablis.

The story of his life so far could be summarized thus: he’d been born in Alexandria into a Greek shipping dynasty. He’d attended boarding school in Switzerland and studied English and French letters at Cambridge. As the youngest of four boys, he’d been spared the duty of the family business and was free to dedicate his existence to the Muse, as he put it, adding that despite his passion for it he had no talent for literature whatsoever. “Like so many others,” he said, “I developed an unhealthy obsession for Baudelaire, so naturally I decided to join the Society dedicated to the preservation of his work and legacy.”

At last, here was my opportunity. “How was it that you took up the position of president?” I asked.

“It’s rather a dismal tale, I’m afraid. You see, the previous president has vanished. Technically speaking, I’m currently the Society’s only member—and thus its president by default.” This news set my alarm bells ringing. Mathilde was perhaps the most sensible character I’d ever known. She was not the type to just vanish without good cause. I would have to proceed delicately. “How do you mean vanished—how does somebody vanish in this day and age, what with newspapers and telegrams and passports?”

“It happens more frequently than you would think. People disappear all the time.” He chewed on his lobster thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I suspect the worst.”