Lönnrot circled the house as he had the estate. He examined everything; beneath the level of the terrace he noticed a narrow shutter door. He pushed against it; some marble steps descended to a vault. The diffusion of light guided him to a window. He opened it: a round, yellow moon outlined two stopped-up fountains in the melancholy garden.
Idly Lönnrot noticed that the garden followed the same symmetries as the house had. Drawn to the maze by a force that may or may not have been his own, the detective wandered amongst the tall hedges. The road constantly forked, but never met with another path, giving the impression that it continued into eternity. With a mild stroke of genius he remembered that the key to most mazes was to stay to the left. So, when the next fork came up, Lönnrot dutifully took the left-hand path.
After walking for what could have been hours, perhaps minutes, he began to wonder what would lie at the center of the garden. The Name of God, most certainly. Surely this quest had not been for naught.
As Lönnrot turned a corner, two men of short stature, ferocious and stocky, hurled themselves upon him and took his weapon. He offered no resistance as they dragged him to a circular clearing, from which it seemed all the pathways of the universe branched away into the distance. Leaning against one of the walls stood a third man, whose tall form became silhouetted against the yellow moon: Red Scharlach, greeting him from across the way. Stunned that his journey had led him to such an unlikely conclusion, the detective searched for his voice.
"Scharlach, are you here for the Name of God as I am?"
There was no reply from the tall, morose figure. Eventually he spoke, and in his voice Lönnrot could hear a weary satisfaction, mixed amongst a hatred and a sadness no smaller than the universe itself.
Scharlach raised one eyebrow, but that simple gesture gave him more expression than Lönnrot had ever seen. "No," he answered. "I have been searching for someone more abstruse than God. I am seeking Erik Lönnrot." He paused, as if to allow Lönnrot to come to this new realization, and then slowly continued, "All roads lead to Rome. At night, my delirium nurtured itself in this metaphor. During those nights I swore by the god who sees from two faces, and by all the gods of fever and of mirrors, to weave a labyrinth around the man who had imprisoned my brother."
"In your labyrinth there are three lines too many," Lönnrot said at last. "I know of a Greek labyrinth which is a single straight line. Along this line so many philosophers have lost themselves that a mere detective might well do so too."
"When, in another incarnation we meet again," said Scharlach, "The labyrinth you find yourself in will be that of a single line, eternal."
For the last time, Lönnrot considered the problem of symmetrical and periodic death. Scharlach stepped back a few paces. Then, very carefully, he fired.
Dimly, Lönnrot felt himself fall to his knees. Through dying eyes he saw Scharlach exit through a distant passage, and he realized with an impersonal relief that this was not the center of the maze. It was, in fact, only one of many circular rooms in this everlasting labyrinth.
As Lönnrot turned a corner, he saw that he was approaching a circular clearing, from which it seemed an endless possibility of pathways branched out. In the center of this clearing stood Red Scharlach, alone. Lönnrot drew his pistol, but Scharlach remained immobile, an infinite sadness reflected in his eyes.
"You created the perfect labyrinth," the detective said. "Down this single line I have lost myself, more thoroughly than I ever thought possible. Do you have the Name of God?"
Scharlach stared deeply at him, and Lönnrot could almost see it, a hatred manifested in infinite ways, grown until it encompassed everything.
"The Name does not exist," Scharlach answered. "Perhaps you and I do not either, and in some alternate universe I have created a different labyrinth that ended in a different confrontation. But here, at least, this incarnation will have the pleasure of seeing Erik Lönnrot die a rightful death."
Before he could find his voice, Lönnrot felt a thick pain burst through his chest. Staggering, he looked behind him, dropping his unused pistol to the ground. A man of short stature, ferocious and stocky, stood grinning with a red knife in his hand. "Periodic death," Lönnrot mused quietly, so low that not even Scharlach could hear him. He fell to his knees, a distant look in his eyes.
Scharlach came and stood over the dying man. "And here he lies," he said, "a mere detective bested by a mad criminal, in a garden of forking paths." The dying detective took a final breath, and heard the last, if most profound, of Scharlach's words. "We, singularly, do not exist. In another garden, in another time, we will meet again."
As Lönnrot turned a corner, a voice, familiar in its hatred, beckoned him onwards. He entered a circular clearing, from which many paths branched off, but which certainly wasn't the center of the labyrinth. Scharlach stood staring at him with deep eyes, a tall figure at ease with his surroundings. Without hesitation the detective drew his pistol and fired a shot. A burst of red exploded from the side of Scharlach's chest; it failed to reach his pulsing heart, yet it was driven straight into his soul.
Scharlach looked at Lönnrot with burning eyes. "You have reopened an old wound," he said with a voice full of hatred. "And for that, I will make sure you never die, but live forever in a state of delirium as I have."
Lönnrot turned and ran, choosing paths at random, attempting to lose himself in the eternal labyrinth. Scharlach remained close behind him, never resting, never slowing as he pursued his quarry.
It is said that those who find Ts'ui Pên's labyrinth become less than mortal, mere incarnations lost in a realm of infinite possibilities. No one knows quite what happened to that great detective Lönnrot and the Dandy Red Scharlach. Those who visit the estate of Triste-le-Roy do so in vain, and return without knowledge that a garden once resided there. For only one end was inevitable, that of Ts'ui Pên's creation, a situation only possible in the mind of writers and philosophers.