“Would you excuse us?” he said, gesturing to Muck. “Paternal responsibilities. Order another round while I’m gone.”
As he waited outside with forced acquiescence, he asked himself why Betty had decided to make such a confession to him. Their meeting in the lift had been unexpected, which meant her confidences were not premeditated. Was she suspicious of Czerbó? Was she afraid that he had talked first? What was the point of associating herself with such an unpleasant man as the Bulgarian ex-photographer? The answer to any of these questions could represent a change in the orbit of the moon that Ericourt had mentioned.
From the door he saw Betty hunched over, brooding. Away from the public gaze she was a simple girl with a genuine, honest expression. As he walked back to the table to join her, he noticed she was staring over his shoulder with a look of surprise. Hadn’t she expected to carry on with the conversation?
“There’s no mistaking you,” said Dr Luchter behind him. “I spotted you from the corner when you were coming into the bar and it occurred to me that Betty would be with you.”
So that was why.
“Have a seat, Doctor. We’ve just ordered a second round.”
“Why were you looking for me, Doctor?” Betty couldn’t hide her discomfort.
“Don’t worry, Betty,” Luchter answered distractedly as he tried to get the waiter’s attention. “I’ve just paid a quick visit to your father at señora de Iñarra’s request. I gave him an injection.”
“But Dad was fine when I left the house.”
“It was a simple precaution. Your mother was alarmed for no reason.”
Betty picked up her purse and gloves.
“I’d better be going, then. If Dad hasn’t been feeling well this morning I don’t want to give him any reason to complain by making lunch late. Thank you for the drink, señor Blasi. I’ll leave you with Dr Luchter.”
It was not a bad game of hide-and-seek. Blasi lifted his glass once more, inviting his companion to join him in a toast.
“To the happy conclusion of the inquiries. I imagine they’ve been rather a nuisance for you.”
He peered sidelong at Muck, who was sniffing the doctor’s shoes.
“It’s not a problem. I’ve learned not to concern myself with other people’s business.”
“I envy you that ability. Give me the recipe for when I’m sitting in the cinema next to one of those women who can’t help but comment on the film.”
Luchter was working his way through the peanuts, shelling them with the tips of his fingers before dropping them into his mouth from above. It was time for a change of subject.
“I’d like to ask you a question,” said Blasi, feigning seriousness now. “Do you think it can ever work to give up everything that reminds one of a difficult time in life?”
“We doctors are not fond of abstractions,” replied Luchter, unflappable. “If you’re referring to a particular case I’d rather discuss it as such. We deal with patients, not diseases.”
“I was thinking of Czerbó.”
“I’m not particularly familiar with his case.”
“It’s an interesting one. You must’ve met plenty of men like him. People who take up a new profession because they need to completely forget the past.”
“If I’ve met people like that the best I can do is put a considerable distance between them and myself. They were the reason I left my country.”
“Do you mean to say you left voluntarily?”
Luchter was still methodically eating the peanuts. Muck was dozing at Blasi’s feet with his head on his front paws. Blasi shot him an envious look.
Ten minutes more of conversation with this lump of lead and I’ll be doing the same, chum, he thought.
“You’re a good assistant,” he heard Luchter say.
“On the contrary. My boss says I take too much initiative.”
“In any case I’m going to tell you what you shouldn’t ask me so as not to reoffend on that count. I stated yesterday that I wasn’t ever part of any political associations, student bodies or nudist colonies in my country.”
“How can you have kept yourself to yourself to that degree?”
“Because I’ve only ever been interested in my career. Do you want my whole life story?”
“I know it, thank you. Adolfo Federico Luchter, son of a Lutheran pastor, Juan Federico Luchter, and Margarita Oederle, who died in 1928. Born in Munich on the 28th of September 1910. Only child. Your father was arrested by a paramilitary group in 1939. Disappeared. Presumed dead. You studied medicine in Munich and left Germany in 1935. You lived for three years in Paris. Is there anything else? Oh, yes! There is no known link between you and Frida Eidinger.”
“Absolutely,” declared Dr Luchter. “And now will you allow me to call the waiter?”
“Absolutely,” said Blasi approvingly.
5
The Web
VII. Pay private visits to any residents of the building on Calle Santa Fe you think seem interesting.
Blasi had been feeling torn since Betty had confided in him. His sense of professionalism was at odds with his personal feelings, and over the next three days something stopped him acting on the last point of Santiago Ericourt’s recommendations any time he found a sliver of time in his work that would have allowed it.
It was no good telling himself he should talk to Betty again even if the issue of her visits to the Czerbós had nothing to do with the circumstances of Frida Eidinger’s death. He was always so busy! Inspector Ericourt was forever mentioning more people who were in some way linked to the dead woman. He had to find them, listen to them, hear new names, track down others. And in the background of all that coming and going was the uncomfortable twinge of the secret.
Since Betty was with Czerbó at the time of señora Eidinger’s death, neither could be involved in the matter and as such it was no use mentioning a relationship that had nothing to do with the investigation. The point was not to discover what intimacy existed between the two of them, but rather any Frida Eidinger might have shared with someone else.
He told himself this for the hundredth time as he was preparing to enter his boss’s office that morning. Santiago Ericourt received him looking his best. His lively gaze, rosy face and the agility of his movements all indicated a man ready to spring into action.
“News,” he said, pointing happily to the telephone. “A call from Eidinger. He wants to talk to me. We’re going over there.”
“Has something happened?”
Why did he feel as if he had just been punched in the stomach? He really was on edge.
“It seems so. I knew someone would end up feeling the need to talk.”
Until that moment Inspector Ericourt’s official conclusion had been that the case was a suicide planned to trouble the supposed guilty party. “Generally,” he liked to say, “when women in love kill themselves it’s to get revenge on someone equally weak who has been unable to manage the situation.”
As they climbed into the police car, Blasi, who knew the intensity of Ericourt’s self-absorption, suggested humbly:
“Shall I drive?”
“No, let me. I feel very lively this morning.”
“Lord help us,” sighed Blasi.
They set off with Ericourt at the wheel. All of a sudden the Inspector said, in a voice so distant it proved to Blasi the danger they were in:
“The man over whom Frida Eidinger committed suicide is keeping quiet out of fear. Deep down it’s a matter of no consequence, a simple personal problem.”
“Crimes tend to be personal problems,” said Blasi, who felt inclined towards pessimism that morning.
“It’s not a crime. If someone killed her there would’ve been better ways to get rid of the key ring.”
“There can be cases of mental confusion, can’t there? Anyway, the keys were found by chance.”
“You’re right,” admitted Ericourt.
He must have set off along a new path of conjectures. Blasi saw th
e back of a red truck fill the car’s windscreen, almost flat against the bonnet.
“Watch out!” he shouted.
“I’ve interrogated more than twenty people,” went on Ericourt calmly. “No one knows anything. You’ve heard the neighbours and friends. They all say it seemed like a perfect marriage. Frida didn’t have a social life, she was a good housewife, she didn’t shirk her duties.”
“Reserved, haughty and spurning friendships, according to local gossip. You call that a good image?”
“More than one husband would think it ideal.”
“I’m single. Any theory about the perfect woman—”
He didn’t finish formulating his thought. The driver of a bus passing too close flung a few choice phrases at him as he went by, making several references to family members, along with a gesture that made their meaning perfectly clear. Blasi opted for silence.
They took a side street where Ericourt could give himself over to speculation without further incidents. A few minutes later they arrived at the house on Calle Lácar.
Eidinger hadn’t lost his resemblance to a rat sniffing around a cave. He took a few minutes to come to the door.
“Forgive me, I was upstairs,” he explained as he beckoned them in. “I keep wandering around doing nothing. I can’t get used to being alone.”
It was true, the place had become the charmless refuge of a desolate man. It was as if Frida’s presence had disappeared completely. The unpleasant grey day filtered into the house. Blasi examined the small living room, looking for material evidence of the change. He noted the absence of Frida’s photograph. Eidinger watched his movements warily.
“How’s Muck?” he asked.
“Very well.”
“You can bring him back tomorrow. I’ll keep him until I decide to go away. I’ve started to miss the bother he caused me. I felt better with him here.”
The endearing melancholy of a simple man, but had he called just to tell them he missed Muck?
“What happened?” Ericourt tackled the issue head-on.
Eidinger sat in front of him, his eyes downcast.
“Last night I got a strange, threatening phone call. They said I should immediately destroy the photographs of Frida if I didn’t want anything to happen to me.”
“What time was that?”
“Midnight.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
“It was a man’s voice. He sounded threatening and spoke perfect Spanish. The voice didn’t seem disguised.”
Ericourt listened behind a mask of seriousness, with his eyes half-closed.
“And did you destroy the photographs?”
The fact that he had called them made it seem unlikely that he had. However, more than nine hours had passed since the mysterious call. Fear doesn’t wait that long to raise the alarm.
“They’re in my studio as usual.”
“You should’ve called straight away.”
“Why? It was ridiculous. Nothing could happen. Both doors are locked. And the windows have bars. No one could get in.”
“You might’ve had an unexpected visit.”
“I wouldn’t have let any stranger in.”
“It needn’t necessarily be a stranger.”
Eidinger looked at the Inspector, seemingly wounded.
“I’ve spent the night thinking, Inspector. Do you remember Frida’s letters? She insisted on bringing those photos with her even though she knew I didn’t want her to. She refused to destroy them or get rid of them, which made me think they meant a lot to her. After her death I felt sorry I’d been so pig-headed. Now I think my wife was hiding something from me, and not necessarily a matter of the heart.”
Ericourt’s face had darkened.
“Bring me those photographs right away. Blasi will go up and stay with you until we send an officer. You won’t be left by yourself in this house or go out alone until this matter has been resolved.”
Eidinger walked towards the stairs looking perplexed. Blasi followed him. Just as they crossed the hall, a woman’s scream came from above, a sharp screech of fear that rooted them both to the spot.
Eidinger was the first to come to his senses and run up the stairs. Blasi hurled himself after him. All of a sudden he felt Ericourt violently push past, breathing heavily.
On the first floor landing they heard a muffled whine.
“Carry on… it’s further up…” panted Ericourt.
Blasi bounded up to the attic landing. There he met Eidinger, who was rubbing his forehead. At his feet was a tray, the kind used for developing photographs. The screams had stopped.
Blasi took out his lighter and used it to illuminate the space behind the half-open door. A single glance was enough to reveal the female form pressed against the back wall. He heard Ericourt’s voice behind him once more.
“Come out with your hands up,” he ordered. He had taken out his revolver.
Betty Iñarra appeared in the doorway. Blasi looked at her in astonishment, holding the lighter in his hand like a tiny torch of truth. The flame singed his fingers and he put it out, cursing.
“Who else is in there?” asked Ericourt.
“No one,” said Betty firmly.
“What were you doing there?”
“Tell them,” implored Eidinger. “There’s no point hiding it now.”
“Be quiet,” thundered Ericourt. “I’m the one talking. What were you doing in there and why did you scream?”
“There was someone else in there,” stammered Betty. “I thought he was going to attack me but he escaped…”
“That’s impossible,” protested Eidinger.
“What were you doing in there?” asked Ericourt for the third time.
“I was hiding. I came to see señor Eidinger and we were on the first floor when you arrived. I told him it wouldn’t do for you to find me here. He asked me to wait up here until you’d gone. When he went downstairs I looked for a safer place to hide and found this attic room. I opened the door and went in…”
Betty ran her gaze, which seemed a plea for help, over the three expectant men.
“I couldn’t see anything. The only light was a slit from that opening in the window. All of a sudden I sensed I wasn’t alone. I felt my heart stop and I tried to calm down and convince myself it was only fear, but just then the slit of light divided in two. I couldn’t help screaming, then the door opened and a man ran out. I was in the dark again. I stretched out my hand and grabbed something. The door creaked and I threw what I was holding with all my strength at whoever was coming in. I didn’t realize it was señor Eidinger. I’m so sorry.”
It was funny to apologize for having attacked someone and almost split his head open in such circumstances. Her good education took over at that moment, making her forget the aggressive self-confidence she usually adopted around others.
“Is that true?” said Ericourt to Eidinger.
“Yes, it’s true.”
“What was she doing in your house?”
Betty and Eidinger exchanged a brief glance.
“Tell him,” he pleaded.
“I came to see a picture I was interested in buying.”
She looked like a shaggy dog that had accidentally fallen into a bathtub of water.
“It can’t be true,” Eidinger insisted. “If someone was in there they can’t have got out of the house. The back door is secured with a padlock and no one could have gone out the front without passing us.”
“Search the attic,” Ericourt ordered Blasi. “Bring the photographs.”
Blasi went into the attic room. The window was closed as usual. Eidinger had followed him. He heard an exclamation of surprise and turned. Gustavo was looking in horror at the workbench.
“They really have taken them,” he murmured. “Run, do something.”
“What? I don’t suppose I’ll find the suspect on the street corner.”
Ericourt’s head appeared round the door.
“Come out of there,” he said
. “We’ll search the attic later. Lock the door and give me the key.”
They walked downstairs with Ericourt bringing up the rear, clutching his revolver. When they were in the hall he ordered Blasi to conduct a full search of the house, taking Eidinger with him.
“And call the station. Have them send the fingerprint team and a female police auxiliary. You come with me,” he said to Betty, directing her into the living room.
She faced him with serene courage, like a soldier resigned to battle.
“What was the picture you mentioned? How did you know about it?”
“Señor Czerbó told me about a picture of señora Eidinger’s, an engraving of the symbol for Scorpio. I came to see it this morning.”
“And señor Eidinger received you without any objection. Did he know who you were?”
“I called yesterday afternoon to tell him I’d be coming.”
“What did you do with the photographs? You came here looking for them.”
Betty frowned.
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You and your accomplice had a plan. Eidinger would be sure to call the police after you threatened him. Your visit would coincide with ours. You let your accomplice in and helped him escape, didn’t you?”
Betty pursed her lips.
“No, that isn’t true. No.”
“Was it Czerbó?”
“No.”
Ericourt walked over to the window and lifted the blind to look out into the street. He drummed his fingers on the glass.
“In a moment,” he announced, turning suddenly, “our people will be here. If you have the photographs with you we’ll find them. If you’ve hidden them somewhere in the house we’ll also find them. You’d better tell the truth.”
“I have told the truth,” Betty replied curtly.
Blasi, who was at the living room door again having concluded his search with Eidinger, caught these last words and looked at Betty with distrust and resentment.
“The back door was padlocked,” he said. “I’ve called the station. They’re on their way.”
“Fine, in the meantime check the garden to see if there are any footprints. They might’ve thrown the photographs out the window.”
Death Going Down Page 6