Death Going Down

by María Angélica Bosco

  “And did you come here that night?”

  “No, I waited for a phone call from Boris answering my note… He didn’t call.”

  Ericourt paused and offered Betty a cigarette.

  “I don’t smoke,” replied the girl.

  The Inspector exchanged a glance with Lahore.

  “Why did you go to señor Eidinger’s house?” Ericourt attacked.

  “I told you. I wanted to see the picture.”

  Someone called from the laboratory to speak to Superintendent Lahore. Ericourt and the young woman were left alone.

  “You didn’t time your request very well,” said the Inspector, taking up his questioning again.

  “I didn’t think that. I thought it was most natural.”

  Would she be so cynical as to feign naivety? After what she had just revealed about her relationship with Czerbó her position seemed hardly credible.

  “How did you justify the request?”

  “I didn’t. I simply told him the reason for my visit.”

  Horizontal furrows lined Betty’s forehead, and a red patch was spreading across it. She had taken off her green silk scarf and the same patch was continuing down her neck. She was lying, then. Who was she trying to protect? Herself? Someone else?

  “If I’m arrested,” she said suddenly in a faltering voice, “I’d like you to be the one to tell my father.”

  Ericourt sat up straight in his seat. The appeal to his leniency made him angry, as if she had identified a weakness in him.

  “What did you do with the photographs?” he thundered.

  “I don’t have them,” Betty stammered. “I don’t know anything about them.”

  She broke off. Lahore rushed into the room like a man leading a troop.

  “They found cyanide in one of the capsules,” he said all at once. His thoughts seemed to have travelled a long way in a short amount of time. “I’ve already notified the Examining Magistrate.”

  Soler was sitting opposite Luchter, waiting for the Examining Magistrate to call him in to make a statement. It was all highly unusual, and consequently ridiculous. When one has lived among other people who have, directly or indirectly, known one since one was a chubby ball in nappies already participating in family life, one cannot run the risk of having them think one is involved in a crime. There are things that must not be called into doubt, and among those are certain rules of life.

  He had always taken other people’s respect and consideration for granted, though there are naturally aspects of life that ought to be kept under wraps. He, Francisco Soler, was a man of good breeding who had been taught not to lift the lids off certain silver platters. Anything else would constitute a joke in poor taste, or the inappropriate behaviour of strange folk.

  That German doctor, for example. He took keeping his mouth shut to such an extreme! He might at least pretend to make friendly conversation. The distance he put between them called to mind an isolation cell. Supermen, was that not what they had pretended to be? They deserved no better than to be treated with touristic curiosity.

  In an attempt to calm down, Soler looked out at the winter sky, framed by the surrounding buildings. If he leant slightly in the chair he could make out the white paved paths of Plaza San Martín. That window in the grey building over there was the bedroom of uncle Octávio’s apartment, where Soler usually ate lunch on Thursdays. In the building on the opposite corner lived the Donaldsons, excellent companions from the bridge club. He sighed, relieved.

  That silent room irritated him. He had always used conversation as a protective screen. When one does not know what to think, one speaks. That is common sense. Or one makes love. Or, failing that, one drinks. Anything to stop oneself sinking into the bottomless and torturous pit of thought. The German doctor seemed to be at peace with his own conscience. Did he too give the impression of indifference? It had never occurred to him to confront others with a solid screen of individuality.

  In that living room crammed with plush furniture and porcelain, the ghost of solitude pulled horrible faces and unfurled its many threatening tentacles. He got up to examine one of the pictures. Did Luchter think him so guilty that he did not deserve a word of solidarity?

  The engraving showed a female nude, a figure with both hands outstretched, as if she were being handcuffed. Surely he was mad if a female body suggested such an idea!

  And why not? He had always feared women. If one allowed them too much importance they become a prison, that was certain.

  Of course what he had said to the caretaker had been stupid. The man had surely repeated it.

  As he slowly became aware of the dark presence of his fears, Soler felt his muscles relaxing as if someone were loosening the pegs of over-tight strings. At the same time another peg turned in his stomach until it became a knot tugging on his brain.

  Why had he got angry with Czerbó that day? It was silly and they would never believe him. He did not understand what he had meant to say, but he thought the Bulgarian was overstepping the mark, so he’d asserted his masculinity in throwing him out of his house. The “ladies” who visited him had nothing to lose. He had to humbly accept that. His affected ways were no more than theatrics. Could he say that to the Magistrate? Could he say that an epidemic of necrological exhibitionism had spread through the building, and that he was invariably the victim? He remembered the tall figure and abundant grey hair of Dr Corro, who he’d seen passing when he was walking towards the inner rooms. He looked like the lion in the advert for Ferro Quina Bisleri tonic he remembered from his childhood. How would a lion take the joke?

  Dr Corro lowered his handsome head between his shoulders with the patient attitude of someone whose job it is to listen. On either side of the office, Lahore and Ericourt adopted airs of feigned indifference. Soler was smoking one cigarette after another and lining up the matches in the ashtray, failing to understand why his gestures seemed of such interest to the Superintendent and the Inspector. What was he doing wrong?

  “And when I went in with señorita Czerbó, I knew her brother was dead as soon as I saw him. I called the police straight away. It was eleven thirty in the morning.”

  The precision of his statement was not insignificant. People with nothing to hide give a lot of details. Or do they?

  Dr Corro’s face expressed the same good-naturedness as a doctor encouraging a patient to share the detail he has omitted, which always proves to be the most important one.

  Soler sucked hard on his cigarette, as if it were an oxygen tube rather than a harmless roll of tobacco. The question came at last.

  “You had an argument with señor Czerbó some months ago. What was the reason for that?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Let me jog your memory. When señor Czerbó was in your apartment—”

  Unforgivable! He should never have trusted the caretaker.

  “I believe it was a domestic matter.”

  Soler was reliving his student days, when the examiner used to sprawl in his chair like Dr Corro was doing now and attack with fierce irony:

  “Can’t you tell us anything more, señor Soler?”

  “Señor Czerbó’s Spanish was so poor that I didn’t clearly understand the reason for his visit.”

  “You understood enough to judge there was reason to get angry, to threaten him.”

  “I didn’t threaten him! I told him to leave me in peace.”

  “What had he said to irritate you so much?”

  “I believed he was alluding to my private life. It seemed to bother him that I received visitors at night. We all have a right to a private life, don’t we?”

  The question sought approval. “Sometimes we have the right but lack the time,” was how Ericourt would have liked to respond.

  “May I ask a question, sir?” said the Inspector instead to Dr Corro, who answered with a solemn nod. Ericourt turned to Soler.

  “In the context of your private life, did you give anyone a key to the main door?”

>   “No, absolutely not. Never.” Soler ran his gaze over the three men who were smiling sarcastically like an examination board considering whether to fail him.

  Their three gazes converged on the ashtray. Dr Corro lifted his eyes. His head had sunk even further between his shoulders and he crossed his hands over his chest. It wasn’t a restful posture. He was lying in wait.

  “Why did you call the police rather than the doctor?”

  Soler uselessly sought an excuse this time.

  “I thought it would be better, what with everything that’s gone on in the building.”

  “That will be all,” declared Dr Corro.

  Soler stood up and turned to go, mumbling a farewell. He felt like he was dragging something worse than distrust behind him. The tone of the interrogation suggested ridicule. He met Luchter in the hall.

  “It’s all a silly game,” he said as if to encourage him.

  Luchter paid him no notice. Soler carried on walking with his head down. He tripped on the telephone cable and gave it a kick.

  “They’ve had me on,” he grumbled, shooting a look towards the closed room where hours earlier he had come face to face with the mysterious and macabre sight of Czerbó’s death.

  *

  “Señorita Czerbó called me last night to come and see her brother. I found señor Czerbó very agitated. He was suffering palpitations and obvious signs of nervous shock. I prescribed a tranquillizer for him. I took the prescription to the pharmacy myself. I was present when he took the prescribed dose.”

  Luchter spoke with the precise and regular beat of a hammer, shattering the expectations of the three men listening to him.

  “How long did it take for the tranquillizer to have an effect?”

  “Around twenty minutes.”

  “What did you do while you waited?”

  “I believe I smoked a cigarette.”

  “Only one?”

  “I think so.”

  “There was one in the ashtray.”

  “I smoke American cigarettes. Chesterfield. You’ll be able to check.”

  “Did you see a piece of paper in the ashtray?”

  “There was a piece of paper on the bedside table.”

  “We found it singed in the ashtray. It had apparently been burnt with a cigarette butt.”

  “Possibly. I didn’t notice that detail.”

  “What did you do when Czerbó fell asleep?”

  “I went home. But first I stopped in at señor Iñarra’s apartment.”

  “Did you meet anyone when you left your patient’s room?”

  “No one. Señorita Czerbó had already gone to bed.”

  “Is it possible that señor Czerbó woke up later and took the poison?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  Lahore leant back in the chair, satisfied.

  “And how do you explain the fact that potassium cyanide was found in one of the capsules?”

  Luchter jumped in alarm.

  “That can’t be!”

  “I assure you it is,” said Lahore. “The ashtray and the glasses have also been analysed. The cyanide was only present in one of the capsules.”

  Luchter remained in thoughtful silence.

  “It can’t have been a mistake,” he then said. “They’re very careful at the pharmacy. I trust them absolutely.”

  “Did you know that señorita Iñarra had been visiting señor Czerbó at night?”

  “Did she admit to that?”

  “She did.”

  It is difficult to read disapproval on the face of someone so private, but Luchter’s reserve transcended disapproval. He jangled something metallic in one of his pockets. He took out a lighter and lit a cigarette.

  “May I?” asked Ericourt.

  Luchter offered him a cigarette and then held out the lighter. His hand was firm.

  “What do you know about the photographs?” he asked.

  “What photographs?”

  “Some photos of señora Eidinger were stolen this morning from the house in Villa Devoto.”

  Luchter frowned.

  “How strange. I can’t see how.”

  “We may well call you again, Doctor,” announced Dr Corro. Luchter did not flinch.

  “I understand perfectly. Should I wait at home?”

  “For the time being, yes. That will be all.”

  Dr Luchter stood up squarely, almost to attention.

  “At your service,” he said.

  He turned and walked towards the door, his shoulders now rounding under the weight of some worry. He stopped in the doorway.

  “Has señorita Iñarra been arrested?” he asked.

  The light falling broadly across his face showed the pinkish tone of his clean-shaven cheeks. He had evidently had a good night’s sleep.

  “She’s in custody,” Lahore clarified.

  “At your service,” said the doctor again before leaving.

  “When I’m holding a ball of thread,” said Lahore then, “I like to let it lead me out of the labyrinth instead of getting tangled in it like a damn kitten.”

  “That’s what we’re not doing,” replied Ericourt. “If Luchter had burnt the paper there wouldn’t have been a match in the ashtray. You saw he uses a lighter. The person who burnt the paper wanted to turn it into evidence against whoever wrote it.”

  “But how could anyone make a sleeping man ingest cyanide?”

  “Have a look in the bathroom and see if you can find a dropper, the kind used for nasal drops.”

  Dr Corro shot him an amused look.

  “I know it’s not my idea. Plenty of people have read Hamlet.”

  Lahore shook his head.

  “I’d prefer to question that young man, the one from the laundry.”

  “Come on, Lahore,” concluded the Examining Magistrate as he stood up. “Let’s have a look in the medicine cabinet. Are you coming with us?”

  “No, I have to pay a visit to señor Iñarra,” replied Ericourt bitterly. “It’s time for me to turn into a sturdy dove of peace carrying an olive branch, or if you’d rather, a space traveller following the orbit of the moon. I’ve been trying to see him for days.”

  “You’ve been very kind, señor Ericourt,” said señor Iñarra. He was sitting in front of the desk in his bedroom. The tartan blanket covering his legs twitched on the left-hand side and his arm knocked continually against his body and knees. His ascetic figure seemed surrounded by an aura of venerability, which emanated from the antique furniture, the wood and marble crucifix, and the photographs of his parents, wife and daughter on either side of the bed. On entering the room one had the feeling of being cocooned in homely intimacy. The solid columns of family history upheld good manners, reticent courtesy and the amiable presence of the old man who now occupied his place as head of the family.

  He had listened in silence to the Inspector’s explanations. Would it not be wise to notify the family lawyer? Did his wife know the news? No? All the better. It was his place to tell her.

  “Will you keep Betty overnight?”

  “It all depends on the investigation. It’s the Examining Magistrate’s decision now. Did you not suspect anything of the relationship between your daughter and señor Czerbó?”

  “With a daughter as secretive as Betty I’ve learnt to leave suspicion aside, but I know that deep down she’s an honest girl. I could never believe she was involved in criminal activity. Appearances accuse her, nothing more.”

  Exactly the right words. In señor Iñarra’s orbit, the moon could never represent a crime. He would never admit that his wife or daughter were made of the same human material that at times is governed by the instinct for destruction.

  “Do you have a typewriter?”

  “We do.”

  “On señor Czerbó’s bedside table we found a partially burnt typewritten note. It reads ‘you tonight’. Your daughter admits to having written it. She also says she didn’t go out last night.”

  “I believe that.”


  “I will have to question your wife.”

  A pause. Señor Iñarra’s voice sounded tired, but even his lassitude was kept within strict confines.

  “I understand. Would you mind if that conversation didn’t take place here? It’s time for my electric treatment. Please excuse me.”

  He rang the bell to call his wife. From inside the apartment came the sound of curtains being drawn. Darkness was falling. Before turning the lights on, señora de Iñarra went through the ritual of shielding the rooms from the curiosity of passers-by. Colonial traditions on the third floor of a modern apartment building.

  Gabriela entered her husband’s room quietly and with her eyes lowered. Her withdrawn attitude absolutely contrasted with Betty’s arrogance.

  “Did you want something, Agustín?”

  “Señor Ericourt wants to speak to you. But first I’d like you to help me into bed so I can have my treatment.”

  “But you won’t be able to manage it alone.”

  “I can manage perfectly. Just come back in twenty minutes to turn off the machine.”

  “I’m sorry to be a nuisance. I can wait.” Ericourt was beginning to adopt the same good-natured selflessness with which señor Iñarra resolved his conflicts.

  “Oh, it’s no problem! It is just that we’re on our own because it’s the maid’s day off. Gaby will be with you right away.”

  Ericourt left the bedroom. He sat in the living-cum-dining room to wait for Gabriela. He ran his gaze around the room. Tall-backed Georgian chairs around an oval table. The classic scene where generations of children have learnt the terrible imperative of proper behaviour. The image did not fit well with that of suspicion, like a blurred, double-exposed photograph.

  Gabriela took over ten minutes to reappear. Her husband was surely telling her what had happened with Betty. When she came in she was very pale.

  “I’m all yours, Inspector.” She had sat down in one of the armchairs and gestured to the other in front of her, as if receiving a visit. Her propriety was of a different kind to that of her husband’s. Less cloying, all told.