She climbed onto a kitchen stool that was pushed against the wall, under the window. She leant out. From the kitchen window on the fourth floor, a rope dangled in the air like the questions she would never dare ask herself. The rope hung as far as the Iñarras’s apartment.
What was life, after all? The fear of suffering? The fear of nothingness? Where was that nothingness? In Boris’s eyes, which no amount of betrayal could ever fill? In the eyes of her victims? In her own inability to form a soul?
The others surely knew already. The others were those dead people, and Boris’s persecution had opened the door to their knowledge. They knew because they had made the leap in space and time. Boris pushed them when he led them into the torture chamber and tore out their secrets. But his dead had not made him more powerful in life or stronger in spirit.
Yes, that black pit had to have a bottom. It was not possible to swing endlessly like the rope hanging from the window. In the Iñarras’s kitchen, the shadow moved dimly and silently.
Rita felt the rope’s pendulum movement hammering in her temples. She pressed her head with both hands and closed her eyes. The image of the dark pit expanded, then a bright spot appeared in that limitless shadow.
The cold wind of the winter night bathed her cheeks.
“Where are you, Boris?”
Her body rocked for a moment on the parapet and fell with a dry snap like the violent slam of a door. The rope quivered in the air. In the immediate silence before the building awoke, a hand emerged from the window of Soler’s apartment and untied the rope.
Ferruccio Blasi entered Ericourt’s office. The morning light picked out the yellowish sheen the sleepless night had left on the faces of the Inspector and his assistant. Blasi was carrying a bundle of papers.
“The fingerprints in the criminal record coincide with the ones found on the electricity box,” he said.
Ericourt looked at the young man sympathetically.
“You’ve done well, Blasi.”
“I can’t claim I have, sir.”
He evaded his boss’s gaze. A sticky dejection had taken hold of him. He was exhausted by the previous day’s exertion, the process of tracking people down to reveal their hidden sides, the permanently heightened mistrust needed to examine every action minutely. One ended up feeling the itch of doubt even with one’s superiors.
Why had Rita committed suicide? What memories, what remorse awoke in her soul when she guessed at the secretive goings on in the building? The previous night Ericourt had instructed Blasi to slip down a rope from Soler’s apartment and climb into the Iñarras’s kitchen window to unscrew the cover of the electricity box.
Everything had gone well at first. He was even excited by the adventure, which had a savour of romance even if its motives were dishearteningly run-of-the-mill. The people best placed to deal with life are those who do not remove its heroic wrapping.
However, Soler’s cheery willingness to lend his assistance had made Blasi uneasy, like when one suddenly lifts one’s eyes and is surprised to find that the mirror returns one’s own shameful grimace. Is that, then, how others see us?
Soler and an officer checked the sailing knot that tied the rope to the window. The officer threw the rope according to Soler’s precise instructions, but it was Blasi who had to go through with it.
“It’ll easily hold.” Soler had examined Blasi’s face after saying these words and left the kitchen, returning with a bulbous glass containing two fingers of liquor.
“Have some cognac to pep you up. And when you launch yourself out, move your body in time with the swinging rope, like when a horse starts trotting, but not too much.”
Blasi was already climbing onto the marble table to kneel on the windowsill. He shot a reproachful look at Soler that made him blush.
“That’s what we used to do at the English school when we wanted to escape at night. The experience did me proud a few years ago,” he added glibly, “when an inconvenient husband came home unexpectedly.”
“In my case I’m more likely to be the inconvenient husband,” replied Blasi, “since my job forces me to work at night.”
He wanted to make it clear that he was still on the other team and that this momentary collaboration was not as significant as Soler seemed to think.
From then on it was all ghastly, the shadowy space trapping the cold, his foot feeling for some support, his hands burning from the roughness of the rope, his body hitting against the solid darkness of the walls. Reality is in fact far more frightening and bothersome than it is heroic. Even Hercules’ labours must have been disagreeable at the time.
It had not been pleasant. Any clue provided by the rectangular electricity box might prove painful for some, and on top of that there had been that terrible thud, breaking the silence like an explosion. His job was done, all he had to do was sneak out, not knowing who had thrown themselves out of the window or why. He found out later at the station. The colleague who told him did not look so utterly exhausted as he did.
“Poor woman!” he now said sadly to Ericourt.
“Poor woman indeed. Not for her death, though, but for what she did in life. I have the German police report here. Boris’s photography studio was a front. His true profession was as a chemist, and during the Nazi regime he had been an informer. His victims were countless. Rita supported him.”
“But why did she kill herself?”
“Who knows? Her brother’s death must have been unbearable for her. She had given him her soul completely and with that she gave herself over to death. She couldn’t carry on alone.”
“It’s a shame the circumstances didn’t give us time to prevent such a terrible, unnecessary thing happening.”
“The circumstances shape the investigation in their own way. We have to learn that lesson humbly. Is everything in order?”
“Yes,” said Blasi patting the documents he had brought with him.
The file remained on Ericourt’s desk. On the pink Manila cover there was a name: Iñarra, Agustín Pedro.
Blasi and Betty were waiting, sitting across from one another in the Iñarras’s living room. Lahore and Ericourt had gone in to talk to señor Iñarra. Betty was pretending to read a magazine and Blasi scrutinized her reticent expression. Her reserve, even though she had once said her fault was that she trusted too much, must have stemmed from the deepest part of her nature.
How much of the truth did Betty know and to what extent had she used it for her own ends the day of her half-confession? She must have thought him very naïve to rely on him backing her up with silence.
Later events implicated her more than she had previously imagined. Did she know that appearances pointed an accusatory finger in her father’s direction? Was señor Iñarra a maniac who, like many others, faked illness in order to cover up secrets and devious plans? Was she his accomplice, perhaps? What about Gabriela? What role did she play in their home, that of victim or instigator?
The relationship between Betty and Czerbó now seemed different to how it had first appeared but Blasi did not know whether that was a good thing. Looking at the young woman’s wide forehead and distinctive nose, he told himself that friendliness could not be so deceptive. Yet Betty had not been friendly when he first saw her in the lobby with her stepmother. She dominated the scene with an air of complacency that must have been put on. Why did she not look shocked that night? A dead body in a lift in the middle of the night is not, after all, a common sight. Betty, he clearly remembered, had been keen to not appear worried and to distance herself from the situation.
It was clear that she had wanted to get hold of the photographs. She had surely destroyed them. Why? Who did they incriminate? Who did she want to protect? Betty barricaded herself in silence, the weapon of the guilty.
From the hall came hushed voices. Betty pretended not to hear them but must have been straining to listen to what they were saying. Suddenly there came a sharp scream accompanied by hysterical sobs. Ericourt appeared at the living room do
or.
“Come with me, miss,” he said. “Your mother needs you.”
The two men entered Don Agustín’s room. He was sitting in front of the writing desk next to the window. The shadow cast by the anxieties of the past days darkened his face. The morning light emphasized the marks that the years and his illness had left on his drooping eyelids and wrinkled cheeks.
“Come in,” he said by way of a cordial greeting, sweeping away the unpleasant feeling that the presence of those two men in his house must have caused him. “I’m very pleased you allowed my daughter to come home last night. I was sure this business would end well for her.”
“This business hasn’t ended,” said Lahore. “We’re here to question you and your wife.”
“What? Why? I demand that you explain what’s going on!”
“Perhaps we should let your wife explain it.”
“She doesn’t have anything to say to you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Don Agustín reluctantly rang the bell to call Gabriela. His left arm lay across his chest, the other hand grasping his wrist to calm the convulsive trembling somewhat. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Don Agustín.
Gabriela’s brief glance interpreted the scene immediately.
“What’s going on, Agustín? Don’t you feel well?”
“Don’t be alarmed, darling.” Iñarra’s voice was as cold in giving the advice as it was in defence. “These men want to ask us more questions, although I really don’t see why.”
“Indeed, madam, I wanted to ask you what you did with the fuse you changed last night.”
Gabriela gave him one of her meek looks that put her unconditionally at the disposal of others.
“I threw it down the incinerator.”
“Would this be it, by any chance?” Ericourt had taken the notebook out of his pocket. “I checked the incinerator after I left your apartment yesterday.”
Gabriela let herself fall into an armchair, her lips white and a look of horror in her dull eyes.
“It wasn’t me,” she said.
“We know it wasn’t you. We found señor Iñarra’s fingerprints on the electricity box. He told us yesterday, however, that you were in charge of repairing things that often went wrong in the apartment.”
“Fine,” said Don Agustín. “It was me. Last night when you were here I had the diary on my bedside table. I had taken it. I was afraid you would find it and attribute the wrong meaning to it, so I decided to get rid of it by throwing it down the incinerator. When I was in the scullery I feared you might have noticed my movements, so I faked the blackout by tripping the fuse so as to go back to my room without being seen. I took the torch Gaby had left in the scullery. That’s all.”
“Don’t worry, madam, we can’t arrest you for privately confessing to being afraid of someone you call ‘him’,” said Ericourt, maliciously emphasizing the words.
“My wife and I have had some difficulties, sir. I was trying to protect the privacy of my home. In these unfortunate circumstances people allow themselves to talk about others as if they don’t have any feelings or problems. Gaby has exaggerated our situation. I don’t blame her. The sheltered life she leads has affected her nerves.”
“Is it your husband you refer to in the notebook, madam?”
“Gabriela, you don’t need to answer that,” protested señor Iñarra.
“What was the truth you were so afraid someone would discover?” Ericourt was unrelenting. Gabriela sobbed gently with her face in her hands. Her sobs suddenly grew louder.
“I was afraid this would happen,” said her husband. “A nervous breakdown. Let me call my daughter to take my wife away and keep her company. I’m willing to talk.”
*
“Poor Gaby!” said Don Agustín pityingly. “She’s a weak-willed creature, easily influenced. That’s why I’ve tried to behave like a father as well as a husband to her. Gaby has been so caring with my daughter that she won my affection from the first moment.
“She’s dedicated herself to me ever since I became ill. I know the task of constantly nursing must be hard at her age. I’ve made an effort to lighten her load so she doesn’t get exhausted, because her lack of moral strength makes her vulnerable. Uncharitable people have taken advantage of her exhaustion and dragged her into situations which, although not essentially ill-intentioned, could have turned out to be compromising.”
“Who are you referring to?”
“Boris Czerbó. My wife told me. He tried to extort money from her. That’s the situation the diary mentions.”
“Why?”
“Things from the past. Before she married me, Gaby was misfortunate enough to be the victim of an unscrupulous man. Czerbó must have known that and tried to get money out of her.”
“If you knew about it, why worry?”
Iñarra smiled wearily.
“My dear man, have you ever known a woman who simply tells the whole truth? They’re very secretive when it comes to personal matters. They keep certain things quiet even in moments of great intimacy.”
Don Agustín’s voice remained moderately impassive, in the face of which any explanation by Gabriela would surely have come undone.
“My wife lied when she said she didn’t know why Betty was visiting Czerbó. She confided in her, and Betty, stubborn as she is, decided to take the matter into her own hands and convince Czerbó that it wasn’t worth attacking us.”
Blasi came in at that moment. For the first time Don Agustín seemed filled with lordly amicability.
“Czerbó has died in mysterious circumstances,” said Lahore.
“Ask our maid. She’ll tell you that my wife and daughter didn’t leave the apartment last night.”
Ericourt began speaking again.
“I’m going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer yes or no to each one. Take notes, Blasi. I’d like señora de Iñarra to be present. Go and get her. We’ll wait until she’s ready to join us again.”
Blasi found Gabriela in her bedroom. Betty was with her. The room had no personal touches. Gabriela did not seem like the kind of woman who finds it easy to express herself, so for her to confess what was happening in writing, the circumstances must have really affected her.
“I’ll be right there,” she said when she heard Blasi’s request. “Stay here, Betty.”
“I’m going with you,” said the young woman irritably. “Why not call the maid and the caretakers as well? They’d hate to miss the show.”
“Betty,” reproached Gabriela. “He’s not to blame.”
“On the contrary, madam, I must accept some blame. I once allowed her to deceive me.”
Betty turned her gaze away and took her stepmother’s arm.
That way, together, they entered Don Agustín’s bedroom and sat on either side of the bed. Señor Iñarra eyed them paternally.
After briefly explaining his intentions to Gabriela, Ericourt began questioning señor Iñarra. He stood with his hands in his pockets and was apparently absorbed in following the short trajectory of his cigarette smoke to the ceiling.
“Did you know that your daughter was visiting Boris Czerbó?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know that the reason for these visits was that Czerbó was attempting to blackmail your wife?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know the reason for that blackmail?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever been into Boris Czerbó’s apartment?”
“No.”
“Was your daughter at Boris Czerbó’s apartment the night before last?”
“No.”
“Did Dr Luchter come here after seeing Czerbó?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you how Czerbó was?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Frida Eidinger?”
“No.”
“Had she ever been to your home?”
“No.”
�
�Is there any reason why you might harbour resentment towards your wife?”
“No.”
“Is there any reason why your wife might harbour resentment towards you?” “No.”
“Do you admit that you caused the blackout the other night in order to get rid of some confessions your wife had written and which you deemed compromising?” “Yes.”
“Did your wife know what you were doing when she went to the scullery to change a fuse?”
“Yes.”
“Did she agree to go along with your plan?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Emilio Villalba?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know he had disappeared?”
“No.”
“What other plan of yours has señora de Iñarra gone along with?”
Don Agustín looked disconcerted; Betty, indignant; Gabriela, expectant. Outside the window, puffy white clouds passed rapidly towards the west. An unexpected ray of sun momentarily lit up señor Iñarra’s knotty, clenched fist. His negative response was heard once more:
“None.”
Ericourt turned to Gabriela.
“Do you confirm what your husband has said, madam?”
She nodded her head.
“I’m arresting you, señor Iñarra. Your answers lead me to suspect that you are responsible for Boris Czerbó’s death.”
Gabriela’s eyes filled with tears. Betty tried to put her arm around her shoulders but she shook it off as if the contact bothered her, then tipped her head back.
“Wait. My husband has answered with the truth, but not all his answers are correct. I’m not sure if he’s lying or simply doesn’t know…” She paused. “Frida Eidinger came to our apartment.”
“Gabriela!” Don Agustín almost shouted.
“Frida Eidinger died here, señor Ericourt.” Gabriela was speaking with her eyes closed. “It’s better to confess it all.”
“Gabriela, you’re mad! I won’t let you go on.” Señor Iñarra seemed very agitated for the first time and spoke in a commanding tone.
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