Death Going Down

by María Angélica Bosco

  “You’ll have to let me, Agustín. I’ve had enough. You’re not going to frighten me now like you’ve always done. Now you can’t do away with me like you wanted to. It would be too obvious.”

  “By God, Gabriela! What are you saying? When have I wanted to do away with you?”

  The tension of the scene had made Betty turn so red it seemed she might lose control of herself. Iñarra, ensconced in his chair, hunched his shoulders to bear the weight of all the hatred his wife was spitting at him in the midst of her incoherent declaration.

  “You wanted to do away with me because you knew that sooner or later you’d lose me. I’d discovered the secret of your eagerness to make me absolutely dependent on you. You made me feel I was irredeemably tied to a past I’d forgotten long ago, because while I was still afraid I wouldn’t have left your side, right?”

  Iñarra shook his head.

  “Poor Gabriela,” he muttered sadly.

  “Poor Gabriela!” she repeated almost simultaneously. “Poor me. I was stupid to think this home would give me back the status I lost as a result of an unfortunate passion. How much you’ve needed me, Agustín! Only now do I realize what this farce has meant to you.

  “What would have come of your cold, loveless life if I hadn’t been here at your side, supporting you and giving you the opportunity to think yourself important by saving a poor woman with your selflessness?”

  Don Agustín’s face revealed a deep concentration. He suddenly seemed to remember that the others were there and with visible effort shook off the entrancement caused by his wife’s words.

  Gabriela spoke to Ericourt, now extraordinarily sure of herself.

  “Frida Eidinger died here, as I said. She had asked to see me that evening to talk about something that was of interest to both of us. I received her because I had no option. She went as far as to threaten me with scandal.”

  “Why?”

  “These people suffer from psychosis of the past,” thought Blasi, “you can smell it in here.”

  Gabriela was shaking her head.

  “I’d like you to consider how it was for me to have to bow day and night to the hand held out to me. I needed to live with something real rather than empty words.”

  Of course, everyone tries to justify themselves when they must admit to something like that, but it is often much simpler than they think and their mitigating circumstances never amount to much.

  “It didn’t make me happier,” she went on, without clarifying what she was referring to. “My soul was as sick as his.” She pointed to her husband. “I’ve felt terribly guilty towards Betty and him, they depend on me. And what’s more,” she paused and bit her lips, “he’s just the same as us. He couldn’t help me.”

  Don Agustín sank his head pitifully between his shoulders.

  “Who do you mean?” asked Ericourt.

  “Dr Luchter.”

  “Gabriela, I forbid you to mix other people up in your lies.” Iñarra jerked his head up as if he had been stung.

  “Leave her, Dad,” pleaded Betty gently, “there’s no point now.”

  “But I won’t allow it. Dr Luchter is a friend.”

  “Friend? When have you ever had a real friend, Agustín? You’ve always looked for people you could help so as to tie them more firmly to you. You did that with Luchter, you protected him, advised him, and he eventually noticed me because I was different, because I didn’t believe your lies.”

  Ericourt did not seem to be as pressed for time as Lahore, who was fidgeting nervously. He listened with his eyes downcast, as blurry a figure in the midst of the family drama as those clouds racing across the window frame.

  “Dr Luchter has been my lover.” Gabriela spoke these words fiercely. “If it makes you happy, Agustín, I want you to know I’ve tormented myself with all the remorse a person can feel. Every night I went to bed wanting to wake up and find it had all been a bad dream. I wanted to feel clean and innocent again.

  “Lord, I’ve been so stupid!”

  An instinctive horror paralysed Lahore. Like an inexperienced surgeon who sees diseased flesh and would like to tear the forceps from the wound and cover it back up under the falsely intact appearance of skin and muscle.

  Gabriela continued in her clear voice:

  “I’d been Luchter’s lover for two years when Frida Eidinger arrived in the country. They’d had a relationship in Germany many years ago and met again here.

  “I had no idea Frida Eidinger existed until the night she came to our apartment unannounced. I opened the door myself because our maid had gone to bed early, as had my husband. Betty was out and when she got back she went up to Boris Czerbó’s apartment to talk to him. Czerbó had found out about my relationship with Luchter, I don’t know how, and was threatening to reveal our secret if I didn’t give him money.

  “When I saw I was lost, I turned to Betty, who agreed to help me with her own money in order to avoid upsetting her father. That night, after Agustín went to bed, I sat in the living room to wait for Betty. Agustín knew I stayed up late and always made me a glass of whisky and soda. One, no more, so I wouldn’t overdo it. He’s like that. He keeps the bottle locked in his room. He says he has to look after me because I’m incapable of controlling my desires.”

  “It’s true, Gabriela, don’t hold it against me.”

  The words sounded like a pitiful plea. Gabriela ignored him, smiling disdainfully.

  “The bell rang and I went to open the door. I found myself face to face with a woman I didn’t know, who threatened to make a scene if I didn’t let her in.

  “Agustín’s room, as you can see, is the last bedroom. There was little chance he would hear our conversation from there. Agustín never gets out of bed without my help. I agreed to the woman’s request.

  “Frida Eidinger came into my home like a woman determined to carry out a plan. She sat opposite me and told me her name. I’ll repeat that it was the first time I’d heard it.

  “She didn’t beat about the bush in telling me what she wanted. She belonged to that class of person who knows no bounds when it comes to ensuring they have the upper hand.”

  “Or who assumes those bounds don’t exist,” interrupted Blasi, pleased to see Betty’s childlike face free from any pretence.

  A look from Lahore was enough to make him doubt how wise it was to make personal comments, but Gabriela was by this point so wrapped up in her own narrative that nothing would have cut her off.

  “She told me Luchter was the only man she’d loved and for that reason she was prepared to win him back. She had weapons at her disposal and wouldn’t hesitate to use them. According to her, I was in a worse position because I was jeopardizing a position that gave me the means to survive.”

  “What did you say to this?” intervened Ericourt.

  Iñarra and Betty listened to the difficult confession like two stern figures on a tomb, their eyes trained on the floor. Gabriela with her calm, pained voice seemed to grow before their eyes, filling the scene previously occupied by the skittish ghost of her temperament.

  On hearing Ericourt’s question she shrugged her shoulders.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How can you have forgotten, madam?” Lahore protested crossly. “The words you exchanged that night must have been of the greatest importance to you.”

  “I don’t know. I was too stunned,” repeated Gabriela. “My silence must have exasperated Frida. She took a comb and mirror out of her handbag and started freshening her make-up, ignoring me.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I got up and went to the door. I was afraid Agustín might have heard voices and would call me to ask what was going on. He must have been asleep because his bedroom light was off.”

  “Is that true?” Lahore asked Iñarra.

  “Yes, the light was off.” The coldness had returned to Iñarra’s voice.

  “When I went back to the living room, Frida was putting her things away in her bag. She told me t
o think about her offer, smiling intolerably. I replied in the only way that could irritate her, with silence. She must have felt out of sorts because she went very pale and, taking the glass of whisky on the side table, drank it in one gulp.

  “All of a sudden, I saw her grow paler still. She raised both hands to loosen the silk scarf around her neck, breathing heavily as if she couldn’t get enough air. After that she leant back in the armchair, shooting me a look, like a desperate call for help. Then she took another deep breath and fell back against the chair.

  “I rushed to take her pulse. It was barely there. I went to the scullery to get some water. When I came back she’d stopped breathing. I tried to get her to take a sip, but her mouth was rigid and she couldn’t swallow. Her pulse had stopped.

  “At that moment, all I could think about was protecting myself and getting her out of my home. I took Frida by the arms and dragged her to the door. There was no one in the hall at that time. I called the lift, put her inside and got in with her. I pressed the button for the sixth floor. When we got there I went to walk back down the stairs.

  “That was when I remembered Frida had come into the building at a time when the main door was locked. Did she have a key to Luchter’s apartment too? I opened her bag and saw the key ring. I recognized the main door key and was about to take it off the key ring when I thought I heard someone in the lobby. Without hesitating, I threw the key ring down into the lift shaft and ran downstairs.

  “When I got back home, I noticed the glass on the side table. I thought I should wash it to get rid of any fingerprints. While I was rinsing it, I asked myself for the first time, trembling with fear, what had happened. Had Frida committed suicide? Had she had a heart attack? When she was with me she hadn’t behaved like a person desperate enough to kill herself.

  “I turned off the tap. The water dripping into the glass was intolerable. I dried it and when I was about to put it back in its place in the cupboard, the light glinting off the glass winked at me in a sinister way.

  “I remember all this because when I found out about the poisoning later, something flashed in my mind like the sharp light on that glass.”

  Gabriela’s voice cracked. With a gesture of defiance she raised her head and carried on trying to control her trembling voice and hands:

  “Then, for the first time, I wondered if Frida Eidinger was really the one who should have been poisoned that night of the 23rd of August.”

  “I don’t understand it, Ericourt,” protested Lahore, pacing across the Inspector’s office, “I swear I don’t understand. We’ve finally got a solution to the puzzle and you don’t accept it.”

  “A solution? Señora de Iñarra’s confession doesn’t rule out the possibility that Frida Eidinger killed herself.”

  “I can’t believe that. Señora de Iñarra poisoned her out of jealousy and then eliminated Czerbó so he wouldn’t turn her in to the police. You’re so cynical! She told us about her relationship with Luchter in front of her husband without batting an eyelid. A woman like that is capable of anything. Even of accusing her husband as she did.”

  “It might have been Don Agustín. The blackout he treated me to shows he’s a man able to plan coldly and logically.”

  “You’ve got quite a way of complicating things with your deductions!”

  “I’ll admit I’m not intuitive,” Ericourt said modestly.

  “In my opinion,” Lahore went on, “what we’ve got here are two different crimes. Gabriela de Iñarra knew Frida Eidinger would visit her that night. She might even have invited her in the knowledge that her stepdaughter wouldn’t be home until very late. She must’ve asked Frida to leave Luchter alone and when she refused she went ahead with her plan of the poisoned whisky. Everyone would think it was a suicide when the body was found in the lift. Luchter would keep his relationships with the two women quiet, and anyway, it would’ve been very difficult to prove señora de Iñarra’s involvement. No one would’ve seen Frida enter her home and no one knew about the affair, apart from Czerbó.”

  “And then she poisoned Czerbó to throw us off the scent?”

  “No, there’s something in the Czerbó case that makes me think señora Iñarra didn’t do it. She would’ve destroyed the note. Whoever is responsible wanted to drag someone else in.”

  “And so?” asked Ericourt. His half-closed eyes shone with irony.

  “All the neighbours have said Czerbó mistreated his sister. Perhaps she hated him, that’s why she killed him. Señora Eidinger’s death made her think of poisoning. Typical of the mentally weak. Her suicide proves her guilt.”

  “And in these shifting sands of hypotheses, what role does the disappearance of Emilio Villalba play?”

  “Coincidence.”

  “Mention atavism and we’ll have the complete picture of a conclusion which explains none of the events.”

  Ericourt took the private investigation folder out of his desk drawer.

  “I have made a list,” he said, “of the names of those implicated in this case and their possible motives for the crime. I believe we should call them all here for a reconstruction of the scene of Frida Eidinger’s death, which will take place tonight. I asked the Examining Magistrate for permission, and Dr Corro has granted it. These notes are my version of that column ‘The Value of Hope’ from the horse racing pages.”

  He began reading out loud. Not a bit of uncertainty altered the expression on his satisfied face:

  AGUSTÍN IÑARRA:

  Why might he have murdered Frida Eidinger?

  By mistake. He may have wanted to eliminate his own wife out of jealousy.

  Is that possible?

  Yes and no. He is too helpless a man to do without his wife’s company. Gabriela’s confessions prove that he was not unaware of her relationship with Luchter. Love may lead to a crime of passion in a case like this because the means are of no consequence when it comes to stopping the other person finding happiness elsewhere. Is señor Iñarra so deeply in love?

  Could he have killed Czerbó?

  Anyone apart from Luchter who had entered Czerbó’s apartment would have had to sneak in via the service entrance. The locks were not forced, so whoever did enter the apartment to kill him did not do so by either door. But what if he had got hold of a key?

  Señor Iñarra’s illness makes such a feat implausible.

  GABRIELA DE IÑARRA:

  Why might she be Frida Eidinger’s murderer?

  Jealousy. She might have planned the crime and invited her over.

  Could she have killed Czerbó?

  This is probable if she did not kill Frida Eidinger.

  BEATRIZ IÑARRA:

  Why might she have killed Frida Eidinger?

  She was determined to ensure her father’s life remain peaceful and Frida constituted the most serious threat to her home. She could have poisoned the whisky. This is unlikely since it was prepared after she left the house.

  Could she have killed Czerbó?

  Absolutely. She could have climbed up to the Czerbós’s apartment or got hold of a key. She knew what Czerbó was capable of. The similarity between the two murders seems to suggest they were committed by the same person.

  RITA CZERBÓ:

  Could she have killed Frida Eidinger?

  She did not have any apparent motive for eliminating her.

  Could she have been the one who murdered her brother?

  Yes. Boris had killed her spirit. The desire for vengeance and freedom might have blinded her. She could easily get into Boris’s room. Her suicide indicates that she could not bear the guilt, which is implausible in a crime committed by a resentful person who kills to win their freedom.

  ADOLFO LUCHTER:

  Could he have killed Frida Eidinger?

  He might have done it to free himself of her persecution or out of fear that she would reveal his relationship with señora de Iñarra. He has admitted that he gave the main door key to Frida Eidinger. His alibi for the night of the 23rd of August
is perfect, however.

  Could he have killed Boris Czerbó?

  Absolutely. He could have made the crime look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate him. The poisoned capsule and the half-burnt paper would be other evidence he fabricated to make it seem as if someone had entered Boris Czerbó’s room after he left.

  GUSTAVO EIDINGER:

  Why might he have killed his wife?

  Jealously. The neighbours have testified that their married life was not a happy one. He has admitted it himself.

  As in the case of Luchter, his alibi is perfect.

  Could he have killed Boris Czerbó?

  Yes, if he was the one who killed his wife. But he would have found it more difficult than the others to get into Czerbó’s apartment.

  FRANCISCO SOLER:

  Could he be Frida Eidinger’s murderer?

  He has no motive. His alibi is good.

  Could he be Boris Czerbó’s murderer?

  They’d had an argument. Of all the people in the building he is the one who could most easily get into the apartment directly below his own.

  EMILIO VILLALBA:

  Why was he in the Czerbós’s apartment? Why has he disappeared?

  Was his presence in the Czerbós’s apartment a mysterious sign meant to intimidate Czerbó?

  A long pause told Lahore the reading had ended.

  “The questions can be summed up in one,” he said. “Where is Emilio Villalba?”

  “Emilio Villalba is a pawn. We can make it checkmate with another more important piece. The question is: who killed Frida Eidinger?”

  8

  Who Killed Frida Eidinger?

  Soot had smeared its greasy fingers around the kitchen. The oilskin tablecloth smelt damp. A short, plump woman with a face as round as a coin was laying the table. A weak-looking young man sat waiting in a wicker chair. Even his cigarette smoke seemed to hang listlessly in the air.

  “What’s up with you, Mum?” he asked in a voice that made its way lazily through the garments on the clothes horse. “Is this target practice?”

  The woman planted herself in front of him with her hands on her hips.