EQMM, June 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Who was there when she died?"

  Shari shrugged. “The usual crowd. Everyone swims almost every day."

  "Was Paul there?” Shari nodded. “How about Morgan and Kathleen?” Shari nodded again. Those were all the swimmers’ names that Lydia knew. She stared mesmerized as Shari's long blue nails tapped on the bench. Lydia liked the color much better than the purple passion she had on.

  "Who does your nails?"

  Shari smiled. “Kathleen does them for me very cheaply. She works at a salon over on Graham Avenue."

  Kathleen had been there for both deaths, and she worked with nail-polish remover on a daily basis. “Let's go there."

  "What about my swim?"

  "There'll be plenty of time to do it later."

  Kathleen was bent over a woman's footbath when they arrived. She looked up and her aspect turned stony, as if she knew exactly why they had come. Lydia wondered if she should have called Romero to let him know about her suspicions, but it was too late now.

  Before they could ask what she was doing, Kathleen scrambled up, grabbed a big bottle of something, and ran out the back door. Shari and Lydia lit out after her. Lydia assumed that no one innocent ever ran.

  Lydia shouted as she ran out the back, “Call nine-one-one."

  Shari was in much better shape than either of them, and caught up to Kathleen easily. But Kathleen had already taken a big swig of nail-polish remover. They watched in horror as she began to thrash around. Her eyes glazed over as if she was seeing something other than the alley.

  "No one should be faster than me. I'm the fastest swimmer there is,” she raved.

  "Oh my God,” Shari gasped, comprehending the horror for the first time. “She poisoned Morgan and that other swimmer."

  "I'm afraid you would have been next,” Lydia said grimly. They could only stay out of Kathleen's way as she flailed around the alleyway, dueling with ghosts. When she went into cardiac arrest, Lydia stepped forward. She started CPR, fearing that it would very likely do no good, but determined to do something. Kathleen was already gone before the EMTs arrived.

  Lydia walked Shari out of the alley with her arm around her. “I don't know what to do,” Shari said tearily.

  "Why don't you call Morgan's sister Guinevere? She would probably feel better knowing that the murderer had been ... caught.” Lydia didn't add that the two of them could remember Morgan together. Hopefully that would help them both feel better. As for Lydia, she was considering taking up jogging.

  (c) 2008 by Meredith S. Cole

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  Passport to Crime: THE CENTER OF THE WEB by Christian X. Ferdinandus

  Christian X. Ferdinandus is the pseudonym of two Argentine writers who are planning a series of crime stories in the manner of the Don Isidro Parodi tales published sixty years ago by their compatriots, Adolfo Bioy Casares and Jorge Luis Borges. Borges's first appearance in print in English was in this magazine in 1948.

  Translated from the Spanish by Donald A. Yates

  Every other Saturday morning, I set out to walk forty-four blocks, which mark the distance—round trip—between my house and the corner of Olazabal and Estomba. That's where my daughter Silvina and my son-in-law Alejandro Di Paolo live. I don't get along well with either one. I visit them solely for the pleasure of spending time with my only (so far) grandson, Juan Francisco.

  I spend the alternate Satur-day mornings practicing marksmanship at the Argentine Federal Firing Range with a number of weapons that I own.

  On that particular morning I left the range before noon. I live on Libertador, between Matienzo and Newbery. As soon as I reached the street and began walking, I lit a cigarette and let my thoughts wander.

  I consider myself a reasonably happy man. Once a lowlife, who liked to play at being an artist and a Bohemian, told me that I was a disgustingly happy person. If he meant to insult me, it didn't work.

  Nonetheless, I also had my serious concerns. The sudden death of my wife was a terrible blow that affected my life in many ways. I am not sentimental and am far from sensitive. In fact, there are some persons who would suggest that I am incapable of pity. Generally, I manage to maintain an apparent outer calm in unnerving circumstances while at the same time suppressing my inner anger.

  I think I am efficient and well-organized. I rose to occupy an enviable financial position and what people would consider success. My businesses are highly regarded on the stock market; I can't say that I am invariably honest, but within the circumstances of my position, I am considered as such. I am president of the Santa Ines Foundation, which makes charitable donations to hospitals and schools. Say what you will, I am a man of civic virtues. Twice I was named one of the outstanding figures of the year by a local news magazine.

  From my wife I inherited—when I no longer needed them—shares in Dowland & Grandinetti. I had no interest in remarrying, but I have had—and still have—occasional affairs.

  I am very fond of the neighborhood where I live, as well as the building and the apartment that I occupy.

  Inside my front door the mail was waiting: utility bills, bank statements, inivitations to conferences or expositions, a postcard from a friend traveling in Europe.... Also a padded reddish mailing envelope, of the sort that people use when sending something that should not be folded.

  It contained only a photograph. My wife and I, wearing T-shirts and shorts. The date and the place where it had been taken were unmistakable: We were strolling along the beachfront at Copacabana, and that was in 1982, when Ines, age twenty-three, and I, twenty-six, were on our honeymoon. We were engrossed in each other and not posing for the camera. The photo had clearly been taken without our knowledge.

  An unexplainable wave of nausea came over me and I dropped the envelope on a table, as if I were shaking loose the hold of a scorpion. For a moment I didn't know what to do. Then, instinctively, I took out my pack of cigarettes and lit one.

  On the back of the photo was a notation inside a penciled frame:

  Ines Dowland de Aguirre (1959-1997) and her husband, who murdered her. Sooner or later the truth will come out.

  (First message of 3)

  The handwriting, in blue ballpoint pen, was shaky and unsteady, with many sharp angles and scarcely any curves.

  I felt an emptiness in the pit of my stomach and my face seemed to be burning. What was the purpose of this anonymous attack?

  "Be calm,” I said to myself. “One thing can't be ignored: I know that the accusation is false."

  My tendency to see things reasonably began to take over. I tried to put myself into the position of my accuser. Legislative elections were approaching, and I was about to make my entry into politics. I was a candidate for the post of deputy in the Integralist Party. The mysterious mailing must be a political ploy, something intended to disturb me emotionally.

  * * * *

  As time went by, I gradually forgot the matter, and recovered my usual equilibrium. The large number of issues demanding my attention kept me from dwelling on the hateful creature who was lurking in the shadows.

  In addition, I was beginning a difficult week. The possible merging of two companies was causing me a great deal of concern. A number of stockholders who did not look favorably on the move began to sell out their holdings. The value of my stock was dropping sharply. On Wednesday I decided to make my move: I brought together a group of important financial specialists and explained to them the positive benefits of the merger. The point was to generate confidence. In that field I have a lot of experience.

  I spoke slowly and casually, in a good-natured tone. I made a few jokes about stock-market superstitions and made up an amusing quote that I attributed to Woody Allen. And, as had happened so many times before, I succeeded in convincing the majority. Thursday, people recovered their serenity and, hours before the market's weekend close, the new company and its market shares reflected large earnings.

  A series of favorable events followed. In an article in the Sunda
y economic section of La Nacion I stated that the role of politics was to benefit society as a whole, and that I was merely an agent dedicated to securing the well-being of the country.

  Everyone in the Integralist Party approved what I had said. Monday, the patriarch of the party, the old and shrewd Antonio Dufour, called for me to see him at his estate in San Isidro.

  He wanted to know me personally. He limited himself to just a few words. When I arrived, he said, “The important thing is to show that we're dynamic, that the party has young blood."

  The fragile old man, who gave the impression of physical weakness, had just reached the age of eighty-two and had held the reins of the party firmly in his hands for decades.

  "You have done very well,” he said, and added: “So far. I see an exceptional political career ahead for you."

  Those words, considering who spoke them, made me feel serenely confident. I returned to Buenos Aires after two o'clock and later had an unhurried lunch alone at a restaurant on Viamonte Street. I arrived at my office as it was growing dark.

  Flavia had left the correspondence on my desk. Suddenly, I stiffened. There was the red envelope, identical to the one that I had received at home. It also lacked a return address.

  In this photo, Ines and I were seated side by side at a table with plates, glasses, and drinks before us. There were other persons seated alongside. From certain details, I was able to reconstruct the place, the date, and the circumstances.

  Ines at that time would have been around thirty-eight. It was the occasion of a meal with many people present. My wife and I were smiling ear-to-ear, as if we were enjoying some sort of joke offered by the diner on my left, who was none other than the attorney Schiaritti. As usual, I held a cigarette between my fingers.

  I recognized the house and recalled the event. It was a barbeque at the home of Guillermo Hughes in 1997, a few months before Ines's death.

  I felt vulnerable. Without my knowing it, someone had taken those photos. At least, those two photos.

  A superstitious fear, which I had never experienced before, took hold of me, and kept me—for that moment—from looking at the reverse side. I examined the envelope.

  The cancellation stamp was a little smudged. Using a magnifying glass, I could make out that it had been sent our from Postal Branch 31. On my computer, I learned that it was the Villa Urquiza branch, at the 5200 block of Monroe Street.

  What inscription was waiting to assault me on the back of the photo? Without turning it over, I put the photo in the envelope and the envelope in my portfolio.

  "Flavia,” I said into the intercom, “will you bring me a whiskey?"

  Flavia noted my trembling hand when I raised the glass.

  "Are you all right, dear? You look pale, nervous..."

  Flavia is the age of my daughter, married to a poor devil, a complacent husband, and in addition to being my secretary, is the consolation of my middle years.

  With her finger, she traced a circle on the tip of my nose.

  "You're nervous,” she repeated.

  "Yes,” I admitted. “It was a taxing week. I need to take a walk and get some air. I'm done for today."

  I downed the whiskey in one swallow. I kissed Flavia on the cheek, put on my overcoat, grabbed my portfolio, and left.

  On Leandro Alem Avenue night had fallen and the stiff winter breezes were blowing, carrying the smell of the nearby river.

  I had never wanted to have a chauffeur or bodyguards. That trait of simplicity and confidence in myself added to the impression I gave of being independent and self-assured. Journalists, however, were unaware, and continue to be so, that in my shoulder holster I carry a Bersa Thunder Compact .45. It's not the only weapon that I fire at the Argentine Federal Firing Range, but it is the one that I always carry. I am my best chauffeur and best bodyguard.

  I didn't take my car out of the company's parking garage. I felt like walking, being alone. With my thoughts confused, I went down the hill from Plaza San Martin. A blast of chill wind obliged me to raise the collar on my overcoat.

  Then I entered the bar-restaurant in Retiro Station, located at the end of the Mitre Railroad line. That building, with its anachronistic design, a kind of relic of decades past, always gives me pleasure.

  I ordered a coffee, cursed the new ordinance that prohibits smoking in public places, and took out the photograph. I was afraid to turn it over and find that shaky, accusing handwriting, that from some distant moment in my life was bringing me to judgment before a phantom tribunal.

  When the waiter brought the coffee and left, I forced myself to read the message, written, as before, within a penciled frame. It was linked to the previous one. Evidently, the author of the anonymous texts had designed some kind of progressive game:

  Ines was a careful driver. How could the brakes have failed in a brand-new car, a gift from you on your fifteenth wedding anniversary? The truth cannot be suppressed, señor Aguirre. There is only one more step before the facts of the murder come to light.

  (Second message of 3)

  It was rather late. Nonetheless, without hesitation, I took out my cell phone and called Antonio Dufour.

  "I need to speak with you, don Antonio. As soon as possible."

  "Come here now then. If that makes you feel better."

  My auto was only a few blocks away, but the train was closer, When I arrived at San Isidro, I flagged down a taxi and gave the driver the patriarch's address. The cab drove along dark and tree-sheltered streets for fifteen minutes and then stopped.

  Once again the metal fence and the immense garden that I had seen only hours before in broad daylight. A security guard opened the gate.

  Beyond the garden, Dufour's mansion.

  The old man received me in a showy purple robe. When he sat down, I could see his skinny legs, covered with a downy expanse of white hair. I imagined that beneath the robe he would be in his undershorts.

  "I was just getting ready for bed,” he said. “Can I offer you a drink?"

  "No, thanks. I'll try to be brief. I wanted to ask you if you had ever been compromised by anyone—about your work as a politician?"

  "Compromised?” He smiled. “Now I see what your problem is. I've had to deal with worse things than being compromised."

  "Worse?” I repeated, a little befuddled.

  "I've been charged on five occasions with administrative fraud. What do you say to that?"

  "Yes, but I understand that in every case you were acquitted."

  The old man could not help laughing.

  "Have you ever seen a case when a politician was not acquitted?"

  I had to smile.

  "As far as I am concerned,” Dufour continued, “having people believe that I was innocent is more insulting than a prison sentence. The person who is not involved in some type of corruption is an idiot. In politics, people excuse everything. In politics, anything goes, everything is forgotten. There's only one thing you don't recover from..."

  "You mean from acting stupid?"

  "No, that's not a problem. Even acting like a fool will be forgotten. Corruption, bribery, embezzlement are considered small change in our society. Sometimes they can even seem endearing. No, the only thing that you must be careful about is to protect your private life. It makes no difference how much you have looted from the national treasury. What you have to keep untouchable is your reputation as a worthy pater familias. People only insist that there be nothing scandalous in your private affairs. Remember that presidential candidate who was a sure winner. He was a model of honesty and virtue, but someone secretly took a photo of him with a gorgeous woman—who wasn't his wife—and that was the end of his career."

  The word “photo” struck me like a blow.

  "You can be sure that now,” he went on, “our opponents will try to uncover something shady in your professional life."

  The anonymous envelopes and my relationship with Flavia suddenly crowded into my mind.

  "And if they don't find it, they'
ll invent something. Journalists will write scandalous pieces and people will simply pay no attention. Well, you wanted to talk to me about something. Is that right?"

  He tried to hold back a yawn. He looked very tired.

  "Stay calm, Aguirre. Let them say whatever they want to about your professional business. Just so long as no one can poke into your private life, into family secrets, you'll survive anything.

  His fatherly tone bothered me. It was true that I had no experience in politics, but I also was not ingenuous. I decided not to reveal to him the real reason for my visit.

  When he said, “I'll call a car for you,” and picked up the phone, I understood two things: He was aware that I had arrived in a taxi and that the conversation had ended.

  * * * *

  That night I had chaotic dreams. Images of Ines appeared in impossible places. People from distant parts came forward and said things that they never could have said. The accident, with the car crushed at the foot of a utility pole, the aroma of the funeral wreaths, the staff of the mortuary ... Ines was smiling and talking, but she was drenched in the clammy odor of decomposing flowers, an odor that only now I was smelling, and that not until this moment had I ever recalled.

  As soon as I awoke I went to look for the first envelope and examine the cancelation stamp: It had also been mailed from the postal branch on Monroe Street. I could not help from wondering what enemy I had in Villa Urquiza.

  The next three days held a mixture of calm and anxiety. On the one hand I was relieved at not having received the third envelope—which, apparently, would be the last—and on the other hand I could not keep from expecting its arrival.

  Work was demanding. When I was alone, I took time to try to decipher the identity of my enemy. Since the photos had been taken over a period of fifteen years, from 1982 to 1997, he would be a person from a time removed from the years during which I had achieved my economic ascent, someone who belonged to a distant time, someone who did not exist for me, or, at least, whom I had not noticed among the faces I had known over the past decade.

  On Thursday I received—this time at home—the third envelope. It also came from Villa Urquiza. In the first photo, Ines had been twenty-three; in the second, thirty-eight; and in this one, seventeen or eighteen. It must have been from around 1977. She was wearing jeans and a jersey. I am at her side: very slim and in a short-sleeved shirt. It is broad daylight and the sun is shining; in the background can be seen the dome-shaped building that houses the Palermo Planetarium. That was when our relationship was just beginning.