“And to think that we believed Manning was the future solitaire champion …” sighed Doctor Montes.
“Let’s take a close look now,” continued Manning, “at the after-dinner discussion, which ended with Emilia stepping out into the night. Atwell seemed calm and conciliatory; Emilia, offended by Mary. Normally these signs would corroborate for the detectives their favorable opinion of Atwell and would make them suspect, at some moment, the girl.”
Aubry looked at him with astonishment, tossed two pieces of cheese and three olives into his mouth, then downed a glass of vermouth. Manning continued:
“Now we arrive at the moment of Mary’s death. The Commissioner has pointed out that even if the Inspector had no lack of motives—he has the same as Miss Emilia—he lacked the opportunity. The death occurred toward dawn, at a time when Atwell was not in this house: he was sleeping in his room at the New East End Hotel. I dare to assert that this argument can be recommended more for its brilliance than its consistency. If the crime had been committed with a firearm, the Commissioner would be right, but in this case poison has been used. When he went downstairs with Cornejo to look for Emilia, Atwell could have easily put the poison in the cup of hot chocolate that was on the night table.”
“As I already said, Commissioner,” Montes interrupted, “you were so pleased with establishing distinctions between motives and opportunities that you forgot about the case at hand.”
I was definitive:
“The Commissioner’s distinctions are sound.” I declared.
“When Atwell,” Manning continued, “discovered that page in the translation (perhaps only a draft) of Phillpotts’s book, he understood that he had within reach the ‘proof’ that would allow him to kill with impunity. Later, the night of the crime, he left the page on the table, beside the manuscript of Mary’s new translation; that same night, or the next morning, he took the book out of her library, so that no one could prove that Mary’s message was, simply, a paragraph from a novel. I discovered the sheet of paper on the table; Atwell had certainly succeeded in making this discovery inevitable. I admit that while I read those handwritten lines with an understanding that was still imperfect, I felt deeply moved. I believed I was glimpsing the modest shining of the truth, perhaps glimpsing, also, my victory in the investigation. I spoke with Atwell. He didn’t seem excited about my theory: in order to excite him, I became enthusiastic. He said he didn’t want to get personally involved in the whole matter, but that he would try to help me. He brought me an English novel that the girl had been translating at the time of her death; I read it; between the two of us we both read the novels she had already translated. Atwell had influenced my thinking and I thought and acted in accordance with his insights. However, because of who knows what naïve egoism on his part, he made a mistake: he thought that my thinking would come to a halt when he reached a definite (and for him, favorable) interpretation of the problem. It didn’t come to a halt.”
I remembered the spider that Manning had placed on the window and the web it had woven in three days. Manning continued:
“I think I understand Atwell’s plan: some signs, not many, could suggest Emilia’s guilt; when the police, in their eagerness to capture the guilty party, were satisfied with these suppositions and ready to detain the girl, he, indirectly, would make the ‘proofs’ of the suicide appear. He counted on the detectives seeing that solution as definitive. In fact, they would reach it laboriously, then accept it enthusiastically and abandon, out of a lack of interest, any other hypothesis. But he hadn’t counted on the astute methods of Commissioner Aubry: fabricating the proof by means of a severe interrogation. This, and the firm decision the Commissioner made to charge Emilia, made those reflexive and ambitious projects misfire. The man wasn’t very scrupulous: to get out of an uncomfortable situation—he was having an affair with his fiancée’s sister—he had resort to murder; but now, because of his guilt, he couldn’t allow them to torture and perhaps condemn Emilia. From that moment on he acted nervously, depending on the circumstances provided by chance. Let me give as an example the stealing of the jewelry. There was no such robbery. It was staged by Atwell to suggest another guilty party. (Emilia had no reason to steal those jewels: she would inherit them.) Atwell ran the risk of the investigation coming up with the hypothesis of two felons: a murderer and a thief. But those of us gathered here are few, and the idea of there being a criminal amongst us is already astonishing; if someone were to prove that there were two, we wouldn’t believe him. When Cornejo discovered the boy with the dead woman, Atwell took advantage of the occasion. He thought, perhaps, that the boy’s soul was already monstrous, so he could easily attribute to him an additional monstrosity. I understand, but I do not forgive him. Thus I, who do not belong to the police force, offer these explanations that may damn him. Perhaps I seem like an intruder and a raging fool, but we shouldn’t forget that Atwell speculated about the child’s pathological sensibility, about his tendency to run away, about his passions and fears. Perhaps the best that can be said about Atwell is that, in his desperation to save the woman he loved, he acted rashly. This also explains the attempt on Cornejo’s life. The typist had entered Mary’s room after the scene of the kiss and before Atwell could take the jewels and declare that Miguel had stolen them. When the Commissioner was ready to take down statements from Doctor Cornejo and the typist, Atwell tried to eliminate the former. By doing this he would draw our attention away from the typist and make us think that Cornejo was the important witness. Upon judging these actions let us not be too severe with Atwell. His intention was to put Cornejo to sleep, not to kill him. As to the latter’s note to Mary, there’s not much to add. Atwell discovered it, hid it prudently away (that’s why the police didn’t find it during their first search), and when he wanted to foment confusion and plant false clues, he again put it in Mary’s room. But let’s go on with the story. When Atwell understood that I had taken advantage of a pretext to leave the hotel, he guessed the truth. He immediately organized the rescue missions and, accompanied by Doctor Huberman, he headed toward the New East End. There he confirmed that Phillpotts’s book was missing, the book that would allow it to be proven that Mary’s message was, simply, a paragraph from her translation. Perhaps he took advantage of the excursion to take the jewelry. Perhaps we crossed paths in the sand. The storm saved me. I submit that had he caught me, he’d have killed me, and then accused me of having murdered his girlfriend.”
Doctor Montes asked:
“What reason would Atwell have had for killing Mary?”
Commissioner Aubry looked at him very wide-eyed.
“Reasons for homicide are never lacking,” he replied. “Doctor Huberman, right here, sketched in his statement a suggestive portrait of Miss Mary. It is not the first time a man has been in love with one woman and dominated by another.”
As if Manning had in his hands the invisible Book of Destiny, I asked him where Atwell was. He answered with indifference:
“Either fleeing, or committing suicide, among the crabs.”
31
MUSCARIUS—OUR DISHEVELED AND OBESE typist—entered the room, in thrall to the audible flight of a horsefly. She announced mechanically:
“La Bruna, the owner of the other hotel, wants to speak with the Commissioner.”
Before she retreated, the Commissioner ordered her to show Mr. La Bruna in.
La Bruna looked a little like Wagner, but somewhat younger. He was wearing a pajama jacket and loose trousers the color of café au lait. He handed Aubry a package, and said:
“Today at noon, Inspector Atwell asked me to give you this. Forgive me for not bringing it earlier. There was so much wind that it was impossible to go out.”
“Where is the Inspector?” asked Aubry.
“I don’t know,” replied La Bruna. “He gave me this and left. I told him not to go out in the storm, but I saw in his eyes that I’d be wise to keep silent.”
Aubry withdrew with the package. We didn’t k
now what to talk about. I attempted a remark about the weather. La Bruna predicted that the weather would improve that very night. We said goodbye and he left.
The Commissioner returned. He looked at each of us one by one, with sad and scrutinizing eyes, as if he were expecting to uncover a secret. He asked:
“Do you know what Atwell sent me?”
“The jewels,” replied Manning.
He was right. I thought it opportune to add:
“Atwell didn’t send them. They are not real jewels. Mr. La Bruna is not Mr. La Bruna. This is merely a bogus ploy on the part of Manning, to convince us.”
Faced with a severe look from the Commissioner, Manning blushed. I thought that those stones and those pieces of metal were more eloquent than any written message.
Montes asked the Commissioner:
“What are you going to do now?”
“Give the jewels to Miss Emilia. Give them to her personally.”
For my part, I would try not to miss that meeting.
“I’m going to take a bath and change,” I said.
With what impatience had I been waiting for that bath, that paradise via immersion! However, upon articulating these words, I had already postponed it once again.
32
I SETTLED INTO MY OBSERVATION POST, AT the dark end of the hallway, facing Mary’s room.
Suddenly I regretted this bold gesture. What fatal flaw compelled me to get mixed up in this affair? Why was I exposing myself in this final stage, when I already saw myself miraculously free of annoyances and commitments? Why was I allowing an unhealthy curiosity to separate me from Petronius, literature, celluloid? I found the answer. I’m a tireless observer of humankind, and in my eagerness to scrutinize traits, reactions, and idiosyncrasies, I am prepared to put up with discomforts and to face dangers.
Commissioner Aubry silently appeared in the opening of the staircase and walked toward my hiding place. He was carrying the package of jewels in his right hand. He stopped. If he had reached out his hand he would have touched me. He knocked on the door. Emilia opened. I saw the Commissioner from the back, and Emilia facing toward me.
“Here are the jewels,” the Commissioner said, and he gave her the package.
There was a subdued hint of elation in Emilia’s eyes; the Commissioner continued:
“They’ve been sent by your fiancé.”
“Did he find them?”
“He didn’t find them. He’s returning them.”
Emilia looked at him, perplexed.
“This remittance amounts to a confession,” the Commissioner explained, brutally. “Atwell killed Miss Mary. My men are looking for him in the crab bogs as we speak. I hope they find him alive.”
“You’re lying to me!” Emilia cried out, and I felt hysteria overtaking me. “He’s already dead. He did it to save me. You must believe me: it was to save me. I’m the guilty party, for everything.”
Afterwards there was a commotion during which the Commissioner was trying to calm Emilia, then a long conversation in a persuasive tone, then an almost friendly farewell. The Commissioner came out into the hallway, closed the door, and walked away with a firm step.
I was still motionless, tense. How much time had passed? Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a half hour. In the dead girl’s room something fell, heavily. My hand, white and tremulous, took hold of the doorknob. Before opening I knew what I would find. Emilia’s body was lying on the floor. On the table was a vial. On the label I read the word Strychnine.
33
WE GREETED THE DAWN AFTER A NIGHT OF exertion and high anxiety, gathered again in the dining room, smoking, drinking coffee, listening to the Commissioner’s harsh proclamation.
“Atwell has carried out all the actions that Manning has laid at his door,” Aubry finally summarized, “except one: he did not kill Miss Mary. From the start he realized that Emilia was the culprit. In order to save her, he was clumsy, unscrupulous, even heroic. He didn’t hesitate to vilify a child. He didn’t hesitate—when all appeared lost and he tried to convince us of his own guilt—to commit suicide. But now there is no doubt: Emilia committed the crime. She attempted to take her own life with the poison we searched for in every corner of the house, with the poison that killed Miss Mary.”
On the table was Mary’s suitcase, the same suitcase Atwell had inspected the evening I spied on him from the darkened hallway. The Commissioner opened it and handed each of us a stack of handwritten pages. I leafed through mine (I cleverly made off with them and keep them as a souvenir); some, numbered consecutively, contain chapters of novels; others, paragraphs or just sentences (sometimes repeated, with variations and corrections). For example, on one page I read: I took off my stockings, and a little lower down, the corrected version: I took off my socks. Another page read: But four days after I arrived there, a man arrived, and further down: a man came (which is proof of Mary’s fine ear and rich vocabulary). Aubry told us:
“One of these minutes was the dead girl’s ‘message.’ The Inspector, who knew her well, knew that the young lady kept all the copies of her translations. When he realized that his fiancée was in a compromised situation, he remembered the dead girl’s compulsion, recalled the letter in the English novel by Phillpotts and looked for the drafts in her suitcase. He was lucky, and it was to be expected, because the Inspector is an intelligent man.”
Presently, one of Aubry’s policemen came into the dining room. He had dark circles under his eyes and was covered with mud. The night before he had accompanied the other policeman and the chauffeur, for whom the crab bogs held no secrets, in search of the Inspector. They found him asleep next to an esparto bush. The Inspector had counted on a few hours of freedom. In that space of time it was easier to get lost and tired and fall asleep in the crab bog, than to cross it or die there. Now Atwell was awaiting us in the office. I didn’t want to see him, but I was glad he was alive. Very soon I would give him my permission to see his fiancée, who was already out of danger. The presence of a doctor in that hallway, beside that door, had been providential. A few more minutes and a life blossoming with hopes would have been cut short. The tragedy had paralyzed my brain; but my hands, my obedient professional hands, had administered emetics to induce vomiting.
I breathed deeply and felt my chest expand with immense pride and timid joy. I promised myself, resolutely, the hot bath, the change of clothing, and breakfast. With an alert spirit I greeted the morning, not with the contrite fatigue resulting inevitably from a sleepless night, but rather with the joy and faith of a pleasurable awakening.
34
THE NEXT MORNING WE MOVED THE DINING room table against one of the windows, and the Commissioner, Montes and I had breakfast while keenly staring at the sandy beach, the tamarisk bushes, the New East End Hotel, the pharmacy, the sky—which all formed again, after the endless storm, an orderly world, shining serenely in the sunlight, like an enormous flower.
I was having the breakfast from my periods of intense literary work—black tea, hard-boiled eggs, toast and honey—when I saw in the lion-colored expanse of sand a slight man in a blue sweater and light gray trousers approaching us.
We were so busy arguing about who the little man could be, and who saw farther, mountain men, plainsmen, or seamen, and even about what was the farthest distance human sight could reach, that we were surprised by the news that someone had arrived at the hotel.
“It’s the pharmacist,” Esteban explained. “He wants to talk to the Commissioner.”
“Have him come in,” the latter said, and stood up.
The pharmacist—in the blue sweater and light gray trousers—entered the dining room. He was a poker-faced man, with swollen eyes and a smooth complexion; when he made any movement he sighed, as if the inevitable waste of energy were worrisome. He greeted us parsimoniously and began a laborious conversation with Aubry in one corner of the room. Then he took a letter out of his pocket. Aubry read it nervously.
The two men sat down at our table. Aubry ordered
Esteban:
“A cup of coffee for Señor Rocha.” He then addressed the latter: “Did you know him from before? The day he went to see you, did he seem normal?”
“No, not normal. But, as you know, he was strange.”
“Crazy?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. He was intelligent, or rather, studious.”
“Why do you say ‘was’?” Aubry asked. “I am not sure that he’s dead.”
“I’m not sure either. However, I think it’s likely.”
“When did you notice that he had stolen the poison?”
“I told your officer the truth. I haven’t sold any strychnine for years.”
“But why didn’t you verify whether you had the bottle?”
Paulino Rocha gently lowered his eyes.
“I noticed it the other day. You know, life in the country …”
“Why didn’t you come right away to give me the news?”
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