“That’s correct.”
“But señor Soler has said you opened the deceased’s handbag.”
“That’s true. I wanted to see if there was anything that might indicate who she was and whether she lived in this building. To save time, I mean.”
“Poor move.”
Luchter silently agreed. Authority is like the word of God, difficult to dispute if one feels its presence.
“So it’s true that the young woman’s lipstick fell into the lift shaft?”
“Yes, it is.”
The Superintendent turned to Vera, who had just entered the lobby.
“As soon as the body has been removed, have one of the officers go down with the caretaker. We need to retrieve a lipstick that fell down there.”
He pointed to the lift shaft. His gaze then travelled restlessly over everyone present.
“Which of you is the caretaker?”
Andrés and Aurora Torres stepped forward together like the inseparable stars of a constellation. At last, the identification! Aurora was sniffing at clues in her memory. Andrés shook his head. He did not recognize the elegant figure. Aurora saw a topaz-coloured jersey dress under the fur coat and beautiful, dark suede stilettos. The woman’s long blond hair fell languidly, framing sharp features that when still alive must have given her an air of impertinence, and which death made sharper still.
“I’ve never seen her,” declared Torres.
A joyful yelp from Aurora undermined his resounding conviction.
“Well, I do think I’ve seen her. I met her in the lift when I was going down to clean the first floor.”
Torres’s withering look reached Aurora at the same time as the Superintendent’s question.
“Had you seen her before that?”
“No, sir, no.” Aurora now took refuge in the single sighting as a mitigation of possible complications. “Just once! It was last week and she was dressed just as she is now. That’s how I remembered her, nothing else.”
“Where was she going? To which floor?”
Aurora chose not to look at her husband.
“She said she was going to the ground floor and that I’d made her go up unnecessarily when she took the lift. As if I give people rides for fun!”
“Tell me everyone who lives in the building,” the Superintendent said to Torres.
“On the first floor it’s the Suárez Loza family, who are away in Europe at the moment. On the second floor, señor Iñarra and his family; on the third, señor Czerbó and his sister; on the fourth, señor Soler; on the fifth, Dr Luchter. Everyone here is very peaceful, señor Superintendent.”
The same old story. It was just what Superintendent Lahore expected: peaceful buildings and good people, always the same. So how was it possible that so much went on?
“We must call all those who aren’t yet here. Someone has to identify the body. She must be a friend or acquaintance of one of the residents.”
One of the police officers went upstairs with Torres. Soler was dozing on the sofa. Everyone else eyed one another in silence. Officer Vera was writing in his small notebook. Aurora had adopted a spiteful, curious expression that revealed the breadth of her inner world.
Two more women soon appeared. The first, who looked no older than thirty-five, was wearing a comfortable dark red dressing gown and slippers of the same colour. She was dark-skinned and slight. She wore no make-up so the yellowish tone of her olive skin and the two grooves at either side of her mouth were clearly visible. Her dark eyes had metallic glints. The other was a girl of no more than twenty, tall and pleasant-looking, with a round face and the kind of nose that twitches and gives its owner a mocking air. She was dressed for going out, in a black skirt and a bright green cashmere top.
“My husband can’t come down, Superintendent,” explained the older woman to Lahore. “I’ve already told the officer that he isn’t well. Dr Luchter can testify to that, my husband is his patient.”
“That’s correct,” Luchter hurriedly confirmed, “señor Iñarra suffers from a nervous condition. He should not be disturbed unless absolutely necessary.”
“We’re not planning on disturbing any of you. All we want is for you to identify this person.”
The two women examined the body with swift glances, then said they’d never seen the victim before.
“Good evening,” called a bright voice from outside. Superintendent Lahore frowned at Vera.
“I told you to call Inspector Ericourt.”
“He wasn’t there. Blasi answered the call.”
This same Blasi joined the group, followed by several photographers.
“Are they journalists?”
Señora de Iñarra’s voice trembled as she asked the question. No one answered her.
The photographers were already focusing on the body in the lift. Soler sat up when he heard the first flash, muttering something about letting a person sleep in peace. Señora de Iñarra turned towards Luchter.
“Please don’t let them photograph us. It would be horrible to appear in the papers.”
“This is Inspector Ericourt’s secretary, madam,” explained Officer Vera. “The photos are for the police record.”
Meanwhile another two people had appeared, accompanied this time by the Officer and Andrés. A tall, thin, dark-skinned man with pronounced cheekbones and a woman with washed-out hair and a harried look. Both were wearing scruffy stay-at-home clothes.
The man introduced himself as Boris Czerbó, Bulgarian, resident in Argentina for two years. He explained that the woman was his sister Rita. Too afraid to speak, she simply nodded when she heard her name.
The police procedures were starting in earnest outside. An ambulance had stopped next to the cordon on the pavement and on the other side of the door were the restless, wide-awake faces of newspaper reporters. Señora de Iñarra spoke to the Superintendent; her graceful Madrid accent lent her question a feminine touch.
“Is our presence absolutely necessary, sir? I’ve left my husband in the care of the maid.”
“No, madam, you can go. But please understand that you must not leave your home until authorized to do so.”
Beatriz Iñarra, sitting next to Soler, bit her nails and periodically shrugged her shoulders to shake off the drunken man who persisted in leaning against her chest.
“I’ll stay, Gabriela,” she announced. “This is more fun than sitting in my room, reading.”
Each of the words sounded as definitive as if it were followed by a full stop.
The only commentary was an approving smile from Blasi, seen by no one because it was directed at his shoes. Dr Luchter took señora de Iñarra’s arm.
“I’ll go with you, madam, if you don’t mind.”
There was silence once they had both left, as well as a sense that something was going to happen. And indeed, a few seconds later Czerbó spoke, mangling the words with his terrible accent and even worse grasp of Spanish syntax:
“Señor Superintendent, you ask me if I am know the lady. She Frida Eidinger. I know husband. Lives Villa Devoto, Calle Lácar forty-one.”
Vera grabbed his notebook. The others feigned indifference. A snore from Soler broke the monotonous tension. Lahore weighed up the sleeping man with desperation.
“Was this woman a guest in your home this evening?” he asked Czerbó.
“No, mister. She not guest of us.”
The voice had become sickly sweet.
“So then, how do you know her?”
Behind Boris Czerbó, Rita’s face was red with shock.
“Her husband is client of me.”
“And how do you explain señora Eidinger’s presence here?”
All eyes focused on Czerbó. He let his arms fall wearily.
“I cannot explain nothing.”
“Where were you at the time señora Eidinger died?”
“Can you tell me in what time this happened?”