Iñarra’s eyes sought his daughter.
“Did you get dressed to go out, darling?”
“I didn’t get dressed,” Betty replied, imitating her father’s measured tone. “I was dressed when they called me.”
Gabriela threw her stepdaughter a pleading look.
“She shouldn’t humiliate him like that,” she whispered to Dr Luchter. He lowered his eyes to better observe the transfer of liquid from the vial to the syringe.
“You went out earlier, then?” asked Don Agustín.
“I went to the cinema with Raquel.”
“And you’re still dressed at three in the morning?”
His voice communicated cold disapproval.
“You know I don’t like you going out alone at night. Gabriela, why didn’t you tell me Betty had gone out?”
He had called her Gabriela, not Gaby. The voice of reproach.
“It’s not easy to tell Betty what to do,” said Gabriela apologetically.
Dr Luchter leant over his patient. His furrowed brow added years to his rosy face.
“I don’t blame you, dear. I’m just telling you what’s best for you both. I’m responsible for keeping you safe. You and Betty both know you can always count on my protection.”
“You’ve protected me so much, Dad, I’ve had enough!” Betty said irreverently. “Save your protection for Gabriela, she needs it more than me.”
“The alcohol, please,” Luchter asked Gabriela. She looked for it on the side table. Her eyes had filled with tears she was struggling to hold back.
The telephone suddenly rang in the living room. Betty leapt up. She returned to the bedroom a few seconds later.
“It’s for you, Doctor,” she said with forced indifference. The doctor and the girl exchanged a look of mutual understanding.
It was Superintendent Lahore, wanting to see Dr Luchter. He said he had called his apartment to no avail and thought he would find him with his patient. Luchter promised to drop by the station at once.
His work with the Iñarras was done. Don Augustín’s condition was satisfactory and the unusual events did not seem to have affected him. It made sense. Sick people wrap themselves up in their own concerns and become entirely indifferent to the outside world. Their rooms are cells separated from the social hive. Their walls get thicker and end up as impenetrable as the shell of a snail.
At the station, Luchter found Lahore waiting for him in his office.
“Look, Doctor,” Lahore said to him, “I wanted to see you because I’d like you to recall the details as precisely as possible. According to your statement, you opened señora Eidinger’s handbag in search of something that would identify her.”
“That is correct.”
“And according to what Soler has said, as you did so the contents of the handbag fell to the floor and the lipstick disappeared down the gap by the lift door.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you remember if anything else fell out of the handbag at the same time?”
“I don’t believe so.”
The Superintendent looked at him with irritation.
“You don’t believe so? Can’t you be sure?”
“I didn’t see anything else. I can’t be sure of anything but that.”
“That tallies with what Soler says. But look.”
Carefully and professionally, he picked up a key ring that was on his desk.
“Señor Eidinger identified this key ring as belonging to his wife. On it is a key to the main door of your building. Do you know what that means?”
“More or less,” admitted the doctor modestly.
“It means that someone has lied. This key means that the victim had been to visit someone she knew well. It means she was in the habit of visiting the building at hours when her presence there would go unnoticed, it means someone got rid of the key ring because they thought it would be compromising. Can we therefore consider this a case of simple suicide?”
“Don’t ask me,” was what Luchter’s dismissive gesture seemed to say.
“I didn’t know señora Eidinger, and I can prove where I was that night,” he explained.
“I know that,” said the Superintendent, shuffling some papers, “I have Dr Honores’s statement here. You left his house at two a.m. and went straight to the garage where you usually keep your car. The night watchman and the valet saw you enter at ten past two, therefore you took no more time than strictly necessary to make the journey. Your situation is clear.”
“And so?” asked Luchter’s eyebrows, arched like circumflex accents.
Superintendent Lahore leaned forward. His round, dark face bore a good-natured expression that seemed to say, “Come on, you can tell Daddy.”
“Do you think Soler was telling the truth?”
He immediately understood that he’d made a mistake. Luchter was a discreet man and pseudo-camaraderie irritated him.
“He was very drunk. In vino veritas,” said the doctor.
“Yes, yes, of course, but you found him alone with the body, isn’t that right?”
“He told me he had just arrived.”
“That’s what he claims. He won’t be dragged away from that, as it were.”
Those simple words hid a depth of troubling questions, with one—the essential one—coming and going like the theme of a symphony. Soler did not inspire pity in Luchter. He felt no compassion towards him.
“I don’t think he’s lying,” he added all the same. He had believed what Soler said since the outset.
“All the same, there is no doubt that señora Eidinger went to the building to see someone.”
“Of course.”
“Who threw the key ring away? Her?”
Luchter remained silent.
“May I ask you something, Superintendent?” he said at last.
Lahore nodded.
“I suppose you’ll interrogate all the building’s residents again, won’t you? As a doctor I would ask you to please not disturb my patient, señor Iñarra. He suffers from a nervous disorder that affects his mobility and can, to all intents and purposes, be considered disabled. As far as possible, interrogate him in his home.”
“What does he suffer from?”
“A disease of the spinal cord. His left arm and leg are affected by a continuous tremor. He never leaves his home.”
“We’ll bear that in mind,” the Superintendent assured him. He seemed an amiable man who was satisfied by the rare opportunity for kindness.
“As for me,” Luchter went on, “I’m happy to help. I’ll leave you my number at the hospital so you can call if you need me during the morning.” As he spoke, Luchter took out his pen with the methodical flourish of someone accustomed to adding touches of ceremony to the most insignificant gestures.
Lahore accompanied him to the office door. The police station was a few blocks from his building and Luchter slowly made his way home. He walked with his fists closed tight inside the pockets of his overcoat and his eyes fixed on the ground.
A police officer was watching the front door and the main lift was out of service. Luchter went up in the service lift and tiptoed into his apartment so as not to wake the cook. It was almost six a.m.
The light of the August morning was beginning to make its presence felt in the dark apartment like an invisible hand fraying the silent domestic shadows. Luchter went over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of whisky, then sat down in one of the armchairs and rested his head back. His closed eyes gave his face the immobile quality of a plaster mask. He sat up to bring the glass to his lips, but a sudden grimace of repulsion stopped the movement short. Little by little his features relaxed and his whole face took on an expression of infinite sadness.
Gabriela de Iñarra arranged her husband’s pillows and pulled the covers up until they almost covered his chin. Then, leaning over, she kissed him goodnight on the forehead.