The Tragic End of Alfredo Plumet

A CASE FOR THE POLICE

Alfredo Plumet looks at his watch; it is one forty. He finishes his glass of cognac, wipes his short mustache with his fingers, and rises from his chair.

“Please excuse me, my friends. It’s time for me to go.”

“Come on,” Adela says, “you still have a minute.”

“Maybe even two,” Luciano Dirán, Alfredo’s former classmate and today’s lunch guest, says. “So you’ll be late for once…”

Plumet shakes his bony head.

“No, my old friend, you know my principles. For the twenty years I’ve worked at Salustín Stationers, I’ve always been at my desk when the clock strikes two…Never tardy, never absent. I’ve always been like that, in spite of my migraines. But that doesn’t mean you have to leave,” he rushes to add when he sees his friend stand up. “Not when you have the good fortune to hold a higher position! Here, ask Adela to pour you another glass.”

He kisses the woman on her forehead, shakes Luciano’s hand, walks to the coat rack, and removes his fedora, the only headpiece that, according to him, any accountant worthy of the title should wear. As he walks past the glass door of the dining room, he drums his fingers on the pane and directs a long wave at Adela and his friend, who respond by lifting their glasses.

Alfredo Plumet belonged to that very small group of individuals – alas! – who are careful to avoid inconveniencing others. Therefore, according to his custom, he does not slam the door, and he uses his key to lock it after he has gone out.

Then, with a light step, he descends the three stairs. But when he reaches the sidewalk, a violent storm erupts, one that could not have been predicted.

Nobody will ever again see the poor man alive.

Toward evening, several vagrants find Alfredo Plumet’s body on the rocks along Rambla Sur, behind the Central Cemetery, about five blocks from the incinerator at the corner of Curuguatí and Rambla. The autopsy reveals that the cause of death was a fractured skull.

The investigation

“So, what now?” I asked, after Detective Luponi had finished his account.

The policeman was leaning back in his armchair, his thumbs in the pockets of his vest, the eternal English cigarette between his lips.

“So now, it’s all quite recent. The autopsy determined that it was not suicide and says the body had not been moved; but it’s impossible to determine if it was murder or accident. The blow might have been delivered with a blunt object, but equally plausible, caused by a fatal fall. You know the place. The shore is right next to Rambla, the promenade, only part of which is protected by the new sea wall. There’s no adequate protection at the spot where the vagrants made their gruesome find. Alfredo Plumet could have fallen and broken his skull on a rock. The rain has washed away all footprints, but the fact that his wallet and his gold watch were found in his pockets eliminates robbery as a motive. I might add that his death must have occurred somewhere around three in the afternoon…Now you know as much as I do.”

I look at Luponi in astonishment.

“Have you discovered the truth?…But, how could you have?…”

Luponi points to the folder, on top of which are several sheets of paper – three photographs and a partially folded map of Montevideo.

“Here you have the layout of Plumet’s apartment. Here’s a map of Sector 4, which includes the suburbs of Palermo. I’ve already told you that Plumet lived on Calle Cuareim, number…May I point out, in case you don’t know, that the uneven numbers are on the right side of the street when going from the Casa de Gobierno toward the sea.”

“What difference does that make?” I ask, even more amazed.

“A difference of the utmost importance. It’s very possible that if his address had been an even number, Alfredo Plumet would still be alive.”

He was a low-level clerk

I look through the documents. One of the photographs shows a small, neatly dressed man wearing a fedora and a starched collar. His face is anonymous, his features soft.

“A humble, diffident, and tidy man, living in a state of perpetual diffidence in order to avoid being a nuisance to anyone; fearful in the extreme and very thrifty. Obviously a model employee: serious, honest, and punctual. He had been working for twenty years at Salustín Hermanos Stationers on Calle Juan Carlos Gómez.”

“On Calle Juan Carlos Gómez!” I shout.

“Yes, in the Barrio Sur neighborhood.”

The detective whistles sarcastically.

“Aha! You are making progress.”

“What’s this piece of paper?” I ask irritably.

“A report from the National Meteorological Observatory regarding the storm that broke out yesterday over Montevideo at one forty-five, including several technical details of no interest to our investigation. As for the two photographs – the house on Calle Cuareim and the spot where the body was found – they also hold no practical interest.”

“But with this –?”

“With this I have been able to reconstruct the drama, and you will also reconstruct it if you have even a bit of a knack for observation.”

“Come on, be serious! If we accept that it’s a case of revenge, how can you expect me to reach –?”

He slams his fist down on the desk.

“Damn! I see why you’re confused. I forgot the main clue: I should tell you that I found the deceased’s umbrella on the coat rack. Now do you understand?”

And you, dear reader, do you understand?

Case solved

“Let’s try, together, to shed light on this affair. I have just told you that I found Plumet’s umbrella on the coat rack. He had forgotten to take it, for there was no warning of the storm. But it begins to rain. So I ask you, what would this methodical and cautious man have done under the circumstances and in keeping with his habits? We know that Plumet was horrified of making noise. Obviously, he would have returned to his house as quietly as he had left and gone straight to the coat rack. And to do this, he would have had to walk past the glass door of the dining room, where he had left his wife and his best friend. It is clear that at that moment, they were a thousand leagues away from Mr. Plumet.”

“What?” I cry out. “Adela and Luciano…”

“But, of course…! The eternal story.”

Like a sleepwalker

He leaves as he came, silently, and starts walking in the rain, straight ahead without thinking. Now look at the map of Montevideo. Our man has continued down Cuareim, crossing Soriano, Canelones…Straight, always straight, and without crossing over to the other side of the street. Remember my comment about the uneven numbers. If he had lived across the street, there is no doubt that, upon reaching Gonzalo Ramírez, he would have continued along that avenue and not along Curuguatí. We can assume, in that case, that the tragedy would have turned out quite differently. But let us leave our speculations and return to the facts. Upon reaching the promenade, the cuckolded husband changes direction. He turns left. Why? Because he cannot resist the pull a body of water always exerts upon us. The poor man will not continue far along the promenade. He is, it seems, a kind of sleepwalker, who continues along the rocky path, without the protection of a sea wall. The slightest obstacle – a hole, a rock, any irregularity along the way – leads to the fatal fall…

1939