“I KNEW FROM THE BEGINNING WHO THE guilty party was,” the Commissioner asserted, leaning forward in a gesture of confidentiality and squinting at us as though looking into the horizon. “The subsequent investigation and interrogations only confirmed my suspicion.”
I felt inclined to believe him. Complicated crimes were the province of literature; reality was more banal (I was reminded of Petronius and his pirates, standing in chains on the beach). Furthermore, presumably Aubry possessed some experience in the subject matter. In novels (to return, for a moment, to literature) police officials are infallibly mistaken. In reality, they are something far worse, yet they tend not to fail, because crime, like madness, is a product of simplification and deficiency.
“Gentlemen,” said Doctor Montes, mystifyingly. “Will you allow me to make a toast?”
“In honor of what?” asked the Commissioner.
“Of the marvelous truths we are about to hear.”
I was secretly pleased by his response. What could one really hope for from an investigator who paid heed to the blathering of a drunk?
“We’ll begin with the motives. To our knowledge, there are two people with enduring motives to commit the crime.”
“In saying ‘to our knowledge,’ ” interrupted the drunk, with more logic than tact, “you acknowledge that there are things we do not know, and, as such, your explanation falls apart.”
“As I was saying, in terms of motive, there are two people who merit our particular attention,” continued the Commissioner, as if he had not even registered Montes’s impertinence. “The victim’s sister and Mr. Atuel.”
I was dismayed. I must confess, from that moment on, I had to struggle to follow Aubry’s explanations. My imagination wandered through a sort of cinematic spectacle; the scenes occurred in reverse order—first, my last conversations with Emilia; finally, the episode on the beach—and my interpretation of the events had changed as well; now, upon reviewing the arguments between the sisters, Emilia was the good girl. I thought of Mary and I told myself that a person’s actions have a trajectory, with changes and fluctuations, that extends beyond death. I thought of Emilia and I asked myself if, perhaps, I had begun to love her.
Aubry’s “explanation” had a touch of technical braggadocio about it; I will try to repeat it, in his words.
“Let us say that motives are classified as either enduring or fleeting,” he said, his expression stern. “In the present case, the primary motives involve questions of economics and of passion. This death benefits Miss Emilia Gutiérrez and Mr. Atuel. Miss Emilia is her sister’s heir. She will receive some pieces of jewelry that are, and I do not believe I exaggerate, quite valuable. And, as I learned through the interrogations, the fiancés had postponed their wedding because of economic difficulties. As for Mr. Atuel, he, too, will benefit from the death, through marriage. The motive of passion points to the same two people. It seems to be a well-known fact that the deceased was romantically involved with Miss Emilia’s fiancé. And so, we have jealousy, the catalyst for the tragedy. Unfortunately for Emilia, this is a purely feminine feature. But the entanglement between the fiancé and the victim must be considered a hotbed of violent passions, which also points to the first of the suspects. Moving on to the fleeting motives. The last quarrels occurred between the sisters, and largely excluded the fiancé—also unfortunate for Miss Emilia! Finally, let us move from the motives to the occasion. This is the point in our investigation where Atuel is ruled out: he was not in the hotel at the time of the death. He is residing in the New East End Hotel. The two sisters were staying in adjoining rooms. As you will all remember, on the night of the tragedy, Miss Emilia went down to their rooms alone. There she put the strychnine in the hot chocolate; waited for the poison to work; made the cup disappear (perhaps she threw it out a window; when the storm passes we will sift through the sand). Conclusion: unless the devil steps in to help her, is there any way out for the young lady?”
I suspected that there were imperfections in the logical structure of those arguments, but I was too confused and heavy-hearted to ferret them out. I managed to protest:
“Your explanation is psychologically impossible. You remind me of one of those novelists who focuses entirely on action but neglects the characters. Do not forget that, without the human element, no work of literature would ever endure. Have you thought closely about Emilia? I refuse to accept that such a healthy girl (albeit, a bit redheaded) could have committed this crime.”
I had gone a bit too far in trying to replace a logical argument with a mere emotional improvisation. The Commissioner said:
“I shall allow Victor Hugo to respond to you: ‘Agony makes a vice of a woman’s fingers. A girl in her fright can almost bury her rose-colored fingers in a piece of iron.’ ”
Doctor Montes appeared to awake from his lethargy.
“If I were not so drunk, I would tell you that your entire case is based upon presumptions,” he explained affectionately to the Commissioner. “You do not have a single shred of evidence.”
“That does not bother me,” replied Aubry. “I will have all the proof you want when we make her talk down at the station.”
I looked uncomprehendingly at that man who reasoned crudely but efficiently, who was ardently fond of literature, who was moved by Hugo, and who, without hesitation, was prepared to torture a young girl and to condemn her, perhaps unjustly.
I was surprised to find myself looking sympathetically at Montes. There had been much to forgive in him, but perhaps, as two doctors, together, we would make one good attorney.
And what was I to make of Emilia’s mysterious power? I, an essentially vindictive sort, felt inclined, on her behalf, to fraternize with a colleague who had earlier insulted me. At that very moment, I hit upon the answer to a question I had posed to myself a short while before. It was not love I was feeling: it was an ambiguous feeling of guilt. I was, in that limited world of Bosque del Mar, the dominant intellect, and my statements had guided the investigation. To reassure myself that I had only carried out my duty was insufficient, even as a consolation.
“An obvious tactic,” offered Montes, “would be to link the poison to someone; to verify, for example, who has bought strychnine at the pharmacy …”
“I have not overlooked that measure,” responded Aubry authoritatively. “I sent one of my officers with precise instructions: ask the pharmacist to whom he has sold strychnine in the last few months. The answer was categorical: to no one.”
With feigned casualness, I asked: “What is your plan, Commissioner?”
“My plan? To say not a word to the girl until the storm has passed. Then I’ll arrest her and take her in. I ask you all to remain calm. She will not be able to flee. Nor will she be able to destroy the evidence since, as you know, it is contained in the interrogations. Our mission, for the time being, is to remain quiet; wait for the storm to pass.”
I got up impatiently. I looked out the window. A drab, sandy dawn was filtering through the gale. The world outside looked like the ruins of a yellow fire. Spirals of sand, like frenzied smoke, whipped up from the dark shapes of fallen posts. Nevertheless, I asked myself whether, in fact, the storm was continuing with the same intensity, and with fear in my heart I searched for signs of impending calm.
I rested one hand, then the other, then my forehead, upon the glass. It felt cool to the touch, as though I had a fever.