“He’s taken a liking to you, poor thing,” commented Eidinger.
An idea formed in Blasi’s mind.
“If you do go away, who will you leave him with?”
Eidinger shook his head.
“There’s no one I could leave him with. Frida didn’t make any friends here.”
Blasi bent down to pat Muck.
“In that case, leave him with me. The poor thing seems very sad.”
“I must admit I don’t know how to handle him.”
“Why don’t you let me take him now as a trial run? If he gets used to me then later on you can leave him with me for good.”
Eidinger seemed to consider it.
“Why not? Let’s give it a try,” he said eventually. He went off to look for a collar and lead. Muck did not object to having them put on. Ericourt observed the scene with amusement, as if it caused no delay.
“Oh, tell me one more thing!” he exclaimed, once Eidinger had buckled the collar. “Where did you meet Czerbó?”
Eidinger straightened up and fixed his skittish eyes on Ericourt.
“Rita Czerbó came from Europe on the same boat as Frida.”
“Czerbó said he knew you.”
“That’s true. We met through business. He must have told you that I bought material from him for my photographs. That’s my hobby. I have a lot of time to spend on it. I live off my private income.”
Once again, he seemed to be trying to over-explain things. Childish behaviour.
“Good day, señor Eidinger,” said Ericourt as he turned to go. “We may call on you again.”
He followed Blasi out. Muck was in charge of the situation. He ran happily towards the garden.
“Whatever you need,” said Eidinger behind them. The door closed and the drama retreated back inside the house where memories of Frida Eidinger’s life, rather than her death, lingered on. The newspapers were calling it the victim’s home. Was she really the victim?
Ericourt was writing a private report for Blasi. As he sat at his desk, a waning moon timidly displayed its scimitar’s edge through the open window.
He wrote:
I. Do not place too much importance on coincidences. Plenty of people are interested in astrology, nudism and Baudelaire.
II. Imagine Frida Eidinger as her letters present her, apparently reasonable but with a deep-seated fear of life that inclined her towards superstition (Scorpio), borrowing emotions she could not feel herself and with an exaggerated sense of her own worth. In other words, just the kind of person who cannot bear failure.
III. Find out if there was a failure of some kind. Her suicide would be the consequence.
IV. Do not overlook any evidence. Muck can help us get a head start on the report we requested from the German police and find out who knew Frida Eidinger. That was a good idea of yours.
V. Do not jump to conclusions. They might seem obvious but that does not mean they are correct.
VI. Do not be too quick to assume that everyone else is mistaken.
VII. Pay private visits to any residents of the building on Calle Santa Fe you think seem interesting.
4
One Building and Many Worlds
Only a few blocks away, the trees in Plaza San Martín spread their winter branches like beautiful red-brown lacework under the hazy golden sun. It was the time of day when people are window-shopping or lazily taking a stroll. No one on Calle Santa Fe was in any hurry and they walked at a comfortable pace, enjoying the weather and not consumed by the pressing need to be anywhere.
Ferruccio Blasi had joined the flow of passers-by. Muck trotted happily at his side. The late August morning announced springtime in the clear air, the first buds and the flower stalls decorated with violets and camellias.
He crossed the threshold of the building where Andrés Torres, dressed in work clothes, was buffing the chrome door handle. Seeing them pass, Torres hurried after them with the duster in one hand and a tub of polish in the other.
“He’s not a supplier,” said Blasi, pointing to Muck. He knew dogs were like magnets for the ill-tempered barbs of apartment building caretakers.
He tried to slip into the service lift before the other man could begin his barrage of protests, but Torres had followed him and held the external door to stop the lift from moving.
“I have to tell you something, sir. You’re from the police, aren’t you?”
“We are,” said Blasi, indicating his companion.
“I was actually planning on going to the police station once I’d finished the cleaning.”
“Has something happened?” Blasi interrupted hopefully.
“Business of my wife’s, that’s all.” The caretaker shook his head sullenly.
Blasi fought the desire to push him aside. He didn’t have time to act as a referee for domestic disputes.
“You know what women are like, they talk and talk.”
“Tell yours to keep quiet, then.”
“That’s even worse, she puts on such a face that I’d rather she insulted me. She says I’ve no right to wear trousers if I can’t bring myself to talk to the police.”
So something was up, after all.
“And it was right here,” he pointed to the tip of his tongue, “but I couldn’t manage to say it in case people thought I was afraid. My wife thinks something else is going to happen here.”
Blasi burst out laughing.
“At this stage we have to call that fear rather than premonition.”
“As you like, sir.” Torres still hadn’t lifted his gaze from the floor. “Ever since señor Soler came back to the building my wife has said something’s going to happen. She says maybe that woman didn’t commit suicide, maybe she was murdered and left in the lift as a warning to someone.”
It was an original theory, at least.
“She won’t leave me in peace, thinks she hears noises at night, says we don’t know who’s coming and going in the building and who’s got keys, that we can’t be downstairs watching the door twenty-four hours. She’s driving me crazy.”
“Pay her no notice.”
“You obviously haven’t heard her. Listen, sir, couldn’t you send an officer to guard the door? My wife says that’s what you do when there’s been a crime.”
“But there hasn’t been a crime here,” Blasi stressed. Tell your wife that as soon as one takes place we’ll send an officer. And please let go of the door.”
He pressed the button for the third floor. As the lift rose it gradually obscured the pitiful, ominous "gure who was watching it go.
The Czerbós’s neat apartment had the musty air of a museum. It was filled with heavy drapes, genuine rugs and second-hand furniture. Muck poked his curious nose into all the corners and his exploration of the new surroundings concluded with the owner’s shoes.
Rita remained seated near a window, knitting. The curtains were almost all closed. Light was not a welcome guest in the Czerbós’s home.
“Excuse me for to receive you this way,” said Boris, pointing to his dressing gown. He looked taller dressed that way. His protruding cheekbones shone as brightly as his eyes under his thick, prominent eyebrows.
“We can speak German if you prefer,” said Blasi in that language.
“Oh, thank you!” Boris accepted the invitation happily. “I didn’t dress today. I felt tired from the interrogations these last two days. I thought they were over.”
“They are over,” Blasi confirmed. “I’ve come to see you for another reason. I’m a keen photographer and señor Eidinger told me you do enlargements.”
He carefully watched the reaction to his lie. Boris Czerbó was unperturbed.
“I used to. I’ve since swapped my hobbies for business.”