“You had an argument with señor Czerbó some months ago. What was the reason for that?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Let me jog your memory. When señor Czerbó was in your apartment—”
Unforgivable! He should never have trusted the caretaker.
“I believe it was a domestic matter.”
Soler was reliving his student days, when the examiner used to sprawl in his chair like Dr Corro was doing now and attack with fierce irony:
“Can’t you tell us anything more, señor Soler?”
“Señor Czerbó’s Spanish was so poor that I didn’t clearly understand the reason for his visit.”
“You understood enough to judge there was reason to get angry, to threaten him.”
“I didn’t threaten him! I told him to leave me in peace.”
“What had he said to irritate you so much?”
“I believed he was alluding to my private life. It seemed to bother him that I received visitors at night. We all have a right to a private life, don’t we?”
The question sought approval. “Sometimes we have the right but lack the time,” was how Ericourt would have liked to respond.
“May I ask a question, sir?” said the Inspector instead to Dr Corro, who answered with a solemn nod. Ericourt turned to Soler.
“In the context of your private life, did you give anyone a key to the main door?”
“No, absolutely not. Never.” Soler ran his gaze over the three men who were smiling sarcastically like an examination board considering whether to fail him.
Their three gazes converged on the ashtray. Dr Corro lifted his eyes. His head had sunk even further between his shoulders and he crossed his hands over his chest. It wasn’t a restful posture. He was lying in wait.
“Why did you call the police rather than the doctor?”
Soler uselessly sought an excuse this time.
“I thought it would be better, what with everything that’s gone on in the building.”
“That will be all,” declared Dr Corro.
Soler stood up and turned to go, mumbling a farewell. He felt like he was dragging something worse than distrust behind him. The tone of the interrogation suggested ridicule. He met Luchter in the hall.
“It’s all a silly game,” he said as if to encourage him.
Luchter paid him no notice. Soler carried on walking with his head down. He tripped on the telephone cable and gave it a kick.
“They’ve had me on,” he grumbled, shooting a look towards the closed room where hours earlier he had come face to face with the mysterious and macabre sight of Czerbó’s death.
“Señorita Czerbó called me last night to come and see her brother. I found señor Czerbó very agitated. He was suffering palpitations and obvious signs of nervous shock. I prescribed a tranquillizer for him. I took the prescription to the pharmacy myself. I was present when he took the prescribed dose.”
Luchter spoke with the precise and regular beat of a hammer, shattering the expectations of the three men listening to him.
“How long did it take for the tranquillizer to have an effect?”
“Around twenty minutes.”
“What did you do while you waited?”
“I believe I smoked a cigarette.”
“Only one?”
“I think so.”
“There was one in the ashtray.”
“I smoke American cigarettes. Chesterfield. You’ll be able to check.”
“Did you see a piece of paper in the ashtray?”
“There was a piece of paper on the bedside table.”
“We found it singed in the ashtray. It had apparently been burnt with a cigarette butt.”
“Possibly. I didn’t notice that detail.”
“What did you do when Czerbó fell asleep?”
“I went home. But first I stopped in at señor Iñarra’s apartment.”
“Did you meet anyone when you left your patient’s room?”
“No one. Señorita Czerbó had already gone to bed.”
“Is it possible that señor Czerbó woke up later and took the poison?”
“Highly unlikely.”
Lahore leant back in the chair, satisfied.
“And how do you explain the fact that potassium cyanide was found in one of the capsules?”
Luchter jumped in alarm.
“That can’t be!”
“I assure you it is,” said Lahore. “The ashtray and the glasses have also been analysed. The cyanide was only present in one of the capsules.”
Luchter remained in thoughtful silence.
“It can’t have been a mistake,” he then said. “They’re very careful at the pharmacy. I trust them absolutely.”
“Did you know that señorita Iñarra had been visiting señor Czerbó at night?”
“Did she admit to that?”
“She did.”
It is difficult to read disapproval on the face of someone so private, but Luchter’s reserve transcended disapproval. He jangled something metallic in one of his pockets. He took out a lighter and lit a cigarette.
“May I?” asked Ericourt.
Luchter offered him a cigarette and then held out the lighter. His hand was firm.
“What do you know about the photographs?” he asked.
“What photographs?”
“Some photos of señora Eidinger were stolen this morning from the house in Villa Devoto.”
Luchter frowned.
“How strange. I can’t see how.”
“We may well call you again, Doctor,” announced Dr Corro. Luchter did not flinch.
“I understand perfectly. Should I wait at home?”
“For the time being, yes. That will be all.”
Dr Luchter stood up squarely, almost to attention.
“At your service,” he said.
He turned and walked towards the door, his shoulders now rounding under the weight of some worry. He stopped in the doorway.
“Has señorita Iñarra been arrested?” he asked.
The light falling broadly across his face showed the pinkish tone of his clean-shaven cheeks. He had evidently had a good night’s sleep.
“She’s in custody,” Lahore clarified.
“At your service,” said the doctor again before leaving.
“When I’m holding a ball of thread,” said Lahore then, “I like to let it lead me out of the labyrinth instead of getting tangled in it like a damn kitten.”
“That’s what we’re not doing,” replied Ericourt. “If Luchter had burnt the paper there wouldn’t have been a match in the ashtray. You saw he uses a lighter. The person who burnt the paper wanted to turn it into evidence against whoever wrote it.”
“But how could anyone make a sleeping man ingest cyanide?”
“Have a look in the bathroom and see if you can find a dropper, the kind used for nasal drops.”
Dr Corro shot him an amused look.
“I know it’s not my idea. Plenty of people have read Hamlet.”
Lahore shook his head.
“I’d prefer to question that young man, the one from the laundry.”
“Come on, Lahore,” concluded the Examining Magistrate as he stood up. “Let’s have a look in the medicine cabinet. Are you coming with us?”
“No, I have to pay a visit to señor Iñarra,” replied Ericourt bitterly. “It’s time for me to turn into a sturdy dove of peace carrying an olive branch, or if you’d rather, a space traveller following the orbit of the moon. I’ve been trying to see him for days.”
“You’ve been very kind, señor Ericourt,” said señor Iñarra. He was sitting in front of the desk in his bedroom. The tartan blanket covering his legs twitched on the left-hand side and his arm knocked continually against his body and knees. His ascetic figure seemed surrounded by an aura of venerability, which emanated from the antique furniture, the wood and marble crucifix, and the photographs of his parents, wife and daughter on either side of the bed. On entering the room one had the feeling of being cocooned in homely intimacy. The solid columns of family history upheld good manners, reticent courtesy and the amiable presence of the old man who now occupied his place as head of the family.