“Was she with you?” he asked.
“No, no… I found her there… I’ve no idea who she is.”
Again the light went off and the square of the lift stood out once more. Luchter’s voice was clipped with anxiety.
“Did you see which floor the lift was stopped at when you called it?”
“The sixth… yes, the sixth.”
“The caretaker’s apartment. It makes no sense,” the doctor muttered. Staring at the pathetic figure, he noticed the handbag beside her. He bent to pick it up.
“Don’t touch it,” whimpered Soler.
“Why not?”
“The police… what’ll they say? We have to report it.”
Fear, a wretched fear, weakened Soler’s voice. That was the end of his game of cops and robbers. Now the thought of police uniforms seemed dreadful. Luchter shrugged.
“We’ve nothing to lose by trying to find out who she is. She might have lived in this building.”
“Lived?”
Luchter, who had opened the handbag, let the anxious suspense of that question hang in the air. Soler then moved towards him. Well, if they must do something. He tried to peek over the doctor’s shoulder.
“Leave me be,” Luchter pushed him away harshly, making Soler lose his balance. To stop himself from falling, Soler snatched at the doctor’s sleeve. Luchter stumbled and there was a metallic tinkling, like a muffled, mocking laugh. The bag’s contents had spilt across the floor.
Wide-eyed, Soler contemplated the sudden appearance of those tiny objects: a powder compact, a handkerchief, a change purse, a wallet, an address book. Something rolled towards the gap beneath the door—a little golden tube, clearly a lipstick. It was going to disappear! Dear God, that was the same as admitting to having opened the bag! They heard no accusatory click as it fell, but it had disappeared all the same, silently and definitively.
“Did you see?” groaned Soler. “What now?”
Luchter was much calmer.
“It doesn’t matter. They’ll get it out later. Come with me, Soler.”
Soler muttered a protest against going anywhere.
“So… she’s dead, then? She’s really dead?”
He pointed to the woman with an incredulous gesture. A person didn’t just die like that, in a lift, at that time of night. How long would the formalities take? He needed to sleep. He heard Luchter answering the question he’d almost forgotten he’d asked.
“Yes, she’s dead.”
“How?”
“It looks like poisoning. There’s a smell of bitter almonds. It must have been potassium cyanide.”
Luchter took Soler’s arm.
“We’ll go up in the service lift,” he said, dragging Soler along. “We have to tell the caretaker and the police. Come on.”
The bell rang in the caretaker’s apartment. Andrés Torres, half asleep, stretched out his hand towards the light as if the intermittent, high-pitched sound tugged at his arm. With the glare, his wife’s dishevelled head emerged from under the blankets. Aurora had the same interrogatory appearance as the light that now filled the room.
Torres’s next action put him in possession of his trousers, which had been waiting at the foot of the bed for him get up. He hurriedly pulled them on in order to recover the sense of individuality lost in sleep, obeying that simple, pathetic relationship between the clock and consciousness. He heard but did not understand what Dr Luchter was explaining through the door. Something about a body in the lift and the police, none of which fitted with his job as caretaker, who at six in the morning must set methodically to work and begin the daily battle with suppliers and residents. He turned to his wife and shot her an authoritative look with which he hoped to resolve his inner confusion.
“My goodness!” cried Aurora, jumping out of bed and grabbing her clothes, her face puffy from interrupted sleep,
“What are you doing, woman?” asked her husband.
“Getting dressed. I’m going down with you.”
“No one called for you.”
“I’m not staying here alone, not even on Saint James’s orders. Didn’t they say someone’s been killed? The murderer’s probably on the loose.”
Torres paused with his hand still in the air, pulling at the elastic of his braces while trying to button them.
“Rubbish! Who said anything about a crime?”
“Well, I mean, if there’s a body…”
Torres scratched his head. Feeling defeated, he turned to prophecy.
“That’s what happens to people who go out at night. Just look how they end up. That’s what my mother always said.”
This was his worst complaint against his wife. Once a week, Aurora asked him to take her to an evening cinema screening. Pleased that the circumstances finally backed him up, he added:
“No good comes from roaming the streets at the sort of time when decent people are at home.”
Aurora listened with her head bowed. The main thing was for her husband not to leave her alone. She even felt able to accept him turning her mother-in-law into a prophet of doom.
“Come on, Andrés, take me with you. I’m scared half to death.”
She was lying. Something stronger than fear had taken hold of her. She mentally ran through the faces of the people who lived in the building, pausing with morbid pleasure on the ones she most disliked. Who could the victim be?
The police had arrived by the time they got down to the lobby. Two officers were guarding the main door. A corpulent middle-aged man and another younger man were taking a statement from Soler. Luchter was standing to one side, waiting his turn.
“Officer Vera,” said the older man to the other, “notify Public Assistance to come for the body once the police surgeon has examined it. Call Inspector Ericourt, too. I’ll carry on taking statements.”
The officer saluted.
“You can use my telephone, Superintendent,” offered Luchter.
“Thank you. Is someone there to open the door?”
“The cook.”
“Go ahead, Officer Vera. Fifth floor, isn’t it? And you, I need you now. What’s your name?”
“Adolfo Luchter. Doctor.”
“Argentinian?”
“Naturalized Argentinian. I’ve lived in this country for nine years.”
“Please tell me what happened.”
“I was coming home after leaving my car in the garage.”
“Do you recall the time?”
“Approximately two fifteen. At two a.m. I left the house of a colleague with whom I was working on a report for the Neuropsychiatric Society.”
“His name?”
“Dr Martín Honores. He lives at twenty-seven Calle Arenales.”
“Good, carry on.”
“I came across señor Soler in the lobby. My first impression was that he was unwell. He told me what had happened.”
“How did you find the victim?”
“In the same position as she is now.”
“You didn’t move her?”
“I simply examined her. I don’t believe I moved her.”
“Do you know her?”
Luchter’s face, which normally had the healthy glow of a man who practises plenty of outdoor sport, was pale. Without even casting a glance towards where she lay, he declared he did not know the person in the lift.
“Was it you who called the police?”
“Yes, I called from my apartment. Señor Soler was with me. We went up together to notify the caretaker.”
“So you’re telling me everything is as you found it.”