“She might have had it in a paper wrapper, just as they prepare powders in a pharmacy. All you have to do is put it on your tongue for it to take effect.”
“Do you believe that’s what happened?”
“It’s not in Soler’s nature to drive a woman crazy enough to take her own life. He’s too superficial.”
“We must accept that there are women who don’t need any encouragement to stir up an atmosphere of tragedy.”
They had crossed the avenue and were walking along a quiet, sunny suburban street between two rows of small houses whose windows were all shut fast. The homes of the discreet middle class.
“There are the others,” said Ericourt, “who, like anyone involved in strange events, seem curious. But let’s not get ideas. A bit of limelight turns simple faults that common people easily forgive in one another into monstrous anomalies. Luchter is a hard-working and meticulous man, with no known vices. He’s lived in the apartment for three years and set up his surgery there. Frida Eidinger is not one of his patients. His nurse didn’t know her. He has fought hard to get where he is now, having travelled from Germany as a legitimate immigrant just before the start of the war. As for the Czerbós, general opinion pities Rita, who is subject to her brother’s despotism and miserliness. He came to Argentina in 1946, she followed him in 1947. Boris was a photographer in Hamburg until 1944. The Iñarras are the longest-standing residents along with Soler. They lived there when Don Agustín’s first wife was alive. Aurora Torres takes pleasure in telling the story of his second marriage to his daughter’s nursemaid…”
Ericourt had stopped outside a pretty, English-style house, set back from the pavement, behind a small garden.
“According to the caretakers,” cut in Blasi, “Don Agustín is one of those men who intoxicate themselves with charity so as to spread their beneficent wings over those around them.”
“Don’t be so prejudiced against charity. This is Eidinger’s house,” said Ericourt, interrupting him.
3
A Home and a Victim
The man who answered the door was tall and smartly dressed. His curly brown hair was beginning to thin at the temples, announcing a maturity that his slim figure would belie for many years yet. A wide mouth and sharp nose between small eyes lent his face an anxious, rat-like mobility.
As he greeted the police officers, whose visit he had been expecting, Gustavo Eidinger showed more insecurity than hostility or mistrust. His wife’s mysterious death had put him in the difficult situation of having to carry out his husbandly duties and face the malevolent curiosity of neighbours, without a verdict that might clarify whether or not she had wronged him. He was a man given over to the torturous conflict of doubt.
His furtive looks and nervous gestures (he was chewing the end of an unlit pipe that he passed repeatedly from one hand to the other) betrayed his unease. Santiago Ericourt, accepting his invitation, entered the small living room with Blasi behind him. The house had not lost the smart, impersonal coldness of a place only recently decorated. Perhaps the sole touch of warmth was provided by the photographs that stood on a side table, one of sunlight on branches and the other of Frida in Tyrolean dress.
Gustavo Eidinger was closely following Ericourt’s roaming gaze when he noticed it coming to rest on the photo of his wife. Then he broke the silence that had settled over him and his guests since his words of greeting and invitation to enter the living room.
“They’ve promised to hand the body over to me tomorrow. I’ve decided that the funeral will be a private affair straight from the morgue.”
A wise plan. Any ceremony would be difficult to handle. He tried to speak naturally but his subdued tone slipped into one of humiliation.
“It’ll be a while longer before they return the personal items from the laboratory,” said Ericourt.
“I know. I’d like to have all this over with as soon as possible. I’ve been thinking about going away.”
“Good idea.”
Gustavo’s words revealed his overwhelming need to talk about Frida. Reluctant to stray from his memories, he sought to prolong her existence by constantly inserting her name into the conversation. The silence stretched out once more into minutes of reticent expectation, a silence between people attempting to set the course of a conversation.
“So how can I help you?” Eidinger said at last, offering them cigarettes.
“You’ll soon see more or less why we’ve come,” said the Superintendent. “I’m after some personal information that need not feature in the official investigation.”
“I’ve already told you everything I know about my wife. I don’t think I can add much more.” Eidinger was not avoiding his gaze, but he was not helping the situation with his feigned calm, either.
“There are, however, certain things that you can perhaps help us understand better,” Ericourt insisted.
“Such as?”
“Such as your state of mind on the night of the 23rd of August when you arrived home and didn’t find your wife waiting for you.”
Eidinger held up the palms of his hands.
“What could I do? I waited for Frida to come back so she could explain why she’d gone out at such an ungodly hour.”
“Very reasonable,” said Ericourt approvingly, “but had anything like that happened before?”
“Never,” Eidinger answered hurriedly. “At least as far as I knew.”
“Did you often go out at night?”
Eidinger hesitated.
“To the Club once or twice a week.”
“You never supposed that your wife might go out too?”
“She was always at home when I got back.” Caught off-guard, he sounded sincere.
“Was your relationship with your wife affectionate, of late?”
Eidinger answered like a docile lad who folds under the weight of insinuations.
“We’d had some arguments but not what I’d call serious ones. Frida’s character was as impulsive as mine.”
“You hadn’t been married for very long, am I right?”
“About a year and a half.”
Ericourt half closed his eyes as if trying to remember something.
“You married in Germany.”
“We married by proxy,” Eidinger corrected him, “I met Frida in Zurich. She’d been living there since the end of the war. Frida was orphaned very young and spent periods with different relatives. She didn’t have a fixed address.”
“Yours wasn’t a long engagement, then.”
“No,” Eidinger admitted, somewhat embarrassed. “We hardly had time to get to know one another. Frida accepted my marriage proposal straight away—” He stopped himself and scrutinized his visitors’ faces, fearing his words might make him appear smug. “She was very eager to leave Europe,” he said by way of explanation.
“Oh, yes? And why was that?”
Eidinger looked at him in surprise. Did he really have to spell out something so simple?
“She was afraid of another war. Like so many others she felt deeply wounded by what they’d just gone through.”
“Why didn’t you marry before you came back, then?”
“We arranged that I would return to Buenos Aires first to get the house ready. Frida preferred it that way. In her letters she told me she’d travel over as soon as possible. I must confess I sought that brief separation as a test.”
“Do you still have the letters?”
Gustavo seemed offended.
“Of course. Frida kept them in her desk.”
Really? How strange. You don’t give love letters back unless the relationship has ended. Why had she kept them instead of him? It was time for the thorny question.
“Was yours a happy marriage, señor Eidinger?”
His pause answered better than words. Happiness admits no doubt.