“A woman’s vagina,” he called out loud, returning to consciousness as a policeman presumably on his last day of duty: perhaps Miguel Forcade’s death had nothing to do with sublime works of art whose fakery he was aware of, but with something much closer, more mundane and sometimes more important, like a woman’s vagina. Or, at least, perhaps the truth could be reached along that risky, moist, desired and lethal path. It was an unexpected revelation that came with fatally grey eyes (or were they green? or blue?) half hidden by lashes as wavy as the sea when a cyclone is approaching.
Colonel Molina’s order erupted from the intercom and the petty subaltern who was acting as the new office boss and had been critically examining the detective lieutenant’s visage stood up to open the door for him. The Count, who’d enjoyed the woman’s displeasure at his deplorable mien and get-up, grunted to his feet, and, unbeknown to her, tugged at his old blue jeans so the pistol in his belt clattered to the floor. Nevertheless, the Count continued to walk towards the office door, as if oblivious to his loss, and the woman, whose astonishment had spread geometrically, shouted: “Hey, Lieutenant, you’ve dropped your pistol.”