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XVIII
"From the beginning I understood who was guilty," the commissioner affirmed, leaning forward confidentially and scrutinizing us as though we were on the horizon. "The subsequent investigation and my interrogations confirmed my suspicion."
 I felt disposed to believe him. Complicated crimes belonged to literature; reality was less rich. (I recalled Petronius and his pirates, chained on the beach.) Besides, Aubry would presumably have a certain experience in these matters. In novels (to return to literature) police officials are men invariably mistaken. In reality they are something much worse, but they often manage not to fail, because crime, like madness, is the fruit of simplification and deficiency.
"Gentlemen," Dr. Montes articulated with confusion, "will you permit me a toast?"
"In honor of what?" the commissioner asked.
"Of the veritable marvels which we are about to hear."
His response pleased me, though I gave no sign. What could one hope from an investigator who to the foolish ramblings of a drunk?
The commissioner continued, "Let's begin with motives. As far as we know, there are two people with abiding motives for committing the crime."
"If you say 'as far as we know'," interrupted the drunk, with less dexterity than logic, "you admit there is something you don't know and any solution may not stand up."
"As regards motives, I repeat, there are two people who deserve our attention," the commissioner went on, as if he had not heard Montes's impertinence. "The victim's sister and Mr. Atuel."
I was astonished. From that moment, I confess, I had to force myself to follow Aubry's explanations. My imagination wandered through a sort of cinematic spectacle: the scenes were occurring in reverse order -- first, my last conversations with Emilia; finally, the episode on the beach -- and my interpretation of the events had changed as well: now, reviewing the sisters' arguments, the kind girl was Emilia. Thinking of Mary, I told myself that the conduct of men takes a course, with fluctuations and alterations, beyond death. Thinking of Emilia, I asked mysef if I were not beginning to love her.
There was, in the "explanation" of Aubry, a certain technical mastery: I will try to repeat his argument with his own words.
"Let us classify motives as abiding and occasional," he said with a severe expression. "In the case before us, the first are of an economic and a passionate nature. This death benefits Miss Emilia Gutierrez and Mr. Atuel. Miss Emilia is her sister's heir. She will receive a number of pieces of jewelry which I feel I can call, with no exaggeration, valuable. And, according to my reports, the couple were delaying their marriage due to economic difficulties. As regards Mr. Atuel, he too benefits by marriage from this death. The motives of passion point to the same persons. It seems beyond question that the deceased was involved with Emilia's fiance. And so we bring in jealousy, the catalyst for the tragedy. This factor is thoroughly feminine: too bad for Emilia! But the involvement of the fiance and the victim has to be considered a cauldron for violent passions which again points to the first of my suspects. Let's move on then to the occasional or circumstantial motives. The final disagreements occurred between the sisters, with the exclusion of Mr. Atuel. A bad circumstance for Miss Emilia! And at this point Mr. Atuel has an alibi: when the murder took place, he was not in the hotel. He is living in the New East End Hotel. The two sisters lodged in adjoining rooms. As you will recall, on the night of the tragedy Miss Emilia returned alone to her room. Then she put the strychnine in the chocolate; she waited until the poison had done its work; she disposed of the cup (perhaps throwing it out the window; when the storm passes, the sand will have to be searched). Conclusion: unless the devil lends a hand, how can the young lady defend herself?"
I suspected that in the logical weft of these arguments there were imperfections, but I was too confused and overburdened to uncover them. I dared to protest: "Your explanation is psychologically impossible. You remind me of these novelists who concentrate on action and are careless of characterization. Don't forget that without the human factor there is no enduring work. Have you thought of Emilia? I refuse to believe that a girl so healthy -- a bit reddish, I concede -- has committed this crime."
I protested too much: how could a simple improvisation replace a logical criticism?
The commissioner said, ³Victor Hugo will reply to you: Anxiety converts a woman's fingers into claws. A fearful girl could sink her rosy fingernails into an iron ingot."
Dr. Montes seemed to wake from his lethargy. "If I were not so drunk, I would tell you that your entire case is based on presumptions," he said affectionately to the commissioner. "You don't have a single proof."
"That doesn't bother me," Aubry answered. "I will have all the proof you like when we take her statement at the police station."
I looked with incomprehension at this man who reasoned vulgarly, but with efficacy; who felt an ardent love for literature; who was moved by Hugo; and who was prepared without hesitation to torture and condemn a young woman, perhaps unjustly.
I surprised myself by looking at Montes with sympathy. There was much to forgive him, but perhaps two doctors could serve as one good lawyer.
And what did Emilia's mysterious power mean? I, who am essentially vindictive, was inclined on her behalf to ally myself to a colleague who had insulted me. In that moment I found the answer to a question I had asked myself a while earlier. It was not love I felt: it was an ambiguous sense of responsibility. I was, in that limited world of Bosque del Mar, the dominant intellligence, and my declarations had given direction to the investigation. Repeating to myself that I had been true to my duties was insufficient, even if offered as a consolation.
"An elemental action," Montes suggested, "would be to link the poison with someone; to ascertain, for example, who bought strychnine at the pharmacy. . . ."
"I have not omitted that measure," Aubry responded with authority. "I sent one of my men with precise instructions: to ask the pharmacist to whom he had sold strychnine in recent months. The answer was a dead end: he hasn't sold strychnine to anyone."
With feigned ease, I inquired, "What is your plan, Commissioner?"
"My plan? Not to say a word to the girl until the storm passes. Then I will detain her and bring her to me. I will ask you all not to worry her. She will not be able to flee. Nor can she destroy the evidence: my proof, as you know, will appear in the interrogation. Our job now is to remain quiet: to wait for the storm to pass."
I stood, impatient. I looked out the window. A brown sandy dawn was insinuating itself through the gale. The world seemed to be the ashes of a yellow conflagration. The sand spiralled up, like a dark smoke, over dark fallen pillars. I asked myself, however, if the storm was continuing with the same force and, with fear in my heart, I sought the signs of the calm to come.
I leaned one hand, then the other, then my forehead against the glass. I felt a coolness, as though I had fever.
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