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XXXIV
The next morning we brought the dining room table to one of the windows, and the commissioner, Montes and I had breakfasted while contemplating with eager eyes the beach, the tamarisks, the Hotel New East End, the druggist's shop, the sky, which once again formed, after the interminable storm, an ordered world which shone serenely in the light of the sun, like an enormous flower.
 I was breakfasting as I did during times of intense literary labor -- black tea, hard-boiled eggs, toast and honey -- when I saw, on that tawny stretch of beach, a little man in a blue tricot and light gray pants advancing our way.
We puzzled so much over who the little fellow might be, over who could see further, men of the mountains, the plains or the sea, that the news that someone had arrived at the hotel caught us by surprise.
"It's the pharmacist," Esteban explained. "He wants to speak to the commissioner."
"Let him in," the latter said, rising.
The pharmacist -- he of the blue tricot and light gray pants -- came into the dining hall. He was a fearless man, with puffy eyes and smooth skin; whenever he moved, he sighed, as if worried about the inevitable expense of energy. He greeted us parsimonously and, in a corner, carried on a painful dialogue with Aubry. Then he pulled a letter from his pocket. Aubry read it nervously.
The two men sat at our table. Aubry ordered Esteban, "Bring Mr. Rocha some coffee." Then he turned to the man. "You met him earlier? The day he came to see you -- was his behavior normal?"
"Normal, no. But, you know, he was strange."
"Crazy?"
"I wouldn't say that. He was intelligent, or maybe studious is a better word."
"Why do you say was?" Aubry asked. "I'm not sure that he's dead."
"Neither am I. Although it seems likely."
"When did you notice that he had stolen the poison?"
"I told your agent the truth. I haven't sold strychnine for years."
"But why didn't you check to see if you had the bottle?"
Paulino Rocha lowered his eyes demurely. "I found out the other day. You know, life in the country. . . ."
"But why didn't you come immediately to tell me?"
"I have a delicate throat, and with the wind-storm. . . . When the letter arrived, I came at once. Of course the storm had ended by then."
This armature of questions and answers, this enigmatic catechism, was beginning to exasperate me. The bad manners of Aubry and the druggist, which provoked our sincere curiosity, emboldened me. I vacillated between several effective intercalations which would have overcome Aubry's resistance and obliged him to show us the letter. I asked him, "Why not show us the letter?"
His response was to hand it to me. I read the following lines, written in pencil, with a strong impersonal style --
Mr. Paulino Rocha
Los Pinos Pharmacy
Bosque del Mar
Dear friend,
The reason for this letter will amaze you, but you are my only friend, and I have behaved badly toward you.
Andrea and Esteban are my aunt and uncle, but I don't love them. They won't even let me kill birds and other animals. You know that I kept the albatross hidden among the cages. They wanted the doctor to examine me, but I scared him right off. He was more afraid than the otters that we embalmed with Papa.
Did you never meet the Gutiérrez sisters? I loved them very much, especially Mary. Now that she is dead, I hold no grudges. I loved her very much, and every time I tried to kiss her, she got mad, as if it was wrong. If there were people around, she was very nice, but when we were alone she never wanted to talk to me. I tried to explain things to her, but she got mad.
If I tell you what I did later, you won't forgive me and I want us to always be friends. When I came to the pharmacy to look for the arsenic for the albatross and the algae, I stole a little bottle of strychnine from you. It was on the shelf in the middle, under the clock.
The night that everyone went to look for Miss Emilia, Mary was very angry with me. I hid in the hallway, and when Atwell left to search with the others for Emilia, Mary followed him; she pulled him away from the light in the stairwell and kissed him in a way that made me cry. I heard her laughing, telling him, "Tomorrow remind me to tell you what the boy did."
I thought, "I'm going to do something terrible." Now I understand that I did what anyone would have done in my place.
I went down to my room, found the strychnine, went to Mary's room and poured half the bottle into the cup of cold chocolate she always had before going to sleep. I stirred it with the spoon so the poison would dissolve completely. When I was drying it I heard Mary's footsteps. I was in such a hurry to leave that I dropped the bottle. I didn't have time to pick it up. I went out through Emilia's room.
The next day I went back to look for the bottle, but it wasn't there. I wanted to take strychnine myself, just as Mary had done.
I would have explained everything to the commissioner, to save Emilia so much shock, but no one listens to me because I'm just a boy.
You know I made my little house in the abandoned ship on the beach. I have a lot of bottles of water there, some crackers, and a bag of greens. The surf is rising because of the storm. I'm going to the boat now to wait until the water takes it. By the time you read this letter, the waves and the water will cover your faithful little friend,
Miguel Fernández
P.S. Please send the albatross to my parents.
I returned the letter to the commissioner. Silently I crossed the dining room and stared out the window that overlooked the sea. Miguel's boat was not on the beach.
Emilia confirmed what Miguel had said about the bottle of strychnine. She had found it the morning of Mary's death. She hid it because she believed from the first that her sweetheart had been the murderer. For the same reason she disposed of the cup of chocolate.
We had no news of Miguel and the Joseph K. Commissioner Aubry considered Miguel's letter sufficient proof of guilt and relinquished his suspicion of Emilia.
As for me, I have produced the pages which you have read because several women-friends of my mother -- the only friends she has -- wanted my part in the inquiry to be documented. I protested, I said my role was minimal, that I had not intervened in the proceedings, that I had limited myself to puzzling out. . . . But they insisted, and here you have me, penitent and blushing, putting the Finis coronat opus to this chronicle of my unexpected adventures with the police.
I need add only that Emilia and Atwell have married and, as far as I know, are happy. From time to time I ask myself what the intimate life of these two lovers must be like -- two who so many times looked at each other believing the other a criminal but never ceasing to love even so.
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