The Book of Murder

by Guillermo Martinez

  I took the articles to the photocopier, and as I inserted coins and watched the beam of light pass over the pages I had the feeling that an idea, as yet unformed, was trying to emerge, like an elusive animal lurking—about to brush past, about to flee—in that silent basement. On impulse I returned to the rows of files and searched for reports of the fourth death. The progression here was in reverse: the story began with a tiny item lost in the Police Reports page, but then, as the political implications became apparent, it had taken up more and more space until it featured on the front page. I read the first day’s article, as yet without photographs. The killer had apparently been waiting for the doctor late at night, at the entrance to his building, and had held him up at gunpoint. Luciana’s brother hadn’t put up a fight, perhaps believing it was just a mugging. They’d gone up in the lift to his apartment. Neighbours had heard a terrible commotion and the doctor shouting. Someone had called the police. The door to the apartment was open and the man’s revolver was in plain view on a shelf, as if he’d put it down there as soon as he entered. The doctor’s body lay in the middle of the sitting room, his eyes gouged out and a huge wound on his neck, possibly caused by a bite. The police had found the killer on the roof of the building, his mouth smeared with blood. When they managed to unclench his fist they found he was gripping the doctor’s eyeballs, crushed to a pulp. In his statement he said he had wanted to throw them in his wife’s face before killing her.

  I looked for the next day’s paper. The story now occupied over half a page. It turned out that the arrested man had already been sentenced to life in a high security prison, but nobody could explain how he’d got out. There was a photograph of him looking straight at the camera, eyes empty of all expression, probably his police mug shot: a wide forehead, bald with narrow strips of hair above his ears, a sharp nose, plain ordinary features that gave no hint of murder or butchery. The post-mortem had revealed a few more details. The murderer had used only his hands and teeth; the victim had barely resisted, failing to land a single blow. The killer was famous in prison for letting his nails grow long, and had already blinded another inmate in a fight. It hadn’t been established whether the doctor had still been conscious when he’d had his eyes gouged out. In any case the cause of death was severing of the jugular vein. The report also stated that the doctor had been having an affair with the convict’s wife, whom he’d met when she was visiting her husband in prison, but there was no mention of the anonymous letters Luciana had told me about.

  I looked at the next day’s paper. The story had now reached the front page. Apparently the inmate hadn’t escaped, he had been let out by guards to commit a burglary. The Ministry of the Interior had intervened and the head of the prison service was expected to resign imminently. The investigation had changed hands and was now being conducted by the same Superintendent Ramoneda that Luciana had mentioned. Even so, as I read this article—by far the longest—I felt that the trail was fading; that, as in the children’s game, I was getting cold. No, this definitely wasn’t what I thought I’d glimpsed. There was something earlier which I had missed again as I read. I took the first day’s article to the photocopier and then I went to one of the desks and set out all three copied stories. I read them again, one after the other. Almost nothing seemed to connect them, other than Luciana’s account. The dates were unevenly spaced: the first two incidents had taken place within a year, but the third had occurred three years later, and now four years had elapsed since anything had happened. There seemed, at any rate, to be a slowing of the pace of killing. Nor was there any obvious pattern linking them, discernible ‘from the outside’. There was even an aesthetic inconsistency: if the first two cases were to a certain extent reminiscent of the kind of subtle murder Kloster devised in his novels, the third—brutal, bloody—was quite unlike his style, his literary style at least. Though it might, of course, be part of the plan, and an obvious precaution for some of the deaths to be very different from those in his books. I recalled Luciana’s anxious voice the first time she called me: nobody knows, nobody realises. No, nobody knew, nobody realised, though all three cases had been in the papers, though the deaths were there, in plain sight, and one of them had caused quite a scandal. But was there really nothing to link them? A moment earlier, I thought I’d seen something, something that now eluded me but was nevertheless still there. Suddenly I thought I had the answer, though it didn’t seem to be of much use. It was something Luciana had said when describing her brother’s death. With his bare hands. The article on the first day also mentioned it: the killer had put down his gun and used only his hands and teeth. I sensed that this was it but, as if the scarcely glimpsed figure had once again melted away, I still couldn’t fully see the connection. And what significance, if any, did it have? Even if I accepted that Kloster was behind the deaths, even if I accepted that he had written the anonymous letters, of which there was no mention in the articles, there didn’t seem to be any way that he or anyone else could have foreseen that the killer would put down his gun and use only his hands. Or was there some prison code I was unaware of by which killing face to face, with bare hands, was the payback for infidelity? I resolved to find out. Anyway, simply by following Luciana’s brother, Kloster could have found out that he was having an affair with the convict’s wife, but it was much more unlikely that he would also have known that the prisoner, serving a life sentence, was allowed out to commit burglaries.

  Every time I went over it, the case against Kloster seemed convoluted and unbelievable. But then, as I knew, the plots of Kloster’s novels also seemed convoluted and unbelievable, until you reached the last page. It was precisely because the case against Kloster had something excessive, something disproportionate, about it that I couldn’t discount it entirely.

  I folded the pages and left the building, without dropping in to the editorial office to say hello to my erstwhile colleagues. Actually I was afraid there would be no one left that I knew. I walked home, hoping that during the walk I’d come up with a reasonable—or convincing—excuse for calling Kloster.

  In the lift on the way up to my apartment, I heard the phone ring one last time before stopping. Nobody phoned nowadays and when I opened the door, in the silence amplified by that last ring, the apartment felt emptier than ever. I was under no illusions: I knew exactly who was calling and what she wanted to know. I reflected that she was right, at least, about the grey rug: I’d have to find the energy at some stage to get a new one. I went to the kitchen to make coffee, but just as I was rinsing out a cup the phone rang again. I wondered how early she’d started ringing like that, at five-minute intervals. It was, indeed, Luciana.

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  Her voice was anxious, but there was also something slightly imperious in her tone, as if the favour she’d wrung from me in tears the night before had, by morning, become a duty I had to report on.

  “No, not yet. Actually I don’t even have his number. I was thinking of calling my editor now…”

  “I’ve got it,” she said. “I’ll give it to you.”

  “Is it the number at the house you used to go to?”

  “No. He had to move out of there after his divorce.” I wondered how she’d managed to get hold of the new number. But I realised, then, that Luciana had to know his new address. How else could she have sent him the letter? If indeed Kloster was secretly watching her every step, the watching, it seemed, was mutual. She spoke again, her impatience barely contained, as if she felt she’d left me no excuse. “So will you call him now?”

  “The thing is, I still can’t think how to go about it. I don’t even know him. So, calling out of the blue, to talk to him about something like this…Anyway,” I said, “I once wrote a rather unpleasant article about him. If by any chance he read it I don’t think he’ll let me get out a single word.”

  As I listed excuse after excuse, I felt more and more contemptible. But she stopped me.

  “There is one way,” she said darkly. �
�Something you could say if all else fails. After all, he must think I’ve completely lost my mind over these years. You could say you’ve had a conversation with me that’s worried you. You have to talk to him, because you get the impression that I’m desperate. I feel cornered and even made you believe that I might try something against him. I mean, I’ve thought of it a thousand times: pre-empt his next move. It would be self-defence. I would have done it already if I only dared, or could think of a way, like him, of not getting caught. When he hears his life’s in danger, he’ll want to know more.”

  I listened with a shiver of revulsion at her obsession, but had to admit that it was a better idea than any I’d come up with so far.

  “Fine,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind as a last resort.”

  “So will you call him now? Please,” she said, her voice faltering. “I don’t know how much time we have left. I’m sure he’s about to try something.”

  “Of course I will. I promised, didn’t I?” I said. “I’ll call now. I’ll speak to him and we’ll sort this out.”

  I hung up and sat staring with annoyance at the phone number I’d just jotted down, as if it were a note left by a stranger that was now throbbing and ticking insistently. I hadn’t had any scrap paper to hand, so I’d written it down on the lined pad where I made notes for my novels, beneath a list of provisional titles. I suddenly knew what I had to do, and it seemed so obvious it almost made me smile. Of course. Of course. What could be more natural? It was the only thing that Kloster would believe: I’d tell him I was about to start a novel.

  ∨ The Book of Murder ∧

  Five

  Kloster?”

  “Yes?”

  The voice was deep, rough, a little impatient, as if I was interrupting him in the middle of something.

  “Campari gave me your number,” I said, prepared to lie as many times as necessary. I said my name and held my breath. It felt risky, but he gave no sign of recognition. “My first two novels were published by him,” I added, not sure if this would help.

  “Ah yes, of course: the author of Deception.”

  “Desertion,” I corrected him, deflated, and added defensively: “That was my first novel.”

  “Desertion, of course, now I remember. Strange title, rather extreme for a first novel. I remember wondering what you’d call your second—With my Tail Between my Legs perhaps? At the time you seemed only to have read Lyotard: you wanted to give up before you’d started. Although there was also something towards the end of Lost Illusions, wasn’t there? I’m glad you went on to write a second. That’s the paradox for champions of renunciation, of limits, ends: they then want to write another novel. I’d have put money on your becoming a critic. I think I saw your name on a review at one stage. A review full of the usual jargon. And I thought I was right.”

  So had he read my article about his novels? I couldn’t tell for sure from his tone but at least he hadn’t hung up.

  “I did write reviews for a couple of years,” I said. “But I never stopped writing novels. My second, The Random Men, came out the same year as your Day of the Dead, though it didn’t do as well. And I’ve written another two since then,” I said, offended despite myself that he knew so little about my work.

  “I didn’t know. I suppose I should do more to keep up. Anyway, I’m pleased for you: the prophet of abandonment has become a prolific author. But I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about your books, or mine.”

  “Actually, I did,” I said. “I’m calling because I’m about to begin writing a novel based on a true story.”

  “A true story?” he said mockingly. “It really is all change. I thought you despised realism and were only interested in who knows what daring stylistic experiments.”

  “You’re right,” I said, prepared to take the blows. “This is quite unlike anything I’ve ever written. It’s a story I’ve been told and I want to set it down exactly, almost like a history, or a report. Anyway, it sounds so unlikely that no one would believe it was true. Except, maybe, the people involved. That’s why I’m calling,” I said, and waited for his reaction.

  “I’m one of the people involved?” He sounded amused and still a little incredulous.

  “I’d say you’re the central character.”

  There was silence at the other end, as if Kloster now knew what was coming and was preparing to play a different game.

  “I see,” he said. “And what is this story you’ve been told?”

  “It’s about a series of unexplained deaths, surrounding a single person.”

  “A crime story? So you’re moving into my field now? What I don’t understand,” he said after a moment, “is how I can be the central character. Unless I’m the next victim?” he asked in mock alarm. “I know some writers of your generation would like to see me dead, but I’ve always assumed it was metaphorical. I hope they’re not prepared to take action.”

  “No, you’re not the victim. You’re the one behind the deaths. At least, that’s what the person who told me about it believes.” And I said Luciana’s full name. Kloster gave a brief, unpleasant laugh.

  “I was wondering how long you’d take to get round to her. So the Lady of Shalott is back on the attack. I suppose I should be grateful: last time, she sent a policeman so she’s getting a bit subtler with her envoys. I can’t believe anyone is still prepared to listen to her. But of course you were involved with her, weren’t you?”

  “I hadn’t seen her for ten years. Actually, I’m not sure yet how much I believe her. But enough to want to write about it. Obviously I wouldn’t want to publish without hearing your side of the story.”

  “My side of it…Strange you should say that. I’ve been writing a story myself, with the same characters. But I’m sure it’ll be quite different from yours.”

  This seemed like a lucky piece of news that I might be able to use. After all, there’s nothing more worrying for a writer than finding out someone else has got his eye on your subject. I had to play my cards carefully.

  “Could we meet?” I said. “Any day you can spare a minute of your time. I could show you what I’ve written so far, based on what she’s told me. If you explain why I shouldn’t believe her, I’ll give up on the whole idea. I wouldn’t want to publish anything that might disparage you unfairly.”

  As usual, I’d gone too far.

  “Put like that,” said Kloster coldly, “it sounds almost like blackmail. I’ve had to deal with blackmail from that girl once before. Or hasn’t she mentioned it? I don’t have to convince you of anything. I don’t owe anyone an explanation. If you believe a madwoman, you’re the one with a problem, not me.” His voice was growing louder and I thought he might be about to hang up.

  “No, no, of course not,” I said placatingly. “Please, I’m not her envoy—I’m not involved with her in any way. She’s come to see me after ten years, and she did appear to be a little disturbed.”

  “A little disturbed…You’re being generous. Well, if that’s clear, I don’t have a problem with meeting you. I can tell you a few things myself. And there’s something I’d like to ask you, something I’d like to include in my novel. But we can discuss it when we meet. Do you have my address?”

  I said yes.

  “Fine. I’ll expect you here tomorrow at six.”

  ∨ The Book of Murder ∧

  Six

  What do I think?” said Kloster, reading the last of my pages. With distaste he pushed aside the small stack that had grown in front of him, as if he couldn’t bear to look at it. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head, palms touching. Despite the cold outside, he was wearing only a short-sleeved T–shirt, and his long bare arms looked like two triangles suspended in the air. I hadn’t slept the previous night and didn’t feel up to the coming confrontation. I’d worked against the clock setting up my little sham. I’d tried to record Luciana’s story just as she had recounted it, from the moment she arrived at my apartment. I had included my own question
s, and all her pauses and hesitations, even the sentences she left hanging. But I had omitted my thoughts about her and also—especially—my reaction to her appearance, and my doubts about her mental state. All that appeared on paper was the bald sequence of lines of dialogue, the to and fro of our voices, just as if they’d been transcribed. I’d worked all night with hypnotic intensity induced by endlessly rerunning the same memory: Luciana’s face in the deepening gloom of my living room and her terror as she cried out that she didn’t want to die. I’d revised and corrected, details disappearing and reappearing intermittently and ever more slowly, until at last, at dawn, I printed out about twenty pages. This was the bait with which I arrived, at six o’clock in the evening, at Kloster’s house.

  I rang the bell and stood for a moment in awe before an imposing iron gate. The buzzer sounded, admitting me to the entrance hall, and I saw a great marble staircase, bronze statues, antique mirrors, with a stab of admiration close to envy. I couldn’t help wondering how many books you had to sell to pay for such a house in an area like this.

  Kloster, waiting for me at the top of the stairs, held out his hand and looked at me for a moment as if making sure we had never met before. He was taller than I had imagined from his photographs, and though he must have been over fifty there was something youthful and vigorous in the upright figure, almost a flaunting of his athleticism, that made one think of the long-distance swimmer first and then the writer. But despite the still powerful body, his face was a ruin, cruelly sunken, as if the flesh had withdrawn, exposing the sharp edges of his bones, and the cold blue eyes, fixing me with uncomfortable intensity, had retreated with it. He shook my hand briskly, simultaneously motioning towards the library. There had been no hint of a smile, nor the standard exchange of trivialities, as if he wanted to make it clear from the start that I wasn’t entirely welcome. But this initial rejection of conventional courtesy actually made things easier: neither of us was under any illusions. Nevertheless, as he indicated an armchair, he offered to get me a coffee and I accepted, though I had been drinking cup after cup since morning to keep myself awake. As soon as he disappeared down one of the corridors I got up and looked around. The library was impressive, with shelves almost to the ceiling. But the effect wasn’t oppressive as two large windows provided a break from the book-lined walls. There was another armchair in a corner with a standard lamp beside it, where Kloster no doubt sat to read. I walked along the bookshelves, running my finger over some of the titles. In a gap between encyclopaedias, neither hidden nor prominently displayed, I saw the Grand Cross of the Legion d’honneur with its tricolour ribbon. I went over to the narrow glass-fronted bookcase between the windows. Here Kloster kept all the different editions of his own books, together with their translations into dozens of languages. Again I felt a dart of envy, sharper this time, the same shameful feeling which I knew, over and above Luciana, was what had made me attack Kloster in that contemptible article that could be summed up in a mute complaint: why him and not me? All I can say in my defence is that it was hard, standing before that bookcase, not to feel like a hazy dispossessed Enoch Soames. Opposite the corridor down which Kloster had disappeared there was another, narrower corridor off the library, leading perhaps to staff quarters or to his study. In the dim early evening light the corridor was in gloom but I could just see that the walls were lined with framed photographs. Irresistibly drawn, I went to look at the nearest of these: it showed a pretty little girl of about three or four with tousled hair, wearing a polka dot dress, standing on a chair and reaching up towards Kloster. The writer looked transformed—or should I say transported?—smiling expectantly, waiting for the little outstretched hand to touch his face. Part of the photo appeared to have been cut off at an angle, as if a figure had been excised from the scene. I heard steps returning from the kitchen and went back to the armchair. Kloster placed two large mugs on the glass coffee table and muttered something about there being no sugar in the house. He sat down opposite me and immediately picked up the transparent plastic folder in which I’d placed the pages. “So this is the story,” he said.