Foreign Bodies

by Martin Edwards

  And the visitor…?

  The answer to that vital question was slow in coming. When it did, it boiled down unsurprisingly to a case of cherchez la femme.

  Who was she? The servant could not reveal her name. Could not or would not. But the dead man’s wallet brought me a significant step closer to an answer. It held a photograph of a woman. Was that her? Yes. And a letter, signed ‘Mathilde’, provided another piece of the puzzle, since the sprawling feminine handwriting spoke of a rendezvous scheduled for that very afternoon. A rendezvous which had indisputably been the victim’s last.

  Mathilde’s full name and address were on the envelope, and I made a brief call to the Sûreté, requesting that two officers should ask for Mademoiselle Mathilde Fournier at the Hôtel St George and, upon finding her, should bring her to me as expeditiously as possible.

  We continued our investigation of the crime scene, though there was little else to be investigated, and discussed the case while awaiting word from the Sûreté. The Shadow did much of the talking—almost all of it, to be honest. As he droned on, his voice seemed to fade into the background, like the sound emanating from a loudspeaker when the volume control is turned anti-clockwise. In reality, of course, the fault was my own—my thoughts were fixed involuntarily on that red-smeared cigarette end and the half-consumed cup of tea. Indeed, those two simple objects quite fascinated me.

  My thoughts extended like a collapsible telescope—to use a cliched image. It took perhaps a second, possibly two…but in that brief span of time the key to the solution revealed itself to me.

  I examined the stubbed-out cigarette butt under my glass, studied it closely and could not hold back a smile. What, the Shadow wanted to know, was I grinning about? Rather than explain, I sent him off to the Sûreté with the plasticene envelope and its contents and a drinking glass I found in one of the bedrooms.

  He left, for once deprived of his usual bonhomie, muttering imprecations over some people and their secretive folderol.

  I scarely heard him, for at that moment the detective I had charged with fetching the dead man’s flatmate from his club returned, his mission successful. I steered the man, whose name was Popewitch, directly to the salon, without giving him any opportunity to glance through the library door. He was in quite a state, upset at being dragged away from his bridge game. I let him vent his anger, then posed a series of questions, confronting him at last with the information that a murder had been committed. I had the impression that the man was shocked by this news.

  The other detective, who had been sent to enquire after Mathilde Fournier, followed, accompanying a woman who, after the usual game of questions and answers, delivered a performance which might be described as bordering on hysteria. She acknowledged, however, that she had indeed visited the flat that afternoon and that she smoked Drina cigarettes.

  It was noteworthy that neither suspect had a tenable—or perhaps I should say a verifiable—alibi.

  ‘That makes three without firm alibis’, Manon commented at this point in the story. ‘Popewitch, Mathilde, and the servant’.

  Chief Inspector Silvère smiled and nodded. He lit yet another cigarette and resumed his narrative.

  That was not as important as you might think. I waited impatiently for a call from Inspector Carlier. Perhaps five minutes after I had finished with the very charming Mathilde, it came. And the good inspector’s message provided the last piece of evidence I needed. When I wrote my report on the affair, the reasoning behind the arrest was as follows:

  It struck me immediately as bizarre that the cigarette had been abandoned within seconds of being lit. I also noted that, while its filter was smeared with red lipstick, the rim of the half-empty teacup, which had obviously been used by the same person, was not. From these details I drew a series of conclusions which culminated in the discovery I made when I examined the cigarette butt with my glass. The lipstick had been applied to the filter with a finger, not a pair of lips, and that finger had left a faint impression in the crimson paint. Quite small, but large enough. For that reason, I had directed Inspector Carlier to the fingerprint service, which had identified nine distinct points of correspondence between the print in the lipstick and those on the drinking glass—quite enough, according to international agreements, to classify them as identical.

  And so I arrested Popewitch, for the glass had come from his bedroom.

  A brief silence ensued.

  Then came Manon’s voice.

  ‘Next case, bailiff’.

  The Puzzle of the Broken Watch

  Maria Elvira Bermudez

  ‘The detective story has been regularly, although not extensively, cultivated in Mexico since the 1920s,’ said Amelia S. Simpson in Detective Fiction from Latin America (1990). Maria Elvira Bermudez (1916–88) was one of the pioneers, and J. Patrick Duffey, in an essay included in Latin American Mystery Writers: an A-Z Guide (2004), said that during her lifetime she was ‘the most prolific female detective fiction author in the Spanish-speaking world, one of the most innovative practitioners of the genre in Mexico and one of its most perceptive critics.’ She also put together a landmark anthology, The Best Mexican Detective Stories (1955); all the stories were set in Mexico, and written by Mexicans.

  Bermudez created two major series characters. Armando H. Zozaya was in the mould of the American detective Ellery Queen. Maria Elena Moran is an enthusiastic reader and writer of detective fiction. Donald A. Yates, an expert on Latin American crime fiction, has praised the quality of Bermudez’ characterization, while Duffey argues that Bermudez’ work ‘has not received the critical attention it deserves’—a fate common, at least until recently, to far too many authors of classic crime fiction. This story dates from 1960; translated by Donald A. Yates, it appeared in his excellent anthology Latin Blood: the Best Crime and Detective Stories of South America (1972).

  Comfortably reclining on his divan, he was absorbed in reading the short stories of Arkadio Averchenko. He smoked slowly, absently, the smile that appeared and reappeared on his lips causing him to forget his cigarette. Suddenly, a man somewhat younger than he entered the room. It was his good friend Miguel Prado, the lawyer.

  ‘Quiúbole!’ greeted the newcomer. ‘Are you busy now?’

  ‘Very busy,’ replied Armando Zozaya.

  ‘Very busy?’ exclaimed Miguel. ‘If all you’re doing is reading—’

  ‘So you think one can’t be busy with a book?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so, but I have to talk with you.’ He took the book from Zozaya’s hands and sat down before him. The latter gave a sigh of resignation and retrieved his book. He found his place, carefully folded over a corner of the page, and settled back to listen to his friend.

  ‘I’m defending a person who’s charged with murder,’ explained Prado. ‘And I’m convinced of his innocence. The problem is I haven’t been able to find a way to prove it. That’s why I—came to see you.’

  ‘What is it that you want me to do?’

  ‘Well, it’s clear to me that the only way to get my client acquitted is to find the real murderer.’

  ‘Nicely put. But I question whether this is possible. You understand, of course, that it’s one thing to find yourself at the scene of the crime, in possession of fresh facts, and another to investigate a crime committed Lord knows how long ago.’

  ‘Naturally. All the same, I think you can help me.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can, Miguel. Go ahead and tell me what it’s all about.’

  ‘My client, Juan García, is charged with having murdered his sister-in-law, an attractive young girl who lived with Juan and her married sister in the García home together with the couple’s seven-year-old daughter. On the day in question, Rosa, the victim, stayed at home because of a bad cold, and she was left alone when her sister and the latter’s daughter went out shopping. Juan, as usual, was at work, but unfortunately that day
between eleven-thirty and noon he had left work without telling anyone where he was going. Juan’s wife and daughter were at the market longer than usual. I think they went to get medicine for Rosa, or something of the sort. At any rate, what happened was that when they returned they found the girl dead. She had three bullet wounds in her chest. There were signs of a struggle. The murder weapon was found at the scene. It was a gun that belonged to my client.’

  ‘None of the neighbours heard the shots?’

  ‘No. The murder occurred on the third of May, the day of Santa Cruz, which is celebrated by construction workers. There’s a new building going up nearby, so it’s very possible that the gunshots were taken for part of the racket made by the fireworks. What’s more, these same circumstances explain why the neighbours, entertained by the festivities of the construction people, failed to observe closely who entered and left the girl’s home.’

  ‘I see. And what does your client have to say about all this?’

  ‘He didn’t deny that he left work. Actually, he had to secure permission from his boss at the match factory to get time off. He claimed that he left work because he had received an anonymous message in which he was told to be at a spot near the factory at eleven-thirty. The place indicated was in Atlampa, there where Vallejo Street begins. The spot, you realize, is out of the way and usually deserted. The message he received insinuated that there was something of great importance he should know about the conduct of his wife. Juan’s wife is a good soul, and never had he had cause for doubting her loyalty. But, as you can imagine, Juan was intrigued, then disturbed, and ended up keeping the appointment. He couldn’t have spent more than five minutes passing under the Nonoalco Bridge and covering the few blocks that separated him from Vallejo Street. He says he arrived precisely on time and waited half an hour, but that no one showed up to give him the slightest information on the matter suggested in the message. The only people he saw were a ragpicker and an old woman beggar, who were more than a little surprised when he asked them if they had called him. He was furious by this time and returned immediately to work. His obviously agitated manner which his fellow workers subsequently observed has since been interpreted as the nervousness to be expected in a man who has just committed a crime.’

  ‘How did the anonymous message come to him? Has he shown it to you?’

  ‘Unfortunately, he tore it up when he realized he had been the victim of a cruel joke. The message had been delivered into his hands that same day when he arrived at work by a small boy who had said merely, “A gentleman sends you this.”’

  ‘Haven’t they been able to find the lad?’

  ‘Impossible. The authorities maintain that the boy doesn’t exist, that he’s a product of my client’s imagination, created in an attempt to establish an alibi for himself. And, as you know, I have neither the time nor the means to devote myself to the search for a little urchin lost in the streets of a city of four million people.’

  ‘Of course. Tell me, at what time has the murder been fixed?’

  ‘Now that’s the strangest thing in the whole case. Unquestionably, the murder had to have taken place during the period when Rosa’s sister was absent—a space of two hours. However, according to a watch that belonged to the deceased, which was found in the possession of my client, the precise moment of the crime was eleven forty-five. The watch had been smashed, and the hands had stopped at that time.’

  ‘Very strange, very strange.’ Armando meditated a moment. Then he pursued the point. ‘I accept the fact that the smashing of the watch during the struggle that took place would leave the hands indicating the time of the victim’s death, but what I don’t understand is why Juan, if he killed the girl, carried off the watch and kept it on his person.’

  ‘That’s precisely what bothers me. What you might expect is that he would change the time indicated if he happened to notice it. Or that he’d leave it behind, not considering it a piece of evidence that could incriminate him. The District Attorney proposes that Juan carried it away and later lost his wits and forgot to get rid of it.’

  ‘That could be, but I don’t believe so. For the time being we can arrive at the following conclusion: the fact that the day of Santa Cruz was selected for the crime so that the reports of the gun would be lost amid the noise of the fireworks, the delivery of the anonymous note to Juan with the object of strengthening his guilt through his absence from work, and, above all, the puzzling detail of that watch, strongly suggest that we are faced with a premeditated crime. One other thing, Miguel. Had the girl bought the watch for herself?’

  ‘I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me to ask about that.’

  ‘It’s very important. And, too, why were the sister and her little girl gone so long on their errand?’

  ‘Do you believe that this has something to do with the problem?’

  ‘I don’t think any detail should be overlooked.’

  ‘All right, then. Why don’t we go and speak with the sister?’

  ‘A very good idea,’ said Armando Zozaya. ‘I was about to suggest the same thing to you.’

  The tenement house where Juan’s wife and daughter lived was one of the many tenements which characterized the older, poorer Mexico. It was located on Venus Street, near the highway to Laredo, in the heart of the Atlampa quarter. The greyish brick walls, ravaged by the years, opened onto a long, narrow entrance hall which greedily imprisoned the daylight. In the broad, open patio the light regained its freedom and joyfully poured down on the cracked paving tiles and glimmering pools. Blocking the path before them were countless little children, sombre pigeons, and drying clothes scattered about like so many gay pennants. Against the walls, geraniums and rue, daisies and a carnation here and there emerged from the flower pots placed along the stairways and lay claim to a place in the sun. Armando and his friend entered the courtyard of the tenement house escorted by a dozen curious glances. Lupe, Juan’s wife, lived in number 19. She came to the door in response to the lawyer’s knock, and when she recognized the man who was defending her husband she politely invited them to come in.

  The home consisted of a kitchen and two rooms, the smallest of which was crowded with tables, assorted junk, several unpainted pine chairs, and a number of earthenware utensils. The other room, which was a little larger, was divided into two parts by an improvised partition of bedspreads and sarapes. On one side was the couple’s double bed and the child’s crib, and on the other a cot and a small dressing table that had apparently belonged to the deceased Rosa. Still hanging on the wall were the girl’s clothes, in the corner was a wooden trunk, and placed about the room were religious images together with pictures torn from old calendars, all of which had represented the girl’s worldly belongings. Lupe explained:

  ‘This is where poor Rosa slept. I haven’t been able yet to make myself pack up her things. I just can’t believe that she’s gone.’ And she dried a pious tear with her apron. She was about to add something more when she became aware of the sudden appearance of her daughter.

  ‘Rosita,’ she ordered, ‘go out and play in the patio. Go on now, ándale!’

  The child went out slowly, making a sad face. The mother added:

  ‘I’ve told her that her father and Aunt Rosa have gone away on a trip, poor thing. She adored my sister. She was her godmother.’

  The two visitors took seats around a humble table. Lawyer Prado explained to Lupe that señor Zozaya who accompanied him wanted to help in his defence of Juan and that he needed to know certain facts. Lupe said she was more than willing to tell him everything that she knew, but first she declared:

  ‘God knows my Juan is a good man. I’m not saying that he didn’t drink a little, or didn’t—stray occasionally, like all men. But as far as what they say about him and my sister…that’s pure lies. Neither my poor sister—may God bless her—nor Juan were capable of doing anything that—that would reflect on my honour, or that of
my little girl. They are also whispering behind my back that Juan may have killed her because she failed to respond to his attentions. But I know that can’t be true.’

  ‘Who do you think might have done it?’ asked Armando.

  ‘I don’t know. Only God can say. Perhaps someone who broke in intending to steal something.’

  ‘Did you find any things missing?’

  ‘No. They might have carried off the radio. It’s the only object of value. But no, it wasn’t touched.’

  ‘Haven’t you considered that it might have been someone who knew Rosa who…who committed the crime?’

  ‘Well, I just don’t know.’ And she looked oddly at the lawyer.

  ‘What just occurred to you, señora?’ asked Armando. ‘Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Well…you see. Oh, God forgive me, but—’

  ‘Go ahead. There’s nothing to fear.’

  ‘Well…Rosa had a boyfriend, you understand. And recently they had been quarrelling. The neighbours wouldn’t tell me anything, but the other day I’m sure I heard doña Chona, the woman from number 10, tell Tula, who lives in 5, that she’d seen Tomás come here that day.’

  ‘Tomás was Rosa’s boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes. I asked Tula what doña Chona had told her, but she refused to tell me. They are very close, you know. When it comes to gossip they’re unbeatable, but—’

  ‘When it comes to giving help in something like this,’ interposed Miguel, ‘they’re worthless. I haven’t been able to get a word out of them either. I forgot to tell you, Armando, that the señora had told me about this before. I tried to make the women understand what was at stake, but they flatly refused to go and testify in court. And if I ask that they be subpoenaed, I run the risk of making things worse. You understand.’

  ‘Uh huh. But we must keep this point in mind,’ commented Armando. And he added, ‘Tell me, señora, why were you longer than usual at the market that day?’