A Not So Perfect Crime (14 page)

“Hey, what the hell do you think you're playing at?” shouted one of the policemen.

That brought me back to earth. I'd gone into a complete daydream contemplating the scene of the disaster (and embarrassingly, in a way enjoying an experience one might describe as aesthetic) and had ignored my brother's antics.

“Hey, this man's eaten one of those sweets! ...” said the policeman. “Do you feel OK, sir?”

Borja was by the piano at the other end of the room, and had just wolfed down a sweet from the box open on its top.

“What do you mean?” Borja went pale.

The police observed him for a few seconds, not sure what to do, and finally one of them said: “Well, it's really not the sweets, sergeant ...”

“It's really not
what
?” Borja asked faintly.

“Fucking hell! What the hell are we going to tell the judge now?” roared the policeman who seemed to be in charge. “You've eaten just our evidence under our bloody noses. Some fucking Christmas! (If you'll forgive my French). All we needed! ...”

“Calm down, sergeant ...”

“Calm down, you're bloody joking ...” The policeman was beginning to sweat, clearly nervous. “We shouldn't have let anyone in here. And you should have been more on the ball, Capdemuny!”

“Casademunt, sergeant. My name is Casademunt,” the man being spoken to had a strong Catalan accent.

“Are you sure you feel all right?” asked the MP, looking genuinely concerned.

“I don't know, I think so ... I'm sorry, it was a reflex action. I have a great weakness for
marrons glacés
.” He explained to the police. “And they're not sweets by the way
...” Borja suddenly understood what had happened and was frightened. “What do you mean by ‘evidence'? Do you think there's something wrong with them?”

“These gentlemen believe they may have a case of poisoning on their hands ...” the MP whispered.

“I need a cognac,” said Borja sounding faint as he reached for the bottle of French cognac on the coffee table next to the body.

“Noooo!” we all chorused.

Apparently, just before she'd dropped dead, Lídia Font had poured herself a glass of cognac and opened the box of titbits. The Christmas wrapping paper was still there, and I noted how the box and the paper came from the renowned Foix de Sarrià patisserie. Only two
marrons glacés
were missing. The one swallowed by Borja and the other, presumably, by the woman stretched out on the floor.

“My wife also had a weak spot for
marrons glacés
,” the MP explained. “She was fanatical about them in fact. They're the only thing she wouldn't do without, although she was always on a diet. She could eat them by the plateful.”

On this occasion, it was obvious that glamorous Mrs Font had only had time to eat one. The judge still hadn't showed up (the turmoil had begun in the Font household after seven, but it was now gone ten o'clock and the police were still trying to locate the relevant judge). In the mean time, the three policemen in the drawing room, now clearly at their wits' end, didn't take their eyes off us.

The MP took a deep breath and started to tell us what had happened.

“It must have been about seven thirty and everybody had left. We were having a family meal, and had invited our closest relatives as we do every year: my parents, my in-laws, my brother Xavier, his wife and three children, Lídia's sister and ourselves. When they left, I shut myself up in my office to make a few calls and Lídia stayed in the drawing room leafing through a magazine.” He paused, as if needing to recover his aplomb. “The girl” – he meant the Philippine in her immaculate uniform who'd opened the door to us – “was tidying up in here. Apparently, Lídia started to scream and writhe in pain, and collapsed. The girl came and told me at once but by the time I got here she already seemed to be dead. She was as you see her now. I couldn't feel any pulse. I ran and called an ambulance, thinking she must have had a heart attack,” he said, head lowered.

And then added: “In fact, I still think it must have been a heart attack but the ambulance people weren't so sure and told the police as much. These gentlemen,” he said referring to the scowling police, “say she may have been poisoned. Because of the blood around her mouth.”

In fact, there was a small pool of blood and vomit next to where Lídia Font was lying, but I still couldn't grasp why the fellow was telling
us
all that, nor even what the hell we were doing there. Nor could I understand why the police didn't simply remove us from the scene of the crime, given that we weren't family and didn't live there. I suppose the fact that he was an influential person meant these civil servants turned a blind eye in situations like this. Meanwhile, my brother, who seemed to have recovered from his fright, was giving himself the airs of a professional detective. What a joke.

“Do you know the provenance of the cognac and the
marrons glacés
?” he asked gently.

“I really don't know,” the MP shook his head. “I imagine the cognac must have come in a Christmas hamper. We get
a good few. And as for the
marrons glacés
...” he hesitated before answering, “come to think of it, Lídia did say someone had sent them with a note. I remember because she couldn't decipher the signature and showed it to me.”

“Stop!” exclaimed the policeman who moments ago had lambasted Borja. “You say there's a note? Where is it?”

“I don't know, on Lídia's bureau I suppose, if she kept it. I'll tell the girl to go with you to look for it. Frankly,” he added, “it was a frightful card.”

Minutes later, one of the policemen returned triumphantly with a very sentimental Christmas card, like the ones my aunt and uncle send me every year. The policeman had placed it very professionally inside a small transparent plastic bag.

“Is this it?” he asked.

“I think so. Though I don't recognize the signature ...” Our client seemed genuine enough.

“What about the envelope?” asked the other policeman, who seemed to be in charge.

“Well, now you mention it,” the MP thought aloud, “the card was in a white envelope which just had my wife's name on it. I expect it ended up in the rubbish bin.”

The policeman, who was wearing a surgeon's gloves, took the card out of the bag and examined it minutely. My brother and I craned our necks to get a look in. Somebody had written shakily with a blue ballpoint:

In effect, the signature was illegible.

“Do you know if the parcel came through the post?” I asked.

“No, I think a messenger brought it,” said the MP. “Perhaps the girl might remember. Or perhaps not. We get so many gifts and seasonal greetings ...”

I thought of all the people who must send the Fonts presents, whether to thank them for some favour or to anticipate one in the future. At Christmas time, bribes are allowed if they come ham-shaped or in a hamper.

“Wasn't your wife shocked when she received a box of sweets from a complete stranger?” I ventured.

“They are
marrons glacés
,” pointed out Borja, offended by this confusion.

“The fact is Lídia receives ... used to receive lots of thankyou notes accompanied by flowers, boxes of sweets and this kind of gift.” And he went on: “Everyone knows she adored
marrons glacés
, anyone slightly acquainted with her, that is. In our position, there are a lot of people who ask us for small favours, and if it's within our hands ...”

The maid interrupted him, rushing into the room, extremely agitated.

“Miss Núlia sicking upstairs!” she said, looking aghast, her whole body shaking. “Sir coming up now! She very bad, very bad!”

“Good God!” exclaimed the MP, clearly worried about his daughter.

“Casadepuny, accompany him!” the sergeant ordered.

The MP and the younger policeman ran out of the room and up the stairs. We stayed in the drawing room, watched over by the other two eagle-eyed policemen, particularly Borja. After a few minutes, the young policeman came back to say it was nothing serious, just an attack of nerves. Soon after the MP returned, slightly calmer.

“She's very upset, but she's all right,” he explained when
even calmer. “She's taken a pill and her aunt will come for her in a minute. She's beside herself, naturally ... It would be best if she spent tonight at her aunt and uncle's house.” And whispered, “Poor Núria, that's all she needed ...”

“His Honour the Judge has just arrived,” one of the policemen waiting outside the house informed us rather nervously.

The judge, who was quite young (around thirty, I'd say), came in looking disgusted. His holidays had obviously just been ruined. He seemed competent but out of his depth, and when they told him it looked like a poisoning by some deadly substance and that Borja had eaten a
marron glacé
from the same box the victim had eaten from, he went berserk. He snarled at the police and threw us unceremoniously out of the room. After giving the body the necessary once over he ordered its removal.

Meanwhile, the judicial police searched the room and took fingerprints and samples. They also took with them the box of
marrons glacés
and the bottle and glass of cognac that still retained a few drops of liquor and the traces of red lipstick.

The judge summoned the MP to go and make a statement the following day and advised him to bring his lawyer. He asked us to ensure we were contactable. As soon as the judge disappeared, Lluís Font told us very quietly he wanted a word in private and asked us to wait in his office.

What with one thing and another it was now two a.m. Despite the upheaval and tension I was exhausted. All this time, Borja had been pretending to survey the scene of the crime, as our client had asked, but I really didn't know what to do or think. I was shocked by the man's sangfroid: after all, he had just lost his wife. He seemed so calm and collected. If anything similar happened to Montse (God forbid), I'd be on my knees, I expect, a blubbing heap of nerves. Our client, on the other hand, was so cold and self-possessed it put me on edge. I considered whether he might possibly be involved in some way in his wife's death, but finally concluded that if he were the murderer, he would logically have acted as if he'd been much more affected in order to allay suspicions. When we were alone in his office, I communicated the drift of my deductions to Borja.

“It's a question of upbringing,” he told me in the pedagogical tone he adopts when informing me of the subtleties of the world of the wealthy. “The process is an internal one. These people know how to control their emotions, but it doesn't mean they're not upset.”

“Well, if he can impose that much self-control, he can't be that upset,” I retorted.

“It's a class-marker, Eduard,” he sighed at my incredulity. “The upper classes never cry in public. It's considered to be in bad taste.”

“Oh!” I said not at all fathoming his insight.

When the police abandoned the house, the MP came and offered us a drink. Remembering the bottle of cognac the forensics had taken off to test, we prudently declined his offer. Our client also abstained, I expect for the same reason.

“I must ask a favour of you,” he began quite nervously. “You're the only people I can trust in this matter.”

“At your disposition,” said Borja deferentially.

“My personal assistant is on holiday in Sri Lanka. He's away till the end of the year ...” He paused to light a cigarette. “I mean to say I'm only asking you because he is abroad ...”

“What is your concern?” asked Borja, wanting him to come to the point.

“The painting, of course. The portrait of Lídia that's in my office is what concerns me,” he confessed. “Particularly as we don't know what happened this evening. If it's true, as the police believe, that Lídia was poisoned ... I don't know what the routine is in such cases, but the police will probably issue a search warrant. Obviously I have nothing to hide, but if they were to find the painting, you know, life might begin to get complicated. I'd have some explaining to do, I mean it's not a portrait I commissioned, but one I discovered by chance, the model being my wife ...”

“... there's no invoice,” Borja quickly homed in.

“In fact, there is. It's made out to a company name. That's not the problem.”

“So I don't see what we can do,” my brother said. “Unless ...”

“Tomorrow is a public holiday, and I don't think the judge will be in a great hurry to sign a search warrant.” He paused while Borja and I tried to work out what he was plotting. “If you could, tomorrow night for example, discreetly go and replace Lídia's portrait with another picture and keep it for me for a few days ...”

“Replace the portrait?” asked Borja.

I hadn't understood either.

“I know what I'm asking you to do is rather strange ...” the MP recognized.

“And why not just take it and leave it at that?” I asked.

“My secretary has seen the package, but not the contents. She knows it's a painting. If the police asked her if she'd noticed anything missing, she might, without meaning to, put her foot in it. I thought,” he suggested as innocently as he could, despite the anxiety our faces betrayed, “it would be best to substitute a similar sized package. That way I wouldn't have to do any explaining. If you do me this favour,” he drawled, “I shall be eternally grateful.”

Neither my brother nor I said anything for a few seconds. Borja huffed and looked at me askance.