* * *

The pathologist also described the knife wounds that had been dealt Lomana on the torso when he grabbed the killer’s legs, trying in vain to avoid being pushed to the edge of the swimming pool. There was no water in his lungs, he explained, only blood. Lomana had drowned in his own blood before sinking into the putrid water. The pathologist was an experienced man, a professional who knew his job and whose teachings inspired respect and admiration. There were not many like him. For that reason alone, the man decided to spare his life.

Vargas, the old fox, dropped questions here and there with remarkable insight—the watcher had to give him that. But it was obvious that he was groping around in the dark and that, apart from the particulars of Lomana’s final agony, he would learn little from his visit to the morgue. While the man outside the door listened to the two inside, he debated whether he should withdraw for a few hours to take a rest or go in search of a prostitute to warm his feet until dawn. It seemed clear that Vargas’s inquiries had reached a standstill, and there would be no need to take further steps in the matter. Those were his orders, after all. Not to make a move unless there was no other choice. Deep down, he was sorry. It would have been interesting to confront the old policeman and see whether he still had the guts to cling on to life. Those who resisted the inevitable were his favorites. And as for the luscious Alicia, he was reserving the final honor for her. With her he would certainly take his time and savor the reward for all his efforts. Alicia was not going to disappoint him.

It was another half hour before the pathologist concluded his examination and offered Vargas a glass of the liqueur he kept in the instrument cupboard. The conversation diverted toward topics that are de rigueur between old friends whose paths have parted—platitudes on the passing of time, on those fallen along the wayside, and other banalities on the tired subject of aging. Bored, the listener was about to leave and let Vargas and the pathologist drift away to the back of beyond when he noticed that the policeman was pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, examining it under the lights hanging from the ceiling. The voices dropped to a murmur, and the man had to press his ear against the door to make out the words.

Dr. Manero noticed that the door to the room was moving slightly. “Braulio, is that you?”

When he didn’t get a reply, the pathologist sighed and shook his head disapprovingly. “When I don’t let him stay, he sometimes hides behind doors to eavesdrop.”

“I don’t know how you put up with him,” said Vargas.

“I tell myself that it’s almost better if he’s here, pissing out, rather than wandering about in the big wide world, pissing in. At least this way we can keep an eye on him. Nice drink, eh?”