Маргарет Миллар: The Listening Walls

When she first woke up she could hear herself screaming, but a moment later, sitting up, fully awake now, she realized it was not herself she’d heard screaming. It was one of the ladies in 404.

In spite of the lateness of the hour there were a dozen eyewitnesses who’d been passing on the avenida below the balcony of 404, each of them eager to give his version of what had happened.

The American lady paused at the railing and looked down before she jumped.

She did not look down. She knelt and prayed.

She didn’t hesitate a moment, just ran across the balcony and dived over.

She screamed as she fell.

She didn’t make a sound.

She carried in her arms a silver box.

Her arms were empty, flung wide to the heavens in supplication.

She turned over and over in the air.

She fell straight down and head first, like an arrow.

The eyewitnesses all agreed on one point: when she struck the pavement she died instantly.

In the hotel manager’s office Dr. Lopez gave a brief statement to the police. “I treated Mrs. Wyatt last night for a case of turista. An unhappy woman. Very nervous, very high-strung.”

“Very drunk,” said the bartender.

“Very rich,” Consuela said with a nervous giggle. “What a pity to die when one is rich.”

The doctor held up his hand for silence. “Kindly allow me to finish. My rounds begin in less than five hours and even a doctor requires some sleep. As I said before, you’ll get the complete story from Mrs. Kellogg when she recovers. How soon that will be depends on the hospital authorities. She’s suffered a bad shock. Moreover, when she fainted she struck her head on the bedpost, so she may have some degree of concussion as well. That’s all I can tell you.”

“I, too, am very nervous and high-strung,” said Mercado, the older of the two policemen. “Still, I do not leap off balconies.”

Dr. Lopez smiled without amusement. “You might one day, one balcony. Good morning, gentlemen.”

“Good morning, Doctor. Now you, Consuela Gonzales. You claim you were in the broom closet and heard a woman screaming. Which woman?”

“The small, brown-haired one.”

“Señora Kellogg?”

“Yes.”

“Was she just making a noise or was she screaming words?”

“Words. Like ‘stop’ and ‘help.’ Maybe others.”

“Just as a matter of curiosity, what were you doing in the broom closet at that hour?”

“Sleeping. I was very tired after work. I work hard, very very hard.” She threw a glance at Escamillo, the manager of the hotel. “Señor Escamillo doesn’t realize how hard I work.”

“That I don’t,” Escamillo said with a snort.

“No matter, no matter, no matter,” Mercado said. “Go on, señorita. You woke up and heard screaming. You rushed into 404. And?”

“The small one, Señora Kellogg, was lying on the carpet beside the bed. Her head was bleeding and she was unconscious. I couldn’t see the other one anywhere. I never thought to look over the balcony. How could I think of such a thing? To take one’s own life, it is a mortal sin.” Consuela crossed herself, fearfully. “The room smelled of drinking and there was half a bottle of whiskey on the bureau. I tried to give the señora some to wake her up but it just spilled all over.”

“So you drank the rest yourself,” said Escamillo, the manager.

“The merest drop. To keep my strength up.”

“Drop. Ha! You reek of it,” said Señor Escamillo.

“I will not be insulted by any pig of a man!”

“So you dare to call me a pig of a man, you ladronzuela!”

“Prove it. Prove I am a ladronzuela!”

Mercado yawned and reminded them that it was late; that he and his colleague, Santana, were very tired; that he, Mercado, had a wife and eight children and many troubles; and would everybody, please, be friendly and cooperative? “Now, Señorita Gonzales, when you failed to rouse the señora, what did you do?”

“I telephoned down to the room clerk and he sent for the doctor. Dr. Lopez. He has an agreement with the hotel.”

“He has a contract,” Escamillo said. “Signed.”

Consuela shrugged. “Does it matter what you call it? When a doctor is necessary, it is always Dr. Lopez they send for. So he came. Immediately. Or very soon anyway. That is all I know.”

“You stayed with the señora until the doctor arrived?”

“Yes. She did not wake up.”

“Now, señorita, what do you know of a silver box?”

Consuela looked blank. “Silver box?”

“This one. See, it has blood on it and is badly dented where it struck the pavement. Have you ever seen this box before?”

“Never. I know nothing about it.”

“Very well. Thank you, señorita.”

Consuela rose gracefully and crossed the room, pausing for a moment in front of Escamillo’s desk. “I do not take insults. I quit.”

“You don’t quit. You’re fired.”

“I quit before I was fired. So ha!”

“I shall count every single towel,” Escamillo said. “Personally.”

“Cochino.”

Consuela snapped her fingers and went out, slamming the door firmly and finally behind her.

“You see?” Escamillo cried, beating the air with his fists. “How can I run a hotel with help like that? They are all the same. And now this terrible scandal. I am ruined, ruined, ruined. Policemen in my office! Reporters in my lobby! And the Embassy — Mother of Jesus, must the Embassy be brought into this, too?”

“We must, of course, inform the Embassy in such cases,” Mercado said.

“These crazy Americans, if they want to jump do they not have places to jump in their own country? Why must they come here and ruin an innocent man!”

Everyone agreed that it was most unfair, most sad, but God’s will, after all. No one could argue with God’s will, which was responsible for national and domestic disasters like earthquakes, unseasonable rains, temperamental plumbing, difficulties with the telephone exchange, as well as cases of sudden death.

It was comforting having someone to blame, and Escamillo was beginning to feel better when another point suddenly occurred to him. “What of the suite, 404? It is empty and yet it is not empty. I must charge for it or lose money. But I cannot charge if there is no one in it. And I cannot put anyone in it while the señoras’ belongings are still there. What must I do?”

“You must learn not to think so much of money,” Mercado said firmly and picked up the silver box and nodded to his colleague, Santana. “Come along. We will examine 404 once more and then lock it until the little señora recovers.”

The balcony doors had been left open but the suite still reeked of whiskey, from the carpet where it had spilled and from the bottle itself which Consuela had left uncorked on the bureau.

“It would be a shame,” Mercado said, reaching for the bottle, “to let this product stand here and evaporate.”

“But it is evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“That the señora was drunk.”

“We already know from the bartender that she was drunk. We must not accumulate too much evidence. It would only confuse matters. The case is, after all, quite simple. The señora was drinking much tequila and became depressed. Tequila is not for amateurs.”

“Why did she become depressed?”

“Unrequited love,” Mercado said without hesitation. “Americans make much of these things. It is in all their cinemas. Have a nip.”

“Thank you, friend.”

“One thing we can be sure of. It was not an accident. I thought at first, the señora, after drinking heavily, may have rushed out to the balcony to get some air, perhaps also to relieve her stomach. But this is not possible.”