Herve Le Tellier - Electrico W

“You should go and take some photos there, Antonio.”

“In the cemetery? Okay, in a couple of days. Because Irene’s coming tomorrow. You’re not forgetting, are you? And the Pinheiro trial starts too.”

I nodded.

I wonder whether the time has now come to talk about Pinheiro. It may be a digression here, but this story’s so odd, anyway. Two years ago, over a period of four months, Lisbon saw a wave of unexplained murders. Thirteen victims of all ages and from every walk of life. A retired old woman, an unemployed laborer, a family practitioner, a fishmonger, a bank employee, a schoolboy … There was a link between the murders but the police chose to hide it from the press so no one knew a serial killer was operating in the city: the killer used the same weapon every time, a.30 caliber pistol. And he fired two or three shots every time, not with relentless ferocity, just to be sure the life had been taken.

The investigation was so short of clues that it would have dragged on for a long time were it not for a tailor working late one night who, shortly after hearing two shots ringing around the courtyard of his building, saw a stranger come out of the porch. The tailor rushed outside. The man was walking slowly, not turning around. He wasn’t running away. Even so, spurred only by intuition, the tailor caught up with him and held him by the sleeve. Ricardo Pinheiro froze on the sidewalk. He didn’t seem surprised. He had “faraway eyes,” according to the witness’s statement.

He was an insignificant man. He was wearing a gray Prince of Wales checked suit, fraying along the sleeve and the collar, and a gray flannel hat with a black ribbon. Something heavy distended one of his pockets, and the tailor was frightened. He started yelling for help, still keeping a hold of Pinheiro. Pinheiro tried listlessly to free himself, less to escape than as a reflex.

The 7.65mm Parabellum Luger was in his pocket, its barrel still burning hot, and four bullets were left in the cylinder, one of them ready to be fired. He didn’t try to use it against the tailor. Meanwhile the grocer’s wife on the third floor lay in a pool of blood, the bullet had shattered her skull.

When the police arrived, Pinheiro was lying unconscious on the sidewalk. The crowd must have punched and kicked him until he collapsed, although the tailor said that he fell with the first blow.

He was taken to the hospital, where the doctors made a bizarre discovery: under his clothes, next to his skin, Ricardo Pinheiro was wearing a fine coat of bronze chain mail.

For a week Pinheiro remained in a state of unconsciousness close to coma. Then, as soon as he was questioned by the police, he admitted to all the murders, without providing any explanation. He even admitted to those committed while he had been visiting his sister near Porto. It was the police who found witnesses to exonerate him. He didn’t betray his accomplices. He didn’t explain the bronze chain mail or ask to wear it in prison, contradicting every diagnosis made by psychiatrists.

The press was expecting a great deal from the trial, perhaps too much. I thought Pinheiro would say nothing, would let a succession of experts take the stand, attending his own trial without a word, more of a Bartleby than a Jack the Ripper. Keeping a record of his silence suited me very well.

The following morning we woke early and worked for nearly two hours on the material gathered in the port: described the rusting metal and oily water, captured the sounds of the docks with percussive verbs and supposedly grating adjectives.

Then Antonio looked at his watch and stretched.

“Okay, I need to get to the airport. Her plane lands at 11:50. Are you coming with me? Irene’ll be pleased to see you. I’m sure she will.”

My head swam and I opted to invent a lunch date.

“Lena’s reserved a table at a restaurant. In the Alfama district. If I go with you I won’t be back in time.”

“Call her, arrange to meet later …”

“I already tried to earlier. She’d left the house for the day. No, really, it won’t work.”

“We could meet up later. For coffee maybe?”

From his insistent expression, I gathered he didn’t want to be left alone with Irene, he was weakened by his disloyalty the day before, he was vulnerable. I decided to adopt another tactic.

“Sure. Why not?”

“What’s the name of the restaurant?”

“I … I don’t know its name. Well, I only know how to get there.” Antonio smiled sardonically. My ridiculous answers made me a little more suspect. I gave in: “Okay. Come and join us. I’ll leave a message for you at the hotel with the address.”

Antonio nodded and put on his scruffy jacket.

“Okay, I’m off.”

At the last moment he turned in the doorway: “Don’t forget. About the restaurant.”

I WENT UP to the old neighborhood in the heights, near the Largo Santa Luzia, and chose a table on a terrace just before midday.

I called the hotel to leave the restaurant’s name, and told my waiter emphatically that I needed to eat quickly. The plane must have landed, and I was afraid they would appear around the corner of the street at any moment.

To create the illusion of a fellow diner, I put a chair opposite me, spilled some drops of wine and sauce on the tablecloth, scattered a few breadcrumbs, and even marked the white paper place mat with the circular imprints of a second plate and a glass. A Lena could very easily have just left the table.

The successive courses came too quickly, and when the waiter cleared the table, it was barely half past twelve. I ordered two coffees.

“At the same time,” I specified.

“At the same time?” the waiter repeated. “Your coffees?”

“Yes, please.”

“It’s no trouble coming back, sir. Or the second one will go cold.”

“No, no, bring them both, it’s fine.”

He walked away but I saw him raise his eyes to the heavens. When he came back I paid the bill so that it wasn’t left lying on the table. I drank the first coffee very quickly, almost burning my mouth.

He wanted to remove the empty cup, but I insisted he not touch it.

“No, no, leave it. I have some friends coming soon.”

He looked at me, bemused, and headed back to the kitchen. On the way he stopped to have a few words with the woman at the till. He prodded his temple with his finger, and I realized my eccentricities were being discussed.

Twenty to one. I finished the second coffee and ordered a third.

“Yes, sir. Should I leave everything on the table? All the coffee cups?”

“Please.”

“Yes, sir. No problem. No problem at all.”

I decided to look away to avoid seeing whether he stopped at the till again. I took out my newspaper and started looking through it, without managing to read it properly.

On the third page, though, a headline filled the entire width of the paper: the Pinheiro trial was about to begin. Two weeks earlier my landlady had mentioned him because he had lived only two streets away.

“You know that Pinheiro worked at the customs office at the docks,” she had said. “But he used to have lunch in my son-in-law’s restaurant every day, and he never talked to anyone. No one. He used to read the whole time. How awful!”

She had said “How awful!” again with a shudder.

I folded the newspaper, wondering what on earth I could write about Pinheiro. I was bound to find something. Murderous madness in ordinary people is always a good subject.