“If you don’t want to die, stop getting involved where it’s none of your business.” That was all that was in the letter. Written with letters cut out from a newspaper and glued misaligned on the sulfite paper.
Before Inspector Moreira arrived, Dolores had started to feel unwell while reading the message. Durval wondered why he didn’t learn to spare his wife from such distress; he shouldn’t have let her read it, Dolores had a weak heart. Now, she was breathless on the sofa, slumped sideways on the cushion, gasping for air, one hand on her chest, and Durval was rubbing the other one to calm her down.
The inspector paced back and forth in the room with his head down, deep in thought, while a forensic expert placed the letter and the envelope in a plastic bag with gloved hands.
— You don’t need to gloat, said the inspector. — You were right.
Durval remained silent. It was enough that Moreira admitted he wasn’t senile or hallucinating. He felt somewhat relieved; for a moment, he had doubted his own sanity. They say that a madman doesn’t know he’s mad.
— What are we going to do?
— You’re not going to do anything – replied the inspector. – I’m going to place a patrol car in front of your house twenty-four hours a day.
— I don’t want to be trapped in my own house.
— It’s for your safety, and Dolores’s. If you need to go out, a police officer will accompany you.
Durval huffed and continued to rub Dolores’s hand as she moaned softly. — Do you have any idea who might have sent the letter?
Durval thought for a moment. He didn’t intend to put his friend Botelho in a delicate situation with the police. The only clue against his friend was that he had an F1000 truck, just like the murderer’s. Better not to mention Botelho to the inspector. He would investigate this on his own.
Durval shook his head back and forth without looking at Moreira.
— If you remember someone, call me. We’ll analyze the letter and keep surveillance, the inspector went to the door.
— Take care, my old friend, he finally said, and left.
Durval saw that Dolores had fallen asleep. He adjusted the sofa cushion under her head and, carefully, got up. He stood for a while without moving, thinking. Trying to piece together the puzzle. It had been days since they had seen the corpse in the kitchen, and so far, no dead body had been found in the city. It must be decomposing by now. Whoever the murderer was had been shrewd, the bastard. Without a body, there was no crime.
It was then that Durval heard it. Joana was whispering in the kitchen of the house. He walked to the entrance of the hallway that led to the kitchen. It must have been about seven meters long, but he could hear the whisper coming from the front.
Durval began to walk slowly, limping on his casted leg and holding onto the wall. As he approached the kitchen entrance, the sound became clearer, but it was still impossible to understand the words. For a moment, he thought he was paranoid for suspecting his own maid, whom they had known for three decades.
But then, he bumped into one of the pictures in the hallway, making a noise, and Joana immediately stopped talking.
Durval froze. Then he realized someone was coming toward him from behind.