Published: 2025-10-28

It was the end of the year, and the aristocracy of New Town congregated in the Highview Hotel. It was the oldest and most prestigious hotel in town; it had withstood earthquakes and bombings since it was built almost 300 years ago.

Among the politicians and men and women of culture, there was a man like none other; his name was Tomás Herrera. He was not interested in matters of the state or pictures hanging on the walls; in fact, he wanted to know just one thing.

“Excuse me, good sir,” Tomás said to Jorge Ramos, the man at the front desk, “where can I find the toy aisle?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You see, I’m looking for this doll. Blond, slim, very popular with little girls. It’s for my niece, she just turned—”
“Sir, I think—”
“…And I have looked all over the town for it, but I could not—”
“Sir, I’m trying to—”
“…You see, the little girl would be devastated if—”

Jorge, tired of being interrupted, raised his voice, “Be quiet for a moment!”

The scene caught the attention of the people who entered and left, and of those who sat in the lobby. They gave Jorge a look of disapproval and exchanged whispers among themselves. He was mortified.

“You seem a little on edge, chap.” Tomás said, “May I suggest a cup of tea? I prefer lavender, but you could also—”
“Sir, sir. I’ve been trying to tell you for fifteen minutes, this is not a department store, this is a hotel.”

Tomás, who, with a hand under the chin, supported his head by resting his elbow on the front desk, stood straight and took a look around, panning his head from left to right.

“But of course, this is the Highview Hotel, founded during colonial times by one of the most important businessmen of—”
“Sir, sir. Yes, we know the story. If you knew this was a hotel, what made you think there would be a toy aisle in here?”
“Well, there isn’t?”
“There is not.”
“My, that’s quite a disappointment. May I suggest you add one?”
“Sir, I don’t think we could—”
“I want to speak to the manager!”

Jorge took a big sigh. As Tomás waited for the manager, the lights went out. It couldn’t have been more than a minute, but when the lights came back on, a piercing scream was heard.

“It’d seem somebody is in trouble!” Tomás said.
“It came from the ballroom.”
“I’ll go look.”

Tomás tried to leave in a hurry, but Jorge grabbed his jacket.

“What’s the matter, chap?”
“You’re going in the wrong direction.”

Tomás stopped for a moment, “But of course! The Highview Hotel’s ballroom was constructed in the—”

“For the love of Jesus, go!”

Tomás left, now running in the right direction.

When he arrived at the ballroom, a crowd of frightened aristocrats stood by the door. Near the center of the room, next to a round table, a deep red puddle broke the harmony of the room. Tomás walked to it; everyone gasped as he crouched to palpate the liquid.

“What happened in this room is evident…” he said, “someone spilled red paint on the marble floor!”

The room fell silent. A young man stepped up. It was Marino Pérez Jr., the son of the mayor.

“What happened here was a murder.”
“Brilliant deduction, chap, although sadly flawed.”
“And why is that, Mr…”
“Herrera.”
“Why is that, Mr Herrera?”
“Well, to begin with, there’s no body.”
“But there is.”
“And where may it be?”
“You’re stepping on it.”

Tomás looked down. His feet pressed the stabbed back of a young man. His name was Rodolfo Guzmán Jr., the son of a renowned banker.

“That’d explain the irregularities of the floor.”

He stood up and observed the body; he smiled.

“This young fellow could not have been the victim of a murder.”
“And why is that?”
“For starters, there is no murder weapon.”
“You mean the bloody knife on top of the table?”

Tomás turned to the table. A butcher knife had stained the white tablecloth red.

“But we are still missing a murderer.”
“You mean the blood-splattered man sitting next to the knife?”

Tomás adjusted his field of vision. There was indeed a man splattered in blood next to the butcher knife. His name was Jason Jiménez.

The man seemed to be in shock; he sat there without uttering a word. Tomás looked at Jason’s wrist; his watch was also splattered in blood.

Tomás took a pen from his jacket and a white table napkin from one of the neighboring tables. Looking at Jason, he extended the napkin and pen, “Excuse me, chap, may I have your autograph?”

Everyone in the room gasped.

“May I remind you that somebody just died? Asking for a murderer’s autograph is in very bad taste.” Marino said.
“Calm down, chap. History was made here tonight. I just want to own a piece of it.”

He turned to Jason again, his arm still extended. Jason took the items, leaving a red imprint in the white napkin. He wrote his name on the napkin and returned it to Tomás.

“This is the proof that this man committed no crime.”
“An autograph…” Marino said.
“Precisely. How could you explain that this man, clearly left-handed, grabbed a knife with his right hand and drove it through a man’s torso with such force, all in darkness?”
“Who said he didn’t use his left hand to stab Rodolfo?”
“Well, logic says it. His wristwatch, which he wears in the right hand, is splattered with blood, while his left hand remains dry.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Herrera?”
“I hardly suggest anything, chap; however, I state certain facts: 1) The man sitting at this table didn’t kill Rodolfo, and 2) he was framed to make it look like he did.”
“But who could do such a thing?”
“That’s pretty simple, too. It was—”

Jorge came running into the room. “Mr. Herrera, you have a message from your wife.”

“What is it, chap?”
“She said she found one of those dolls you wanted for your niece.”
“Isn’t that splendid? Oh, the little girl will be so delighted.”

Tomás walked towards the door, a big smile on his face.

“Aren’t you going to tell us who committed the murder?” Marino said.
“It’s not my problem, chap, I just came here to buy a toy.”

Tomás left, leaving everyone bewildered.

“But this is not even a department store!” Marino said.

THE END.