The Flanders Panel

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "As for you, Señorita, you've nothing more to worry about." He paused on the threshold, with the dignified expression of a public official fully in charge of the situation. "We know who we're looking for now. Good night."

  When she'd closed the door, Julia leaned back against it and looked at her two friends. She had dark shadows under her now dry eyes. She'd cried a lot, out of grief and rage, tormented by her own impotence. Immediately after finding Menchu's body she'd wept, quietly in front of Muñoz, then, when César had arrived, looking pale and harassed, with the horror of the news evident on his face, she'd embraced him as she had when she was a child, her tears had become sobs, and she'd lost all control, clinging to César, who could only murmur futile words of consolation. It wasn't just her friend's death; it was, she said, her voice breaking as hot tears streamed down her face, the unbearable tension of the last few days, the humiliating certainty that the murderer was playing with their lives with absolute impunity, confident that he had them at his mercy.

  At least the police interrogation had had one positive effect: it had restored her to a sense of reality. The stubborn stupidity with which Feijoo refused to see the obvious, the false affability with which he'd accepted–without understanding anything, without making the slightest attempt to understand—the detailed explanations they'd given him about what was going on, had reinforced her belief that she had nothing to hope for from that direction. The phone call from the officer dispatched to Max's and the discovery of the two witnesses had confirmed Feijoo in his idea, typical of the police, that the simplest motive is usually the most likely. The chess story was, of course, interesting, something that would doubtless fill out the details of the incident. But as far as the substance of the matter went, it was purely anecdotal. The detail of the bottle proved it. Pure criminal pathology. "Because, despite what you read in detective novels, Señorita, appearances are never deceptive."

  "There's no doubt about it now," said Julia as the Inspector could be heard going down the stairs. "Álvaro was murdered, like Menchu. Someone's obviously been after the painting for a long time."

  Muñoz, standing by the table, was looking at the piece of paper on which, the moment Feijoo had left, he'd noted down the contents of the card found by the body. César was sitting on the sofa where Menchu had spent the night, staring in stupefaction at the empty easel. When he heard Julia speak, he shook his head.

  "It wasn't Max who did it," he said. "There is absolutely no way an imbecile like him could have thought all this Up."

  "But he was here. At least in the building."

  César bowed before the evidence, but without much conviction.

  "There must be someone else involved. If Max was, so to speak, the hired help, someone else was pulling the strings." He slowly raised one hand and tapped his forehead with his index finger. "Someone with brains."

  "The mystery player. And now he's won the game."

  "He hasn't won it yet," said Muñoz, and they turned towards him in surprise.

  "He's got the painting," Julia pointed out. "If that isn't winning..."

  There was a gleam of absorbed fascination in Muñoz's eyes; their dark pupils seemed to see, beyond the four walls of the room, the mathematical meeting in space of complex combinations.

  "With or without the painting, the game goes on," he said, and showed them the paper:

  ... Q × R

  Qe7? - Qb3+

  Kd4? - Pb7 × Pc6

  "This time," he added, "the murderer doesn't suggest one move, but three." He went over to his raincoat and took out his pocket chess set. "The first is obvious: Q × R, the black queen takes the white rook. The taking of the white rook represents Menchu Roch's murder, just as, in this game, the white knight symbolised your friend Álvaro and, in the painting, Roger de Arras." Muñoz arranged the pieces on the board as he talked. "Therefore, so far in this game, the black queen has taken only two pieces. And in reality," he glanced at César and Julia, who'd gathered round to study the board, "each of those two pieces represents a murder. Our opponent identifies himself with the black queen; when another black piece takes a white piece, as happened two moves back when we lost the first white rook, nothing happened. At least, not as far as we know."

  Julia pointed to the paper.

  "Why have you put question marks by the next two moves by White?"

  "I didn't put them there. They were on the card; the murderer has foreseen what we will do next. I assume those signs to be an invitation for us to make those moves. 'If you do this, I'll do this', he's saying to us. And if we do that"–he moved some pieces–"the game would look like this.

  "As you can see, there have been important changes. Having taken the rook on b2, Black foresaw that we would make the best possible move we could, that is, move our white queen from square el to e7. That gives us an advantage: a diagonal line of attack threatening the black king, who is already fairly limited in his movements by the presence of the white knight, bishop and pawn nearby. Assuming that we would make the move we've just made, the black queen moves up from b2 to b3 to support the king and to threaten the white king with check. The latter has no alternative but to withdraw to the square to his right, as in fact we have done, fleeing from c4 to d4, out of reach of the queen."

  "That's the third time he's had us in check," said César.

  "Yes. And one could interpret that in several ways. It could be a case of third time lucky, for example, since the third time he has us in check the murderer steals the painting. I think I'm beginning to understand him a little. Including his peculiar sense of humour."

  "What next?" asked Julia.

  "Black then takes our white pawn on c6 with the black pawn that was on b7. That move is protected by the black knight on b8. Then it's our turn to move, but our opponent makes no suggestion on the card. It's as if he's saying that what we do next is up to us, not up to him."

  "And what are we going to do?" asked César.

  "There's only one good option: to keep playing the white queen." He looked at Julia as he said this. "But playing the queen also means we risk losing her."

  Julia shrugged. All she wanted was for it to be over, whatever the risks might be.

  "The queen it is then."

  César was leaning over the board, his hands behind his back, as if he were subjecting the questionable quality of a piece of antique china to particularly close scrutiny.

  "That white knight, the one on bl, doesn't look too safe either," he said in a low voice, addressing Muñoz. "Wouldn't you agree?"

  "I know. I doubt Black will let him stay there much longer. His presence, threatening Black's rearguard, provides the main support for an attack by the white queen. There's the white bishop on d3 too. Both of those pieces near the queen could prove decisive."

  The two men looked at each other in silence, and Julia saw a current of sympathy grow between them that she'd not seen before. It was like the Spartans' resigned solidarity in the face of danger at Thermopylae, when they heard the distant sound of the Persian chariots approaching.

  "I'd give anything to know which of the chess pieces we are," remarked César, arching an eyebrow. His lips curved. "I'd really rather not be that horse."

  Muñoz raised a finger.

  "It's a knight, remember. That's a much more honourable name."

  "I'm not worried about the name." César studied the piece with a worried expression. "He looks as if he's in a spot of danger there, that knight."

  "I agree."

  "Is it you or me, do you think?"

  "No idea."

  "I confess I'd rather take the part of the bishop."

  Muñoz put his head on one side, thoughtfully, without taking his eyes off the board.

  "Me too. He's in a safer position than the knight."

  "That's what I meant, my dear."

  "Well, I wish you luck."

  "And the same to you. And the last one to leave turn out the lights."

  A long silence followed, which Julia bro
ke, addressing Muñoz.

  "Since it's our turn to play, what's our next move? You mentioned the white queen..."

  Muñoz gave a desultory glance at the board. All the possible combinations had already been analysed in his mind.

  "At first I thought of taking the black pawn on c6 with our pawn on d5, but that would give our opponent too much of a breathing space. So we'll move our queen from e7 to e4. We have only to move our king next time and we have the black king in check. Our first check."

  This time it was César who moved the white queen, placing her on the corresponding square, next to the king. Julia noticed that, despite his apparent calm, his fingers were trembling slightly.

  "That's it," nodded Muñoz. And the three of them looked again at the board.

  "And what will 'he' do next?" asked Julia.

  Muñoz crossed his arms, without taking his eyes off the chessboard, and stood thinking. When he replied, she knew that he hadn't been considering the move, only whether or not he should put it into words.

  "He has several options," he said vaguely. "Some are more interesting than others. And more dangerous too. From this point on, the game branches off in several directions. There are at least four possible variants. Some would involve us in a long and complex game, which might well be his intention. With others the game could be over in four or five moves."

  "Which do you think?" asked César.

  "I'll reserve judgment on that for the moment. It's Black's turn to move now."

  He picked up the pieces, folded the board and returned it to his raincoat pocket. Julia looked at him with some curiosity.

  "It's odd, what you said a while ago. I mean about the murderer's sense of humour. When you said that, you'd begun to understand it. Do you really find some humour in all of this?"

  "You could call it humour, or irony if you prefer," he said. "But our enemy's taste for puns is undeniable." He placed one hand over the piece of paper on the table. "There's something you may not have realised. Using the symbols Q × R, the murderer links the death of your friend with the rook taken by the black queen. Menchu's surname was Roch, wasn't it? And that word, like 'rook', has its origins in the word 'rock'."

  "The police called this morning." Lola Belmonte gave Julia and Muñoz a sour look, as if she held them directly responsible for that intrusion. "This is all..." She searched unsuccessfully for the word, turning to her husband for help.

  "Most unpleasant," said Alfonso, who then immersed himself once more in his blatant contemplation of Julia's bosom. It was clear that, police or no police, he had only just got out of bed. The dark circles under his still puffy eyes emphasised his habitual air of dissipation.

  "It was worse than that." Lola Belmonte had at last found the word she wanted and leaned her bony form forwards in her chair. "It was ignominious. Do you know So-and-so? Anyone would think we were the criminals."

  "And we're not," said her husband with ironic seriousness.

  "Don't be stupid." Lola Belmonte gave him a spiteful look. "This is a serious conversation."

  Alfonso gave a short laugh.

  "It's a waste of time. All that matters is that the painting's disappeared and with it our money."

  "My money, Alfonso," said Belmonte, from his wheelchair, "if you don't mind."

  "Just a manner of speaking, Uncle."

  "Well, be more accurate in future."

  Julia stirred the contents of her cup. The coffee was cold, and she wondered if the niece had served it like that on purpose. They'd turned up unexpectedly in the latter part of the morning on the pretext of keeping the family informed of events.

  "Do you think the painting will be found?" asked the old man. He'd received them dressed casually in sweater and slippers but with a friendliness that made up for the niece's sullen scowl. He was disconsolate now. The news of the theft and of Menchu's murder had come as a great shock to him.

  "The matter is in the hands of the police," said Julia. "I'm sure they'll find it."

  "I understand there's a black market for works of art. And that they could sell it abroad."

  "Yes, that's true, but the police have photographs. I gave them several myself. It won't be easy to get it out of the country."

  "I can't understand how they got into your apartment. The police told me that there's a security lock and an electronic alarm."

  "It could have been Menchu who opened the door. The chief suspect is Max, her boyfriend. There are witnesses who saw him leaving by the street door."

  "We've met the boyfriend," said Lola. "He came here with her one day. A tall, good-looking young man. Too good-looking, I thought... I hope they catch him quickly and give him what he deserves. For us"–she looked at the empty space on the wall–"the loss is irreparable."

  "At least you can claim the insurance money," said her husband, smiling at Julia. "Thanks to the forethought of this lovely young woman ..." He seemed suddenly to remember, and his face grew appropriately grave. "Although, of course, that won't bring your friend back."

  Lola Belmonte gave Julia a spiteful look.

  "That would have been the last straw if, on top of everything else, they hadn't insured it." She stuck out a scornful lower lip. "But Señor Montegrifo says that, compared with the price it would have got at auction, the insurance money is a pittance."

  "Have you spoken to Paco Montegrifo already?" asked Julia.

  "Yes. He phoned early this morning. He almost got us out of bed with the news. That's why we were fully informed when the police got here. He's such a gentleman." The niece looked at her husband with ill-concealed rancour. "I always said this business got off to a bad start."

  Alfonso made a gesture of washing his hands of the matter.

  "Poor Menchu's offer was a good one," he said. "It's not my fault if subsequently things got complicated. Besides, Uncle has always had the final say." He looked at Belmonte with exaggerated respect. "Isn't that so?"

  "I'm not so sure about that," said the niece.

  Belmonte looked at Julia over the top of the cup he'd just raised to his lips, and she caught in his eyes the self-contained gleam she knew well by now.

  "The painting is still in my name, Lolita," he said, after carefully drying his lips on a crumpled handkerchief. "For good or ill, stolen or not, it's my concern." When his eyes met Julia's again, there was genuine sympathy in them. "As for this young lady"–he smiled encouragingly, as if it were she who was in need of cheering up—"I'm sure her part in all this has been irreproachable." He turned to Muñoz, who had not as yet opened his mouth. "Wouldn't you agree?"

  Muñoz was slumped in an armchair, his legs stretched out and his fingers interlaced beneath his chin. When he heard the question, he blinked a little and put his head on one side, as if they'd interrupted him in the middle of a complicated meditation.

  "Undoubtedly," he said.

  "Do you still believe that any mystery is decipherable using mathematical laws?"

  "I certainly do."

  That short exchange reminded Julia of something.

  "There's no Bach today," she said.

  "After what happened to your friend and the disappearance of the painting, it's not a day for music." Belmonte seemed lost in thought and then he smiled enigmatically. "Anyway, silence is just as important as organised sound. Wouldn't you agree, Señor Muñoz?"

  For once, Muñoz was in agreement.

  "Absolutely," he remarked with renewed interest. "I think it's rather like photographic negatives. The background, which has apparently not been exposed, contains information too. Is that what happens with Bach?"

  "Of course. Bach uses negative spaces, silences that are as eloquent as notes, tempi and syncopations. Do you cultivate the study of empty spaces within your logical systems?"

  "Naturally. It's like changing your point of view. Sometimes it's like looking at a garden which, when viewed from one place, has no apparent order, but which, viewed from another perspective, is laid out with geometric regularity."

&nbs
p; "I'm afraid," said Alfonso, giving them a mocking look, "it's too early in the day for me to cope with such scientific talk." He got up and walked over to the bar. "A drink, anyone?"

  No one replied. With a shrug, he prepared himself a whisky, went across to the sideboard and stood leaning on it as he raised his glass to Julia.

  "A garden, eh? I like it," he said and took a sip of his drink.