The Flanders Panel

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "You are."

  "May I ask you a rather personal question?"

  "Ask and you'll find out."

  "What did you feel when you finally hit on the correct move, when you knew it was me?"

  Muñoz thought for a moment.

  "Relief," he said. "I would have been disappointed if it had been someone else."

  "Disappointed to have been wrong about the identity of the mystery player? I wouldn't want to exaggerate my own merits, but it wasn't that obvious, my friend. Several of the characters in this story weren't even known to you, and we've been together only a couple of weeks. You had only your chessboard to work with."

  "You misunderstand me," replied Muñoz. "I wanted it to be you. I liked the idea."

  Julia was looking at them, incredulity written on her face.

  "I'm so glad to see you two getting along so well," she said sarcastically. "If you like, later on we can all go out for a drink, pat each other on the back and tell each other what a laugh we've all had over this." She shook her head, as if trying to recover some sense of reality. "It's incredible, but I feel as if I were in the way here."

  César gave her a look of pained affection.

  "There are some things you can't understand, Princess."

  "Don't call me Princess! Besides, you're quite wrong. I understand it all perfectly. And now it's my turn to ask you a question. What would you have done that morning in the Rastro, if I hadn't noticed the spray can and the card and I'd just got into that car with its tyre made into a bomb and started the engine?"

  "That's ridiculous." César seemed offended. "I would never have let you."

  "Even at the risk of betraying yourself?"

  "Of course. You know that. Muñoz said so earlier. You were never in any danger. That morning everything was planned down to the last detail: the disguise ready in the poky little room with its two separate doors, which I've been renting as a storeroom, my appointment with the dealer, a real appointment that I dealt with in a matter of minutes ... I got dressed as fast as I could, walked to the alleyway, fixed the tyre, left the card and put the empty spray can on the bonnet. Then I stopped by the woman selling images to make sure she'd remember me, returned to the storeroom and, after a change of clothes and make-up, went off to meet you at the cafe. You have to admit my timing was impeccable."

  "Sickeningly so."

  César gave her a reproving look.

  "Don't be vulgar, Princess." He looked at her with an ingenuousness that was remarkable for its utter sincerity. "Using ghastly adverbs like that will get us nowhere."

  "Why take such pains to terrify me?"

  "It was an adventure, wasn't it? There had to be a hint of menace in the air. Can you imagine an adventure from which fear is absent? I couldn't tell you the stories that used to thrill you as a child, so I invented the most extraordinary adventure I could imagine. An adventure that you would never forget as long as you lived."

  "Of that you can be sure."

  "Mission accomplished, then. The struggle between reason and mystery, the destruction of the ghosts ensnaring you. Not bad, eh? And add to that the discovery that Good and Evil are not clearly delimited like the black and white squares on a chessboard." He looked at Muñoz before giving an oblique smile, as if in reference to a secret to which both were privy. "All the squares, my dear, are grey, tinged by the awareness of Evil that we all acquire with experience, an awareness of how sterile and often abjectly unjust what we call Good can turn out to be. Do you remember Settembrini, the character I so admired in The Magic Mountain? He used to say that Evil is the shining weapon of reason against the powers of darkness and ugliness."

  Julia was intently watching César's face. At certain moments it appeared that only half of his face was speaking, the visible half or the half in shadow, the other there only as witness. And she wondered which of the two was more real.

  "That morning when we attacked the blue Ford I really loved you, César."

  Instinctively, she addressed the illuminated half of his face, but the reply came from the half that was plunged in shadow:

  "I know you did. And that justifies everything. I didn't know what that car was doing there either. I was as intrigued by it as you were. Perhaps more so, for obvious reasons. No one, if you'll forgive the rather lugubrious joke, had invited it to the funeral." He shook his head gently at the memory. "I must say that those few yards, you with your pistol and me with my pathetic poker, and our attack on those two imbeciles, before we found out they were actually Inspector Feijoo's henchmen"–he gestured as if he couldn't find words to express his feelings–"were absolutely marvellous. I watched you walking straight at the enemy, brows furrowed, teeth clenched, as brave and terrible as an avenging fury. In addition to excitement, I felt genuine pride. There's a woman with real character, I thought, admiringly. If you'd been a different kind of person, unstable or fragile, I would never have put you to such a test. But I was sure you would emerge from this a new woman, harder and stronger."

  "Don't you think the price for that was rather high? Álvaro, Menchu ... you yourself."

  César seemed to search his memory, as if it were an effort to remember the person Julia was referring to. "Ah, yes, Menchu," he said at last, and frowned. "Poor Menchu, caught up in a game that was much too complex for her. Though, if you'll forgive the immodesty, her case was a brilliant bit of improvisation. When I phoned you first thing that morning, to see how everything had worked out, Menchu answered and said you weren't there. She seemed in a hurry to hang up, and now we know why. She was waiting for Max to carry out their absurd plan to steal the painting. I knew nothing about it, of course. But as soon as I put the phone down, I knew what my next move should be: Menchu, the painting. Half an hour later I rang the bell, in the guise of the woman in the raincoat."

  At this point, César looked amused, as if trying to get Julia to see the oddly funny side of the situation he was describing.

  "Princess," he continued, arching one eyebrow, "I always told you that you should get one of those spy holes in your door—very useful if you want to know who's calling. Menchu might not have opened the door to a blonde woman in dark glasses. But all she heard was César's voice telling her he had an urgent message from you. She had no alternative but to open the door, and she did." He turned his hands palm up, as if in posthumous apology for Menchu's mistake. "I imagine that at that moment she thought her plan with Max was about to be ruined, but her concern turned to surprise when she saw a strange woman standing on the doorstep. I just had time to see the startled look in her eyes before giving her a punch in the throat. She died without knowing who her killer was, I'm sure. I shut the door and set about preparing everything. Then–and this I didn't expect–I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock."

  "Max," said Julia unnecessarily.

  "Indeed. It was the handsome pimp, who, as I learned later, when he told you the whole story at the police station, was making his second call of the morning, in order to take the painting away before Menchu set fire to your apartment. An absolutely ridiculous plan, by the way, but typical of Menchu and that fool."

  "It could have been me at the door. Did you think of that?"

  "I must confess that when I heard the key in the lock, I thought it was you."

  "And what would you have done? Punched me in the throat too?"

  He looked at her again with the pained expression of one unjustly used.

  "Such a question," he said, looking for an appropriate response, "is both cruel and monstrous."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. I don't know exactly how I would have reacted. But the fact is, I felt lost, and all I could think of was to hide. I ran into the bathroom and held my breath, trying to come up with a way of getting out of there. But nothing would have happened to you. The game would simply have ended halfway through. That's all."

  Julia stuck out her lower lip, feeling words burning in her mouth.

  "I don't believe you, César. Not a
ny more."

  "Whether you believe me or not, my dear, doesn't change a thing." He made a resigned gesture, as if the conversation were beginning to weary him. "At this stage it really doesn't matter. What counts is that it wasn't you, but Max. I heard him saying: 'Menchu, Menchu'. He was terrified, but he didn't dare cry out, the villain. I'd calmed down by then. I had a dagger in my pocket, the Cellini you've often seen. And if Max had begun sniffing round the rooms, he would have encountered that knife in the most stupid way possible, right in his heart, suddenly, before he could say a word. Luckily for him, and for me, he didn't have the courage but chose instead to run off. Such a hero."

  He paused and sighed, but not boastfully.

  "He owes his life to that, the cretin," he added, getting up from his chair. Once on his feet, he looked at Julia and Muñoz, both of whom were watching him, and wandered round the room, the carpets muffling his footsteps.

  "I should have done what Max did and run away as fast as I could, since, for all I knew, the police could have been about to arrive. But what we might call my artistic honour got the better of me, and I dragged Menchu into the bedroom and ... well, you know what happened. I rearranged the decor a bit, certain that Max would get the blame. It took five minutes."

  "Why did you have to do that with the bottle? It was completely unnecessary. Disgusting and horrible."

  César tutted. He'd paused before one of the paintings hanging on the wall, Mars by Luca Giordano, and was looking at it as if he expected the god, encased in the gleaming metal of his anachronistic medieval armour, to provide an answer.

  "The bottle," he murmured without turning to face them, "was a complementary detail. A final inspirational touch."

  "It had nothing to do with chess," Julia pointed out, and her voice had the cutting edge of a razor. "More of a settling of accounts ... with all women."

  César turned slowly round to her. His eyes this time neither begged indulgence nor hinted at irony; they were, instead, distant, inscrutable.

  "Then," he said at last, in an absent tone and as if he hadn't heard what Julia had said, "I used your typewriter to type out the next move, picked up the painting wrapped up by Max and left with it under my arm. And that was that."

  He'd been speaking in a neutral voice, as if the conversation was no longer of any interest to him. But Julia was far from considering the matter closed.

  "But why kill Menchu? You could come and go in my apartment whenever you wanted. There were a thousand other ways of stealing the painting."

  That comment brought a spark of life back into César's eyes.

  "I see, Princess, that you're determined to give the theft of the Van Huys an exaggerated importance. In fact, it was just another detail. Throughout this whole affair I did some things simply because they complemented others. The icing on the cake, if you like," he said, struggling to find the right words. "There were several reasons Menchu had to die: some are irrelevant now and others aren't. Let's say they go from the purely aesthetic, and that's how our friend Muñoz made his astonishing discovery of the link between Menchu's surname and the rook that was taken, to other deeper reasons. I'd organised everything to free you from pernicious ties and influences, to cut your links with the past. Unfortunately for her, Menchu, with her innate stupidity and vulgarity, was one of those links, as was Álvaro."

  "And who gave you the power over life and death?"

  César gave a Mephistophelian smile.

  "I did, all on my own. And forgive me if that sounds impertinent." He seemed suddenly to recall the presence of Muñoz. "As regards the rest of the game, I didn't have much time. Muñoz was like a bloodhound sniffing out my trail. A few more moves and he would point the finger at me. But I knew our dear friend wouldn't intervene until he was absolutely certain. On the other hand, he was sure by then that you weren't in any danger. He's an artist too, in his way. That's why he let me continue, while he looked for proofs that would confirm his analytical conclusions. Am I right, friend Muñoz?"

  Muñoz's only reply was to nod slowly. César had gone over to the small table on which the chess set stood. After observing the pieces for a while, he delicately picked up the white queen, as if it were made of fragile glass, and looked at it for a long time.

  "Yesterday evening," he said, "while you were working in the studio at the Prado, I got to the museum ten minutes before it closed. I hung about in the rooms on the ground floor and planted the card on the Brueghel painting. Then I went to have a coffee to while away the time before I could phone you. That was all. The only thing I couldn't foresee was that Muñoz would dust off that old chess magazine in the club library. I had forgotten its existence."

  "There's something that doesn't make sense," Muñoz said suddenly, and Julia turned to him, surprised. He was staring at César with his head on one side, an inquisitive light shining in his eyes; it was the way he looked when he was concentrating on the chessboard, tracking a move that didn't quite satisfy him. "You're a brilliant chess player; on that we agree. Or, rather, you have the ability to be one. Nevertheless, I don't believe you have the ability to play this game the way you did. The combinations were too perfect, inconceivable for someone who hasn't been near a chessboard in thirty-five years. In chess, what counts is practice and experience. That's why I'm sure you've been lying to us. Either you've played a lot during these years, alone, or someone helped you. I hate to wound your vanity, César, but I'm sure you had an accomplice."

  A long dense silence followed these words. Julia was looking at them both, disconcerted, unable to believe what Muñoz had said. But just when she was about to shout that it was all utter nonsense, she saw that César, whose face had frozen into an impenetrable mask, had finally arched one ironic eyebrow. The smile that then appeared was a grimace of recognition and admiration. He sighed deeply, crossed his arms and nodded.

  "My friend," he said slowly, dragging out the words, "you deserve to be something more than an obscure weekend chess player in a local club." He threw out his right hand as if to indicate the presence of someone who'd been there with them all the time, in a shadowy corner of the room. "I do, in fact, have an accomplice, although in this case he can consider himself quite safe from any reprisals on the part of Justice. Would you like to know his name?"

  "I was hoping you'd tell me."

  "Of course I will, since I don't believe my betrayal will harm him much." He smiled, more broadly. "I hope you won't feel offended, my esteemed friend, that I kept this small source of satisfaction to myself. Believe me, it affords me great pleasure to know that you didn't find out absolutely everything. Can't you guess who he is?"

  "I can't, and I'm sure it's no one I know."

  "You're right. His name is Alfa PC-1212. He's a personal computer with a complex chess programme with twenty levels of play. I bought it the day after killing Álvaro."

  For only the second time since she'd known him, Julia saw a look of amazement on Muñoz's face. The light in his eyes had gone out and his mouth hung open in astonishment.

  "Haven't you got anything to say?" asked César, observing him with amused curiosity.

  Muñoz gave him a long look but didn't answer. After a while, he looked across at Julia.

  "Give me a cigarette, will you," he said in a dull voice.

  She offered him the pack, and he turned it around in his fingers before taking out a cigarette and putting it to his lips. Julia proffered a lit match, and he inhaled the smoke slowly, deeply, filling his lungs. He seemed to be a million miles from there.

  "It's hard to take, isn't it?" said César, laughing softly. "All this time you've been playing against a simple computer, a machine with no emotions or feelings. I'm sure you'll agree with me that it's a delicious paradox, a perfect symbol of the times we live in. Maelzel's prodigious player had a man hidden inside, according to Poe. Do you remember? But times change, my friend. Now it's the automaton that hides inside the man." He held up the yellowing ivory queen he had in his hand and showed it, mockingly.
"And all your talent, imagination and extraordinary capacity for mathematical analysis, dear Señor Muñoz, have their equivalent on a simple plastic diskette that fits in the palm of a hand, like the ironic reflection in a mirror that shows us only a caricature of what we are. I'm very much afraid that, like Julia, you will never be the same after this. Although in your case," he acknowledged with a reflective smile, "I doubt if you will gain much from the change."

  Muñoz still said nothing. He merely stood with his hands in his raincoat pockets again, the cigarette hanging from his lips, his inexpressive eyes half closed against the smoke. He looked like a parody of a shabby detective in a black-and-white movie.

  "I'm sorry," said César, and he seemed sincere. He returned the queen to the board with the air of someone about to draw a pleasant evening to a close and looked at Julia.

  "To finish," he said, "I'm going to show you something."

  He went over to a mahogany escritoire, opened one of its drawers and took out a fat sealed envelope and the three porcelain figurines by Bustelli.

  "You win the prize, Princess." He smiled at her with a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Once again you've managed to find the buried treasure. Now you can do with it what you like."

  Julia regarded the figurines and the envelope suspiciously.

  "I don't understand."

  "You will in a minute. During these last few weeks I've also had time to concern myself with your interests. At this moment, The Game of Chess is in the best possible place: a safe-deposit box in a Swiss bank, rented by a limited company that exists only on paper and has its headquarters in Panama. Swiss lawyers and bankers are rather boring people but very proper, and they ask no questions as long as you respect the laws of their country and pay their fees." He placed the envelope on the table, near Julia. "You own seventy-five per cent of the shares in that limited company, the deeds of which are in the envelope. Demetrius Ziegler, a Swiss lawyer and an old friend you've heard me mention before, has been in charge of this. No one, apart from us and a third person, of whom we will speak later, knows that for some time the Pieter Van Huys painting will remain where it is, out of sight in that safe-deposit box. Meanwhile, the story of The Game of Chess will have become a major event in the art world. The media and specialist magazines will exploit the scandal for all it's worth. We foresee, at a rough estimate, a value on the international market of several million ... dollars, of course."