The Whispering City

by Sara Moliner

  They reached the Rambla de Cataluña. As the car approached the huddle of onlookers that had formed in the street, Isidro’s heart shrank. He knew the building; he had been there the day before only to confirm that Beatriz Noguer hadn’t waited for him, that she’d fled.

  Manzaneque whistled to get the crowd to part and drove the car up on the central pavement. When they climbed out of the vehicle, everyone fell silent. That was the immediate effect of the policemen’s presence.

  The officer who was keeping the nosy parkers out of the house told them that the dead woman had been found in the first-floor flat by the doorman’s son. Isidro glanced at the boy, about eleven years old, who was watching him fearfully from a stool inside the doorman’s cubbyhole. Beside him stood a man in dark blue overalls, who put a hand on the boy’s shoulder in a protective gesture that identified him as his father. Seeing the policeman’s gaze on him, the man began to speak.

  ‘I sent the boy up to deliver a letter from abroad, from England, that had just arrived. The boy collects stamps, and Señora Noguer always lets him have them. He knocked on the door and then he realised that it wasn’t closed and went in.’

  ‘But I didn’t touch a thing!’

  He didn’t need to hear any more.

  Isidro went upstairs without urgency. If Beatriz Noguer was dead, there was no reason to rush.

  Another policeman was posted in front of the partly open door to the flat to keep out the indiscreet looks of the fellow residents gathered on the landing. Just like at a wake, there was a murmur of voices beneath which the occasional nervous giggle could be heard. And just like at a wake, the appearance of a new person shut down all the voices at once, and one or two seconds later someone let out a sob.

  Isidro entered the flat and closed the door behind him.

  He oriented himself by the voices of the officers he heard to his right. Following them, he found the kitchen. He went in. A woman’s legs covered in dark stockings stuck out from behind a table. On the kitchen floor, potatoes and vegetables had scattered. The first red stain that caught his eye wasn’t blood but a tomato someone had stepped on. The woman who lay on the floor, face down, her head twisted to the left in a puddle of blood, was not Beatriz Noguer. She was a young woman.

  ‘It’s the maid, Encarnación Rodríguez Alarcón,’ said the officer who was inspecting the kitchen.

  Isidro carefully approached the area where the woman’s head was, dodging the vegetables that had fallen onto the floor, as well as the dark pool of dried blood around her head. He knelt down and touched her face. It was cold and bore dark patches that weren’t from the blows that’d killed her, indicating that she had been dead for more than twelve hours. She must have been murdered a few hours after he had knocked on the door in vain. It seems they had surprised her in the kitchen as she returned loaded down with groceries. That meant that her killer had entered the house before she did. Was whoever it was there when he rang the bell? He knew it was a useless speculation that served only to accentuate the crushing feeling of failure that now seized him.

  ‘Found anything suspicious in the flat?’ he asked the officer.

  ‘Everything is suspicious, because the whole place has been turned upside down. Have a look for yourself, if you want.’

  He left the room and went through the flat. They had emptied every drawer in the house, from the dresser where the owner had kept her clothes to the sideboard with napkins and silverware. But where they had really vented their anger was in the room that must have been her study. The shelves were empty, books heaped open on the floor, the drawers had been ripped from the desk and their contents scattered on a rug, of which only a small triangle could be seen under all the paper. He was beginning to understand that it wasn’t a break-in; that they had been looking for the owner of the flat. In reality, they wanted something that she had in her flat or that they thought was there. The letters. That damn Ana Martí hadn’t given him the copies! Why? And where was Beatriz Noguer? Had she fled, or had she been kidnapped? Again the big question: why? The fact that they’d searched with such determination might mean that they hadn’t found Beatriz Noguer and so they couldn’t get what they were looking for out of her. Whatever it was, it was so important that they had killed that poor maid over it and – he now saw clearly – the man Ana Martí had told him was Abel Mendoza. What did Mariona Sobrerroca have to do with all this? Ana Martí had told him that Mendoza was her lover. Why had they been bumped off? Seeing the way the killers had gone through the flat, it was clear they were looking for papers. What did Señora Sobrerroca’s letters have in them that unleashed such violence? Who was in a position to exert such violence?

  He heard voices at the front door. He recognised that of Coroner Soldevila, who was coming to remove the body. He went back to the kitchen to inspect the crime scene once more, making sure that the officers had taken note of everything important and that they had taken all the necessary photos.

  ‘Castro! This is an extremely unappetising scene! And forgive the remark, it’s in poor taste. What do we have here?’

  ‘It seems to be a break-in, Coroner.’

  ‘And the poor girl, in the wrong place at the wrong time, is that it?’

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  It was the only time that morning that he didn’t lie or hide information from Coroner Soldevila. Since Isidro was known to be a man of few words, no one found it strange that he remained almost mute while the body was removed. When Manzaneque came upstairs after interrogating the doorman and his son, Isidro asked him for a cigarette.

  ‘Your good intentions don’t last long, son,’ he said, pulling out the packet of Bisonte.

  By this time, Soldevila was preparing to leave the flat.

  ‘Congratulations, Castro. I heard about your promotion.’

  ‘Be careful, sir, you don’t know how badly he takes good news. If one more person congratulates him, he’s going to bite someone’s head off,’ said Manzaneque, alluding to the painful grimace that had appeared on Isidro’s face on hearing the coroner’s congratulations.

  ‘Well, I don’t understand why,’ Soldevila commented. ‘You should be very proud.’

  Isidro almost stalked off before he’d finished his sentence. He felt a lot of things: above all, fear at what could happen to Ana Martí and Beatriz Noguer. And he felt so many things in addition to fear: concern, rage, impotence… Everything but pride.

  In the car on the way back, Manzaneque went on with his speculations but received only tepid comments in response.

  ‘In my opinion, they killed the girl because she surprised them in the house.’

  ‘That’s what I think.’

  ‘Something must have gone wrong… these gangs that burgle flats observe the habits of the people who live there and, when they have them well studied, they break into their houses when they’re all out. They only steal things that they can get out without attracting attention to themselves: jewellery, money, gold or silver cutlery, watches…’

  ‘The doorman didn’t see a thing.’

  ‘Doormen are easily distracted,’ replied Manzaneque. ‘One of the accomplices makes a scene on the street and the doorman’s out there, seeing what’s going on.’

  ‘Useless. They’re all useless.’

  ‘Another ciggie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Manzaneque passed him one, then drew a box of matches from his jacket pocket. They were already crossing the Gran Vía.

  ‘Something up, Isidro?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Isidro shot him an incredulous look. Who did he think he was? His father? His older brother? Manzaneque didn’t catch it; he was lowering the car window to toss out his cigarette butt. Then he turned to Isidro. ‘We’ll have to find the owner, Beatriz Noguer.’

  ‘Yup.’

  However, another question had begun to take shape in Isidro’s head. It was the reason behind the creeping irritation he’d been feeling since he entered the fl
at. Who, besides him, knew of Beatriz Noguer’s existence? Who could link her to the copies of the stolen letters?

  60

  Pablo had struggled all morning against his impulse to leave the office and return home. Early that afternoon he had an appointment with Commissioner Goyanes, whom he had called and asked to see, saying he wanted to discuss a case. He had taken the precaution of disguising his voice and not giving his name.

  ‘When we meet, I will identify myself properly,’ he had replied when Goyanes insisted.

  Anonymous tip-offs and informants were the order of the day, the Commissioner accepted, albeit reluctantly. The bait that Pablo had offered him had been persuasive. In a tone somewhere between indignant and conspiratorial he had revealed that he had some evidence in his possession that was linked to ‘a murder case affecting top brass’, while stressing that he couldn’t be more explicit.

  ‘Because, unfortunately, I’m afraid that one of your men didn’t honestly fulfil his obligations. You do understand?’

  Of course, the Commissioner had understood and agreed to the meeting. What Pablo hadn’t managed to get him to agree to was to meet outside of police headquarters, so he had to be careful not to run into Castro.

  He was nervous, both wishing and fearing that the moment would arrive. The routine work he had on his desk wasn’t helping to make the hours pass quickly, but he had to keep up appearances. His absence from the firm would draw attention; he had never missed a day of work, not even after the liveliest nights or with the worst hangovers, whose ravages were still evident on his face when he turned up at work the next morning. Even though they hadn’t come right out and said it, he had the feeling that Pla and Calvet even appreciated his arriving at work punctually despite his lack of sleep and his pounding head. Cocaine had been a godsend for those mornings, until his bosses had set him up and he realised how vulnerable it made him. This morning he was relying on the help of coffee alone.

  Now that he knew about Pla’s addiction, he felt his resentment growing, but his revenge, in whatever form, was a secondary matter. Helping Ana and his Aunt Beatriz took absolute priority. So he’d have to wait and play it cool.

  He pulled it off. He went running out of his office at midday and said goodbye to Maribel. When he was already reaching the stairs, he heard her cry, ‘Pablo! Telephone!’

  ‘I’m late for an appointment,’ he shouted without stopping.

  He started down the stairs.

  ‘It’s your father.’

  He slowed his pace a little, but kept going. ‘I haven’t time right now.’

  He reached his house just over half an hour later. As he went in he was surprised to find his Aunt Beatriz sitting in the hallway, on one of the stools that flanked the little telephone table.

  ‘It hasn’t stopped ringing in the last half-hour,’ she said, pointing to the phone. She was agitated. ‘But I didn’t answer it.’

  As Pablo was taking off his jacket, the telephone rang again. Beatriz jumped. Ana appeared at the other end of the hallway. He couldn’t see her face because she was backlit, but he noticed the tension in her bearing. He snatched up the telephone and answered it.

  ‘Hello, Papa,’ he said, and grinned at his aunt.

  Immediately the distress disappeared from Beatriz’s face. She leaned back on the stool and rested herself against the wall.

  ‘I’ve been trying to track you down for the last hour,’ said his father. ‘I called you at the office but you had already gone.’

  ‘I left the office on time today.’

  ‘They told me. That’s why I’ve been calling you at home.’

  ‘Ah! You must have been calling while I was on my way here,’ he said so that Beatriz and Ana would hear.

  He looked up at the ceiling and composed a resigned expression. Beatriz shot him a complicit look that said ‘my brother can be so controlling’, and got up to let him speak in private. She was even smiling. Pablo couldn’t return the smile because his father had come to the reason for his call: ‘Son, something horrible has happened at your aunt’s house.’

  Pablo put a hand on Beatriz’s shoulder to keep her from leaving. Ana had come closer.

  ‘What happened?’

  Beatriz turned. The smile was wiped from her face as she heard the following words from her nephew: ‘Encarni, dead? How?’

  ‘Someone broke into the house. It looks as if it was an attempted burglary, and she surprised them. They hit her over the head.’

  Pablo had enough presence of mind not to be distracted by the two women’s shock.

  ‘And Aunt Beatriz?’

  ‘That’s the worst of it, son, we don’t know where she is. No one has seen her in two days. I’m so worried. I’m afraid they’ve…’

  His father couldn’t go on. Beatriz was making urgent gestures for Pablo to pass her the receiver. He shook his head and warned her to stay silent by bringing his index finger to his lips. He had the telephone pressed tightly to his ear and he could hear his father struggling to stifle a sob. He didn’t know how long he would have been able to hold out, between Beatriz’s silent pleading and his father’s barely contained anguish, if Ana hadn’t steered his aunt inside the flat.

  ‘What are the police saying?’

  ‘Nothing, of course. They have no idea. I spoke with the coroner, who is an acquaintance of mine, and he told me that it’s being handled by the best man in the CIB, Inspector Castro.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him.’

  He had to remind himself how crucial his discretion was to keep from giving the game away to his father.

  ‘What if they’ve kidnapped her?’ his father conjectured.

  ‘Why would they kidnap Aunt Beatriz?’

  ‘I don’t know, perhaps to pressure me. I’m involved in a big property deal where there are a lot of interests at stake. I’ll just mention one name: Julio Muñoz.’

  Muñoz was the king of Barcelona’s black market, a man as powerful as he was unscrupulous.

  ‘What can I do? What can I do?’

  His father, who had always maintained his composure, even when, as a young child, a group of militiamen had burst into his family home and threatened to shoot him in the library, was falling to pieces.

  Pablo had a flash of inspiration: ‘Wasn’t Aunt Beatriz wanting to spend a few days in La Rioja looking for some manuscripts? Don’t you remember her mentioning that at Aunt Blanca’s funeral?’

  ‘La Rioja?’

  ‘Yes. I remember distinctly. You were talking with somebody about some property, but she told you about it.’

  His father clung to that impossible memory. Pablo wondered if the words he’d just invented weren’t already echoing in his father’s head.

  ‘Where could that sister of mine be…’

  The expression Pablo had heard him say so many times in a disapproving tone now sounded filled with affection. His father was beginning to regain some of his calm.

  ‘I’ll let the police know. Poor thing! She’s going to be so upset when she finds out what’s happened! And now she’s in the library of some monastery, engrossed in a dusty manuscript.’

  The more he talked, the more convinced he seemed by what he was saying. They spoke only a little longer because his father was in a rush to call the police.

  He found Beatriz and Ana on the sofa in the sitting room, holding each other, both in tears. Ana was caressing her aunt’s hair and trying to console her.

  ‘I should have waited for her,’ repeated Beatriz in a litany.

  ‘They would have killed you too,’ Ana said.

  ‘But not her. They were looking for me. Not even that. They were looking for these damn papers.’

  She lifted her face to speak to Ana. Her eyes were flooded with tears and two locks of hair fell over her forehead.

  Pablo sat on her other side and took her hand.

  ‘Ana is right, Tieta. These people are extremely dangerous and, it seems, deranged.’

  They sat for a long time until Beatr
iz was calmer. She had her head resting on Ana’s shoulder, who lulled her to sleep as she stroked her hair. Pablo held her hand. At one point he felt her grip loosening. She gradually fell silent too, stopped saying over and over that it was her fault. Pablo looked at her. She had her eyes closed, as if dozing. Ana had her eyes closed too, which allowed him to gaze at her with complete impunity. For a second the image of the two women resting on each other, breathing steadily, made him forget that they were in a situation that looked to be a dead end. He would have liked to preserve them like that, offer them a refuge that would keep them out of danger.

  But it was merely an illusion. He couldn’t protect them from anything, and they couldn’t allow themselves to mourn Encarni’s death.

  As if she had read his thoughts, Ana’s eyes sprang open with such force that Pablo thought he could hear it.

  ‘We can’t stay like this, waiting,’ she said.

  In her face, Pablo recognised the determination of someone who knows there is no way out.

  ‘How long before your meeting with Goyanes?’

  ‘An hour.’

  ‘Well, let’s go over everything you have to say. Beatriz, you should lie down for a little while.’

  ‘How can I lie down?’

  ‘You have to rest a little, to get over the news of Encarni’s death.’

  ‘I don’t want to get over it. I don’t want to.’

  Pablo noticed that Beatriz’s expression had shifted from sadness to rage. He was young, but he had been to enough funerals to know that this was the flip side of mourning, as necessary and human as the grief.

  Encarni’s death didn’t change their plan; in fact, it only made it more pressing. They went over it together.