The Antiquarian

by Julián Sánchez

  “Hello?”

  “Good evening. Is Carlos there?”

  “Yes, he is. Just a minute. Who’s calling?”

  “Enrique Alonso.”

  Carlos came on the line half a minute later. “Sorry, I was in the shower.”

  “I didn’t know you had company. I can call you back later.”

  “No, I was just getting out. I left you a message; we need to talk.”

  “Have you found anything?” Enrique’s voice gave away his impatience.

  “No. That’s exactly why we need to talk.”

  “When?” he asked, hiding his disappointment.

  “Tomorrow afternoon. Come by my office around six. It’ll be quiet around then. See you tomorrow.” He hung up without giving Enrique a chance to say good-bye.

  Disappointed and upset by the lack of results, Enrique passed on calling Bety or Samuel. He ate the first thing he found for dinner and fell into bed hoping to doze off as soon as possible. As on the previous days, sleep did not come until nearly daybreak.

  Enrique planned his morning during breakfast: he hoped that the archbishopric’s archive could somehow help him; then, first thing in the afternoon he would visit Fornells, from whom he expected little news; after that he would stop by Carlos’s office in Plaça Reial.

  That morning, like all the others, did little to improve his mood. He had the historical context for his investigation perfectly mapped out, but that was no guarantee of success. As on previous days, he randomly dug through countless deteriorating old writs, extracting nothing but a long list of events unrelated to what he was looking for. At midday, tired of wasting time, he abandoned the mute documents for a later date. He ate a quiet lunch and had coffee in the courtyard of the Ateneu, the cultural association where, though not a member, he was well-known for having given several lectures, which opened doors usually restricted to an elite few. When it was time, he took the Ramblas down toward the seafront. As usual, the pedestrian avenue was jammed with people of every kind, a kaleidoscopic parade of confused strangers wandering in search of who-knew-what. Out of pure habit he stopped at a newsstand to buy the Diario Vasco newspaper; in San Sebastián he only bought the Barcelona standard La Vanguardia, but while married he had read the Diario, Bety’s newspaper. Now, without knowing why, he walked toward Plaça Reial leafing casually through the pages of a paper that evoked in him confusing and distorted, albeit sweet, thoughts of his adopted hometown. Enrique folded up the newspaper. He lodged it under his arm and turned, taken by a sudden hunch. He thought he had seen someone he knew among the bewildering swirl of people walking in every direction, but the indecipherable movement of the crowd kept him from recognizing anyone. If his instinct was right it had been Rodríguez, the young detective helping Fornells with the case, but he could not be sure. It was not unusual to see someone dressed in a suit and tie in that area, though most people preferred a more casual and carefree style. Still, Enrique was somehow sure it was not an employee from one of the nearby banks. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see Rodríguez either, though, as the Raval Precinct was close by, and there was nothing odd about running into the captain’s right-hand man out on the Ramblas. He tried to appear nonchalant, but he could not avoid a certain unease, which he feared would be plain to see.

  Soon afterwards, Enrique was standing in front of the Raval Precinct station. A noisy commotion spiked by three or four earsplitting sirens had served as beacons to help him locate it. Three plainclothes police officers got out of a squad car leading a handcuffed and altogether nondescript individual with a gaze that was lost, as if detached from the surrounding reality. They treated him with the abruptness employed by people when something repels or frightens them. Enrique watched them walk the man through a door at the back of the entry hall, which most probably led to the holding cells. Among the bustle of fifteen or twenty people heading in different directions, Enrique managed to find Fornells, who greeted him with a gesture indicating for him to come up the stairs. Fornells seemed as tired and vacant as the detainee. Enrique saw in Fornells’s face the bitter taste of an infinite fatigue, the belief that, no matter what he did, he would never break the natural order of undesired yet inevitable events. Fornells entered through the same door as the cuffed man, first barking a few orders at the convoluted gaggle milling around the entry hall. As if by consensus decision, the crowd quickly dissolved. In a second they went from wandering aimlessly, imprisoned by the confusion and overcome by some unexpected event, to discovering in the voice of the captain a handhold to bring them back to their usual duties.

  Enrique also awoke from the collective daydream and walked into the station building. One of the officers told him he would have to wait. Enrique asked what had happened, but no one bothered to answer him, possibly because no one had realized he was there. It took Fornells nearly half an hour to come out. Without saying a word, he invited Enrique into his office.

  “What took you so long to come? Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Sorry, but we have a little situation here.” He still had the distracted air Enrique had noticed in the entry hall. “Some asshole just killed one of our squad on a routine search. The killer’s neighbors heard a ruckus in his apartment and called us half an hour ago. We sent a squad car to see what was going on. Our guys knock on the noisy neighbor’s door and as soon as they ask him to identify himself he takes a pistol out of his jacket and shoots our officer right in the head. Turns out he had walked in on his wife in bed with his best friend, and the son of a bitch couldn’t kill them; he had to go and kill one of my boys.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Enrique, after mulling over the most appropriate response for the circumstances and coming up with nothing better.

  “Poor kid,” said Fornells, shaking his head.

  “If you’d like, I can come back later, or tomorrow—”

  “No, no.” He was cut off by the captain, who appeared to have recovered his usual pace with Enrique’s gesture.

  “I’ve made you come down here, so I won’t let you go until I tell you the news.”

  “Have you made any progress?” Enrique asked hopefully.

  “On the contrary. I got the report from the Financial Crimes Unit. Artur was right: the new shops do appear to be a front for laundering money from illegal activities, but the legal aspects are, for the moment, so well-covered that I would rule them out as having anything to do with the murder. The findings conclude, Enrique, that not only do we have no evidence to build a case against them for money laundering, although it’s obvious that’s the real reason for opening these shops, but the report adds the following point: their only desire is to keep a low profile, and a murder is the surest way to draw unwanted attention. Unfortunately, their analysis matches ours exactly.”

  “Fornells, if they didn’t do it, who the hell did?”

  The detective inhaled noisily before answering. “I don’t know, kid. I don’t know, I thought Financial Crimes would clear some things up, but they’ve done just the opposite. We’ll just have to take a new tack on the whole thing.”

  “Damn.” Enrique’s response was more a confirmation of an irreversible fact than a true display of disappointment. It sounded false to him, although he was sure Fornells hadn’t noticed. He didn’t know whether to be happy or sad at the news.

  “I’m sorry,” the captain said, more out of social convention than true regret. “Enrique, let me ask you again: are you sure you’re not aware of any detail, no matter how trivial, that might point us in the right direction? I’m thinking … something you might not think of as a clue, something Artur could have said to you that seemed out of the ordinary, something he was worried about. I don’t know—anything unusual.”

  Enrique felt as if Fornells could look through him, seeing everything he was hiding with absolute transparency. He was trapped in the center of the spiderweb, paralyzed, his heart racing and his stomach churning as he became enveloped in a wave of shame that swelled from within. Was F
ornells insisting because he suspected something? Was it sheer chance that Enrique had seen—or thought he had seen—Fornells’s lieutenant following him? His hands began to sweat; as if he was back in his childhood, like a boy caught in a lie, Enrique got ready to talk, to let it all go, to tell the truth and apologize to Fornells for all his mistakes. The words were on the verge of spilling out of his mouth when he saw Fornells’s expression: he was not looking at him. His thoughts were elsewhere, preoccupied by something else, probably the young officer who had just lost his life. Enrique understood then that he had nothing to fear. Fornells’s question was purely rhetorical, an exercise in personal style by an old cop who repeated his routine, necessary and boring, expecting nothing, but unable to do it any other way.

  “No.” No further elaboration was necessary.

  “Are you going to stay in the city?”

  “For now, yes, but I can’t stay in Barcelona too much longer. I guess I’ll go back home in a few days.”

  “Let me know if you decide to return to San Sebastián.”

  “I will. Good-bye.”

  It didn’t take him long to cover the distance to Plaça Reial on foot. At that time of the evening, the arcaded square offered a peculiar appearance. Its apparent calm could fool no one: its balconies, walls, and still-closed nightclubs radiated an uncontainable energy that threatened to spill over as soon as the sun went down. By day, the square was not dead, but it stayed hidden under a subtle disguise that made it palatable to passers-by who trusted in the proper order of things. At night, with a simple change of lighting, it shed its costume to become a world that was bizarre, unconventional, and offbeat, but no less beautiful.

  At doorway 18, next door to the bar Ambos Mundos—whose inspired name, meaning “both worlds,” was a perfect reflection of the ambivalent reality surrounding it—was the office of Hidalgo Investigations. The door was open. An old superintendent watched him with curiosity tainted by boredom. In an instant, he had Enrique correctly pegged as someone whose only interest could be in the investigator’s office. Without adding anything, displaying that admirable economy of resources that comes with age, he uttered “third floor” in a barely decipherable grunt.

  A sign hung on the elevator door: “Out of Order.” The stairwell, only painted on the ground floor, plainly reflected the downtrodden reality of the entire district: paint so faded by time that no one could have imagined its original color, peeling plaster, and every species of graffiti. On the second-floor landing, he heard a woman’s voice shrieking out a string of obscenities, punctuated by the sound of breaking glass. Someone was in the thick of it, no doubt.

  He pressed the doorbell on the third-floor landing. No one answered. He gave the door a push; it was open. A spacious, high-ceilinged sitting room, commonly found in what, in a now-distant time, was a home of certain standing, had been converted into a business premises. The decor consisted of several desks laden with papers, documents, and computer monitors, and, in a corner, a small table and several armchairs next to a coffee machine. In the back, next to a picture window, was Carlos’s office.

  He sat with his back to the window, with several reports on his lap, not even pretending to read them. He didn’t know why, but Enrique got the impression that Carlos was waiting for him to enter at that very moment; he even thought he could sense the coming conversation and the news it would bring. Or did he know why? Maybe it was the hint of wisdom that Carlos’s blank stare betrayed, or the cigarette that smoldered lazily in the ashtray, oblivious to its owner. After bringing him up to date, he would show neither surprise nor indifference. Once they were comfortably seated at the desk, Enrique began the conversation.

  “So then …”

  Carlos puckered his lips and stroked his chin.

  “It’s like I told you on the phone. Nothing.”

  “What do you mean?” Enrique asked, alarmed.

  “I mean that I’ve gathered what I could on your two suspects, and nothing seems to indicate that they could be called that.”

  “Walk me through it.”

  “Well, let’s see …” He rummaged through a pile of folders, extracting two. “Guillem Cardús Solans. Youngest son of the Cardús family, well-heeled people from Sant Cugat. Made their fortune in real estate. Before devoting himself fully to antiques, he studied history, with an emphasis on classical history. Took several postgraduate courses. Always got good grades, but partied as hard as he studied all through college. Well-known on the upscale nightlife circuit. Doesn’t do any drugs, though he’s been known to hit the bottle a little too hard. Likeable, outgoing, a born charmer. He matches the profile of the suspect that never raises any suspicion, then turns out to be guilty. The night of the crime, he was seen in several nightspots, like Otto Zutz and Up&Down. He was there at approximately the same time as the murder, as per Dr. Santiago’s autopsy. The witnesses seemed reliable—they weren’t just friends of his. And so, theoretically, he’s automatically ruled out as your possible killer.

  “The other is Enric Torner i Pons. Philologist, expert in Latin, classical Greek … This is interesting; he’s published three articles on bibliophilia. He’s well-respected in the academic world, from which he’s never strayed. He was awarded an assistant lecturer’s post in the College of Philology at the University of Barcelona, but he never took it, officially for professional reasons; he inherited his father’s antiques shop when he died. But unofficially, they say he passed on the university position because there’s no way he could do the job, shy as he is. Doesn’t smoke, drink, take drugs, go clubbing, or sleep around. And his alibi isn’t of the airtight variety, but it’s pretty good. The night of the crime he was in Santa Cristina de Aro, at a friend’s beach house. The friend in question, Anabel Garrido, backed him up in her statement to the investigator. She’s the sole witness, but her word seems above any doubt. There are some receipts from toll roads, which is how he got there. The police have ruled him out, although again, unofficially, I can tell you they share my opinion: this guy is one of those really suspicious suspects. The weirdoes, the recluses—no one ever likes them. And that’s what Enric is. So, there you have it. The alibis are solid—especially Guillem’s. Your suspects will never be seen that way in the police’s eyes.”

  “I can’t believe it! It could only have been them!”

  “I told you that a string of coincidences can make anyone in this game suspicious. But with alibis like that—”

  “There’s got to be something that incriminates them, however small!”

  “Calm down. Getting excited like that gets you nowhere. An alibi doesn’t prove their innocence, though it does complicate the investigation in a big way. There are ways to kill a man that don’t require the direct participation of the person who instigates it. They could have hired a contract killer. But to be honest, I doubt it. And if you rule out them and Samuel Horowitz, there’s no one left to blame, at least in relation to Artur’s letter.”

  “This is incredible.” Enrique did nothing to hide his disappointment.

  “I know how you feel. You thought you’d found the killers, and finding out they’re not is a letdown. But that’s the way it is.”

  “It had to be them,” Enrique insisted. “Only they knew the contents of the manuscript.”

  “That’s not true. Samuel knew it too.” He left the sentence hanging in the air.

  “No, that’s impossible. Samuel would never be able to do something like this to anyone, much less my father. For Christ’s sake, Carlos! They’d been friends for twenty years!”

  “There’s no such thing as friends for life when money, power, or a woman gets in the way. I learned that years ago. And I’m surprised a man like you who writes for a living doesn’t know it.”

  “What happens in novels isn’t the real world.”

  “Listen to me, and listen closely. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is so sacred it can’t be bought. That’s life. Friendship, love, even salvation if you believe in religion—everything has a price
. You can make a man do things he’d never imagined. All you have to do is push the right button. I could give you more than enough proof, just by opening that filing cabinet over there.” He pointed to an ancient hulk sitting with its back against a wall. “I hope the surprise of the whole thing is what’s made you talk without thinking it through. If not, I’d have a different opinion of you, although it would never change our friendship, rest assured.”

  Enrique leaned out the window, and distracted himself by observing the odd menagerie of pedestrians in Plaça Reial: wandering tourists, small-time delinquents, dope peddlers in the guise of illegal immigrants sunning themselves, residents on the way home from the market.

  “Well?” asked Carlos.

  “Well, what?” answered Enrique.

  “Wake up, my friend. You asked for help, and I gave it to you. You don’t like the answers, but maybe you didn’t ask the right questions. So answer me this: do I investigate Samuel?”

  Enrique hesitated. All his old certainty had cracked under his friend’s eloquent exposé. He knew Carlos was right, but it was hard for him to accept it. Samuel, a suspect?

  “Fine.” Enrique gave in to logic. “Do it.”

  “I already did,” his friend said, leaning toward him and squinting.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. I already did. A detective can’t rest on his laurels. And before you go off on one of your tantrums, be quiet and listen to the reasons why.”

  Indeed, Enrique felt the rage building up inside him, that detestable ire that he could not often control. But Carlos was not some stranger he had just crossed paths with; after all, they had known each other since they were children. That he had investigated Samuel was not what bothered him. What peeved Enrique was that Carlos had made an important call without checking with him.

  “How could you—!”

  “Shut up!” Carlos cut him off. “There’s a body on the table. This is no game. For starters, you can’t expect to run this investigation like one of your novels. I’m behind the wheel here. I agreed to help you, and I’m happy to, but remember that you’re completely unaware of the ground you’re treading on.