The Antiquarian

by Julián Sánchez

  “Rodríguez said it wasn’t an official interrogation.”

  “He didn’t want the presence of an attorney to clip his wings.”

  “There was no need for an attorney. We’re innocent,” Bety clarified.

  “You know that, but the police don’t,” Carlos answered. “I imagine they figured you were innocent, which makes the interrogation doubly diabolical. Someone who’s innocent never thinks to ask for an attorney. There’s an aggravating factor in this case: they know you, and you trust them, so you’d never think they could do you any harm. You were lucky enough to give the same story; a single mistake between either version and you would’ve spent the night behind bars. Bety has no alibi, and you, looking at the times, would have had no problem committing the murder.”

  “But it would’ve been ridiculous! I’d had the manuscript! Why kill Manolo?”

  “Because maybe you couldn’t find the Stone, and he could.”

  “And all this isn’t enough for them to arrest us?” Bety cut in.

  “The fact they know you plays in your favor. I get the impression that Fornells, despite it all, believes you’re completely innocent. But he’s furious, especially with you, Enrique, for hiding key evidence. I’d say that your ‘interrogation’ had more to do with a fact-finding mission than any real belief in you as possible suspects.”

  Enrique let out a long sigh.

  “Do they have alibis?”

  “Your three suspects? Yes, they do. And they’re airtight. Samuel had dinner in a crowded restaurant with some old Israeli friends traveling through Spain. Guillem went to see a movie with a woman and another couple. Enric spent the night at his girlfriend’s house in Girona. Everything’s solid and checks out. They’re not, nor will they ever be, suspects,” he stated categorically. “Forget about them.”

  “So what happens now?”

  “First I’ll outline Manolo’s last movements, according to the police report. After that, we’ll see. He spent Tuesday morning in the Crown of Aragon’s archive. At noon he secured permission from the archbishopric for access to parts of the cathedral that are off-limits to the general public. His application said something about a research project on the evolution of Latin in the ecclesiastic realm. According to the dean’s statement, he wanted to check out the inscriptions that the different master builders of the works left on the walls and floors of the building. He was there all afternoon, until nightfall, in the triforium—what that is I haven’t the foggiest idea—and on the roof. And that’s it.”

  Bety and Enrique exchanged a look. The cathedral! There could be no doubt: Manolo had found where the Stone was hidden. Only that would explain why he’d requested clearance from the archbishopric. They nearly spoke at once. Bety ended up taking the initiative.

  “He’d found it! We didn’t manage to figure out where Casadevall had hidden it, and just assumed that the key was in the side notes. That’s why we went to him in the first place.”

  “Then the killer must have the Stone,” Carlos said.

  “We can’t say for sure,” Enrique replied. “It could be that Manolo found the building where Casadevall hid it, but not the exact place. Or maybe he found the place, but couldn’t get the Stone out because he didn’t have the materials or the time.”

  “Or maybe he did find it and, as Carlos said, right now it’s in the killer’s hands,” Bety added. “Three options.”

  “Casadevall was an architect, wasn’t he?” asked Carlos.

  “Master builder,” Bety answered. “More or less the same thing.”

  “His hiding the Stone in the cathedral seems so patently obvious that I’m surprised you didn’t think of it before. After all, the cathedral was his life’s great work.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That if he hid the Stone somewhere in the cathedral, as it seems he did, I doubt it would be somewhere a person could easily reach. If his intention was to hide the Stone, he wouldn’t have left it someplace in the open, with easy access. I’d say that, if Manolo did find the exact place, given the time and the equipment in his backpack, he wouldn’t have been able to get to it.”

  “Sounds plausible,” Enrique admitted, “though we can’t be positive.”

  “We have to find where Casadevall hid it,” Bety joined in. “It all depends on that.”

  “Yeah, I agree. But how? If we didn’t manage to find the site before, what makes you think we’ll be able to now?”

  “You two didn’t have that information before. The search is limited to the cathedral, not twenty-something buildings. And Casadevall worked on that cathedral. Doesn’t it seem logical that he would hide it someplace where he directed the works?”

  “Enrique knows those places like he lived in them.” Bety could not repress her excitement. “I remember how you told me about it when I came from San Sebastián.”

  “I do know them. And I can even imagine where he hid it. If Manolo was looking in the triforium, which by the way, is the upper gallery that runs above the aisles of the cathedral, or on the roof, that means he had completely ruled out Casadevall’s contribution to the works in the cloister and the original choir. That way, I think he only could have hidden it in the fourth keystone in the nave, which was restored in 1413.”

  “Sounds logical,” Carlos agreed. “Are you sure?”

  “No,” Enrique admitted, smiling. “There could be other solutions, but I think this one’s the most probable. We can check it out once we’re there.”

  “I knew you could find it,” Bety purred sweetly. “I was sure you could!”

  “Don’t count your chickens. Even in the hypothetical case it was there, how can we get up on the roof to look for the Stone? I don’t think the dean’s going to let us, just like that! And of course, we can’t just waltz up there and start hammering away like it’s all in a good day’s work.”

  “He’s right,” admitted Carlos. “I’m not familiar with ecclesiastic procedure, but I do know they’re usually cautious. After a murder like this, they may not want to grant us permission. Sneaking in might be possible, but I don’t think that in your situation, with the police hovering over you, it’d be the smartest idea. The best way would be to file an application that didn’t arouse any suspicion. Does anything occur to you?”

  “Seems to me you’re overanalyzing the whole thing; the murder wasn’t committed in the cathedral, but in a private residence. Manolo’s death doesn’t necessarily have to do with what he was doing in the cathedral. The police may make the connection, but not necessarily the dean. The authorization could be handled through Enrique’s publisher under any excuse. Or, you could just apply for it yourself,” she said to Carlos, “individually, as a private investigator hired by us. Why would they turn you down?”

  “The voice of reason.” Enrique acknowledged her merits. “As always, a beeline to the solution.”

  “I’ll write up a letter and take it personally to the archbishopric secretary. From there on, we’ll see. And now,” he said, reaching into one of the drawers, “take this.”

  In Carlos’s left hand was a revolver. Its chrome plating shone brightly, seeming to hypnotize Enrique.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bety said. “Do you even know how to use it?”

  “Oh, he knows,” Carlos answered. “I taught him everything he needed to know about calibers and sidearms when he was writing Death, Cruel Lover, to make it all sound more plausible. We even took target practice. But let’s not get off the subject. I couldn’t care less what you think is a good idea,” he continued harshly. “From this point on, you’ll do just as I say. So far we’ve got a death toll of two, so a gun is fundamental. Do you remember what I read from the medical examiner’s report on Manolo’s death?” the investigator continued. “I said the murders were in cold blood. If you have any doubt as to its usefulness,” he said, laying the gun on the table, “then you still haven’t realized the magnitude of the problem. Enrique, three weeks ago they killed your father. The kil
ler improvised, I’m sure of it, because he used a paperweight he found on the desk. Yesterday they killed Manolo. This time, there was no room for improvisation. His death was planned in advance. Meticulously. And done by someone extraordinarily cold-blooded and rational. They didn’t find the murder weapon. The murderer brought it with him, used it, and then, most definitely got rid of it. Everything was so well-planned it’s going to take a miracle for Fornells to put the pieces back together.

  “Now, just for a second, imagine the killer. Imagine him as he is, a faceless, shapeless shadow. Imagine, and think: he’s killed two people, simply because they were in his way. He’s already murdered. Think he’ll have any qualms about doing it again?”

  Without a word, Enrique reached out for the revolver. Mariola was right: with the proper motivation, anyone could accept situations, or act in ways outside their character.

  “That’s better,” said the investigator in approval of Enrique’s initiative. “Life’s too short not to live it to the end.”

  18

  They had been sitting for some time on a battered, graffiti-ridden bench facing the marina of Barcelona’s old port. They didn’t speak. Something appeared to have twisted inside Enrique as soon as he picked up the revolver. All of his senses had seemed to mysteriously grow more acute, to perceive that yes, it was there, in his left jacket pocket. Neither big nor heavy, no burden at all: a discreet weapon that no one would imagine in the hands of a left-wing, environmentally conscious, openly pacifist author. But it was there, and they both knew it. Bety hadn’t said a word to him all the way from Plaça Reial to the Moll de la Fusta wharf. She merely accompanied him, lost in her own shrouded thoughts. Enrique knew she was taking furtive glances at his jacket pocket, uneasy about the lurking presence of that strange object, so foreign to them.

  Adding to that, Enrique felt pinned down in a different sort of crossfire. He was trying to decide whether to tell Bety of the need to reveal the latest developments to Mariola. But Carlos had emphasized the need for them to stay together above all else. In their current situation, talking to Mariola would mean an awkward clash, and no one wanted that. In his mind’s eye, it wouldn’t end in open confrontation, but it wouldn’t be comfortable, either. Too many factors were against it: Mariola, despite her reserved nature, had already made her jealousy of Bety’s presence known. On the other hand, he had been flirting with Bety, though Mariola knew nothing of that. No, the situation would not be comfortable in the least, but it was as inevitable and worrisome as the presence of the revolver in his pocket. And yet, he didn’t dare propose it. He was surprised at how absurd the situation was: in the midst of a mystery stained with the blood of two murders, he lacked the courage to speak to his ex-wife about something so petty.

  A magnificent schooner patiently awaited the drawbridge of the Rambla de Mar to let it pass into waters that, though still in the port, were free of any obstacle to sailing. On deck, a crew of five made all the necessary preparations: they removed the covers from the sails and brought in the lines and fenders. He envied the harmony that seemed to pervade onboard, and the unmatched joy that the gusty wind would give them as soon as the vessel left the port’s mouth. For a second, he envisioned himself taking refuge in the personal privacy of his world—sail and pen—far from the strange tragedy being played out around him, which had proven impassive to all of his attempts to forget it. The feeling of hurtling headlong into the unknown exasperated him: three weeks of uncertainty and confusion, his strings pulled by everything and everyone, stripped of his liberty. Not even Mariola was worth his well-ordered world being savagely torn asunder.

  Now that was a lie. Only the frustration of the entire matter could make him think something so outlandish. Of course she was worth it. Of everything that had happened, the only good had come from finding her. Though he barely knew her, and he hadn’t thought of what their future would be, if one even existed, he was sure she was worth it. How could he forget those two nights? They had transcended mere sex and become the promise of something special that people always yearn for, even when they are unaware of it. It was more than just passion that blinded him and rendered him mindless. It was much more than that. So much passion and abandon deserved an attempt to develop their as-yet-unspoken commitment.

  “I need to see Mariola,” he suddenly said to Bety.

  “What?” It wasn’t that she was shocked, but rather she’d simply been too distracted to hear him.

  “I need to see Mariola,” he repeated cautiously.

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  Enrique couldn’t believe Bety had answered as she had. He would have expected any reaction but her indifference and that plural ‘let’s go.’ But was it real indifference?

  “She must be worried, and I think I need to tell her what’s going on,” he explained needlessly. “Last night I promised her I’d come by the shop today. And I’m sure Fornells will want to talk to her.”

  “It’s not a problem for me. Where’s the shop?”

  “A ways past Artur’s, closer to the cathedral.”

  “Let’s go.” She stood up.

  Bety’s decision stunned him. It was the diametric opposite of apathy. That was it: Bety wanted to satisfy her curiosity and meet her substitute, and he’d given her the perfect opportunity to do it.

  “I thought you wouldn’t want to meet her,” he offered meekly.

  “Well, you were wrong,” she replied. If she’d been quiet and withdrawn on the way to the port, on the way back to the city she was self-assured and chatty. She bought the Diario Vasco at the first newsstand on the Ramblas, and busied herself giving commentary on the news items from Gipuzkoa with an intensity that told Enrique of her true lack of interest in them. Neither the jocular tone she used to review the latest local gossip or the political jokes so easy to make up about a place as tragically blighted as the Basque Country could hide her anxiety over meeting Mariola. Following in her wake, Enrique couldn’t disguise his concern.

  “Do you really think this is all right?”

  “I don’t get you. If you proposed it, you must’ve already decided that it is.”

  He didn’t answer. He knew she would rebuke any objection he could offer with the utmost simplicity and offhandedness. Enrique’s memory of past experiences was too clear to consider wasting time with arguments that were lost before they began. What he was really worried about was a different matter. How would Mariola react when she saw the two of them walk into the shop? He chose to ignore the uncomfortable question, putting off its resolution until the inevitable clash of the two women.

  “I’d like to ask you something.” Bety kept up her chatter.

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s just that, you told me that Mariola came back to Barcelona after her divorce. Why did she partner up with Samuel?”

  Enrique was relieved. The question lacked the anticipated malice.

  “I don’t really know their whole story. Artur told me once, when I was visiting, but I didn’t pay much attention. If I remember it right, she was looking for a job, and she got here right as Samuel was starting up an old project to expand his shop. Mr. Puigventós made the proposition and they both agreed to team up. That must’ve been about four years ago.”

  “I see. And one other thing: if we run into Samuel, which is likely, do you know what you’re going to tell him about the questioning?”

  “No,” he answered after thinking a moment. “But I’ll think of something.”

  They walked up the Ramblas to Pla de la Boqueria; there they entered the city’s old quarter on Cardenal Casañas Street. In Plaça del Pi they came across the small sampling of antiques exhibited each Thursday for pedestrians to feast their eyes on the mementoes of yesterday, to the delight of lovers of the past. People from all walks of life strolled along browsing the tables; further on, a saxophonist accompanied by background music playing from a CD concentrated all his efforts on the performance of a jazz piece vaguely familiar, but whose title Enrique could
not recall, unless it was Miles Davis’s “All Blues.”

  On La Palla Street they passed all the old shops, one by one. Nearly all of them were empty, though they did spot a customer who had wandered into Guillem’s. On reaching Artur’s, Enrique couldn’t help but cast a glance inside. It was empty, except for a thin film of dust that, from out of nowhere, had begun to settle on the floor. The walls, painted in their bold greens and blues, with no pieces to highlight, seemed faded, more becoming of a suddenly enlarged dollhouse momentarily emptied by its whimsical owner than of a real, life-sized building. In the loft, the splintered railing stood in mute testimony to the tragedy that took place three weeks prior. Seeing it, a lump formed in Enrique’s throat and he struggled to swallow.

  “Come on.” Bety urged him on, softly tugging his arm. “This place belongs to a past you need to leave behind.”

  “It’s not that easy,” he answered, with his hand in his left pocket, “when the past refuses to leave your present.”

  S. HOROWITZ. ANTIQUARIAN. The old sign, with its gothic lettering, was weathered, lending it an appearance of plausibility for an antiques shop. The establishment was striking, with the arcade that was hidden under stone, brought to light by Samuel and Mariola’s renovation. Seated at the old baroque desk, Samuel was skimming through a newspaper. He raised his head as soon as they opened the door; a broad smile lit up his wrinkled face.

  “Kids! What a nice surprise!” He gave Bety a kiss on each cheek and shook Enrique’s hand. “Please, sit down, sit down,” he insisted courteously. “You look great, Bety. I’d been looking forward to seeing you. Enrique told me you’d been in Barcelona several days, but between one thing and another I haven’t found the time to get in touch.”