The call lasted four or five minutes. My brother simply listened. He finally said, “Wait a minute, no need to get in a stew. There’ll always be time to go to the police… Look, give me time to think it over and call me back tonight… Yes, at about eight. Did you get that?”
That was the end of the conversation. Montse, Lola and I looked at him, intrigued, expecting him to tell us all. Either Borja was a very good actor or it was evident he’d not just been speaking to Merche.
“He’s hung up. His number didn’t show on the screen,” he said nervously. And added, “Well I bloody never…”
“Well I bloody never what?” I asked, dying to know. Montse and Lola also seemed on the edge of their seats.
No, it wasn’t Merche, but it could have been her husband; though, from what Borja had told me, her hubby wasn’t at all worried about her and her bit on the side. They belonged to another world, the world of the wealthy, where appearances were what mattered. Nevertheless Borja didn’t seem scared or stressed. Simply worried.
“The guy who just rang,” he finally said, “is the man who mugged Amadeu Cabestany by the exit to the Up & Down club. It obviously pays to put ads in the newspapers.”
“You’re not kidding. But what if somebody’s trying it on…”
“It’s to do with the case you’re investigating, isn’t it?” interjected Lola. “Muggers and murderers… What an exciting life you two lead!”
“You don’t know the half of it!” I exclaimed, thinking that none of this was at all amusing.
Our paella arrived that very moment and we waited for the waiter to serve us our helpings before resuming the conversation. It looked really good and we were hungry, but I’m sure we’d have all been happier if the waiter had brought it ten minutes later so Borja could have finished telling us the whole story. We ordered another bottle of white wine and Lola lit a cigarette.
“It might be a friend of Amadeu or Clàudia. Someone who wants to help him get out of the Model…” I said, worried.
Borja shook his head.
“I asked him what he was wearing. If you remember, Amadeu Cabestany gave the police a detailed description of the man who mugged him, and this information hasn’t been published, precisely to avoid that kind of thing happening. According to Amadeu, the mugger was on the short side and wearing jeans, a white shirt, a dark, possibly brown blouson, a cloth cap that hid his hair and sunglasses. Oh, and according to Cabestany, he spoke in Catalan. The man who rang also spoke in Catalan and the description he gave of himself matches. It was him.”
“If that’s the case, it means Amadeu Cabestany is innocent.”
“Yes, my boy! And I was beginning to think Clàudia was wrong in the head!”
“So case solved! We should inform the police.”
“Yes, right, but there is one slight problem,” answered a deadpan Borja.
“A problem? What problem?”
Montse and Lola looked at us admiringly and hung on our every word. Instead of talking about football or engaging in boring gossip about boring colleagues in the office, their men conversed quite naturally about crimes and murders like two professional detectives. Our lives might have lots of drawbacks, but you couldn’t deny there were attractions, as that phone call had just shown. The wine was beginning to flow to Montse’s head, because she kept refilling her glass, and Lola’s hand had been lingering on Borja’s thigh for some time.
“The man who rang – let’s call him ‘Mr X’ – isn’t a professional criminal,” my brother asserted. “He rambled on about a car accident, a bank that was going to repossess his flat and that he couldn’t get hold of the money he urgently needed so he’d decided to go to Up & Down and mug someone. He said he used a toy pistol.”
“I expect all criminals tell a similar story…” I said, unconvinced.
“Yes, but he rang. We thought we’d get answers from the taxi drivers, or perhaps someone who went to the club that night, don’t you remember? But it’s the thief who rang, and it turns out he speaks in a very educated manner and doesn’t swear. I mean he didn’t say ‘Hey, guy, I’m the guy who robbed that shit!’ or ‘Mate, what’s in it for me if I sing?’ He never even asked if there was any kind of financial reward. In fact, he sounded very nervous. Polite, cultured and nervous. What we have to ask is why.”
“Why he speaks in an educated manner? Why he’s polite?” I responded, taken aback.
“I mean” – Borja was beginning to lose his patience – “why he rang. I think he wanted to find out if any other witnesses had come forward. He told me he was ready to tell all to the police, but that if he did so his life would fall apart.”
“You know, if he hasn’t got a record, he’ll only get a few months. The judges are lenient towards people who give themselves up.”
“You said it. And what does that mean?” Borja was acting up for his audience, a Montse and a Lola who were all agog. “Mr X is someone who is not part of the crime scene, someone who has not involved a lawyer to do a deal with us, someone who has not tried to blackmail us. No, I reckon he’s simply a guy down on his luck.”
“So?”
“So we must make a move before his conscience drives him to the police.”
“But, Borja, he’s a criminal. He’s committed a crime…” I objected.
“I don’t know who it was who said that murderers don’t exist, only people who commit murders, but I suppose the same can be said of thieves and muggers. Besides, Eduard, one swallow doesn’t make a summer. We’ve all done something foolish in our time,” he added magnanimously.
“Heavens, Borja, you never cease to surprise me,” said Montse, impressed. “If your friends could hear you…”
In principle my brother is right-wing or, to be more precise, a member of an idealized aristocratic right characterized by its refinement and nobility of spirit, and which only exists, I fear, in his batty brain.
“Well, well… so it turns out you are a right-on fellow after all…” said Lola, pecking him on the cheek. We’d finished the paella and polished off two bottles of Viña Sol.
Before the situation degenerated any further, our waiter made a providential appearance, removed our plates and brought the dessert menu. As summer and a baring of bodies on the beach was at hand, Lola, Montse and Borja were on diets and went straight on to coffee and liqueurs, but I couldn’t resist a generous helping of ice cream.
“So what now?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Borja replied frankly.
“Boysh, me thinksh youves no opshun but to catch the moiderrer and forsh him to confesh…” slurred Lola.
“The problem is that it’s not that easy, my love,” my brother replied. “Let’s just suppose Lluís Arquer is right and we can reduce the list of suspects to some fifteen or twenty people drinking in the bar. That’s still a lot of people.”
“We could make a list of possible motives,” I suggested. “With a little bit of luck…”
“We could also consult the stars…” suggested Montse, who was beginning to sprawl over her chair.
Astrology, Tarot and I Ching are some of the complementary activities Montse’s Alternative Centre puts on. I presumed she was joking.
“I know!” exclaimed an excited Lola, pouring out a drop more fire-water. “Yous should do a reconstrushion of the sheet… sheen of the crime, like Agatha Chrishtie in her novelsh.”
“Dearie, that would be a great idea if we knew who the murderer was and if they hadn’t buried her,” I objected. “Because there were only two people in the room where Marina Dolç was killed: the lady in question and whoever sent her over to the other side.”
“Nooooguynooo!” laughed Lola. “I wash meaning the bar in the Ritsch. You musht find out where people were and who wash shatting with who… The moiderer musht have left the bar at shome shtage, right? You jush find the pershon who shlipped out. There were lotsh of witneshes. Eashy peashy.”
“That’s a great idea! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it!” s
houted Borja enthusiastically. “You’re brilliant, Lola!”
“And we’ll unmask the murderer in front of the other guests, right? You’ve been reading too many novels.” I couldn’t think they were serious.
“Why not? It might work, Eduard,” Borja’s eyes were sparkling excitedly. “And if not, we can always have recourse to horoscopes and tarot cards.”
Monste and Lola purred contentedly and looked on in agreement, delighted Borja wasn’t as sceptical of alternative methods of knowledge as I am. A reconstruction of the events on the night would be right up the street of Elsa, the expert in matters esoteric at the Alternative Centre, who spends her time making astral charts for a load of strangers.
“We’ll organize it for next Wednesday,” decreed my brother, as happy as a sand-boy as he put the money to pay half the bill on the table. “We’ll ask Mariona to help us.” And he added, extremely confidently, “We’ll catch them, Eduard, just you see if we don’t.”
I nodded and smiled sceptically. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
22
That same day, at 8 p.m., Amadeu Cabestany’s would-be mugger rang Borja again. We’d gone to my place to wait for our providential witness to call and, as the lift was out of order, we’d had to walk up the stairs, half in the dark: some bulbs had fused and there seemed to be no way to clarify whose responsibility it was to replace them. Borja kept moaning about the legwork and because he’d stepped on something slimy that was better left unidentified. While we were walking upstairs, we passed our neighbour on the second floor and Borja looked startled.
“My God!” he whispered. “The dubious characters that live on your staircase! Is he a junky, or what?”
“Don’t be silly! That guy’s a translator…” I rasped. “He’s married to Carmen, that girl who came to our St John’s Eve party with her two children. Have you forgotten? The poor guy! He had a very bad car accident months ago.”
“He looked spaced out.”
“Yes, he didn’t look too good,” I agreed as we headed for the dining room.
Merche and Lola had gone to pick up the children from the mother-in-law’s and we’d decided to go straight home. It was a quarter to eight, and while we waited for Borja’s phone to ring, I switched on the TV on the off chance they were showing a game. The phone rang a couple of minutes before the time agreed. It was him.
“A week,” I heard Borja say. “We’ll wait a week, as I’m about to put a plan into action. If we haven’t bagged Marina Dolç’s murderer in the next seven days, I’ll ask you to go to the police myself (…). No, no, I’m confident it will go well, but if you don’t see anything in the newspapers within a week, you’ll have to tell the police,” he warned.
My brother has this side to him. He can be hard-nosed when it comes to fleecing the rich, but can also show a paternalist vein when he gets the impulse to protect the weak, especially when they are in trouble with the law. According to Borja, and I thinks he’s clear on this because he’s suffered it in his own flesh, the law is one thing and justice quite another, and they don’t always go hand in hand. I’m sure he’s right, but, frankly, I’d have told that fellow he should go to the police immediately so they could release Amadeu, who was innocent after all. And, of course, I’d have let the mossos sort out who’d killed Marina Dolç and washed my hands of the whole business. But, it’s obvious, I’m not Borja, I’ve not changed my name and don’t have the nerve to act as if I were somebody else and play a double game with Merche and Lola.
Early next morning we went to our office to get the list of people drinking in the bar at the Ritz from the file Lluís Arquer had given us. We also rang Mariona, who, despite the deplorable scenes at her house on Friday night, was delighted at the idea of reconstructing the events of the night of the murder and volunteered to summon the suspects and organize everything. My brother then rang Clàudia and told her of our plan to catch the murderer and how we would need to spend a night at the Ritz to recce the location and prepare our soirée; she finally agreed to cover the extra expenses. She was a wealthy woman and it was hardly a great sacrifice.
“Are you sure we absolutely need to be at the Ritz on Tuesday?” I asked, surprised by his suggestion.
“Well, absolutely, absolutely, not really… But can you think of a better excuse to get a night gratis there?” my brother said with a smile.
“Frankly, Borja, I couldn’t give a damn.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I’d rather be at home with Montse. I don’t suppose I can bring her along, can I?”
“No way.”
“But if you only want to have a free night at the Ritz, why don’t you go by yourself with Merche, for example? It gives me the—”
“Merche and her husband are no strangers to the Ritz. What’s the matter with you? Aren’t you curious to know what it feels like to be in the midst of luxury?”
“The truth is all those porters in hats and waiters in dinner jackets make me squirm,” I defended myself.
“So start getting used to it.”
Borja rang the Ritz. It was half-past twelve. He asked for the manager, whom Mariona, for her part, had already spoken to. The manager seemed curiously keen to cooperate, perhaps because Mariona, as well as being a very persuasive lady, is also one of the hotel’s main shareholders. The reconstruction would be at nine next Wednesday evening. After persisting for a while, my brother succeeded in reserving for the Tuesday night the very rooms Marina Dolç and Amadeu Cabestany had occupied on the night of the prize. So it was official: the Martínez brothers were going to spend a night at the Ritz. I still didn’t know what excuse I’d give Montse to justify such extravagance. I hoped she wouldn’t be too angry and that, knowing her character, she didn’t send me packing.
If Lluís Arquer and my brother were right, the murder suspects were simply the list of the twenty people who were in the bar when the novelist said goodnight and went upstairs to her room. We decided to review it while Borja filled me in on who was who.
“Well, here we have Mariona Castany,” he said, consulting his notes, “and yours truly. By the way, Mariona is designated a writer, and I’m a financial adviser.”
“There’s a question mark next to you,” I observed.
“Well, yes…” My brother decided to pass on that detail. “Let’s see, then we have Amàlia Vidal, the feminist who was also at Mariona’s… Carles Clavé, the writer who wrote an obituary for Marina Dolç… It’s in the file.”
“He was also at the homage at Mariona’s, even though he never opened his mouth. They must be good friends.”
“According to Mariona, they aren’t. But it seems to be one of those things writers do,” he commented. “There’s also Josefina Peña, the woman who found Marina dead, and Oriol Sureda, one of her hardest-hitting critics. I remember him from the Ritz: a bald man, more sixties than fifties, smartly dressed and wearing thick blackframed spectacles.”
“What a memory you’ve got!” I exclaimed.
“He looked evil and gave me bad vibrations. We’ve also got Llibert Celoni and Eudald Suñol, the two writers who had a punch-up at Mariona’s.”
“Here it says he’s ‘Eudald Suñol Clavé’. Is he related to Carles Clavé?” I asked out of curiosity.
“I’m sure. They’re all related in these circles,” my brother concurred. “Eudald is the one who got punched.”
“Yes, I remember. And this Ferran Fontserè was at the party as well, wasn’t he?” I said, reading the next name on the list.
“Yes, he was the poet, the younger guy. From what it says here, he works at the Ministry of Culture.”
“Well, we all have to earn a living. I don’t think poetry puts food on his table.”
“To continue: Francesc Viladecavalls, publisher and wife… Sebastià Setcases, the councillor at Barcelona Town Hall, and Anna Setcases, councillor at the Town Hall in Cornellà and wife of the aforementioned…”
“You didn’t notice, but he was the one in the red underpants. They matched
his wife’s lingerie.” So my powers of recall weren’t that bad.
Borja grimaced and ignored my comment.
“Another famous writer, Carles Martín-Pinto, and his partner, Natasha Volivodka, who they say is an artist.”
“The one with the lovely legs, right?”
“The lovely legs you’ll see on Wednesday. We have Maia Mayol and Lluïsa Carbó, also writers. They don’t look very bright and nobody took any notice of them, but they stayed till the bitter end. Oh, and here we have Clàudia and that stuck-up critic Agustí Planer.”
“He really was a nasty piece of work,” I said, remembering the argument at Mariona’s.
“And finally, Albert Fonollosa, the dentist I spoke to, and his wife Pilar. They were friends of the publisher and didn’t budge from the bar the whole night.”
“What a crew!”
“It’s what we have. If we exclude the people I’m sure didn’t shift from their beverages the whole night – I mean, Mariona, Clàudia, the dentist and his wife, the Russian painter and myself – we’re left with fourteen. Fourteen suspects.”
“But do you think they’ll all agree to come on Wednesday after what happened on Friday?”
“Eduard, nothing happened at Mariona’s,” responded Borja, suddenly turning solemn and adopting the tone of an offended gentleman. “Do please remember that.”
“Don’t worry. But I hope they don’t serve canapés at the Ritz on Wednesday.”
When I got home, I decided to tell Montse more or less the truth about what we were planning to do at the Ritz with the promise that I’d take her to spend a night there to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Meekly following my orders from Borja, I also asked her not to say anything to her sister. According to Borja, he needed to concentrate that night and didn’t want Lola turning up and creating a diversion. Montse didn’t really cotton on, but work is work though family may be family. However, she was annoyed and turned her back on me in bed while I cursed my brother’s genes and bright ideas.
The next day I decided to help Montse with Arnau and, to smooth troubled waters, offered to go to the market. After lunch, I filled a bag with clean clothes, a toothbrush and shaver, and my brother picked me up at around seven. Borja had established himself in luxury at the Ritz at noon, but I had no wish to spend the whole day strolling around the hotel while he put on his millionaire act.
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