“The last thing I heard him say was that you were a scoundrel, that he was fed up to his back teeth with you pinching his nurses’ bottoms, and that he didn’t want to see you ever again.”
“Water under the bridge. He’s very fond of me.”
“If you say so. . . . What else do you need?”
“Provisions for at least one week for a patient who has just survived a stabbing in the abdomen, another in the hand, and a beating that would have left a Basque weight lifter out of action.”
“My God . . .”
“Concentrate, Bea. Provisions. The doctor will know what will be needed.”
“He’s not going to like any of this at all.”
“That’s where your charm and powers of persuasion come in.”
“Delightful. I suppose she’ll need clean clothes and that sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing. I leave it all to your sound judgment. Is Daniel still there?”
“With his ear glued. Do you want me to send him over to you?”
“No. Tell him to stay put and keep calm. I’ll call you both back when I have some news.”
“We’ll be here.”
“It’s what I always say: if you want things to turn out well, you must put a woman in charge.”
“Stop the flattery, Fermín. I can see you coming a mile off. Anything else?”
“Keep your eyes peeled. It wouldn’t surprise me if the bookshop was being watched.”
“That’s all we needed. Understood. Fermín?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure we can trust this woman?”
“Alicia?”
“If that’s her real name . . .”
“It is.”
“And the rest? Is that also true?”
Fermín sighed. “We’re going to give her a chance. Will you do this for me, Bea?”
“Of course, Fermín. Whatever you say.”
Fermín hung up the phone and went back to the waiting room.
Fernandito watched him anxiously. “Who were you talking to?”
“To common sense.”
Fermín sat down and gazed at the boy. He reminded him so much of Daniel when he was younger that he was even starting to like him. “You’re a good guy, Fernandito. Alicia will be proud of you.”
“If she lives, that is.”
“She’ll live. I’ve already seen her return from among the dead once before, and those who learn the trick never forget it. I speak from experience. To return from the dead is a bit like riding a bike, or unfastening a girl’s bra with a single hand. It’s all a question of getting the knack.”
Fernandito smiled weakly. “And how does one do that?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know how to ride a bike.”
“I mean undoing a bra with a single hand.”
Fermín patted his knee and winked conspiratorially. “You and I have a lot to talk about . . .”
As luck would have it, before Fermín was able to start Fernandito off on a crash course on the verities of life, the surgeon appeared in the waiting-room doorway and, letting out a long sigh, collapsed, exhausted, on one of the chairs.
33
The surgeon was one of those youngish men who start to lose their hair before their thirties from too much thinking. He was tall and thin, with a profile like a pencil and intelligent eyes that surveyed the scene behind a pair of glasses known in those days as Truman glasses in honor of the trigger-happy American president who dropped atomic bombs the size of school buses on the Empire of the Sun.
“We’ve managed to stabilize her, close the wound, and control the hemorrhage. For the moment there is no infection, but I’ve got her on antibiotics, just as a precaution. The wound was deeper than it seemed. It’s a miracle that it didn’t slice her femoral artery, but the stitches were very complicated, and at first they didn’t hold. They will keep on holding if the inflammation subsides, if there is no infection, and if we’re lucky. Only God knows.”
“But will she pull through, Doctor?”
The surgeon shrugged. “That will depend on what progress she makes in the next forty-eight hours. The patient is young, and her heart is strong. Someone weaker would not have survived the operation, but that doesn’t mean that she’s out of the woods, not by a long stretch. And if there’s an infection . . .”
Fermín nodded, taking in the medical report. The doctor’s eyes were studying him with surgical curiosity. “May I ask how the patient got the wound on her right hip?”
“A childhood accident. During the war.”
“I see. It must cause her terrible pain.”
“She’s very long-suffering, although I must admit that sometimes it affects her character.”
“If she survives this, I could help her. There are new reconstruction procedures that weren’t even known twenty years ago, and they might reduce her pain. Nobody should have to live like that.”
“It will be the first thing I’ll tell Violeta when she wakes up.”
“Violeta?” asked the doctor.
“The patient,” Fermín specified.
The surgeon, who was nobody’s fool, looked sidelong at him. “Look, this is none of my business, and I don’t know what story you’ve foisted on poor old Coll, but someone has beaten this woman brutally and almost killed her. Whoever has—”
“I know,” Fermín cut in. “Believe me, I’m well aware of it. When do you think we can move her out of here?”
The surgeon raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Move her out of here? At best, the patient has a month of complete rest ahead. Violeta, or whatever her name is, isn’t going anywhere unless you want to arrange a fast-track funeral for her. I’m serious.”
Fermín studied the surgeon’s face. “What about transferring her to another place?”
“It would have to be another hospital. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Fermín nodded his head gravely. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Not at all. In a couple of hours, if all goes well, we’ll take her up to a room on the main floor. Until then you won’t be able to see her. I’m saying this because you might like to go out and get some fresh air. Or you may have some arrangements to make, if you know what I mean. For the moment, as I say, the patient is stable and the prognosis is moderately optimistic.”
“Moderately?”
The surgeon gave him an ambiguous smile. “If you want my personal opinion, and not that of the surgeon, this young lady doesn’t want to die yet. Some people survive out of pure anger.”
Fermín assented with a quick nod. “Women are like that. They get something into their heads and . . .”
Fermín waited until the surgeon had left them alone before poking his head out into the corridor and survey the situation. Fernandito joined him. Two figures dressed in very unmedical-looking uniforms were advancing slowly from the end of the passage.
“Hey, aren’t those the fuzz?”
“Excuse me?” asked Fernandito.
“Policemen. Don’t you read comic books?”
“Now that you mention it, they do look like—”
Fermín grunted and pushed Fernandito back into the waiting room.
“Do you think the manager has alerted the police?” asked the boy.
“This is going to be more complicated than I thought. There’s no time to lose. Fernandito, you’re going to have to lend me a hand.”
“I’ll lend you two, if need be. Order away.”
“I want you to go back to the Sempere & Sons bookshop and speak to Bea.”
“Bea?”
“Daniel’s wife.”
“And how will I know—”
“You can’t go wrong. She’s the cleverest of the bunch, and besides, she’s a stunner, but a modest one, so don’t get the wrong idea.”
“And what do I say to her?”
“That we’re going to have to play the queen’s gambit sooner than we’d anticipated.”
“The queen’s gambit?”
&n
bsp; “She’ll understand. And tell her to send Daniel over to warn Isaac.”
“Isaac? What Isaac?”
Fermín huffed, exasperated by Fernandito’s slow reflexes.
“Perhaps Isaac Monturiol, inventor of the submarine. Plain Isaac. Do I need to write it down for you?”
“No, it’s all engraved on my mind.”
“Well then, beat it, we’re already late.”
“What about you? Where are you going?”
Fermín winked at him. “A war can’t be won without the infantry.”
34
By the time Fermín left the hospital and went down to the beach, the storm had passed. The wind blew onshore, dragging in waves that broke on the sand barely a few meters from the rim of the shantytown—a vast citadel of huts spreading as far as the eye could see, right up to the walls of the Pueblo Nuevo Cemetery. Even the dead had a better home than that lot of lost souls who scraped together an existence at the edge of the sea, Fermín told himself.
A chorus of suspicious looks greeted him as he walked up an alleyway flanked by hovels. Ragged children, haggard women, and men who looked twice their age watched as he walked by. Soon a quartet of wild-looking youngsters appeared, surrounding him and barring his way.
“Are you lost, payo?”
“I’m looking for Armando,” said Fermín, without a hint of nervousness or fear.
One of them had a scar across his face, running from forehead to cheek. He stepped forward with a menacing grin and looked defiantly into Fermín’s eyes.
Fermín held his gaze. “Armando,” he repeated. “I’m a friend of his.”
The youth sized up his opponent, whom he could have eliminated with a mere slap, and finally he smiled. “Weren’t you the dead one?” he asked.
“I changed my mind at the last minute,” said Fermín.
“On the beach,” said the young man, pointing with his head.
Fermín signaled his gratitude, and the youths stood to one side. Then he continued along the alleyway for about a hundred meters, his presence now ignored by the locals. The path turned toward the sea, and Fermín heard children’s voices and laughter coming from the beach. He walked on and soon became aware of what had drawn the children to the water’s edge.
The storm had pushed in an old cargo ship, which had run aground just a few meters from the shore. Its hull had listed to port, and the keel and propellers peeped over the foam. The waves had knocked most of the cargo overboard. A flock of seagulls fluttered among the floating remains of the wreckage while the crew tried to salvage what it could and the children celebrated the disaster in party spirit. In the distance rose an endless forest of chimneys and factories. Above them clouds slid along the sky, carrying the echo of thunderclaps and the glow of the storm.
“Fermín,” said a deep, calm voice next to him.
He turned to find Armando, prince of gypsies and emperor of the forgotten world of El Somorrostro. He wore an impeccable black suit and carried his patent leather shoes in his hand. He’d rolled up his trouser legs to walk along the damp sand and watch the children play in the surf.
Armando pointed at the scene of the shipwreck. “The misfortune of some is the bonanza of others,” he declared. “What brings you to these parts, dear friend, misfortune or bonanza?”
“Despair.”
“Never a good counselor.”
“But very convincing.”
Armando smiled and nodded. He lit a cigarette and offered the packet to Fermín, who declined the invitation.
“They tell me you were seen leaving the Hospital del Mar,” said Armando.
“You have eyes everywhere.”
“I suspect that what you need are hands, not eyes. How can I help you?”
“By saving a life.”
“Yours?”
“I already owe you mine, Armando. What brings me here is a life I should have saved many years ago. Destiny placed it in my hands, and I failed.”
“Destiny knows us better than we know ourselves, Fermín. I don’t think you failed anyone. But I sense that haste is required. Give me the details.”
“It can be complicated. And dangerous.”
“If it were easy and safe, I know you wouldn’t insult me by coming to ask for my help. What’s the name?”
“Alicia.”
“A love?”
“A debt.”
* * *
Hendaya knelt down by the body and removed the blanket. “Is that him?” he asked.
When he didn’t get a reply, he turned around. Linares, behind him, was staring at Vargas’s corpse as if he’d just been slapped in the face.
“Is it, or isn’t it?” Hendaya insisted.
Linares nodded, closing his eyes briefly.
Hendaya covered the face of the dead policeman again and stood up. He walked calmly around the room, casually examining the clothes and objects scattered about. Apart from Linares, two of his men were waiting in patient silence.
“I’m told that before he came back here, Vargas was in the morgue with you,” he said to Linares. “Can you fill me in?”
“Captain Vargas had found a dead body the night before, and he called to inform me about it.”
“Did he say under what circumstances he found the body?”
“During the course of an investigation he was working on. He didn’t discuss the details of the case with me.”
“And you didn’t ask him?”
“I presumed that Vargas would give me the details when the time was right.”
“You had that much trust in him?”
“As much as in myself,” replied Linares.
“Interesting analogy. Nothing like having good friends in headquarters. And tell me, were you able to identify the body?”
Linares hesitated for a moment. “Vargas suspected it was someone called Ricardo Lomana. The name must ring a bell. He was a colleague of yours, I think.”
“Not of mine. But yes, the name sounds familiar. Did you file a report on these events to the relevant department?”
“No.”
“Why was that?”
“I was awaiting confirmation from the pathologist.”
“But you were going to do it.”
“Of course.”
“Of course. Meanwhile, did you tell anyone in the police station about Vargas’s suspicions regarding Lomana’s identity?”
“No.”
“No?” Hendaya insisted. “No assistant?”
“No.”
“Does anyone else, apart from the pathologist and his staff, the judge, and the police officers who came with you, have any knowledge of the removal of the corpse?”
“No. What are you insinuating?”
Hendaya winked at him. “Nothing. I believe you. . . . And do you know where Vargas was going when he left the morgue?”
Linares shook his head.
“To the Civil Registry,” said Hendaya.
Linares frowned.
“You didn’t know?”
“No,” Linares answered. “Why should I know?”
“Didn’t Vargas mention it to you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Didn’t Vargas call you from the registry to ask you something?”
Hendaya was smiling, enjoying the game. Linares held his gaze.
“No.”
“Does the name Rovira ring a bell?”
“It’s quite a common surname.”
“Is it in the police station?”
“I think there’s someone there with that name. He works in the archives and is about to retire.”
“Has anyone asked you about him recently?”
Linares shook his head again. “Can you please tell me what we’re talking about?”
“About a crime, my friend. A crime that was committed against one of ours, one of the best. Who could have done something like this?”
“A professional, obviously.”
“Are you sure? To me it looks more like the work of a p
etty thief.”
“A petty thief?”
Hendaya nodded confidently. “This neighborhood isn’t trustworthy, and God knows these Catalans are capable of stealing their mothers’ drawers on their deathbed while they’re still warm. It’s in their blood.”
“No third-rate petty thief would have had a chance against Vargas,” Linares argued. “You know that as well as I do. This wasn’t done by an amateur.”
Hendaya gave him a long, calm look. “Come on, Linares. There are professional petty thieves. Hard men, with no scruples. You know that. And your friend Vargas, let’s face it, wasn’t in very good shape. The years don’t lie.”
“The investigation will have to determine that.”
“Unfortunately there won’t be one.”
“Just because you say so,” snapped Linares.
Hendaya smiled with satisfaction. “No, not because I say so. I’m nobody. But if you know what’s good for you, you won’t expect anyone else to tell you.”
Linares bit his tongue, then said, “I’m not going to accept that. Not from you, nor from anyone else.”
“You’ve had a good run, Linares. Let’s not fool ourselves. You haven’t gotten where you have by playing the hero. Heroes don’t make it to the end. Don’t do anything silly now, two minutes away from a golden retirement. Times are changing. And you know I’m saying this for your own good.”
Linares shot him a look of contempt. “What I know is that you’re a son of a bitch, and I couldn’t give a shit who you’re working for. This isn’t going to stop here. Call whoever you need to call.”
Hendaya shrugged, and Linares turned around and headed for the exit.
Hendaya caught the eye of one of his men and nodded. The policeman set off behind Linares. The other one came over, and Hendaya gave him a questioning look. “Any signs of that whore?”
“There was only one body in the workshop. Not a sign of her. We’ve been through the apartment on the other side of this street. Nothing. None of the neighbors have seen her, and the caretaker assures me that the last time she saw her was yesterday, when she was going out.”
“Is she telling the truth?”
“I think so, but if you like, we can soften her up a bit.”
“That won’t be necessary. Comb the hospitals and first-aid clinics. If she’s in one of them, she will have given a false name. She can’t be very far.”
The Labyrinth of the Spirits Page 58