The Antiquarian (13 page)

“The sea jackets are down below, in the cabinet next to the galley. Put one on and bring the other one up for me. And something to drink.”

Enrique obediently peeled off his coat and was soon back on deck with heavy sea jackets and two cans of beer. Carlos put his on, more to ward off the inevitable night
dew than any real cold, and then opened the cans. They drank in silence. The wind, much cooler at sea than on land, delicately caressed their faces.

“I needed this,” said Enrique. “Thanks, Carlos.”

“Don't thank me. This way, if I'm ever in San Sebastián and I ask you to take me out, you can't say no,” Carlos smiled. He took a deep breath and kept speaking. “Feel any better?”

“Yes.” It was true. Enrique's face had released the tension accumulated over days of piling concentration upon grief. He left it behind as soon as he boarded the
Corsario
.

Carlos knew that Enrique was relaxing, little by little. Sailing had always done wonders for the cranky, volatile character that had dictated most of his friend's actions since those distant days when they were just getting started in their seagoing adventures. Whenever he had spent a few days sailing, the naturally aggressive reactions inherent to his friend's personality tended to fade, diluted by the sea's immensity and the obligatory teamwork that sailors' lives depend on. Sailing was like a remedy that could transform him.

Carlos couldn't help but think back to a trip they had made together in similar circumstances; if he was remembering it purely by association of ideas, he was sure his friend would be too. And what better than a nostalgia-laden memory of youth to break, once and for all, the chains of preoccupation that kept Enrique from expressing himself?

“Seeing you now, at night, here on the deck, reminds me of our teenage craziness that Easter vacation. Remember? Remember how ballsy that was?”

Enrique covered his face with both hands, leaving only his eyes visible. Carlos couldn't tell if he was smiling, but a sparkle shined in his eyes on remembering their first big adventure. Of course he remembered it. How could he ever forget something like that?

Things had been different then. In those days, Carlos and Enrique, fourth-year sailing students at the Real Club Naútico de Barcelona sailing school, had struck up a fast friendship they assumed would last forever. Inseparable buddies, they spent every free moment at the yacht club, where they were known to everyone. Their sole aim was to get on board any boat from the port that was seabound and might need an extra hand. Usually they were just day trips, and both friends were in the habit of phoning their families before embarking, to let them know where they were. But the trip Carlos was talking about was altogether different. Ángel Llompart, an heir from a well-moneyed family, had planned to sail to Minorca for the weekend. His parents had been kind enough to give him a beautiful, completely outfitted thirty-three-footer that probably cost them a small fortune. Ángel enjoyed sailing, but he tended to sail with smaller boats, and never unaccompanied. For the trip to Minorca, his first with the new boat, he decided to enlist the help of the two friends. With a bigger crew, the voyage would be safer. But Carlos and Enrique knew for certain that their parents would never let them embark on a trip that was sixteen hours in total, and much less with a beginner—his first time out in a new boat. And so, by mutual agreement, and fascinated at age sixteen by the magnitude of their boldness, they decided to lie to their parents and say that each was spending the weekend at the other's house.

Around ten o'clock Sunday evening, they put into the port of Barcelona. To their surprise, Artur and Carlos's parents were waiting for them on the dock, with less-than-friendly looks on their faces. By sheer chance, they had run into each other while out for a morning walk along the Ramblas, so the boys' little conspiracy was found out. Though they were worried at first, the parents found that their children's sea jackets were missing from each house, so it didn't take them long to deduce that they were at sea. They went to the club, where several members claimed to have seen them leaving
in Ángel Llompart's sailboat. The route sheet Ángel had left in the offices clearly indicated the destination and hours planned for arrival in Mahon and Barcelona. Thus, when Carlos and Enrique tossed a line onto the pontoon and saw their parents, their hearts sank as their world collapsed around them. Two instant and powerful slaps did away with their desire for adventure for some time.

Carlos had chosen just the right memory. Enrique seemed to have dispelled his melancholy completely, and had gotten into a more comfortable, approachable mood, just enough to discover what the real problem that had brought him there was.

“Tell me what's wrong,” Carlos asked, without beating around the bush.

“Artur's dead. Murdered.” Saying it out loud took a heavy burden off Enrique.

“Oh, God. When?”

“A week ago. They found him dead in his shop the Monday after Sant Jordi's Day. Someone beat him over the head with a marble paperweight. You know the shop: one of the blows knocked him over the rail of his study down to the shop floor. As if that wasn't enough, his killer wanted to make sure he got the job done, so he finished him off with an antique letter opener. Then he turned the shop inside out, took Artur's keys, went to his house, and did the same thing.”

“Jesus.” Things were becoming clearer. He now knew not only why Enrique was upset, but also that he had nowhere else to go but to him. Carlos Hidalgo, private investigator. And not just any private investigator, no amateur gumshoe, but one of the best in the city with a reputation respected nationwide. “Who's on the case?”

“Captain Fornells. Know him?”

“Yeah, of course. He's a veteran, an expert. And absolutely old-school. Fornells is a leftover from the Franco days, probably pushing retirement now, but he's still got a
nose for the work and gets results. If he's in charge, then you stand a real chance of catching the killer, as long as he's got reasonable evidence and clues.”

“The police have a few clues, but they won't find the killer,” answered Enrique.

“Why do you say that?”

“Fornells gave me a rundown of the possibilities. It could have been a local stickup job.”

“Not likely,” answered Carlos, “Even the pettiest criminal would know that antiquarians don't handle cash, that it's a credit card business.”

“That's exactly what Fornells said, and he's right. But on the other hand, Artur had instigated a police investigation about all of these strange new antiques shops in Barcelona. He thought they might have been something of a money-laundering ring.”

“That sounds more plausible, even though people in rings like that tend not to get their hands dirty. Killings, beatings—all that stuff's pure Hollywood. It has nothing to do with real life, much less as we know it here, at least for now. Have they made any progress?”

“Not yet. They're waiting to see what the Financial Crimes Unit gives them.”

“Right. What else?”

“They're not going to find the killer because they're following the wrong clues,” Enrique answered somberly.

“What do you mean?” Carlos tossed a rope, and waited for his friend to answer. He was good at his trade. No hurry.

“Artur was doing research on an old manuscript from the early fifteenth century. He had found something, I don't know what, but it was important. Look at this.” He dug into the inner pocket of the sea jacket and took out the letter his father wrote the day before he died. “Here, in the postscript.”

Carlos turned on the deck light and read the postscript twice with his full attention.

“You think they could've killed him over that discovery?”

“I'm sure of it.”

“You said the killer went through Artur's house. If he did, either the manuscript he wanted wasn't in the shop, or he couldn't find it.”

“That's right.”

“Did he find it at his house in Vallvidrera?”

“No.”

“Then you must have it,” concluded Carlos.

Enrique said nothing.

“How could it be that, if the killer knew the manuscript, he didn't find it in Artur's shop or house?”

“You read the postscript. Artur had a strange feeling about it, so he swapped the book's covers with another one from his collection. Since it looked like any other book and was surrounded by five hundred others, no one could have found it—unless they knew the secret.”

“If you think the police can't find the killer it's because they're looking in the wrong place,” Carlos continued his reasoning, “and if you think that, it means, first off, that they don't know about the manuscript, and second, that you have an idea as to who did it.”

“Yeah, that's right. There were three men who could have seen the manuscript that contained the discovery. It was when Artur was sorting out the books from the last lot he'd acquired. One of them, Samuel Horowitz, I'd rule out. He was, and is, a lifelong family friend, and there's no way he could be mixed up in something like this.”

“That name sounds familiar. I must've come across it sometime. But you're wrong to think like that. It's been proven that in ninety percent of all murder cases, the killer is someone close, a relative or friend of the victim,” he added, unruffled, speaking more out of his profession than his friendship.

“That's impossible. I'd never believe something like that could happen. They'd been friends since they were kids! Growing up I spent almost as much time at his house as I did my own!”

“Okay,” Carlos interrupted. “Go on.”

“The other two are Guillem Cardús and Enric Torner, these two younger antiques dealers. I think one of them, if not both of them working together, caused my father's death.”

“Do you know them personally?”

“Not that well. It's been years since they got into the antiques business, but by the time they bought their own shops I'd already moved to San Sebastián. What I know about them is from the times Artur would talk shop to me. They're competent professionals. Guillem's a people person, outgoing. Enric's more reserved. You could even say shy. But both are brilliant, with a real knack for the business. Their shops make money, and Artur had told me about them, praising their skill, and especially their style.”

“Then they'd also be among Artur's friends.”

“Yes. They had this little coffee gathering once a week.”

“Listen, Enrique, are you sure of what you're saying?”

“Absolutely.”

Carlos slowly nodded, as if letting Enrique's story ripen inside his mind. The wind backed from the north; with one succinct movement he ordered Enrique to change over the foresail and tacked the boat back toward the Olympic Harbor.

“Tell me what else you know,” he ordered. “With the information you've given me so far, there's no way to consider them suspects. You've got to know more than you're telling.”

“I do know more. In just three days, I've had two offers to purchase Artur's shop. Both of them are from the last three people to see my father alive, and the last ones to have a conversation with him. The first was from Samuel, and the second from Guillem and Enric, who are willing to set up a partnership to be able to pay for it. It's too much to be a coincidence.”

“I see. But be careful, because it could be. If they were the people who had the most contact with Artur in the antiques world, it's only reasonable that they offer to work with you or even buy the shop. But you're right: thirteen years in this business has made me suspicious of coincidences.” Carlos finished off his beer. “I assume you've told me the whole story because you need my help.”

“You're right.”

“Enrique, I need to know something important. How come you haven't told any of this to Fornells? I'd say the information you've withheld from him could be fundamental to solving the case. Why do it?”

Enrique thought before answering. Not even he had a logical explanation, other than his desire to find out what had been discovered that could drive a man to kill.

“I don't know. I had the impression that his death was linked to the manuscript, and when I found it and held it in my hands, I was sure of it,” Enrique said, going off on a tangent. “And then I—”

“Answer the question.”

Enrique responded with a prolonged silence.

“Tell me, now. What is in that manuscript that would make people willing to kill to get it?”

“I don't know,” Enrique answered curtly. Carlos fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with a windproof lighter.

“There's too much you don't know.” He looked at his friend gravely. “I don't like that. You should have gone to the police, and told them what you found instead of coming to me. Let me remind you that holding back information that could lead to a case being closed is a crime in itself, not to mention morally wrong.”

“They clubbed Artur with a paperweight three times, until he fell out of his study down to the showroom. Then they stabbed him with a letter opener through the ribs all the way to his heart. That swine showed no compassion. Help me hunt down the son of a bitch who killed my father,” Enrique said softly, with utter calm.

Carlos took a long, deep drag on his cigarette and nodded his head slightly. The story made no sense whatsoever, but Enrique was his friend, and there was no going against that.

“I'll try.”

Over the next few days, Enrique found himself forced to do one of the things he most hated in life: wait. There was an entire universe of activities awaiting him, all of them having to do with the manuscript, although his true interest didn't lie in the archives and libraries he visited in the hopes of finding a clue that could lead him to the spot where the architect had hidden the object; he was more interested in the news that Carlos could give him on his father's murderer. With concern weighing on him, the delayed wait put him through an unbearable suffering that nearly made him lose his composure more than once. The only undertaking he considered worthwhile was arranging the relocation of Artur's book collection from the shop to his house. The specialized company he had commissioned treated the books gently, with every precaution imaginable, and the staff's competency was duly reflected on the bottom line of the bill.