The Antiquarian (15 page)

“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.

“Samuel's a classic suspect, like it or not. And the problem is, I don't think that about Samuel from what you've told me, but because Fornells, who's old and therefore wise, also thinks he is. All I've done is look at the findings from the investigation that point in that direction, along with a couple other things. I'll tell you, just so you know, that he doesn't have a decent alibi. And another thing: just forty hours before your father's murder they were seen in public, arguing. And it got a little loud, with fists slamming down on the table to boot. When asked about it, Samuel admitted they had had a difference of opinion on a professional matter they were both involved in. I know Fornells is considering it, officially speaking, although he's ruling it out in private. He knows Samuel as well as you, if not better, and thinks he couldn't hurt a fly. So for
now, as far as Samuel's concerned, the investigation is about finding evidence that clears him rather than the other way around.”

“What can I do now?”

“Wait. Fornells has already done everything he can, and remember, he has a lot more resources than I do. But let me finish looking into Samuel and the others through a couple of trusted informants. Once you've talked to Fornells and you get the report from Financial Crimes, we'll have new information to work with.”

Enrique began an utterance that never left his mouth. Carlos, in control of the situation, spurred him on.

“You've already talked to Fornells,” he deduced easily.

“Yeah, I've just come from the station.”

“And you didn't like what he told you. Not only that, you think I won't like it either.”

Enrique nodded. “He has the Financial Crimes report. There is a money-laundering ring using these new shops as a front, but they're ruling out any possible connection with Artur's death.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “We should've expected that. That leaves us few options.” His voice suddenly caught, sounding more like that of a heavy drinker. “The idea of the mafia taking your father out just seemed too dirty. People who launder money would never get blood on their hands. The possibility of a chance holdup by a random small-time criminal isn't likely, either. If anyone had wanted to hit the shop, we'd probably already know through the neighborhood informants. And if we rule out these three options, all we have left to go on is what we've already investigated.”

“You still think they're suspects.”

“Rather than suspects, let's say they're possibly but improbably guilty.”

“You said they had good alibis. How can we catch them?”

“Investigating them more than we already have might scare them, and they could even go to the police. We don't want that—or rather, you don't.”

“So then?”

“So then we'll have to set a trap for them. Lay out some nice bait they can't resist, something that brings them right into our hands.”

“What bait?”

“Come on! A guy with your imagination can't figure it out? I'm going to start thinking you have ghostwriters working for you!” Carlos said in mock indignation.

Enrique's eyes flashed as soon as he understood Carlos's intentions.

“It's risky.”

“All traps are. But you use them when there's no other way.”

“How would you do it?”

“Well, I seem to remember they made you an offer to buy Artur's shop. Have you come to a decision?”

“No, to tell you the truth I haven't. Puigventós, the president of the Antiquarians' Association, told me that if I wanted to liquidate the shop and its contents the best thing would be to set up an auction. The money's better and it could be arranged directly for the people in the antiques community, without the general public finding out. He said it was an effective, quiet way to keep it ‘all in the family.'”

“That may be just the thing to set up the trap.”

“I don't get it.”

“Listen, they don't necessarily know that you suspect them. That works to our advantage. Call them to a meeting at Artur's shop. That won't be hard to do. There you tell them you appreciate their offers, but, on this Puigventós's advice, you've decided to
hold an auction, and you need their help to set the starting prices for the pieces in the shop and the warehouse. Or better still, offer them a personal gift while turning down their offer. That makes it more plausible. Oh, don't forget, Samuel needs to be there. He also made an offer, so it could be suspicious to the guilty party, or parties, if he's not there.”

“But I—”

“Hang on, let me finish! The shop has a study, right?”

“Yes.”

“The manuscript needs to be lying out on top of the table, in plain sight, surrounded by a bunch of notes in your handwriting. Make it clear you've been working on it.”

“That won't be hard.”

“I imagine it won't,” Carlos added severely. “Leave it out where they can all see it. It has to be the centerpiece of a nonexistent liturgy. But it shouldn't be obvious what it's really there for. If the killer's there, he'll have no choice but to try and take it as soon as possible. He got rid of Artur because he was on the way to unraveling the mystery, and as soon as he sees your work, he'll know that you are too.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It is. You know more or less how they killed your father, but you haven't read the medical examiner's report. I have. The killer acted in cold blood, and the brutality of the attack is a sign of total premeditation. Now you'll be in his way. You might be in danger. But you also have another option. Go to the police and show Fornells the letter Artur sent you before he died. With that in his hand, Fornells can take over this case and save us a lot of trouble.”

“No.”

“You're taking a big risk. But then, you're a big boy.”

“I'll play the game. I'll get the bait ready as soon as possible.”

Once the door to the offices had closed, Carlos picked up the phone and dialed. After several calls, a woman's voice, gentle yet firm, finally answered.

“Ana?”

“Yeah, Carlos, what's up?”

“Contact Pedro and have him take over your tail. I'll need you for another job. Just hang tight until I call you.”

“Okay, boss. See you later.”

“Bye.”

He idly typed on his computer keyboard, and was not surprised to read on the screen the phrase he had unconsciously written as he talked with his employee: “There's no such thing as coincidence.”

* * *

Enrique left the office adrift on a sea of doubt. Though he had not completely removed them from the list of suspects, Carlos had doubts about the participation of Enric and Guillem in the murder, as did Fornells about the alleged money launderers. Samuel? Absolutely absurd. A desperate stickup man? No, it couldn't be. The manuscript had to be the key. He was absolutely sure that they had killed him for it. Guillem had a good alibi, but Enric's depended on a third party. That person could be protecting him. That had to be it.

He headed to Vallvidrera. He had weighed the possibility of boring back into a mountain of old documents in the archbishopric's archive, in which he was sure he would find what he needed to solve the mystery. However, convinced of his inability to
find a solution that he thought would be simple but now seemed impossible, he decided to return to the relative tranquility of home. A tranquility that was relative because Artur's memory was always lying in wait, ready to leap out of any corner by surprise, under the innocent guise of the simple yet unyielding aspects of daily life.

It took him a while to get home. Once he had made it through the traffic jam in Plaça Sarrià, he drove to Vallvidrera Highway relatively easily. It took no more than five minutes to reach his house. He parked the car in front of the door, picked up the satchel containing the manuscript and notes that for days had been his inseparable companions, and was moving to open the door when a woman's voice took him completely by surprise.

“I thought you'd never come.”

That voice? Could it be true? Enrique felt the inevitable combination of joy and irrational anger that always found him whenever he took in Bety's lustrous beauty.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted, completely thrown.

“Quite a warm welcome—though, to tell you the truth, I expected as much.” Her voice gave off that distant, hurtful chilliness. “I imagine you'll at least invite me in.”

“Yeah, of course.” Enrique's response was not much kinder. As always, he hadn't wanted to answer that way. As always, he had.

He opened the door. Bety was using both hands to carry a heavy travel bag that Enrique tried to take for her. She refused his help. They entered the house without a word between them. Enrique was perplexed. He had tried to keep her out of it all, aware of how meddlesome his ex was and the danger surrounding the whole affair. Apparently, his efforts had been in vain.