The Antiquarian (46 page)

“I'm sure he had no intention of buying it, but was only bidding to bug us,” protested Samuel, who appeared to have lost the good mood he had been in up until then.

Mariola told Enrique about the origin of the hostilities, based on a long-running dispute whose cause was so absurd that not even the parties involved remembered what it was. Only the insistence of the two sides, unwilling to budge an inch to prevent any possible satisfaction for the other, kept their rivalry alive.

“These kinds of things are common in the world of antiquarians,” she explained. “For the most part, the members of this community have strong personalities and more than a few quirks. There are all kinds of little battles being waged among them that are unimportant, or so they claim; they justify them as healthy rivalries, but any seasoned observer within our trade would call it a desire to screw thy neighbor.”

“Is that why you and Samuel play at betting on who will bid on what piece?”

“That's at the heart of it. The owners of the shops reflect their personal tastes in their activity. More often than not, those tastes aren't shared by the majority of antiques dealers, usually just by another two or three at the most. That's why, knowing the tastes and styles of the majority of the buyers, we can have fun speculating on the bidding.”

“I get the feeling that this game is less straightforward than it seems at first sight.”

“We don't do it in bad faith … usually.” Mariola laughed. “The truth is, it can be fun to watch the efforts of someone trying to hide the long face they get after stumbling in public in front of their colleagues.”

“Until it happens to you, of course.” He pointed toward the bristling Samuel.

“That doesn't affect me. Samuel is angry because this spat they're in goes back many years. I've only been in the business for four years, and I still haven't made any enemies. And I won't make any, because I think it's silly to waste time on such foolishness.
C'est ne pas vrai?
” Mariola asked in a sugary voice.

“
Oui, ma chérie
.”

The auction played out relatively quickly, despite the many objects that Artur had exhibited for sale or stored in his private museum. The last piece was auctioned around three in the afternoon: an ancient Chinese porcelain vase that brought in the respectable figure of seven thousand euros. Once the proceedings were over, the antiques dealers began to leave among new expressions of condolence and affection. Enrique, shielded by Mariola this time, was forced to repeat the cycle of shaking countless hands, giving and receiving hundreds of kisses, and thanking them all for attending the auction. The great room, packed just moments before, was now empty except for Mariola Puigventós, her father, Pere, Samuel, and Enrique.

“Well, that does it!” said Puigventós with a vitality unbecoming of his years. “And I must say that, judging from my calculations, it went quite well,” he said, rubbing his thumb and index finger together.

“Have you tallied up the proceeds?” Samuel asked.

“I'd wager they're over one hundred twenty thousand euros,” Mariola interjected. “Three of the nicest pieces of furniture brought in around twelve thousand euros, and the rest could add up to a figure of around one hundred and eight thousand.”

“That's more or less what I had calculated,” confirmed Puigventós. “If you take away what you'll owe in taxes, and the auction room commission, you'll net around ninety thousand euros. But we'll confirm that sometime during the week, once the secretary collects all of the purchase money, and we settle up the accounts.”

“That's quite a bundle,” Samuel commented.

“I don't even know what I'll spend it on. The truth is, I'd rather do without the money and have Artur still here with us. But I'm afraid nothing can be done on that front.”

“Enrique.” It was a new voice coming from the other end of the room.

They all turned at once. Standing in the doorway was Captain Fornells, looking fatigued, even despondent. His face showed the lack of sleep and a vague, barely perceptible sadness. He walked toward the group but stopped halfway, apparently uncomfortable, perhaps feeling like a stranger in a setting he was completely unaccustomed to. With a worn-down gesture, he motioned for Enrique to approach. Enrique excused himself and obeyed.

“Fornells, what's happened to you? You look terrible.”

The bags under his eyes hung like flaccid half-empty sachets, his nose reddened, his face flushed like an alcoholic's, all swollen, the result of countless hours of work, no sleep, and a healthy brace of
carajillos
to stay on the go.

The captain simply looked at him long and hard with his weary eyes, crisscrossed by an infinite mesh of reddish thread veins.

“We need to talk,” he finally said.

“Okay. If you want we can talk in an office here. I'm sure Mr. Puigventós can arrange it.”

Fornells, impassive, shook his head.

“No, no. We need to talk at the station. I have a squad car waiting for us outside.”

Enrique felt unnerved by Fornells's request. He had always thought that law enforcement agencies were there to protect and serve citizens, not punish them. That was why he'd never had the uneasy feeling that runs down some people's spines whenever they pass a police officer. But this time, despite his clear conscience, he detected that something was definitely wrong. This having to go to the station … and Fornells's tone, so distant, so unfriendly compared to previous conversations, told him as much.

“All right. If you'll excuse me, I'll just say good-bye to my friends.”

“Sure,” agreed Fornells, with a gesture of his hand. “I'll be waiting outside on the sidewalk, by the steps. Don't be long.”

“Don't worry. Just time enough to say good-bye and get my jacket from the office.”

Fornells headed out the door without another word. Enrique went back to the group who, watching from a distance, had remained in expectant silence during the conversation.

“What's happening? Any news?” Samuel asked. “Have they found anything?”

“I don't know. He just told me we have to talk at the police station, but he didn't add anything else.”

“They've probably discovered something,” Puigventós contributed.

“I don't think so. You know that Fornells was an old friend of my father's, and he'd taken the case like it was something personal. He seemed too upset to be bearing any good news. I'll just go up to the office to fetch my jacket. Come with me?” he asked Mariola.

“Sure.”

“I'll let you know if there've been any developments. See you soon, and thanks for all your help.”

Puigventós and Samuel bid him farewell. Then, Mariola led him to the service elevator. Rendered mute, Enrique was unable to hide his concern.

“Hopefully he'll have some good news,” Mariola said.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Enrique answered vacantly. Mariola decided it best to keep quiet. They came to the office. There, Enrique gathered his jacket, and they began walking toward the exit in silence. From the top of the Boulevard dels Antiquaris stairs, he could see Fornells leaning on a corner of the wall outside, waiting, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips.

“Seeing you worried makes me worry too. Call me as soon as you finish down there. I'll be at home.”

“I'll call you.”

“Please don't forget.” Enrique thought her voice concealed a small plea.

“Don't worry, I won't,” he said, and he gave her a soft kiss as if to confirm his intentions.

Seeing him approach, Fornells tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with a nonchalant stomp of his foot.

“Car's over there. Let's go.” He pointed to a vehicle double-parked along the Passeig de Gràcia service lane.

Alongside the vehicle, Fornells silently directed Enrique to the backseat door. He opened it; Detective Rodríguez, who greeted him with a nod, was waiting inside. He sat down and closed the door, which gave off an ominous clang. The squad car started up and made its arduous way into the ever-dense Barcelona traffic. Impatient, Fornells uttered a single word.

“Go.”

The driver, a uniformed patrolman, switched on the siren. The car picked up speed. All the other traffic made way for it as if it was a leper, making it possible for them to pull up to the Raval Precinct station just five minutes later. They had to open Enrique's door from the outside, as it was permanently locked from within. With Fornells on one side, Rodríguez on the other, and the patrolman behind him, for the first time since they had left the Boulevard, Enrique became fully aware of his situation: he was, plainly and simply, under arrest.

Inside Captain Fornells's office, seated before an incredibly untidy desk awash with odd scraps of paper, folders, and other documents, Enrique waited patiently for someone to tell him what the hell was going on. He'd been sitting there for nearly an hour, alone. Once they'd arrived at the station, the patrolman had disappeared, and Fornells and Rodríguez had taken him into the office without a single word. Time crept by, and the uncertainty was wreaking havoc on Enrique.

Something was definitely amiss, but what? Had they found out about the manuscript being hidden? He was fully aware of having hidden potential evidence related to Artur's murder; Carlos had told him so. But the killer was behind bars; given that, withholding the manuscript now seemed trivial. If they had figured it out, he could understand that they were miffed, but there was no need to put on this whole show. In any case, he doubted that was why they'd brought him there. It seemed too insubstantial.

Rodríguez opened the office door, but halted before entering.

“It's Fornells. Says he won't be long,” he heard someone say.

Then the captain's deputy closed the door and took a seat next to Enrique before his boss's desk.

“Please excuse the delay. Just as we were getting here the medical examiner called and we had to leave you to look into other matters. Fornells is on his way. He'll be here within ten minutes. In the meantime, if you like, we can get started.”

“Started with what?” Enrique asked, confused.

Rodríguez took a photograph from a folder and handed it to him.

“Know him?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

The large-format photograph was a shot of Manolo's face. It must have been taken on a solemn occasion: Manolo, dressed in coat and tie, had carefully combed his hair and otherwise gave off a dapper appearance that was far from his usual dishevelment.

“Do you know his name and what he does for a living?”

“His name is Manuel Álvarez. He's a philologist.”

“When did you meet him?”

“Excuse me, but before we continue, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a question. Is this an interrogation?”

The detective meditated on his answer.

“Not officially, but you could call it that.”

“I don't understand what's going on. Maybe you could enlighten me.”

“It's pretty simple. Let me give you a rundown. At about twenty to one this morning we got a call alerting us to some kind of disturbance in an uptown Barcelona building. The call was from a retiree who lives alone. He'd heard some moaning, and then, silence. Our retiree doesn't think much of it; it could be anything—a couple making love, that dog on the fourth floor with a discipline problem that gets beaten more than it gets petted. But when he goes to take out the trash, he notices that the door to the second-floor apartment is ajar. He thinks the owner, who he's known for years and describes as extremely absentminded, has unwittingly left it open. He raps on the door with his knuckles but gets no response. Then he rings the doorbell. Same thing. He decides to close the door, but curiosity gets the better of him and he takes a look inside. Smack in the middle of the entry hall is his neighbor, or rather, his neighbor's corpse.”

“Manolo? Dead?”

“Yes. Dead. Absolutely dead.”

At that point, Rodríguez stopped talking, and in his silence he brazenly studied Enrique's reactions.

“Look, there's Fornells. He's back from the morgue, where they just finished the autopsy. He'll have the medical examiner's report with all the details.”

“Murdered.” Enrique whispered, devastated.

“Yes, murdered,” Fornells answered after opening the office door and closing it behind him. “You brief him?”

“Just on the neighbor's testimony.”

“Funny. How'd you know he'd been murdered if no one told you?”

“Intuition,” Enrique allowed.

“Nice intuition. So nice, in fact, that you'll have to tell us about it in greater detail. Look, Mr. Manuel Álvarez Pinzón, born on the curious date of February 29, taken out just last night, not even seventeen hours ago, for reasons completely unbeknownst to us. No signs of force around the door, and from the way the body was lying in the entry hall, we gather he was murdered at the very moment, or a few seconds after, he opened the door. The killer used a sharp metal object, like scissors, a letter opener, or a screwdriver. He stabbed him through his right eye socket all the way back to his brain; it took him about a minute to die. In that time, the killer tried to silence his victim's cries with a white handkerchief, but he didn't quite manage to, judging from the neighbor's report.

“The murderer's identity as well as the motive are unknown. Nonetheless, we do have some information we think useful to get the investigation kicked off, some of which is quite revealing: the apartment was thoroughly ransacked, until whoever it was found whatever they were looking for. The other evidence doesn't clarify much, but we
were hoping your contribution would help us tie up some loose ends: Béatrice Dale, your ex-wife, currently residing in what was once Artur's—now your—residence, went last Monday morning to the University of Barcelona, where she met with Joaquim Pagés, professor of classical philology. Béatrice needed help with a translation, and Mr. Pagés introduced her to his department's leading expert, Mr. Álvarez. You take it from here, Juan.”