The Antiquarian (47 page)

Rodríguez, lost in thought, took a second to respond to his superior's entreaty.

“Sorry, Fornells, my mind was somewhere else. Look, today's Wednesday; just two weeks ago, at almost the same time, Enrique came into this station to get information on his adoptive father's murder. I even seem to remember that it was me who ran down our main theories, and you, just like today, came in a little later.”

“You're right. Life is full of those little coincidences,” Fornells conceded. “But today's meeting is different from the one we had fourteen days ago, in so many ways. Back then, it was us trying to tell Enrique about one murder.”

“And today it's Enrique who's going to tell us about another. Isn't that right?”

Both policemen fixed Enrique with their stares, awaiting the only answer possible.

“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes before answering. “I'll tell you everything I know.”

Over the next three hours, while the two policemen took page after page of notes, Enrique gave a detailed account of everything that had occurred since Bety had told him of his father's death. He began with the letter Artur sent him before he died, in which he told of his discovery and the fears it made him feel. He placed special emphasis on his initial suspicious, in which Guillem and Enric, and on a different level, Samuel, could be considered suspects of the crime, as they had learned of the discovery during their last get-together on Friday, April 22. Those suspicions grew when he received firm offers for Artur's shop and antiques from all three of them. He told how his friend
Carlos Hidalgo had helped investigate them—the good alibis that seemed to rule them out as suspects—in addition to the idea of the trap, a last resort to unmask the possible killer. When Bety told him of the Frenchman's arrest on Sunday, May 8, any theory of the three suspects being linked to the killing was debunked. Brésard seemed to meet all the criteria to be the murderer everyone was looking for, so Carlos dismantled the undercover surveillance he had working for Enrique, considering the matter closed. In the meantime, Bety began investigating the manuscript at the root of the whole affair on her own. In so doing, she met Manolo, as they had correctly said, through Quim Pagés. Manolo, by unimaginable coincidence, also knew of the existence of the object described in the manuscript, and was happy to help. He told them about the nature of the object, the Stone of God. Then, Enrique gave him the manuscript to study in detail, an essential requirement to solve the case, as Manolo himself had said. From then on, he didn't know what had happened.

After he finished his account, Fornells and Rodríguez exchanged doubtful looks. The veteran captain yielded to his subordinate with a weary wave of his hand, meaning for him to continue the questioning. Rodríguez made known his intention to get the whole truth from Enrique's statement.

“You should know that there are several points you'll have to clarify for us. But before starting with the questions I want to know why you didn't tell us about the manuscript before. I perfectly recall it: you were sitting right there in that chair when Fornells asked you to think back to anything that could be related to Artur's murder.”

“Before I answer, I want to apologize to you. I think I've acted irresponsibly—”

“Don't worry about us,” Fornells cut him off. “Think about poor dead Álvarez. If you'd spoken up when you should have, maybe he'd be alive now, and not cold, dead flesh, recently gutted and resting in the refrigerator of the medical examiner's office.”

Enrique was left speechless. Fornells had just hit him where it hurt: what responsibility did he have in poor Manolo's death? Clearly, much more than he could imagine.

“Fornells is right, but only partly so. If you had spoken up when you should have we may not have caught the killer, but we might have been able to prevent this tragedy. So answer my question.”

“I … When Fornells asked me for more information I didn't want to say anything so I could figure out the mystery in the manuscript myself. I thought that if I told you about it, you'd seize it as evidence. That was at first; later, when I got those offers to buy Artur's business, I realized what an odd coincidence it was. My friend Carlos agreed: he said, literally, that there's no such thing as coincidence. That's why he investigated the three suspects, though he didn't find anything that incriminated them.”

“So in a word, you kept quiet so it would be you who solved the mystery of the manuscript,” Fornells cut in once again. “Your motive was ambition. Isn't that right? You wanted all the glory, all the accolades, for yourself: cracking the manuscript and solving the mystery, catching the killer with your own two hands.” He was losing control as he spoke, his hostility rising. “Why the hell couldn't you trust us? That, by far, is what pisses me off the most! You came in here with your tail between your legs! We looked after you like we don't look after anybody, and this is how you pay us back!”

“Fornells,” Rodríguez piped up, trying to soothe his nerves, “let's step outside a minute.”

The two policemen convened briefly outside the office. Aside from feeling partly responsible for Manolo's death, Enrique deeply regretted having lied to Fornells. The captain was right: thanks to his longstanding friendship with Artur, he had informed
Enrique of investigation details that victims' family members rarely learn about. He also remembered that Monday morning in London Bar, when Fornells had told him the story of the young Artur, things that Enrique would never have known if it hadn't been for Fornells's kindness. He had every right to feel let down, professionally as well as personally.

After the few minutes the policemen had spent arguing, Rodríguez came back into the office.

“He's really offended. He's also pissed off, but what bugs him the most is that you didn't tell him, and the mistrust that signifies.”

“I wish I could tell you how sorry I am.”

“Too late,” Rodríguez spat mercilessly. “There's no helping Álvarez now, and Fornells will get over it sooner or later. Now then, if you're feeling so repentant, and I don't doubt your honesty, forget about how bad you feel and concentrate on answering my questions.”

“Okay.”

“Is the letter Artur sent you here in Barcelona?”

“Yes.”

“We'll need it. What did Hidalgo think about your theory?”

“He thought all three suspects had good alibis. He didn't think any of them did it, but he was willing to indulge me with the trap we set for them. I want you to know that he thought we should share the information with the police. Keeping you in the dark seemed outrageous to him, and he told me it could even be a felony.”

“He was right to inform you and wrong not to notify us of your theories,” Rodríguez mused. “But his prerogative as a private investigator includes keeping
information like that to himself. Tell me something: do you realize what could have happened to you using yourself as bait?”

“Yes. But I trust Carlos with my life: we've been friends since childhood, and I know he's a competent professional. He organized surveillance that we canceled Sunday night, as soon as I got home and Bety told me the Frenchman had been arrested.”

“I remember that, when we were talking on the phone, you swore when you found out it was Brésard.”

“It seemed incredible to me that it wasn't Guillem or Enric. Everything pointed to their being guilty!”

“I notice you leave out Samuel Horowitz.”

“No, it couldn't have been him. I never thought he could be involved. He'd been friends with my father since the fifties—and not just any friend, but one of the best.”

“Samuel Horowitz is Jewish, just like this stone you've been telling us about.”

“He never would've done anything like that,” Enrique insisted. “Plus, he had an alibi.”

“Just like your other two suspects. Try to understand that, as the last people to see Artur alive, we need to know all their movements over the entire weekend. And like Carlos told you, the alibis are good. Tell me about the manuscript.”

“It's a very old log book, large for that sort of thing, about two hand spans high, and one wide. The binding is calfskin, almost black, darkened by the passage of so many years. The cover is decorated with low-relief gold embossing on the leather, a foliate design.”

“Hold on, you're getting too technical. Could you sketch it?” He slid him a pen and paper.

“Sure.”

Enrique began to draw the likeness of the cover he had used to house the Casadevall manuscript.

Once he had finished the sketch, he handed it to Rodríguez, who went out into the corridor, and gave it, along with some instructions, to one of the investigators.

“He's going to see if it's in the victim's home. I'm absolutely positive they're not going to find it, but I have to try anyway. Do you have a copy of its content?”

“A bunch of notes, and an incomplete, flawed translation. Bety may have a transcript that would make up for what mine lacks.”

“How much is the manuscript worth?”

“I'm no expert, but probably quite a bit.”

“Is the Stone of God some kind of precious stone?”

“It could be a large emerald.”

“Somebody's going to too much trouble for it to be a nonexistent or worthless object. Next question: what's Bety doing still in Barcelona?”

Enrique sighed.

“She came to help me. I was very close to Artur, more than most people are to their parents. Maybe because he adopted me. Anyway, Bety was worried, so she arranged it with her university and showed up by surprise last Wednesday.”

“You two are divorced, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“And your relationship is strictly platonic?”

“There's no sex,” Enrique clarified bluntly. “In fact, we hadn't seen each other in months.”

“Where were you yesterday afternoon and last night?”

Enrique caught on to the intention behind Rodríguez's questions. He was checking out his alibi for the time of Manolo's death, nothing more, nothing less.

“At Mariola Puigventós's house.”

“Until what time?”

“I think I left around twelve thirty.”

“Give me Ms. Puigventós's address and phone.”

Enrique dictated the information.

“Now, tell me about her.”

“She's the daughter of Pere Puigventós, president of the Antiquarians' Association of Catalonia.”

“How would you describe your relationship?”

Enrique vacillated. He wasn't sure how to answer that one.

“Well, I guess you could say we're a couple.”

Rodríguez raised his eyes from his folder to gaze at Enrique with a smile laced with sarcasm.

“Are you telling me that you're living in Barcelona with your ex-wife, but that you have another stable partner here in this Mariola Puigventós?”

“Yes, that's right,” he answered uncomfortably. “I can explain that, I suppose.”

“I'm dying to hear it.” Rodríguez cut him off with a mischievous smile.

“When Bety came last Wednesday, Mariola and I still hadn't … The truth is, we hadn't seen each other for at least twelve years or more. She was living in New York. She was married to an American, but they separated four years ago and she decided to come back to Spain.” Enrique paused. The situation was getting out of his hands, and having to make such disclosures seemed sordid. “Listen, do I really have to tell you all this?”

“If you're asking me that, you're still not too aware of your situation.” Rodríguez's face had lost any trace of playfulness and taken on a veneer of uncharacteristic severity.

“Maybe you should tell me just what that situation is,” Enrique implored.

“It's straightforward enough. Fornells doesn't think you're a suspect in Artur's or Manolo's killings. I agree with him on the first case; Mikel Garaikoetxea has confirmed you went out sailing the morning of Sunday, April 24. Your boat, the
Hispaniola
, isn't registered as having docked at any of the nearby ports, and anchoring it, according to the experts consulted, would've been impossible in that weather. They told us that even the best anchors would've broken out and your boat would've been smashed on the rocks so you must have been out at sea. As for the second murder, if you don't mind, I'll reserve my opinion until we're done with the questioning. In any event, I recommend you don't take offense at the questions I have to ask you. I'm asking them because the investigation calls for them. I'm not Dear Abby, so cut the crap and answer me!”

Discovering that he was being investigated in relation to Artur's murder terrified Enrique, and he finally understood how deeply vulnerable he was. Rodríguez was analyzing each of his answers with the clear intent of discovering his true role in the story. Yet, before he could continue, he had to ask the inevitable question.

“Do you really think I could have had anything to do with my father's death?” he asked in disbelief.

“Oh, come on! Just because you're some kind of celebrity doesn't make you immune to the temptation of windfall wealth!” Rodríguez smiled. “It's obvious that our job is to investigate family members and friends. Statistics show that between ninety and ninety-five percent of all murders are committed by a relative or acquaintance of the victim. And if to that little rule you add the existence of an estate like the one Artur left
to you, you'll agree that looking into you is nothing less than obligatory. So anyway, you were sailing. You couldn't have murdered Artur. But let's not get offtrack. You were trying to explain the relationship between Mariola Puigventós and Béatrice Dale.”

“Puigventós, Mariola's father, offered to hold an auction to liquidate Artur's business,” Enrique continued. “Mariola took charge of preparing the auction, where Fornells picked me up this afternoon. As it happens, Sunday afternoon, after working all weekend in Artur's shop, she invited me to dinner at her house, and … For now, I'm living at Artur's house, where Bety's also staying until she leaves, but Mariola and I are, well, a couple. I think.”