The Antiquarian (49 page)

“So then, what do you think?” asked Enrique once he had finished.

“Have you considered the possibility that the notebook Manolo gave you could contain anything helpful?”

“Yes. I've read through it line by line. It's full of notes and sketches. But if it contains the key, it's beyond my grasp.”

“Carlos,” she finally said. “You've got to go to Carlos. Everything you've said is right, but I can't find the common link to all of it, the key to the murders. Carlos could help us.”

Enrique thought over her words. Bety's keen wit, which had so often helped him when he was blocked on the plots of his novels, seemed all but present. But he wasn't one to criticize her; he was waiting for an unseen stroke of genius to serve up a solution on a silver platter. The typical clue hidden in plain sight, a triviality previously overlooked precisely due to its seeming insignificance. He was sure he had sense enough to solve the mystery, but he couldn't quite fit the pieces together. Even so, Bety was offering a reasonable solution: going to Carlos would bolster their safety. His insight would help them.

“You need to tell him the whole story,” she said. “First of all, because you involved him in this and now the police could give him trouble. And second, because he's the only person capable of helping us.”

“All right.”

He called his old friend. The same woman's voice that had answered two weeks ago now picked up the receiver and answered in a weary tone. Enrique asked for Carlos, who came on the line right away. Informed of the stunning developments in a case that had seemed closed, he promised to do some fact-finding over the next few hours. He advised them to stay together and reachable, if possible, in the Vallvidrera house, until he got back in touch with them.

Enrique then called Mariola. She was worried and angry in equal measure; when Enrique was late phoning her, she had called the Raval station herself and asked for him. They told her that he'd left the station around eight thirty. Mariola imagined that whatever it was had to be important if Enrique hadn't called, but she was also hurt, for precisely the same reason. She correctly deduced that he wasn't alone, that he was with Bety. On that score, her anger outweighed her concern. The presence of her lover's ex-wife fueled her jealousy. It took Enrique a long time to put everything right; the mention of the danger they were in was reason enough to overcome the trouble of him spending another night with his ex-wife. When Enrique hung up half an hour later, he felt even more worn-out than when he'd left the police station. Between one thing and another, he was exhausted. In order to think clearly, he needed to fall into bed and sleep for twelve hours straight.

Dark circles under her eyes and an air of distraction told him that the same was true for Bety, yet her mind was working overtime.

“Wait a minute. While you were talking to Mariola, I was thinking about Manolo's murder—” Bety stopped herself when she saw Enrique's mask of exhaustion. “Do me a favor and concentrate a minute. I feel no better than you, and I wouldn't stand between you and bed if it weren't important.”

“Fine,” Enrique conceded with a gesture of exasperation. “Go on.”

“I'm not all that sure why they killed Artur. I think that whoever did it knew about the manuscript and wanted it for themselves. Artur may have been aware of the value that the Stone had. We'll never know. You thought that only one of the three suspects, Samuel, Enric, or Guillem, could be guilty. But what if there was someone else? Someone we don't know? Someone who spoke to Artur after the gathering on Friday?

“Let's go back a few days before Manolo's death. The killer knew we had the manuscript. They were following us. It's the only possible explanation; they could kill Manolo because they knew he had the manuscript, and not only that, they were sure that right then he was leading the investigation on where to find the Stone of God. In fact, they could have killed us. Is there anyone who could've stopped them? I mean, after the police arrested the Frenchman, the alleged suspect, and Carlos took down the surveillance detail he set up after the trap? The killer could have acted at will. And you know what? I've been going over that part of the problem and I keep coming to the same conclusion: he didn't, because he had no idea where to find the Stone. He didn't have the manuscript. That's why he followed Manolo, to take advantage of his work, and if he killed him it was because he'd figured out where to find it. I'm sure of it. Poor Manolo had discovered it, if he didn't already have it with him.”

Bety ratified her own conviction as she spoke, the emphasis on her words increasing. The theory seemed to have fully woken her back up.

“So what do we do now?” asked Enrique.

“We have to figure out whether Manolo had found the Stone. He may have done. In that case, the killer took the Stone and took the manuscript to get rid of any possible clues that would lead us to it, and of course, if that's true, we no longer matter to him. It's also possible that he knows where Casadevall hid the Stone and still hasn't been
able to get it. Finally, if he doesn't have it, he may think we know where to find it. In that case, we're still in danger; we're still his rivals.”

“Why wouldn't he have it already, if he knew the hiding place?”

“How do I know? I think that if the killer took the manuscript, he did it because Manolo didn't have the Stone yet, and he doesn't know where it's hidden.”

“He might have taken it to cover his path, destroy the evidence. If we reconstruct Manolo's final hours we'll know—”

Bety finished his train of thought. “Where he was, or probably, where the Stone his hidden. The police must know. They'll know everything Manolo did in his last hours alive, just like they found out about our ties with him through Quim.”

“And not only that, if we find the Stone, we'll smoke out the killer.”

“If we did, he'd come at it like a moth to a flame. Or maybe it'd be enough to wait and stake out its hiding place. Carlos can probably figure it out. If he got the information on Artur's murder, he'll be able to get whatever there is on Manolo. But we won't know that until tomorrow,” Bety said. “In the meantime, let's get some sleep.”

Their eyes met. Bety gave him a weak smile whose brevity detracted nothing from its beauty. Her instincts were working again.

Enrique spent the night in a dreamless sleep. He was overwhelmed by a rare drowsiness that he'd felt only on a few specific occasions, like his long solo sailing trips that lasted a week or more. Once back in port, at home, or even locked in the cabin itself, he could sleep twenty-four hours straight.

He would have done the same thing that day had it not been for a playful sunbeam shining through his window and dappling his face. He got out of bed with a gaping yawn. He raised the blinds and pulled back the curtains. Outside it was partly cloudy, but the sun fought persistently against the tall and cottony clouds scudding across the
sky. The storm that had doused the city the night before was drifting away over the Mediterranean, seemingly taking all the bad omens of the previous afternoon with it.

Snug in his robe, Enrique looked around the house for Bety. He found a note: she had gone for a run. ‘We all fight our problems as we like. I sleep, she runs,” he said to himself. He checked the time: half past noon. He had slept twelve hours straight and still his body begged for more. He made breakfast and settled in on the terrace. After a while, Bety returned, slick with sweat and a towel draped over her shoulders.

“Good morning,” she said in a neutral tone that revealed nothing about her mood.

“Hi,” he answered. “How was your workout?”

“Tiring,” she admitted. “I didn't sleep well at all. Well, the truth is I didn't get more than a few hours' sleep. But a couple of miles always do a body good.”

The wind, constant yet mild, had completely cleared the sky over the city, which was usually cloaked in grayish smog. Barcelona lay in absolute splendor at their feet. Somewhere in the great city, someone was poring over the Casadevall manuscript, striving to find where the Stone of God was hidden.

And all he could do was sit there and wait.

The telephone startled him out of his daydream. He and Bety jumped up at once, as if wired to the ring. Enrique gave her a look to make it clear he would answer. Bety expectantly followed him to the living room.

“Hello?”

“This is Carlos. Enrique, we have to talk. Can you guys come by the office?”

“Sure, of course. We'll be right there.”

“I'll be waiting for you,” he said, and hung up.

“Carlos wants to talk to us. He wants us to come to his office in Plaça Reial in a little while.”

“I'll just jump in the shower. Give me fifteen minutes.”

* * *

Enrique drove into Barcelona slowly but steadily. Thirty minutes later, they had parked the car in the Hospital Street garage, and after a brief walk down the Ramblas, reached Plaça Reial. They rang the office bell from the street; the only response they got was the door being buzzed open. They went up in the elevator, which was working by then. There were several people in the office. A young man some twenty years old listened carefully to a couple's statement. In the background, two investigators seemed to discuss the details of a case. Enrique made his way among the desks until coming to Carlos's office; he was talking on the phone. He waved them to some chairs as he said good-bye to whoever was on the other end of the line.

“What a morning,” he said. “It's as if every cuckold in Barcelona got together and agreed to hire us today. I've got my whole crew running around the city watching every Mr. and Mrs. Unfaithful. Even my wife had to come down here to pitch in. And as if that weren't enough, here's this.” He handed them several faxed pages stapled together.

Enrique leafed through them.

“Is that what I think it is?” Bety asked in a soft voice.

“It is,” said Carlos.

Enrique handed the pages back; a sudden chill ran down his back.

“I'm going to use all my credit with my contact in the police station; the investigation's still open, and this document should never have found its way into my hands. If he didn't owe me a ton of favors, he would've told me to take a hike the
minute I asked for it. Actually, he almost did. Let's see. Bety, this won't be nice, but I think you should hear it.”

She nodded.

“Your friend Manolo was killed in a way not all that different from the way they murdered Artur,” Carlos said. “They used a letter opener, or a stiletto knife, with a thick but sharp blade. The medical examiner can tell from the diameter and length of the stab wounds. From the position of the body, they think he died just moments after he opened the door; a few seconds was all they needed. Whoever it was took him totally by surprise. There are no defensive wounds; he didn't even have time to dodge the blow. The police have deduced that the killer could've known the victim; it's just a hypothesis, they're not sure,” he clarified, raising his eyes from the medical examiner's report. “It was late, after twelve, not the most likely time for a social call. The approximate time of death is twelve thirty. They actually stabbed him with the murder weapon through the right eye socket all the way back to his brain. The wound was lethal; you could say it took him as long to die as the time it took his brain to realize the damage done.”

Carlos raised his eyes to check on Bety's reaction. She was pale, her lips pressed together and brow furrowed, but she said nothing and showed no intention of getting up.

“The killer effectively hit the only area where such a wound would be lethal. I assure you that's no coincidence. I've seen my share of murders, and hundreds of reports like this. Usually, to knife someone to death, the killer has to stab them from twenty to thirty times. That kind of viciousness is more a result of an ignorance of anatomy than any real malice, as it's defined in the penal code: they stab their victim, and when they can't find that deadly spot that will finish them off, they keep stabbing again and again. The victim's in pain, they partially lose consciousness because of the
pain of the stabs, but they're still alive, and above all, they move. They move every which way, uncontrollably. The killer loses what little control they had over the situation, and keeps stabbing at a moving body that's trying to escape from them as fast as if it was fully alive. In truth, most stabbing deaths occur as a consequence of what's called hypovolemic shock: the victim loses a lot of blood and that causes a rapid drop in their body temperature, which leads to cardiorespiratory arrest. Manolo's death was unusually fast: a single stab was all it took to send him to wherever it is we go after this life.”

“Excuse me,” Bety murmured, “I'm not feeling too well.”

Her initial paleness had become a milky whiteness, lending proof to her words. She was about to faint. Enrique held her up in her chair while Carlos opened a window and brought her a cup of strong coffee. The brew, potent and thick, together with the cool breeze that came in through the window, helped bring her back around. Carlos continued his explanation.

“There's not too much else to add on the medical examiner's report. In the minute after the stabbing, the killer moves Manolo's legs, closes the door, and stuffs a handkerchief into his mouth to drown out any yelling. He manages to do it, partially. The neighbor who found the body must've heard Manolo's gurgling—just three or four seconds, until the murderer closed the door and stuffed that hankie in his mouth. Once he's sure that Manolo's dead he starts searching the apartment. None of the police reports say the motive for the murder or the ransacking, but I have a hunch that you can confirm whether my intuition is right: he was after the manuscript.”

Enrique nodded.