The Antiquarian (9 page)

“That it could be some business deal that we don't know about yet, that poor Artur was in with some associate,” interjected someone who had just entered the office. “That would explain how the killer didn't have to force his way into the shop, why he took Artur's house keys, and why he spent the entire night there rummaging around, top to bottom, which the small-timers and mobsters also could have done, but doesn't fit at all with the way they usually operate. Too dangerous.”

The door had been opened to let in Captain Fornells, who finished his subordinate's sentence for him. Fornells was short, squat, and almost completely bald except for a few stray hairs that were combed over the top of his head in an unsuccessful attempt to cover his barren scalp. He wore faded jeans, a flea-market plaid shirt, and a dated, black leather jacket. His pinkish cheeks and a network of reddish thread veins spanning his nose formed a complex tapestry that advertised his penchant for enjoying wine in generous helpings. His metal-framed glasses had not been in style since the seventies, and he vigorously exhaled the smoke from a fat Cuban cigar. To any observer, Fornells would have fit the profile of an old-school detective stuck in a past that, while painful to remember, may have been better than the awkwardness of a present that was outside his realm of understanding.

Detective Rodríguez and Enrique were on their feet in an instant. Fornells approached Enrique and offered his hand.

“I'm sorry, Enrique. It's been a long time, and I'm sorry we have to meet over something like this. How're you doing?”

“I know what you mean, Fornells. It's been what, seven years? As for how I'm doing, well, truth be told, I'm stunned, confused, and, I might as well admit it, pretty devastated.”

“You have reason to be. From what I overheard, it sounds like Rodríguez here has brought you up to date on nearly everything. I'll get straight to it: is there anything that Artur might have told you that we don't know? Any personal or professional issues Artur told only you about?”

Enrique thought for a few moments. Artur's letter left no doubt: he had found something important and even had an uneasy feeling about it, which had proven to be true. What if someone had learned of Artur's find and wanted it for themselves? That
would explain why they ransacked his house in Vallvidrera; they were hunting for Artur's treasure, but could not find it because he, cautious as he was, had hidden it. Letting the police in on that would mean giving up the papers he needed to find the thing himself. But no, that was impossible. Kill Artur to take something he dug out of a random antique lot? It was ridiculous! Harebrained ploys like that only happened in cheap airport novels. Aware that the two officers were waiting for an answer, he finally decided to respond.

“No, I don't think so. In his last letter he did say he had asked you for help with all these new antiques shops that were opening down here, but he also said that your investigation hadn't come up with anything yet.”

“Do you have that letter here?” Rodríguez asked.

“No, I didn't bring it,” answered Enrique, swallowing, sure that his lie was in plain sight of both policemen. “I'm sorry.”

“Try to remember, Enrique. Any detail that seems trivial to you could mean a lot to us. Think back: was there anything in the letter that was strange, even trifling, that stood out to you?”

“Fornells, from what I've heard, it seems that it might have been someone he knew.”

“Yes, it's possible,” said the captain. “The killer did it in the study, and there are no signs of violence anywhere else in the shop—no forced doors or locks. If he knew his killer, that would explain why they were together in his study at such odd hours. But I knew your father well, even if we didn't see each other that often, and I don't know of anyone who could have a beef with him big enough to do this. The truth is, I don't think there's anyone who could hold that sort of grudge against him. The other antiques dealers loved him. He was such a good guy, straightforward, and he couldn't hurt a fly.
That's why we're putting our money on some kind of mob hit, or a financial motive. I'll tell you something, but I think you already know it: Artur wanted to unmask the money-laundering these slick new places are up to, and that might have pissed off their so-called backers.”

“It's our main line of investigation right now, though, to be honest, it doesn't fit with the way they solve these things,” Rodríguez added. “Something as visible as this goes against their code. That's why we think there could be another reason, another motive. But right now we don't know what.”

“In his letter he said you had asked the Financial Crimes Unit to join the investigation.”

“We have, to no avail for now. Investigations like that take time, sometimes too much time. And until Financial Crimes gives us more information, there's not a lot we can do on that front.”

“I see,” answered Enrique. “Fornells, where's … his body?”

“In the city morgue. Being a violent death, they had to do an autopsy. And since you're his only living relative, no one has come for the body. We were waiting to get hold of you.”

“Can he be buried soon?”

“Of course. In fact, you just have to sign a couple papers, and they'll release the body.”

“I want to do it as soon as possible—tomorrow, even.”

“Remember that Artur was very well-known in this city's artistic circles. A lot of people will want to say their good-byes.”

“Artur had his family's graves relocated to a vault he bought a few years back in Montjuïc Cemetery. I'd like to hold a ceremony for him there, as private a ceremony as possible.”

“I could help you work everything out with the funeral parlor and the cemetery,” Rodríguez offered. “Leave it to me. I'll handle the paperwork: obituaries, certificates …”

“That'd be nice of you. I appreciate it.”

“Don't mention it. It's hard to deal with red tape at times like this, and I can do it for you no problem. If you'll excuse me, I'll go get started,” Rodríguez said, and left the room.

“That Rodríguez is a sharp kid. He's worked up more contacts in six months than I have in forty years. He'll handle it, don't worry. So, Enrique, where were you planning on staying?”

“I'm not sure. I thought the best idea was to stay in Vallvidrera, but Artur's memory might still be too fresh. I don't know if I could stand it. And if they ransacked the house …”

“I had two detectives up there dusting for prints on Monday and Tuesday. They were under orders to be thorough. They didn't find anything important, and I straightened it up as much as I could with Samuel Horowitz's help so it wouldn't be too shocking if you decided to stay there. See, there's something odd about this: whoever killed him turned the place upside down, as if they were looking for something. You won't find anything in its right place, that I can tell you.”

“Looking for something in particular?” The question blurted from Enrique's mouth.

“That's what I said. As if they were looking for something, but they might have done it to throw us off, make our job harder. Whatever it was, they did a complete
search. Must've taken them two or three hours. Samuel says as far he knows, nothing valuable was missing. He was up there pretty regularly so we took his word on it. If you do notice anything gone, let us know right away.”

Enrique sighed, feeling as if he was being buried under the weight of it all. He shifted in his chair, and came to a sudden decision, determined to get out of there however possible.

“Fine. I'd have to go sooner or later, so what's the difference?”

Fornells took two sets of keys from a desk drawer and handed them to Enrique.

“The killer used Artur's keys and left them stuck in the lock. You should change a lock or two, just to be on the safe side.”

“Will do.”

“How'd you get here from the airport?”

“A rental car.”

“Artur's is parked in the old garage over on Hospital Street. It's yours to drive.”

“Okay, I'll take it,” said Enrique, sighing deeply. “I'll straighten everything out tomorrow.”

“Good. Listen, before I forget. You need to get in touch with—let me see if I can find it …” After groping through his pants pockets he pulled out a wrinkled card and handed it to Enrique. “Here, this Sant Feliu notary firm. About the will. I also have a message from Samuel Horowitz. He wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”

Enrique felt his eyes weling up. Notary, will, autopsy, body, funeral … the words had a single design: to drag him down into a pit of incomprehension. He felt his mind would explode if he didn't get out of that room.

“I'll call them tomorrow. Fornells, if there's nothing else you need, I'd like to go now.”

“Sure, of course. How long d'you think you'll be in Barcelona?”

“I'm not sure, but I guess I'll be around a couple of weeks, at least.”

“I'll let you know as things develop. And if you happen to remember anything that might be related at all to the case, please, call me right away. Here's my card, with the number to this goddamned cell phone they make me carry.”

“I will. See you, Fornells.”

“See you tomorrow afternoon, Enrique.”

It didn't take Enrique long to cross the city and take the road that connected the metropolis to the tiny paradise of Vallvidrera. He drove uphill under streetlights that had just come on, reminding him that in spring, dusk was a quick affair that gave way to sudden, steely nights. On a more fitting occasion, he could have taken any of the exits off the winding strip of asphalt that was the Arrabassada Highway. From them, at any of the numerous pull-off viewpoints where young couples without bedrooms to share used their cars as poor substitutes, Enrique would have been offered the visual feast of the city below readying itself for the night. But Enrique was not in the right mindset to enjoy any such delights. He parked near his father's house, hesitating a few seconds before putting the key into the lock. In a way, even though legally speaking the house would now be his and there could be nothing wrong with what he was doing, he couldn't help feeling it was a sort of desecration. He opened the door carefully and turned on the foyer light.

Indeed, the house showed clear signs of having been turned upside down. The work of Fornells and Samuel Horowitz had been enough to clear the floor of the tossed-around objects, but not to restore the meticulous order that Artur had so cherished in life. Atop tables and shelves were mountains of books, papers, and pieces of decor,
most of them quite valuable antiques. The same dumbfounding scene repeated itself in every room of the house. Whoever did it had left no nook untouched.

Enrique took a couple of hours to tidy up the rooms the way Artur had liked them. Once he had restored a certain normality, he remembered his promise to telephone Bety. But the calls would have to wait another day. Not only was it already too late, he was not in an explanatory mood. Enrique fixed himself something to eat from his father's well-stocked refrigerator, and opened the sliding doors to the terrace to dine with the city at his feet. He then took a quick shower to freshen up before going to sleep, but instead of relaxing him, the hot, near-scalding water had the opposite effect, and he felt wide awake. Pursued by the omnipresent memory of Artur in each and every corner of the house, he settled down in the study, prepared to let time slip by. He went back over the letter, though he had no need to: he had already memorized the final paragraphs. Among the set of keys that Fornells had given him were those to the shop. There he hoped to find
The Practice of Christian Perfection
. He felt momentarily driven to return to Barcelona and hunt the book down right then, but he restrained himself. He felt tired, exhausted; in fact, he was beyond fatigue. Enrique felt decimated, vanquished, and humiliated by a miserable life that was bent on leaving him lonely; his parents, his wife, his adoptive father … he always ended up losing anyone who had ever meant anything to him. Plus, the next day would be an unending succession of dismal scenes. He would have time to investigate later. Sleepless, overcome by a storm of nostalgia that he had unfortunately already become familiar with at other times in his life and was now a traveling companion on his life's journey, he chose to leaf through the family photo albums. They contained countless scenes from Artur's life, and his as well. He skipped over those of Artur showing the first signs of old age. He did not stop until he reached the ones in which Artur posed next to Enrique's biological parents on their wedding
day. How many times had he gazed on those very pictures as a child: his mother, so beautiful and refined; his father had such presence. Later, Enrique began making appearances: christening, birthday, first communion, family celebrations … until reaching that traumatic day when his parents died in a senseless car accident. The next photos showed Enrique in the house of his godfather, who was much more than that by then—legal guardian and effective, affectionate father, with responsibilities to raise, protect, and educate the child who was the son of his best friend: his godson.

Those had not been easy years. It took Enrique time to adapt to his new environment, and for a man who had never even been married, it had not been easy to correctly care for a child disoriented by the tragic loss of his parents. But the goodwill of both helped them reach harmonious understanding. Enrique found a new father, and Artur, the son he never had.

More photos: trips, friends, first loves, graduation—it was all there. And Artur was always by his side, keeping him on the right path. His wedding photos: Bety, sublimely beautiful, a real-life fairy-tale princess, walked to the altar by Artur, in impeccable morning dress. In others, the three of them on a trip to the Costa Brava. He came upon a few taken in their home in San Sebastián, before their marriage crumbled. And the last photograph, one year old, just after Enrique had bought the Igueldo apartment. Artur had not relished the prospect of traveling to San Sebastián, but after much begging, Enrique convinced him and he didn't regret making the trip. It had been worth it just for that spectacular view. There were no more photos after that. The album had another four or five pages, but they were empty, just like he felt.