The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

“I’m sorry. I can’t find a property,” I said.

“That must be because it doesn’t exist or because you don’t know how to search properly. We’ve closed for today.”

I repaid his kindness and efficiency with my best smile.

“I might find it with your expert help,” I suggested.

He gave me a nauseating look and snatched the volume from my hands.

“Come back tomorrow.”

My next stop was the ostentatious building of the Bar Association in Calle Mallorca, only a few streets away. I climbed the wide steps guarded by glass chandeliers and what looked like a statue of Justice but with the bosom and attitude of a Paralelo starlet. When I reached the secretary’s office, a small, mousy-looking man welcomed me and asked how he could help.

“I’m looking for a lawyer.”

“You’ve come to the right place. We don’t know how to get rid of them here. There seem to be more every day. They multiply like rabbits.”

“It’s the modern world. The one I’m looking for is called, or was called, Valera, S. Valera, with a V.”

The little man disappeared into a labyrinth of filing cabinets. I waited, leaning on the counter, my eyes wandering over a décor ponderous with the inexorable weight of the law. Five minutes later the man returned with a folder.

“I’ve found ten Valeras. Two with an S. Sebastián and Soponcio.”

“Soponcio?”

“You’re very young, but years ago that was a name with a certain cachet, and ideal for the legal profession. Then along came the Charleston and ruined everything.”

“Is Don Soponcio still alive?”

“According to the folder and the date he stopped paying his dues, Soponcio Valera y Menacho was received into the glory of Our Lord in the year 1919. Memento mori. Sebastián is his son.”

“Still practicing?”

“Fully and constantly. I sense you will want the address.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

The little man wrote it down on a small piece of paper that he handed to me.

“442 Diagonal. It’s just a stone’s throw away. But it’s two o’clock, and by now most top lawyers will be at lunch with rich widows or manufacturers of fabrics and explosives. I’d wait until four.”

I put the address in my jacket pocket.

“I’ll do that. Thank you for your help.”

“That’s what we’re here for. God bless.”

…

I had a couple of hours to kill before paying a visit to Señor Valera, so I took a tram down Vía Layetana and got off when it reached Calle Condal. The Sempere & Sons bookshop was close by and I knew from experience that—contravening the immutable tradition of local shops—the old bookseller didn’t close at midday. I found him as usual, standing at the counter cataloging books and serving a large group of customers who were wandering around the tables and bookshelves hunting for treasure. He smiled when he saw me and came over to say hello. He looked thinner and paler than the last time I’d seen him. He must have noticed my anxiety because he immediately made light of the matter.

“Some win, others lose. You’re looking fit and well and I’m all skin and bones, as you can see,” he said.

“Are you all right?”

“Fresh as a daisy. It’s the damned angina. Nothing serious. What brings you here, Martín, my friend?”

“I thought I’d take you out to lunch.”