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

“Does it say who was in charge of the investigation?” I asked.

“It mentions someone called Salvador. Ricardo Salvador,” said Brotons.

We went over the rest of the news items related to the death of Marlasca, but there was nothing of any substance. The texts parroted one another, repeating a chorus that sounded too much like the official line supplied by the law firm of Valera & Co.

“This has the distinct whiff of deception,” said Brotons.

I sighed, disheartened. I had hoped to find something more than sentimental remembrances and empty news items that threw no new light on the facts.

“Didn’t you have a good contact in police headquarters?” Don Basilio asked. “What was his name?”

“Víctor Grandes,” Brotons said.

“Perhaps he could put Martín in touch with this person Salvador.”

I cleared my throat and the two hefty men looked at me with frowns.

“For reasons that have nothing to do with this matter, or perhaps because they’re too closely related, I’d rather not involve Inspector Grandes,” I said.

Brotons and Don Basilio exchanged glances.

“Right. Any other names that should be deleted from the list?”

“Marcos and Castelo.”

“I see you haven’t lost your talent for making friends,” offered Don Basilio.

Brotons rubbed his chin.

“Let’s not worry too much. I think I might be able to find another way that will not arouse suspicion.”

“If you find Salvador for me, I’ll sacrifice whatever you want, even a pig.”

“With my gout I’ve given up pork, but I wouldn’t say no to a good cigar,” Brotons replied.

“Make it two,” added Don Basilio.

While I rushed off to a tobacconist on Calle Tallers in search of two specimens of the most exquisite and expensive Havana cigars, Brotons made a few discreet calls to police headquarters and confirmed that Salvador had left the force, or rather that he had been made to leave, and was now working as a bodyguard as well as conducting investigations for various law firms in the city. When I returned to the newspaper offices to present my benefactors with their two cigars, the archivist handed me a note with an address:

Ricardo Salvador

Calle de la Lleona, 21. Top floor.

“May the publisher in chief of La Vanguardia bless you,” I said.

“And may you live to see it.”

29

Calle de la Lleona, better known to locals as the Street of the Three Beds in honor of the notorious brothel it harbored, was an alleyway almost as dark as its reputation. It started in the shadowy arches of Plaza Real and extended into a damp crevice, far from sunlight, between old buildings piled on top of one another and sewn together by a perpetual web of clotheslines. The crumbling, ocher façades were dilapidated, and the slabs of stone covering the ground had been bathed in blood during the years when the city had been ruled by the gun. More than once I’d used the setting as a backdrop to my stories in City of the Damned and even now, deserted and forgotten, it still smelled of crime and gunpowder. The grim surroundings seemed to indicate that Superintendent Salvador’s premature retirement from the police force had not been a step up.

Number 21 was a modest property squeezed between two buildings that held it together like pincers. The main door was open, revealing a pool of shadows from which a steep, narrow staircase rose in a spiral. The floor was flooded with a dark

, slimy liquid oozing from the cracks in the tiles. I climbed the steps as best I could, without letting go of the handrail, but not trusting it either. There was only one door on every landing. Judging by the appearance of the building, I didn’t think that any of the apartments could be larger than forty square meters. A small skylight crowned the stairwell and bathed the upper floors in a tenuous light. The door to the top-floor apartment was at the end of a short corridor and I was surprised to find it open. I rapped with my knuckles but got no reply. The door opened onto a small sitting room containing an armchair, a table, and a bookshelf filled with books and brass boxes. A sort of kitchen-cum-washing-area occupied the adjoining room. The saving grace in that cell was a terrace that led to the flat roof. The door to the terrace was also open and a fresh breeze blew through it, bringing with it the smell of cooking and laundry from the rooftops of the old town.

“Is anyone home?” I called out.

Nobody answered, so I walked over to the terrace door and stepped outside. A jungle of roofs, towers, water tanks, lightning conductors, and chimneys spread out in every direction. Before I was able to take another step, I felt the touch of cold metal on the back of my neck and heard the metallic click of a revolver as the hammer was cocked. All I could think to do was raise my hands and not move even an eyebrow.