“And didn’t your father find it odd that his ex-partner should wish to hand over that sum of money to strangers?”
“Of course he thought it was odd. A lot of things seemed odd to him.”
“Do you remember where those payments were sent?”
“How could I possibly remember? It must have been twenty-five years ago.”
“Make an effort,” I said. “For Señorita Margarita’s sake.”
The secretary gave me a terrified look, to which I responded with a wink.
“Don’t you dare lay a finger on her,” Valera threatened.
“Don’t give me ideas,” I cut in. “How’s your memory? Is it refreshed?”
“I could have a look at my father’s private diaries.”
“Where are they?”
“Here, among his papers. But it will take a few hours …”
I put down the phone and looked at Valera’s secretary, who had burst into tears. I offered her a handkerchief and gave her a pat on the shoulder.
“Come on now, don’t get all worked up. I’m leaving. See? I only wanted to talk to him.”
She nodded tentatively, her eyes fixed on the revolver. I buttoned my coat and smiled.
“One last thing.”
She looked up, fearing the worst.
“Write down the lawyer’s address for me. And don’t try to trick me, because if you lie I’ll come back and you can be quite sure that I’ll leave all my inherent good nature downstairs in the porter’s lodge.”
Before I left I asked Margarita to show me where the telephone cable was and I cut it, saving her from the temptation of warning Valera that I was on my way or of calling the police to inform them about our small disagreement.
14
Señor Valera lived in a palatial building situated on the corner of Calle Girona and Calle Ausiàs March that seemed to have pretensions to being a Norman castle. I imagined he must have inherited the monstrosity from his father, together with the firm, and that every stone in its structure derived from the blood and sweat of entire generations of Barcelona’s inhabitants who could never have dreamed of even entering such a palace. I told the porter I was delivering some documents from the lawyer’s office on behalf of Señorita Margarita. After a moment’s hesitation, he allowed me to go up. I climbed the wide staircase at a leisurely pace, under the porter’s attentive gaze. The first-floor landing was larger than most of the homes I remembered from my childhood days in the old Ribera quarter, which was only a short distance away. The door knocker was shaped like a bronze fist. I grasped it but the door was already open. I pushed it gently and looked inside. The entrance hall led to a long passageway, about three meters wide, its walls lined with blue velvet and covered with pictures. I closed the door behind me and scanned the warm half-light that was coming from the other end. Faint music floated in the air, a piano lament in a melancholic and elegant style: Granados.
“Señor Valera?” I called out. “It’s Martín.”
As there was no reply, I ventured down the passage, following the trace of that sad music. I passed paintings and recesses containing statuettes of Madonnas and saints and went through a series of arches, each one veiled by net curtains, until I came to the end of the corridor, where a large dark room spread out before me. The room was rectangular, its walls lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. At the far end I could make out a half-open door and, through it, the flickering orange shadows of an open fire.
“Valera?” I called again, raising my voice.
A silhouette appeared in the light projected through the door by the flames. Two shining eyes examined me suspiciously. A dog that looked like an Alsatian but whose fur was white padded toward me. I stood still, unbuttoning my coat and looking for the revolver. The animal stopped at my feet and peered up at me, then let out a whine. I stroked its head and it licked my fingers. Then it turned, walked back to the doorway, stopped again and looked back at me. I followed it.
On the other side of the door I discovered a reading room dominated by a large fireplace. The only light came from the flames, casting a dance of flickering shadows over the walls and ceiling. In the middle of the room there was a table with a large gramophone from which the music emanated. Opposite the fire, with its back to the door, stood a large leather armchair. The dog went over to the chair and turned to look at me again. I went closer, close enough to see a hand resting on the arm of the chair. The hand held a burning cigar from which rose a plume of blue smoke.
“Valera? It’s Martín. The door was open …”
The dog lay down at the foot of the armchair, never taking its eyes off me. Slowly, I walked round in front of the chair. Señor Valera was sitting there, facing the fire, his eyes open and a faint smile on his lips. He was wearing a three-piece suit and his other hand rested on a leather-bound notebook. I drew closer and searched his face. He didn’t blink. Then I noticed a red tear, a tear of blood, gliding down his cheek. I knelt down and removed the notebook from his hand. The dog gave me a distraught look. I stroked its head.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The book seemed to be some sort of diary, with its entries, each handwritten and dated, separated by a short line. Valera had it open at the middle. The first entry on the page was dated 23 November 1904:
Payment note (356 on 23/11/04), 7,500 pesetas, from the account of D.M. trust. Sent with Marcel (in person) to the address supplied by D.M. Alleyway behind old cemetery—stonemason’s workshop Sanabre & Sons.