Ignoring the stinging of my skin, I got out of bed. My dirty, bloodstained clothes had been thrown onto an armchair. I looked for the coat. The gun was still in the pocket. I drew back the hammer and left the room, following the trail of voices as far as the stairs. I went down a few steps, keeping close to the wall.
“I’m very sorry about your men, Inspector,” I heard Vidal saying. “Rest assured that if David gets in touch with me or if I hear of his whereabouts, I’ll let you know immediately.”
“I’m grateful for your help, Señor Vidal. I’m sorry to bother you in the circumstances, but the situation is extremely serious.”
“I understand. Thank you for your visit.”
The sound of the front door closing. Vidal’s labored breathing at the foot of the staircase. I went down a few more steps and found him leaning his forehead against the door. When he heard me he opened his eyes and turned round.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at the gun I held in my hands. I put it down on the small table at the bottom of the stairs.
“Come on, let’s see if we can find you some clean clothes,” he said.
I followed him to a huge dressing room that looked more like a costume museum. All the exquisite suits I remembered from Vidal’s years of glory were there. Dozens of ties, shoes, and cuff links in red velvet boxes.
“This is all from when I was young. It should fit you.”
Vidal chose for me. He handed me a shirt that was probably worth as much as a small plot of land, a three-piece suit made to measure in London, and a pair of Italian shoes that would not have disgraced the boss’s wardrobe. I dressed in silence while Vidal observed me with a pensive look.
“A bit wide in the shoulders, but you’ll have to make do,” he said, handing me a pair of sapphire cuff links.
“What did the inspector tell you?”
“Everything.”
“And you believed him?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
Vidal sat on a stool by a wall that was covered in mirrors from ceiling to floor.
“He says you know where Cristina is,” he said.
I did not deny it.
“Is she alive?”
I looked him in the eye and, very slowly, nodded my head. Vidal gave a weak smile, eluding my eyes. Then he burst into tears, emitting a deep groan that came from his very soul. I sat down next to him and hugged him.
“Forgive me, Don Pedro, forgive me …”
…
Later, as the sun began to drop over the horizon, Vidal gathered my old clothes and threw them into the fire. Before he abandoned my coat to the flames he pulled out the copy of The Steps of Heaven and handed it to me.
“Of the two books you wrote last year, this was the good one,” he said.
I watched him poking my clothes about in the fire.
“When did you realize?”
Vidal shrugged.
“Even a conceited idiot can’t be fooled forever, David.”
I couldn’t make out whether there was resentment in his tone or just sadness.