THEY TOOK SHELTER in Café Nuria at the top of the Ramblas, sitting by the window. Alicia asked for a glass of white wine, the second one that day. She lit a cigarette and let her eyes roam through the mass of people flowing down the Ramblas, as if she were gazing at the largest aquarium in the world. Vargas watched her raise her glass with trembling fingers and draw it to her lips.
“No lecture?” she asked, not looking away from the window.
“To your health.”
“You didn’t say anything about the guy with the mask. Are you thinking the same thing as me?”
He shrugged doubtfully.
“The report concerning the alleged attack on Valls in the Círculo de Bellas Artes mentioned a man with a covered face,” she said.
“It could be,” Vargas conceded. “I’m going to make a few calls.”
Once alone, Alicia let out a sigh of pain and pressed her hand against her hip. She thought about taking half a tablet but decided against it. Making the most of the fact that Vargas was using the phone at the far end of the coffee shop, she signalled to the waiter to bring her another glass and take away the first, which she polished off in one gulp.
Vargas returned a quarter of an hour later, his little notebook in his hand. The glow in his eyes foretold news. “We’re in luck. The car is under the name of Metrobarna S.L. It’s a property investment company, or at least that’s how it’s registered. The main office is here, in Barcelona. Paseo de Gracia, number six.”
“That’s just around the corner. Give me a couple of minutes to recover, and we’ll go there.”
“Why don’t you leave this one to me, Alicia, and go home to rest for a while? I’ll come by later and tell you what I’ve found out.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Go on.”
Outside, in the Ramblas, the sky seemed to have cleared at last. It shone with that electric blue that sometimes bewitches Barcelona winters, persuading the gullible that nothing can go wrong.
“Straight home, OK? No technical stops,” Vargas warned. “I’m getting to know you.”
“Yes, sir. Don’t solve the case without me.”
“Don’t worry.”
She watched him head off towards Plaza de Cataluña and waited a couple of minutes. Years ago she’d discovered that when a woman exaggerated symptoms of pain, adopting the helpless expression of a frail maiden in distress, she could manipulate any man who needed to feel that she required his protection and guidance – and that applied to almost the entire male contingent on the census, excepting Leandro Montalvo, who had taught her most of the tricks in her armoury and could also invariably sense the ones she had picked up herself. As soon as Alicia was sure that she’d got rid of Vargas, she changed her route. Going home could wait. She needed time to think and observe from the shadows. And above all, there was something she wanted to do – on her own, and in her own way.
*
The Metrobarna offices were located on the top floor of a celebrated modernist block. The massive structure, its facade covered in ochre stone and its roof crowned with pinnacles and domed turrets, was known as Casa Rocamora. It oozed the fastidious craftsmanship and grand melodrama pervading certain examples of architecture only found on the streets of Barcelona. Vargas paused on the corner to look at the spectacle of balconies, galleries and Byzantine geometry. A street watercolourist had set up his easel on the corner, and was giving the finishing touches to an impressionist take on the building. When he noticed Vargas’s presence, he smiled politely.
“Beautiful image,” Vargas congratulated him.
“We do our best. Policeman?”
“That obvious?”
The artist gave him a bitter smile.
Vargas pointed at the picture. “Is it for sale?”
“It will be in just under half an hour. Interested in the building?”
“Increasingly. Does one have to pay to go in?”
“Don’t give them any ideas.”
A lift straight out of Jules Verne’s dreams took Vargas up to an office door, on which a weighty golden sign bore these words:
METROBARNA LTD
PROPERTY INVESTMENT & MANAGEMENT
He pressed the bell. A sound like the chime of a grandfather clock echoed from within, and a few seconds later the door opened, revealing the delicate figure of a receptionist in oversmart clothes, framed by a sumptuous hallway. In some firms, opulence was communicated with intentional malice.
“Good morning,” Vargas stated in an official tone, showing his badge. “Vargas, Central Police Headquarters. I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”
The receptionist looked at him in surprise. Presumably the type of visitor she was used to receiving in that office was somewhat classier.
“Do you mean Señor Sanchís?”
Vargas replied with a nod and stepped into an entrance hall, its walls lined with blue velvet and dotted with delicate watercolours of Barcelona’s emblematic facades and buildings. Vargas suppressed a smile when he recognized the style of the corner painter.
“May I ask what this is about, Officer?” asked the receptionist behind his back.
“Captain,” Vargas corrected her without turning round.
The receptionist cleared her throat and, realizing she was not getting an answer, sighed. “Señor Sanchís is at a meeting right now. If you wish . . .”
Vargas turned around and looked at her coldly.
“I’ll let him know right away, Captain.”
Vargas nodded unenthusiastically. The receptionist rushed off in search of reinforcements. This was followed by a quick succession of hushed voices, sounds of doors opening and closing, and hurried steps along corridors. A minute later she was back, this time with a docile smile as she invited him to follow her. “If you’ll be so kind, the director will see you in the boardroom.”
He walked down a long passageway flanked by pompous office rooms where spruced-up lawyers in three-piece suits dealt with the day’s business with the seriousness of skilled traders. Statues, paintings and top-quality carpets outlined the route leading him to a large room with a glazed balcony that afforded an angel’s-eye view of the entire Paseo de Gracia. An impressive board-meeting table presided over a series of armchairs, glass cabinets and fine wood mouldings.
“Señor Sanchís will be with you in a moment. Can I offer you anything while you wait? A coffee?”
Vargas shook his head. The receptionist vanished as soon as she could, leaving him on his own.
The policeman studied the scenery. The Metrobarna offices reeked of money. The carpet at his feet alone probably cost quite a bit more than he received from several years’ salary. Vargas walked around the board table, caressing the lacquered oak with his fingers and taking in the perfume of excess. The stage set, with its shapes and designs, distilled that oppressive and exclusive air of institutions devoted to the alchemy of money, reminding the visitor that even if he thought he was inside, he would, in fact, always be outside the proverbial bank counter.
The room was decorated with numerous portraits of different sizes. Most of them were photographs, but there were also some oil paintings and a few charcoal sketches signed by an assortment of official and prestigious portrait artists of the last decades. Vargas studied these. The same person appeared in all the images, a gentleman with silvery hair and a patrician expression glancing at the lens, or the easel, with a calm smile and ice-cold eyes. The protagonist of those pictures clearly knew how to pose and choose his company. Vargas leaned over to take a closer look at one of the photographs, in which the gentleman with the cold eyes appeared with a group of important-looking men in hunting gear, smiling like lifelong friends as they stood on either side of a younger-looking General Franco. Vargas went through the cast of figures taking part in the hunting scene and was drawn to one particular participant. He stood in the second row and smiled enthusiastically, as if he were trying hard to stand out.
“Valls,” Vargas murmured.
The door of the room opened behind him, and he turned around to encounter a lean, almost fragile-looking middle-aged man, with scant fair hair as fine as a baby’s. The man wore an impeccably tailored alpaca suit that matched his grey eyes, steady and penetrating.
“Good morning. My name is Ignacio Sanchís, director general of this company. I gather, from what Lorena tells me, that you wish to speak to me. I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. We’re preparing the annual shareholders’ meeting, and we’re rather snowed under. How can I help you, Captain?”
Sanchís exuded a cultivated air of friendliness and utmost professionalism. His eyes transmitted both warmth and authority while he catalogued Vargas meticulously. Vargas was certain that before ending his introductory sentence, Sanchís already knew the brand of the shoes he was wearing and how old his second-rate suit was.
“This face looks familiar,” said the policeman, pointing at one of the oil paintings hanging in the room.
“That’s Don Miguel Ubach,” Sanchís said, smiling benevolently at the ignorance or ingenuousness of the man speaking to him. “Our founder.”
“Of the Banca Ubach?” asked Vargas. “The Gunpowder Banker?”
Sanchís offered him a light, diplomatic smile, but his look grew colder. “Don Miguel Ángel never liked that nickname, which, if you don’t mind my saying so, does not do the person justice.”
“I heard that it was the Generalissimo himself who gave it to him, for his services,” Vargas ventured.
“I’m afraid that’s not the case. The nickname was conferred on Don Miguel by the red press during the war. The Banca Ubach, together with other institutions, helped finance the campaign of national liberation. A great man to whom Spain is hugely indebted.”
“For which no doubt he has been generously rewarded . . .” mumbled Vargas.
Sanchís ignored his words without losing any of his cordiality.
“And what is the relationship between Don Miguel Ángel and this company?” Vargas enquired.
Sanchís cleared his throat. “When Don Miguel Ángel died in 1948, the Banca Ubach was divided into three companies,” he said patiently. “One of these was the Banco Hipotecario e Industrial de Cataluña, which was absorbed by the Banca Hispanoamericana de Crédito eight years ago. Metrobarna was created at that time to manage the property investment portfolio that was on the bank’s balance sheet.”
Sanchís pronounced those words as if he had recited them often, with the expert and absent air of a museum guide instructing a group of tourists while eyeing his watch. “But I’m sure that the company’s history doesn’t interest you that much,” he concluded. “How can I help you, Captain?”
“It’s a small matter, probably unimportant, Señor Sanchís, but you know the routine with these things. One has to check everything.”
“Of course. I’m listening.”
Vargas pulled out his notebook and pretended to be reading through a few lines. “Could you confirm whether a car with the licence plate B-74325 belongs to Metrobarna?”
Sanchís looked at him in bewilderment.
“I really don’t know . . . I’d have to ask . . .”
“I imagine the company has a fleet of cars. Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re right. We have four or five cars, if—”
“Is one of them a Mercedes-Benz? Black? A fifteen- or twenty-year-old model?”
A shadow of anxiety crossed Sanchís’s face. “Yes . . . It’s the car Valentín drives. Has something happened?”
“Valentín, you say?”
“Valentín Morgado, a driver who works for this firm.”
“Your own private driver?”
“Yes. For years now . . . May I ask what—”
“Is Señor Morgado in the office now?”
“I don’t think so. He had to take Victoria to the doctor first thing this morning.”
“Victoria?”
“Victoria is my wife.”
“And your wife’s family name is . . . ?”
“Ubach. Victoria Ubach.”
Vargas raised his eyebrows in surprise. Sanchís nodded, vaguely irritated. “Daughter of Don Miguel Ángel, yes.”
The policeman winked at him, as if he wished to imply that he admired the golden marriage that had taken him to the top of the company.
“Captain, please explain what this matter is about . . .”
Vargas smiled in a friendly, relaxed manner. “As I was saying, it’s nothing important. We’re investigating an accident that took place this morning on Calle Balmes. Someone was run over, and the suspect’s car sped off. Don’t worry, it’s not yours. But two witnesses have declared that they saw a black car parked right there, on the corner, and the car fits the description and licence plate of the black Mercedes driven by . . .”
“Valentín.”
“Exactly. In fact, both witnesses have declared that when the accident took place, the driver of the Mercedes was inside the car. That is why we’re interested in locating him, in case he was able to see anything that could help us identify the driver who fled the scene.”
Sanchís looked concerned as he listened to the story, although he also seemed visibly relieved that his car and his driver were not involved in the accident. “That’s terrible. Any fatalities?”
“Yes, unfortunately there is one. An elderly lady who was taken to the Hospital Clínico, where she was pronounced dead on arrival.”
“I’m terribly sorry. Of course, whatever we can do to help to—”
“All I need is to be able to speak to your employee, Valentín.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you know whether Señor Morgado took your wife anywhere else this morning, after the visit to the doctor?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Yesterday Victoria mentioned that she had visitors coming to the house around lunchtime today . . . Maybe Valentín had gone out to do some errands. Some mornings, if my wife or I don’t need him, he delivers documents or letters from the office.”
Vargas pulled out a card and handed it to him.
“Would you be so kind as to ask Señor Morgado to get in touch with me as soon as possible?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he’s located and gets the message. I’ll do that right away.”
“He probably won’t be able to help us, but we have to go through the formalities.”
“Of course.”
“One last thing. Does Señor Morgado, by any chance, have any distinctive feature?”
Sanchís nodded. “Yes. Valentín was wounded during the war. Part of his face is disfigured because of a mortar explosion.”
“How many years has he been working for you?”
“At least ten. Valentín was already working for my wife’s family, and he’s a trusted person in this house. I can confirm that.”
“One of the witnesses mentioned something about a mask covering part of his face. Could that be so? I just want to make sure this is the right person.”
“That’s right. Valentín wears a prosthesis covering his lower jaw and left eye.”
“I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Señor Sanchís. Thank you so much for your help. I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.”
“Don’t worry at all. My pleasure. It’s a duty and an honour for a Spaniard to collaborate with the State Security Forces.”
As Sanchís was leading Vargas to the exit, they passed a large carved door behind which lay a monumental library with a view of Paseo de Gracia. Vargas stopped a moment and peeped inside. The library stretched out like a Versailles gallery that seemed to occupy the entire side of the building. Floor and ceiling were lined with polished wood, so shiny they were like two mirrors facing each another, in which columns of books multiplied to infinity.
“Impressive,” said Vargas. “Are you a collector?”
“A modest one,” replied Sanchís. “Most of these books come from the collection of the Ubach Foundation, although I must admit that books are my weakness and my escape from the world of finance.”
“I understand you. In my own humble way, I do the same,” said Vargas. “My hobby is serving arrest warrants on rare and unique books. My wife says it’s the policeman in me.”
Sanchís gave a nod, keeping his polite and patient expression, although his eyes were betraying mounting fatigue and a desire to rid himself of the policeman as soon as possible.
“Are you interested in rare books, Señor Sanchís?”
“Most books in this collection are eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Spanish, French and Italian texts, although we also have an excellent selection of German literature and philosophy, as well as English poetry,” the director explained. “I suppose that among some circles this would already be considered rare enough.” Sanchís took Vargas’s arm gently but firmly and led him back to the corridor and towards the front door.
“I envy you, Señor Sanchís. If only . . . I have limited means and must make do with more modest items.”
“There are no modest books, only arrogant ignorance.”
“Of course. That’s exactly what I told a secondhand bookseller whom I’ve asked to find a series of novels by a forgotten author. The name might ring a bell. Mataix. Víctor Mataix.”
Sanchís held his gaze impassively, then shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him.”
“That’s what everyone tells me. A man can devote his whole life to writing, and then nobody remembers his words . . .”
“Literature is a cruel lover that easily forgets its suitors,” said Sanchís, opening the door to the landing.
“Much like justice. Luckily there is always someone who, like you and me, is ready to give them both a nudge.”
“That’s life: it forgets us all too soon. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you . . .”
“No, thank you again for your help, Señor Sanchís.”