AS HE LEFT the building, Vargas noticed the watercolourist, who was putting away his tools and lighting an old sailor’s pipe. Vargas smiled at him from a distance and walked over.
“Hey, it’s Chief Inspector Maigret,” cried the artist.
“The name is Vargas.”
“Dalmau,” the painter introduced himself.
“How is it going, Master Dalmau? Have you finished your painting?”
“A painting is never finished. The trick is to know at what point to leave it unfinished. Are you still interested?” The artist lifted the rag covering the canvas and showed him the watercolour.
“It looks like something out of a dream,” said Vargas.
“The dream is yours for ten duros plus whatever you think fit.”
The policeman pulled out his wallet. The artist’s eyes shone like the embers in his pipe. Vargas handed him a one-hundred-peseta note.
“That’s too much.”
Vargas shook his head. “Consider me the day’s patron.”
The painter wrapped up the watercolour with brown paper and string.
“Can one make a living doing this?” asked Vargas.
“The picture-postcard industry has hit us hard, but there are still people with good taste.”
“Like Señor Sanchís?”
The artist raised an eyebrow and looked at him suspiciously. “I thought there was something fishy going on here. I hope you’re not going to get me in trouble now.”
“Has Sanchís been a customer for long?”
“A few years.”
“Have you sold him lots of pictures?”
“Quite a few.”
“Does he like your style that much?”
“He buys them out of pity, I think. He’s a very generous man, at least considering he’s a banker.”
“Perhaps he has a bad conscience.”
“He wouldn’t be the only one. There’s loads of those in this country.”
Dalmau muttered a curse under his breath and folded his easel.
“Are you leaving? I thought you’d be able to tell me something about Señor Sanchís.”
“Look, if you like I’ll give you back your money. And you can keep the picture. Hang it in one of the dungeons in the police station.”
“The money is yours. You’ve earned it.”
The artist hesitated. “What do you want with Sanchís?”
“Nothing. I’m just curious.”
“That’s the same thing the other policeman said. You’re all alike.”
“The other policeman?”
“Sure. Pretend you know nothing about it.”
“Could you describe my colleague to me? There might be another note if you lend me a hand.”
“There’s little to describe. Another thug like you. Although this one had a scar on his face.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“We didn’t get that close.”
“When was that?”
“Some two or three weeks ago.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here. In my office. Can I go now?”
“You don’t need to be afraid of me, boss.”
“I’m not afraid of you. I’ve seen it all before with your type. But I’d rather have a change of scene, if you don’t mind.”
“Have you been locked up?”
The artist chuckled disdainfully.
“La Modelo?”
“Montjuïc. From 1939 to 1943. There’s nothing you can do to me that you haven’t done already.”
Vargas took out his wallet, ready to make a second payment, but the painter refused it. He pulled out the money Vargas had given him and let it fall to the ground. Then he took his easel and paintbox and walked away with a limp. Vargas watched him disappear up Paseo de Gracia. He knelt down to pick up the note and headed off in the opposite direction, carrying the picture under his arm.
Ignacio Sanchís walked over to the boardroom window and observed the policeman talking to the watercolourist on the corner. A couple of minutes later he saw the policeman strolling off towards Plaza de Cataluña, carrying what looked like a picture he had bought from the artist. Sanchís waited until he’d lost sight of Vargas among the crowd. Then he stepped into the corridor and made his way to reception.
“I’ll be out a few minutes, Lorena. If Lorca calls, from the Madrid office, pass him over to Juanjo.”
“Yes, Señor Sanchís.”
Sanchís didn’t wait for the lift, but walked down the stairs. When he stepped out into the street, he felt a slight breeze grazing his forehead and realized it was covered in sweat. He made his way to the café next to Radio Barcelona on Calle Caspe, and asked for a cortado. While his coffee was being prepared, he walked over to the public telephone at the far end and dialled a number he knew by heart.
“Brians,” replied a voice on the other end of the line.
“A policeman called Vargas has just paid me a visit.”
A long silence.
“Are you calling from the office phone?” asked Brians.
“Of course not,” said Sanchís.
“They’ve also been here this morning. The policeman and a girl. They said they had a Mataix for sale.”
“Do you know who they are?”
“He’s obviously a policeman. I didn’t like her one bit. As soon as they left, I did what you said. I phoned the number you gave me and hung up immediately to signal Morgado to meet at our usual place. I saw him barely an hour ago. I thought he’d already warned you.”
“Something unexpected turned up. Morgado had to go back to the house.”
“What did the policeman ask you?”
“He wanted to know about Morgado. Some nonsense about an accident. They must have followed you. For all I know, they tricked you.”
The lawyer sighed. “Do you think they’ve got the list?”
“I don’t know. But we can’t run any risks.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Brians.
“No meetings with Morgado and no calls until further notice,” Sanchís ordered. “I’ll contact you if necessary. Go back to the office and act as if nothing had happened. If I were you, I’d leave the city for a while.”
The banker put down the phone. He walked past the bar, pale-faced.
“Your cortado, boss,” said the waiter.
Sanchís looked at him as if he didn’t know what he was doing there, and left the café.