“Two… but one’s broken.”
“I bet it’s more stupid than I am. What do you bet we find nothing at all?”
Sergeant Estévañez smiled and shook his head: this guy’s a joker. His mind couldn’t tolerate the image of a detective too thick to find a simple piece of data on a computer and be sure, in advance, whether it existed or not.
“What’s the name?”
“Catalina Basterrechea,” repeated the Count, agreeing with Lotus Flower that nobody could come on stage and sing a bolero after being introduced by such a mouthful.
The search was more arduous than the sergeant had imagined, and the Count felt happy when, after several attempts, the presumptuous cybernetic policeman was forced to use the phone and consult a specialist over locating certain files from the past.
Estévañez gave the machine new instructions, as it had refused to reply to his questions, and Conde went into the passage, and saw the tremendous downpour that had started outside. He rushed to a lavatory and, while urinating, realized he’d held on to it for too long. He sighed with relief as he felt himself unloading as powerfully as the summer clouds. Simultaneously a voice made him start.
“They say great friendships are forged in lavatories. Or that old ones have been patched up…”
Conde didn’t turn round: he was conscientiously shaking his penis, flicking it as if it were of slightly higher calibre than the one he actually wielded.
“But I’m not going to introduce you…” he said, putting his member away.
Captain Palacios preferred a stall, rather than one of the urinals where the Count emptied his bladder. When he’d finished, he twisted round and was shocked to see his ex-colleague’s bruised face.
“What the fuck’s happened to you?”
“They almost killed me, but evil weevils never die. And if they die, they re-incarnate, as a friend told me who knows about such things. It’s the risk you take prowling around when you’re not a policeman.”
“Well, they really had it in for you… Did you find anything?” asked the captain.
“A few things about the previous owner of the library and the girl who sang boleros. There are people who think she didn’t commit suicide… But don’t you worry, nothing that had anything to do with Dionisio. How about you?”
“I’ve hardly had time to do anything. This gets worse by the
day. There’s no trace of that bloody tall, lame black guy who was at the Ferreros’ the day before Dionisio died. The people trading in old books don’t know him…”
“I know,” said the Count. “I suspect Dionisio and his sister were fibbing about the tall black guy, and after what’s happened, Amalia doesn’t know how to wriggle out of the lie.”
“Do you reckon?” Manolo looked at the Count, intrigued by his suggestion. “Why would they want to do that?”
“The answer to what happened is in the Ferrero household, in the library, to be precise. The other day Dionisio or his sister said something to me about that library that I think holds the key to everything.”
“And you still don’t remember what?”
“I don’t remember who said it or what was said, but it’s buzzing around my head… For some reason I think it’s also connected to the bolero singer.”
“You still on that tack?… You know, Conde, my way’s much simpler: Dionisio refused to do a deal over some of those books, the person with him got upset, they rowed and he lost his temper and killed him. When he saw what he’d done, he took six books, because, whatever you say, they must be some of the most valuable ones…”
“Very neat,” said the Count, “and, best of all, neither Yoyi nor I fit that version. We didn’t need to kill anyone or steal books that Dionisio could sell us at a bargain price…”
“And what if Yoyi tried to reach a deal and leave you out? There were books you didn’t want to sell because they were so rare… You told me some manuscripts might be worth a fortune… And the person who entered the house was someone Dionisio was acquainted with. He even knew where to find his knife.”
Conde looked at Manolo’s vague expression, eyeing him as suspiciously as if he held the trump card.
“Yoyi may be many things but he’s not a murderer.”
“How can you be so sure? Yoyi is in business and crazy about money…’
“Yoyi is also my friend,” concluded Conde and Manolo smiled: he knew what such a status meant in the ex-lieutenant’s ethics. “Forget him and look elsewhere.”
“I’m looking everywhere, but it’s like being a magnet: you turn it round, and when you let go, things turn by themselves and join up again…”
‘If you’d listened to me like you used to… Tell me, do you know why Dionisio left the corporation where he was working after he left the army?”
“More or less, though you can’t get a straight answer from anyone. It seems Dionisio was too strict and didn’t like the way he saw things being done there. You can imagine what. It seems he started getting difficult and they made his life impossible. He was the only one who had to leave.”
“I’d imagined something of the sort. He was a man of rock-solid principles. He almost starved to death as a result.”
“Conde, Conde!” Sergeant Estévañez’s summons interrupted the Count’s disquisition. “Oh, Captain, I didn’t know…”
“What’s the matter?” enquired Manolo.
“I found something odd: the case on that woman isn’t open but it’s not closed either…”
“This is looking good. But we’d better leave the toilets,” the Count suggested, “otherwise they’ll start suspecting I’m some policemen’s favourite piece of ass…”
The evening rain cleared away the grey haze that had wreathed the city since midday, as if releasing it from an oppressive burden, capable of driving it back into its weary foundations. The newly washed sky recovered its summery cheerfulness and a cool breeze rustled through the trees, painted by the impressionist light of dusk.
Muscular and spare in spite of his age, the man rocked gently in his wooden chair. He was looking dreamily into the garden, and every twenty-five to thirty seconds lifted his cigar to his lips. His face was momentarily hidden in a cloud of languorous smoke that began the perfumed ascent from his mouth to paradise, where the spirits of well-made and even better smoked havanas lived on eternally.
The Count observed him from his car window and was struck by an unmistakable wave of nostalgia. Seeing him smoking in the peaceful solitude of his porch, relaxed, apparently content, was a spectacle he never dreamt he’d be privileged to enjoy. In the ten years he’d worked to orders from that robust, gifted leader, the then detective lieutenant Mario Conde had felt a special fondness, a rich blend of differences and affinities, grow for the man with the cigar who, quite unselfishly, had given him the benefit of his massive experience in the police, the keys to his uncorruptible ethics and the more elusive benefits of his trust and jealous friendship. Consequently, when an Internal Investigations team had used their unlimited police powers and policies to decree that the man’s abilities were dwindling and decided to remove him from the force via the procedure of early retirement, the Count rushed into the void after him, in an act of blatant solidarity. He handed in his resignation, risked being suspected of acts of corruption, indolence and prevarication that had already cost several detectives their posts and even prison sentences and, by simple hierarchical fiat, had put an end to the mandate of the hitherto spotless Major Antonio Rangel.
“Is the chief you’ve got now better than the Boss?” the Count finally broke the silence, turning towards Manolo, seated behind the wheel.
“He was one in a million. Especially as far as you were concerned.”
“True enough,” replied the Count, opening the car door, ready to go to meet his past yet again.