Duilio looked about for a waiter. He’d only had time to grab one of Mrs. Cardoza’s meat pies at the house. He was still hungry. “We have a case that we’re working on, and I’m gathering background information.”
The priest set his chin atop laced fingers. “About what?”
“The City Under the Sea,” Duilio said.
Barros sat back, shaking his head. “Ah. Gabriel Espinoza’s creation.”
A chubby man with a white apron tied over his garb finally bustled over and offered to tell them the specials. “Thank you, Eusebio,” Barros said. “We’ll need some privacy, if you please. Just bring us whatever the cook has prepared, and . . . tea.”
The waiter cast a curious look at Duilio but took himself away promptly.
“So what about a bunch of floating houses could catch your interest?”
Duilio pressed his lips together, trying to decide where to start. “We know for certain a young woman was trapped inside the house that went into the river recently.”
“Inside?” The priest leaned forward, sounding incredulous.
“Yes, tied to a chair. She was grabbed off the street, drugged, and placed inside the house while still unconscious. She had no chance of escaping alive once the house went into the water.”
“You think Gabriel Espinoza did this?” Barros shook his head firmly. “No. He may be rather single-minded in the pursuit of his lofty artistic goals, but he wouldn’t hurt a woman.”
Duilio stared at the priest, weighing the conviction in his tone. The man believed Espinoza’s innocence, so any mention of necromancy would get a similar appalled reaction. But given what Miss Paredes had said about Espinoza’s calculations not accounting for the victims, it seemed that aspect of the artwork wasn’t his doing at all. Duilio tried another tack. “When was the last time you spoke to Espinoza?”
“January, right after Epiphany.” Barros frowned. “He came back to his parents’ home after some disagreement with his patron, and he came to see me. I’m not his confessor. It was just talk, but he was quite upset.”
That had promise, and if it wasn’t a confession, Barros was at liberty to discuss their conversation. “Upset?”
“Something about the artwork. He didn’t want to tell me. And that his patron wanted to move him somewhere out of the city, away from prying eyes and . . . nosy writers, I believe he said. They had an argument that got out of hand. Espinoza even showed me a cut on his forehead where they’d fought over it.”
Duilio recalled that dark spot on the floor in the apartment’s dressing room. “He had a fight with his patron?”
“Well, not the patron himself. The man the patron sent to check up on him. I haven’t seen him since he told me that, so he must have given in and moved out of the city.”
That would put Espinoza’s disappearance in early January, about the time the fifth house had gone into the water. About when he’d stopped giving interviews. So something had changed abruptly then. Perhaps Espinoza had learned about the victims and objected. “Father, did Espinoza tell you who his patron was?”
The priest mulled that over, his lips pursed. “He said the work was being funded by the government, the Ministry of Culture.”
“I thought there was a single patron,” Duilio said.
“I believe the Marquis of Maraval was personally overseeing the artwork. Espinoza considered him the primary patron.”
The Marquis of Maraval? The Ministry of Culture performed functions like the installation of sculptures in the Treasury Building and the restoration of tile facades in older parts of the city. They kept a finger on what newspapers published. But they had no control over the Special Police. Duilio didn’t see how the minister could be involved. “I see. Have you ever heard of a group called the Open Hand?”
Barros sat back. “Espinoza mentioned them once, although I wasn’t clear who they were.”
“In what context?” Duilio asked.
“It didn’t make sense.” Barros sighed. “Espinoza saw something. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it made him think they were subverting his work.”
That was an odd choice of word. “Subverting?”
“Yes. It sounded insane, but he truly believed it. Somehow they intended to use his work of art to make the prince into the king of all Portugal.”
CHAPTER 24
The restaurant had filled with all manner of folk from the town, fishermen and laborers and tradesmen. The noise within the narrow room grew chaotic, but nestled where they were in the back, Duilio could still hear his companion’s voice. Over a fine lunch, Father Barros painted a picture of Espinoza as a man obsessed with his art, but not evil at heart.
It seemed that Espinoza was as much a victim in this as Miss Paredes.
After paying for the meal, Duilio took his leave of the priest. “You’ve been very helpful, Father. Be cautious whom you tell about this. It would be better to say nothing.”
The priest rose and shook his hand. “I understand. I hope you find the truth, Mr. Ferreira. And keep an eye out for the fellow I saw earlier.”
Duilio hadn’t forgotten the man in the dark suit. “I will, Father.”
When he got out to the street, the sky had cleared considerably. People hurried by on the cobbles, and he fell in behind a group of fisherwomen, their embroidered aprons bright splashes of color over their floral-print skirts. By the time he’d turned onto Serpa Pinto Street, Duilio’s gift warned him he was being followed again. It didn’t feel like a warning of imminent danger, but a reminder he should be aware.
He ducked down Godinho Street. It was narrower and led only to the harbor’s construction yards and the southern breakwater, but would afford him a chance to see if anyone was behind him. There was little there beyond a few factory offices, which should minimize the number of bystanders who might be hurt should Mata appear and take a shot at him.
As Duilio expected, the man in the dark suit—the one who’d followed him from the tram—appeared at the end of the street behind him. It wasn’t Mata, but there was no telling how many people were working with him.
Duilio reached inside his jacket, unsnapped his holster, and searched the area about him. There was no traffic in sight; too close to lunchtime. Ahead of him waited the abandoned construction yard with its neat rows of giant granite blocks. He could only hope he got there before anything happened . . . and that Inspector Gaspar and Joaquim were keeping an eye on him, as planned.
The granite blocks would supply excellent cover. The ocean beyond the yard presented an escape route as well; he could outswim most men. He would need to reach the water first, though. Duilio jumped the gate into the construction yard, edged between two rows of stone blocks, and headed toward the giant crane on its rails at the end of the unfinished breakwater.
His gift abruptly warned him, a spasm down his spine.
His mind raced, taking in everything about him. Shadows moved on the far left of his vision. From that direction his nose picked up the tang of perspiration. The man in the dark suit was behind him, still on the road, which meant someone else was in the construction yard already. Mata? Weighing the distance between himself and the iron base of the Titan, Duilio bolted that way.
He’d almost reached it when a shot rang out. Duilio crouched but kept moving. That shot went high, pinging off the body of the crane with a metallic whine.
Reprieved, he threw himself the final few feet toward the Titan’s base.
He stumbled over the rail on which the crane ran but managed to get behind the iron wheels. His heart was racing, pulse thudding in his ears. He glanced up at the base of the crane that shielded him—terrifyingly huge now that he was under its bulk. A wave of dizziness assailed him and he quickly looked down, noting for the first time the revolver in his hand. He didn’t recall drawing the thing.