A Shortcut to Paradise (24 page)

“My God!” he whispered. “The dubious characters that live on your staircase! Is he a junky, or what?”

“Don't be silly! That guy's a translator…” I rasped. “He's married to Carmen, that girl who came to our St John's Eve party with her two children. Have you forgotten? The poor guy! He had a very bad car accident months ago.”

“He looked spaced out.”

“Yes, he didn't look too good,” I agreed as we headed for the dining room.

Merche and Lola had gone to pick up the children from the mother-in-law's and we'd decided to go straight
home. It was a quarter to eight, and while we waited for Borja's phone to ring, I switched on the TV on the off chance they were showing a game. The phone rang a couple of minutes before the time agreed. It was him.

“A week,” I heard Borja say. “We'll wait a week, as I'm about to put a plan into action. If we haven't bagged Marina Dolç's murderer in the next seven days, I'll ask you to go to the police myself (…). No, no, I'm confident it will go well, but if you don't see anything in the newspapers within a week, you'll have to tell the police,” he warned.

My brother has this side to him. He can be hard-nosed when it comes to fleecing the rich, but can also show a paternalist vein when he gets the impulse to protect the weak, especially when they are in trouble with the law. According to Borja, and I thinks he's clear on this because he's suffered it in his own flesh, the law is one thing and justice quite another, and they don't always go hand in hand. I'm sure he's right, but, frankly, I'd have told that fellow he should go to the police immediately so they could release Amadeu, who was innocent after all. And, of course, I'd have let the
mossos
sort out who'd killed Marina Dolç and washed my hands of the whole business. But, it's obvious, I'm not Borja, I've not changed my name and don't have the nerve to act as if I were somebody else and play a double game with Merche and Lola.

Early next morning we went to our office to get the list of people drinking in the bar at the Ritz from the file Lluís Arquer had given us. We also rang Mariona, who, despite the deplorable scenes at her house on Friday night, was delighted at the idea of reconstructing the events of the night of the murder and volunteered to summon the suspects and organize everything. My brother then rang Clàudia and told her of our plan to catch the murderer and how we would need to spend a night at the Ritz to recce the location and prepare our soirée; she finally agreed to cover the extra expenses. She was a wealthy woman and it was hardly a great sacrifice.

“Are you sure we absolutely need to be at the Ritz on Tuesday?” I asked, surprised by his suggestion.

“Well, absolutely, absolutely, not really… But can you think of a better excuse to get a night gratis there?” my brother said with a smile.

“Frankly, Borja, I couldn't give a damn.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I'd rather be at home with Montse. I don't suppose I can bring her along, can I?”

“No way.”

“But if you only want to have a free night at the Ritz, why don't you go by yourself with Merche, for example? It gives me the—”

“Merche and her husband are no strangers to the Ritz. What's the matter with you? Aren't you curious to know what it feels like to be in the midst of luxury?”

“The truth is all those porters in hats and waiters in dinner jackets make me squirm,” I defended myself.

“So start getting used to it.”

Borja rang the Ritz. It was half-past twelve. He asked for the manager, whom Mariona, for her part, had already spoken to. The manager seemed curiously keen to cooperate, perhaps because Mariona, as well as being a very persuasive lady, is also one of the hotel's main shareholders. The reconstruction would be at nine next Wednesday evening. After persisting for a while, my brother succeeded in reserving for the Tuesday night
the very rooms Marina Dolç and Amadeu Cabestany had occupied on the night of the prize. So it was official: the Martínez brothers were going to spend a night at the Ritz. I still didn't know what excuse I'd give Montse to justify such extravagance. I hoped she wouldn't be too angry and that, knowing her character, she didn't send me packing.

If Lluís Arquer and my brother were right, the murder suspects were simply the list of the twenty people who were in the bar when the novelist said goodnight and went upstairs to her room. We decided to review it while Borja filled me in on who was who.

“Well, here we have Mariona Castany,” he said, consulting his notes, “and yours truly. By the way, Mariona is designated a writer, and I'm a financial adviser.”

“There's a question mark next to you,” I observed.

“Well, yes…” My brother decided to pass on that detail. “Let's see, then we have Amàlia Vidal, the feminist who was also at Mariona's… Carles Clavé, the writer who wrote an obituary for Marina Dolç… It's in the file.”

“He was also at the homage at Mariona's, even though he never opened his mouth. They must be good friends.”

“According to Mariona, they aren't. But it seems to be one of those things writers do,” he commented. “There's also Josefina Peña, the woman who found Marina dead, and Oriol Sureda, one of her hardest-hitting critics. I remember him from the Ritz: a bald man, more sixties than fifties, smartly dressed and wearing thick blackframed spectacles.”

“What a memory you've got!” I exclaimed.

“He looked evil and gave me bad vibrations. We've also got Llibert Celoni and Eudald Suñol, the two writers who had a punch-up at Mariona's.”

“Here it says he's ‘Eudald Suñol Clavé'. Is he related to Carles Clavé?” I asked out of curiosity.

“I'm sure. They're all related in these circles,” my brother concurred. “Eudald is the one who got punched.”

“Yes, I remember. And this Ferran Fontserè was at the party as well, wasn't he?” I said, reading the next name on the list.

“Yes, he was the poet, the younger guy. From what it says here, he works at the Ministry of Culture.”

“Well, we all have to earn a living. I don't think poetry puts food on his table.”

“To continue: Francesc Viladecavalls, publisher and wife… Sebastià Setcases, the councillor at Barcelona Town Hall, and Anna Setcases, councillor at the Town Hall in Cornellà and wife of the aforementioned…”

“You didn't notice, but he was the one in the red underpants. They matched his wife's lingerie.” So my powers of recall weren't that bad.

Borja grimaced and ignored my comment.

“Another famous writer, Carles Martín-Pinto, and his partner, Natasha Volivodka, who they say is an artist.”

“The one with the lovely legs, right?”

“The lovely legs you'll see on Wednesday. We have Maia Mayol and Lluïsa Carbó, also writers. They don't look very bright and nobody took any notice of them, but they stayed till the bitter end. Oh, and here we have Clàudia and that stuck-up critic Agustí Planer.”

“He really was a nasty piece of work,” I said, remembering the argument at Mariona's.

“And finally, Albert Fonollosa, the dentist I spoke to, and his wife Pilar. They were friends of the publisher and didn't budge from the bar the whole night.”

“What a crew!”

“It's what we have. If we exclude the people I'm sure didn't shift from their beverages the whole night – I mean, Mariona, Clàudia, the dentist and his wife, the Russian painter and myself – we're left with fourteen. Fourteen suspects.”

“But do you think they'll all agree to come on Wednesday after what happened on Friday?”

“Eduard, nothing happened at Mariona's,” responded Borja, suddenly turning solemn and adopting the tone of an offended gentleman. “Do please remember that.”

“Don't worry. But I hope they don't serve canapés at the Ritz on Wednesday.”

When I got home, I decided to tell Montse more or less the truth about what we were planning to do at the Ritz with the promise that I'd take her to spend a night there to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Meekly following my orders from Borja, I also asked her not to say anything to her sister. According to Borja, he needed to concentrate that night and didn't want Lola turning up and creating a diversion. Montse didn't really cotton on, but work is work though family may be family. However, she was annoyed and turned her back on me in bed while I cursed my brother's genes and bright ideas.

The next day I decided to help Montse with Arnau and, to smooth troubled waters, offered to go to the market. After lunch, I filled a bag with clean clothes, a toothbrush and shaver, and my brother picked me up at around seven. Borja had established himself in luxury at the Ritz at noon, but I had no wish to spend the whole day strolling around the hotel while he put on his millionaire act.

I was well acquainted with my brother's delusions of grandeur and understood his fascination for the Ritz. The Ritz is the oldest five-star hotel in Barcelona, and kings, politicians and artists eager for luxury and renown have slept between its sheets. In any case, I wasn't clear whether the fact that two commoners like Borja and I could have a night at the Ritz meant the establishment had become more democratic or was simply a symptom of its fall from grace.

“Hey, this is fantastic,” Borja purred contentedly while I put my things in my room and he snooped around. Naturally, Borja had booked himself into Marina Dolç's room and Amadeu Cabestany's had fallen to me.

“Doesn't it make you feel uneasy to be in the room where Marina was killed?” I enquired.

“It's fine. They've changed the carpet.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I don't think it's very nice to be in Amadeu's room,” I confessed, feeling rather scared to be in that luxurious bedroom.

“Marina's room is even more beautiful and topflight…” Borja was now busy snooping around my bathroom.

“You know, Borja, I don't know whether I'll be able to sleep here.”

“Come on, stop clowning!”

Borja showed me his room, which was in fact very similar to mine, and then we spent time planning the following day's encounter with the suspects. At nine thirty we went down for dinner, taking advantage of the fact that it was included in the room price, and then went for a drink in the bar where the guests had celebrated the prize. Some couples were there as well as four executive types in ties and suits drinking whisky
and eating peanuts. The bar was reminiscent of an English gentlemen's club with leather armchairs and wood-panelled walls, and Borja was ecstatic and in his element. We drank a couple of Cardhus each and at around half-past eleven went up to our bedrooms. By that time the bar had emptied out; I imagine the tourists staying at the Ritz preferred the discotheques of the Port Olímpic or the traditional stroll along the Ramblas. Nonetheless, before I could go to my room, I had to time how long it took Borja to go up to, then come down from, Marina Dolç's room: exactly four minutes. If we added seven or eight to commit the murder, that meant the killer needed ten or twelve minutes to finish the job.

As I'd predicted, once in my room, I found it impossible to sleep. I showered and switched on the TV to try to distract myself and nod off, but it didn't help. I was wide awake and if I switched the light off and tried to get to sleep, I became even more restless. I rang Montse and talked to her, but she was watching a film with her sister and soon put the phone down on me. It's not that I believe in ghosts but it all made me very edgy. I don't like the dead, particularly when they leave a pool of blood behind. My mobile rang at 2 a.m.

“Hi, Eduard, how are you?”

“Borja? Is that you? What the hell's the matter?”

“Nothing really… I thought you might be finding it difficult to get to sleep.”

“Well, you're right. I don't know what's up with me but I can't. What about yourself? Can't you sleep? I thought you'd be dreaming of the Windsors.”

“I was worried about you. As I know you tend to be wimpish…”

“Wimpish? You're one to talk. I bet you can't sleep either. Seen Dolç's ghost yet?”

“Hey, stop being silly.” He too seemed on edge.

“Good night then.”

“If you like, I can come and sleep with you…” he suggested as if he'd be doing me a favour. “Tomorrow is our big day and I need you to be really wide awake, you know?”

“Mine's a double, Pep.”

“Fine, they're king-size,” he answered, making light of that fact. “Open your door, I'll be right with you.”

So this was the big night Borja and I spent at the Ritz. Shit-scared and sharing a bed, like when we were kids. There was only one difference. My brother may be very refined and gentlemanly, but he snores like an elephant, something he didn't do as a kid. I finally got to sleep around four, but that night I didn't dream of Dalí, Cugat or any of those illustrious figures who had also lodged at the Ritz. I dreamed of our parents, who've never grown old although they died more than thirty years ago. Now, they look younger than us in the photos. I started to feel sad, thinking how we'd all become photos one day that someone would look at from time to time but then they'd be forgotten in a drawer, buried under a pile of ancient papers. I decided to get up, put myself under the shower and let it run and run. That's the problem if you try to dig up ghosts from the past. Sooner or later they put in an appearance.

23

Mariona had summoned everyone to the Ritz for 8 p.m., twenty people all told, and the hotel had agreed to shut the bar for an hour and ask the two waiters who had been on duty the night of the prize to stand behind the bar. The police had established two twenty-seven as the official time of death, and Borja intended to reconstruct what had happened between two o'clock, the time when Marina went to her room, and two forty, the time when Josefina discovered the corpse. As Marina had personally said goodnight to all the guests, we agreed the easiest thing would be to establish that moment as our point of departure.