The Fencing Master (21 page)

He had never felt so confused. His honest nature rebelled against the lie, but did he have any choice? A prudent instinct counseled him to destroy the folder, to extricate himself from the nightmare, if, that is, there was still time. That way no one would know anything. No one—but neither would he. And he needed to know what sordid thing lay at the back of all this. He had a right to know, and the reasons for that were many. If he did not uncover the mystery, he would never regain his peace of mind.

He would decide what to do with the documents later on, whether to destroy them or to hand them over to the police. Now what he had to do was crack the code. It was clear, though, that he could not do so alone. Perhaps someone more versed in political matters.

He thought of Cárceles. Why not? He was a colleague, a friend, and in addition a passionate follower of political events in the country. The names and facts contained in the file would doubtless be familiar to him.

He hurriedly picked up the papers, hid them behind the row of books again, picked up his walking stick and top hat, and left the house. As he stepped out into the street, he consulted his watch: it was nearly six in the evening. Cárceles would probably be at the Café Progreso. It was nearby, barely ten minutes away, but Don Jaime was in a hurry. He hailed a carriage and asked the driver to take him there as quickly as possible.

H
E
found Cárceles in his usual corner of the café, deep in a monologue about the evil role that the Austrians and the Bourbons had played in the fate of Spain. Opposite him, wearing a crumpled scarf about his neck and his eternal air of incurable melancholy, Romero was looking at him, not listening, sucking distractedly on a sugar cube. Contrary to his custom, Don Jaime dispensed with formalities. Apologizing to Don Marcelino, he took Cárceles to one side and explained the situation to him, albeit through hints and with all kinds of hedges.

"It's about some documents that I have in my possession, for reasons that are, for the moment, irrelevant. I need someone of your expertise to clarify a few doubts I have. I can, of course, trust in your absolute discretion."

The journalist seemed delighted with the idea. He had finished his lecture on Austrian and Bourbon decadence, and the music teacher was hardly an ideal companion. After making their excuses to Romero, they both left the café.

They decided to walk to Calle Bordadores. Along the way, Cárceles referred in passing to the tragedy at the Palacio de Villaflores, which was the talk of all Madrid. He was vaguely aware that Luis de Ayala had been one of Don Jaime's clients, and he demanded details of the event with such acute, professional curiosity that Don Jaime found it very hard to keep him away from the subject with evasive answers. Cárceles, who never missed an opportunity to make some scornful remark about the aristocratic classes, seemed completely unmoved by the death of one of their number.

"Less work for the sovereign people when the time comes," he proclaimed lugubriously, immediately changing the subject when he saw Don Jaime's disapproving look. After a while, though, he returned to the attack, this time to put forward the hypothesis that there was doubtless a woman involved in the marquis's death. It was clear as day: the marquis had obviously been bumped off in a matter of honor. After all, hadn't he been killed with a saber or something of the sort? Perhaps Don Jaime knew.

Don Jaime saw with relief that they had arrived at his apartment. Cárceles, who was visiting the place for the first time, scanned the small living room with some curiosity. When he saw the rows of books, he headed straight for them, studying the titles on the spines with a critical eye.

"Not bad," he said at last with a magnanimous gesture. "Personally, though, I feel there should be a few of those books so fundamental to an understanding of the age in which we live—Rousseau, say, or perhaps a little Voltaire."

Don Jaime did not give a damn about the age he lived in, nor about Cárceles's tastes in literary or philosophical material,
so he interrupted his friend as tactfully as he could and brought the conversation back to the matter at hand. Cárceles forgot about the books and was clearly keen to tackle the documents. Don Jaime took them from their hiding place.

"Above all, Don Agapito, I trust in your honor as a friend and a gentleman to treat this whole matter with the utmost discretion." He spoke gravely, and he could see that his tone of voice appeared to impress the journalist. "Do I have your word?"

Cárceles solemnly raised a hand to his breast. "Of course you do."

Don Jaime thought that perhaps he was, after all, wrong to trust him in that way, but there was no turning back. He spread the contents of the folder on the table. "These documents have come into my possession for reasons that I am not at liberty to explain, since the secret is not mine to reveal. They contain some hidden meaning that I cannot uncover and that, because it is of great importance to me, I must understand." There was now a look of absorbed attention on Cárceles's face as he listened to his friend's somewhat faltering words. "Perhaps the problem lies in my lack of knowledge of political matters in this country, but the fact is that I am incapable of making any sense of what obviously does possess sense. That is why I decided to ask you, since you know about these things. I would like you to read the documents, try to deduce what it is all about, and then give me your expert opinion."

Cárceles did not move for a few moments, looking hard at Don Jaime, who could see that his companion was impressed. Cárceles licked his lips and looked at the documents on the table. "Don Jaime," he said at last, with barely concealed admiration. "I would never have imagined that you..."

"Nor would I," said Don Jaime, cutting him short. "And to be absolutely honest, I must tell you that these papers are in my hands quite against my will. I have no choice now, however, and I must know what they mean."

Cárceles looked at the documents again, uncertain whether or not to touch them. He understood that some grave matter lay behind them. At last, as if coming to a decision, he sat down at the table and picked them up. Don Jaime remained standing, next to him. Given the situation, he abandoned his usual politeness and reread the contents of the folder over his friend's shoulder.

The journalist, when he saw the letter headings and the signatures on the first letters, swallowed hard. A couple of times he turned around to look incredulously at Don Jaime, but made no comment. He read on in silence, carefully turning the pages, pausing now and then with a finger on one of the names in the lists. When he was halfway through his reading, he suddenly stopped, as if an idea had come to him, and hurriedly leafed back to an earlier page. A faint grimace, resembling a smile, appeared on his ill-shaven face. He then continued with his reading, while Don Jaime, who did not dare to interrupt, waited on tenterhooks.

"Can you make anything of it?" he asked at last, unable to contain himself any longer.

The journalist made a cautious gesture. "Possibly. But at the moment it's only a hunch. I need to be quite certain that we're on the right track." He plunged back into his reading, frowning in concentration. After a moment, he slowly nodded, as if he had found the certainty he was looking for. He stopped again, and looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to remember. "There was something...," he said in a somber voice, as if to himself. "I don't quite remember, but it must have been ... at the beginning of last year. Yes, mines. There was a campaign against Narváez; people said he was in on the deal. Now what was that...?"

Don Jaime could not remember ever having felt so nervous.

Suddenly, Cárceles's face lit up. "Of course, how could I have been so stupid!" he exclaimed, striking the table with the palm of his hand. "But I need to check the name. Could it be that...?" He leafed rapidly back through the pages. "Good God, Don Jaime, did you really not see it? What you have here is an unprecedented scandal! I swear that...!"

Someone knocked at the door. Cárceles stopped speaking and looked fearfully toward the hall. "Are you expecting anyone?"

Don Jaime shook his head, as disconcerted as Cárceles was by the interruption. With unexpected presence of mind, the journalist picked up the documents, looked about him, then jumped nimbly to his feet and stuffed the papers under the sofa. He turned to Don Jaime. "Get rid of them, whoever they are!" he whispered in his ear. "You and I must talk."

Perplexed, Don Jaime automatically straightened his tie and went to the front door. The knowledge that he was about to have revealed to him the mystery that had brought Adela de Otero to him and had cost Luis de Ayala his life was gradually sinking in, provoking in him a feeling of unreality. For a moment, he wondered if he would suddenly wake up and find that it had all been an absurd joke, the fruit of his imagination.

There was a policeman at the door.

"Don Jaime Astarloa?"

Don Jaime felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. "That's right."

The policeman cleared his throat. He had Gypsy features and a scrappy beard. "The chief of police, Don Jenaro Campillo, sent me. Would you mind accompanying me to a carriage?"

Don Jaime looked at him uncomprehendingly. "I'm sorry?" he asked, trying to gain time.

The policeman saw his confusion and, smiling, said in a calm voice, "Don't worry, it's just routine. It seems some new information has come up, relating to the murder of the Marqués de los Alumbres."

Don Jaime blinked, irritated by the inopportuneness of the call. But the policeman had spoken of new information. It could be important. Perhaps they had found Adela de Otero. "Would you mind waiting a moment?"

"Not at all. Take all the time you want."

He left the policeman at the door and went back into the living room, where Cárceles, who had been listening to the conversation, was waiting.

"What shall we do?" said Don Jaime in a low voice.

The journalist made a gesture advising calm. "You go," he said. "I'll wait for you here. It will give me a chance to read through the whole thing more slowly."

"You found something?"

"I think so, but I have to go more deeply into it. Off you go now."

Don Jaime nodded. He had no choice. "I'll be as quick as possible."

"Don't rush." There was a disturbing glint in Cárceles's eyes. "Has this got anything to do with what I've just been reading?" He pointed to the door.

Don Jaime blushed. It was all getting out of control. For a while now, a feeling had been mounting in him of crazed exhaustion. "I'm not sure yet." At this stage, it seemed ignoble to lie to Cárceles. "I mean ... we'll talk when I get back. I have to put my thoughts in order."

He shook his friend's hand and went out, accompanied by the policeman. An official carriage waited below. "Where are we going?" he asked.

The policeman had stepped into a puddle and was trying to remove the water from his boots. "To the morgue," he replied. And settling himself in his seat, he began whistling a popular tune.

C
AMPILLO
was waiting in an office in the Forensic Institute. There were beads of sweat on his forehead, his wig was awry, and his glasses dangled from the ribbon attached to his lapel. When he saw Don Jaime come in, he got up with a polite smile.

"I'm so sorry, Señor Astarloa, that we should be obliged to meet twice in one day and in such distressing circumstances."

Don Jaime looked about him suspiciously. He had to muster all his energy to preserve what remained of his sangfroid, which seemed to be leaking from every pore in his body. "What has happened?" he asked. "I have an important matter to sort out at home..."

Campillo made an apologetic gesture. "I'll only keep you a few minutes, I assure you. I know how tiresome this situation is for you, but, believe me, something most unexpected has happened." He clicked his tongue, as if expressing his own distaste for the whole business. "And what a day for it to happen, too! I've just received some far from reassuring news. There are rebel troops advancing on Madrid. It's rumored that the queen might be forced to go over into France, and here they're afraid there might be disturbances in the streets. So you see how things are. But, regardless of these political events, common justice must follow its inexorable course.
Dura lex, sed lex.
Don't you agree?"

"Forgive me, Señor Campillo, but I don't understand. This doesn't seem to me the most appropriate place for..."

The chief of police raised a hand, appealing for Don Jaime's patience. "Would you be so kind as to accompany me?" He pointed the way. They went down some stairs, then along a dark corridor with white-tiled walls and damp stains on the ceiling. The place was lit by gas lights, whose flames were shaken by a cold draft that made Don Jaime shiver in his light summer jacket. The noise of footsteps set off sinister echoes at the far end of the corridor.

Campillo stopped by a frosted-glass door and pushed it open, inviting his companion to enter first. Don Jaime found himself in a small room famished with old filing cabinets in dark wood. A municipal employee stood up behind his desk when he saw them come in. The man was thin, of uncertain age, and his white coat was spattered with yellow stains.

"Number 17, Lucío, if you wouldn't mind."

The man picked up a form that was on the table and pushed open one of the swing doors on the other side of the room. Before following him, the policeman took a Havana cigar from his pocket and offered one to Don Jaime.

"Thank you, Señor Campillo. As I told you this morning, I don't smoke."

Campillo raised a reproving eyebrow. "The spectacle I'm obliged to share with you is not exactly pleasant," he said, putting the cigar in his mouth and lighting it with a match. "Cigar smoke often helps one to bear such things."

"What things?"

"You'll see in a moment."

"Whatever it is, I don't need to smoke."

The policeman shrugged. "As you wish."

They went into a low but spacious room, the walls covered with the same white tiles. There were the same stains on the ceiling. In one corner, in a large sink, a faucet kept dripping.