Muñoz, who appeared not to have heard the remark, was looking at Lola Belmonte now. Rather like a hunter lying in wait, only his eyes seemed alive, with that thoughtful, penetrating expression Julia had come to know well, the only sign that behind the façade of apparent indifference there was an alert spirit watching events in the outside world. He's about to pounce, Julia thought with considerable satisfaction, drinking a little of her cold coffee in order to disguise the knowing smile on her lips.
"I imagine," said Muñoz slowly, addressing Lola, "that it's been a hard blow for you too."
"Of course it has." Lola gave her uncle an even more reproachful look. "That picture is worth a fortune."
"I didn't mean just the economic aspect of the matter. I believe you used to play the game shown in the picture. Are you a keen player?"
"Fairly."
Her husband raised his whisky glass.
"She plays very well. I've never managed to beat her." He winked and took a long drink. "Not that that means much."
Lola was looking at Muñoz with some suspicion. She had, thought Julia, an air that was at once prudish and rapacious, exemplified by her excessively long skirts, her bony, clawlike hands and the steady gaze underlined by an aquiline nose and aggressive chin. Julia noticed that the tendons on the backs of Lola's hands kept tensing and untensing as if full of repressed energy. A nasty piece of work, Julia thought, an embittered, arrogant woman. It wasn't hard to imagine her spreading malicious gossip, projecting onto others her own complexes and frustrations. A blocked personality, oppressed by her circumstances, whose only reaction to external authority was, in chess terms, to attack the king; cruel and calculating, she was out to settle a score with something or someone, with her uncle, with her husband, perhaps. Possibly with the whole world. The painting could be the obsession of a sick, intolerant mind. And those slender, nervous hands were certainly strong enough to kill with a blow to the back of the neck, to strangle somebody with a silk scarf. Julia had no difficulty imagining her in dark glasses and a raincoat. She couldn't, however, establish any link between her and Max. That would be taking things to absurd extremes.
"It's quite unusual," Muñoz was saying, "to meet a woman who plays chess."
"Well, I do." Lola Belmonte seemed wary, defensive. "Do you disapprove?"
"On the contrary. I'm all for it. You can do things on the chessboard that in practice, in real life I mean, are impossible. Don't you agree?"
A look of uncertainty flickered across her face.
"Maybe. For me it's just a game. A hobby."
"A game for which you have some talent, I believe. I still say that it's unusual to meet a woman who can play chess well."
"Women are perfectly capable of doing anything. Whether they're allowed to is another matter, of course."
Muñoz gave a small, encouraging smile.
"Do you prefer playing Black? They tend to be limited to defensive play. It's generally White who takes the initiative."
"What nonsense! I don't see why Black should just sit back and let things happen. That's like being a wife stuck at home." She glanced scornfully at her husband. "Everyone takes it for granted that it's the man who wears the trousers."
"Isn't that true?" asked Muñoz, the half-smile still on his lips. "For example, in the game in the painting, the initial position seems to favour White. The black king is under threat. And, at first, the black queen can do nothing."
"In that game, the black king doesn't count at all; it's the queen who has to do all the work. It's a game that's won with queen and pawns."
Muñoz reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper.
"Have you ever played this variant?"
Visibly disconcerted, Lola Belmonte looked first at him and then at the piece of paper he put in her hand. Muñoz let his eyes wander about the room until, as if by chance, they came to rest on Julia. The glance she returned to him said, "Well played," but the chess player's expression remained utterly inscrutable.
"Yes, I think I have," said Lola after a while. "White either takes a pawn or moves the queen next to the king ready for check in the next move." She looked at Muñoz with a satisfied air. "Here White has chosen to move its queen, which seems the right thing to do."
Muñoz nodded.
"I agree. But I'm more interested in Black's next move. What would you do?"
Lola narrowed her eyes suspiciously. She appeared to be looking for ulterior motives. She returned the piece of paper to Muñoz.
"It's some time since I played that game, but I can remember at least three variants: the black rook takes the white knight which leads to an uninspiring victory for White based on pawns and queen. Another possibility, I think, is knight takes pawn. Then there's bishop takes pawn. The possibilities are endless. But I don't see what this has to do with anything."
"But what would you do," asked Muñoz implacably, ignoring her objection, "to ensure a Black victory? I'd like to know, as one player to another, at which point Black gains the advantage."
Lola Belmonte looked smug.
"We can play the game any time you like. Then you'll find out."
"I'd love to and I'll take you up on that. But there is a variant you haven't mentioned, perhaps because you've forgotten it. A variant that involves an exchange of queens." He made a brief gesture with his hand, as if clearing an imaginary board. "Do you know the one I'm referring to?"
"Of course. When the black queen takes the pawn that's on d5, the exchange of queens is inevitable." As she said this, a cruelly triumphant look flickered across her face. "And Black wins." Her bird-of-prey eyes looked disdainfully at her husband before turning to Julia. "It's a shame you don't play chess, Señorita."
"What do you think?" asked Julia, as soon as they were out in the street.
Muñoz cocked his head slightly to one side. His lips were pressed tightly together and his gaze wandered absently over the faces of the people they passed. Julia noticed that he seemed unwilling to reply.
"Technically," he said at last, "it could have been her. She knows all the game's possibilities and she plays well too. Very well, I'd say."
"You don't seem convinced."
"It's just that there are certain details that don't fit."
"But she comes close to the idea we have of him. She knows the game in the painting inside out. She has enough strength to kill a man or a woman, and there's something unsettling about her, something that makes you feel uncomfortable in her presence." She frowned, searching for the word that would complete the description. "She just seems such a nasty person. What's more, for some reason I can't understand, she feels a particular antipathy towards me. And that's despite the fact, if we're to take what she says seriously, that I'm what a woman should be: independent, with no family ties, with a certain amount of self-confidence ... Modern, as Don Manuel would say."
"Perhaps that's exactly why she hates you. For being what she would like to have been but couldn't. I don't remember much about those stories you and César are so keen on, but I seem to recall that the witch ended up hating the mirror."
Despite the grim circumstances, Julia burst out laughing.
"That's quite possible. It never occurred to me."
"Well, now you know." Muñoz had managed a half-smile. "You'd better avoid eating apples for a few days."
"And I have my princes. You and César. Bishop and knight. Isn't that right?"
Muñoz wasn't smiling any more.
"This isn't a game, Julia," he said. "Don't forget that."
"I won't," she said and took his arm. Almost imperceptibly, Muñoz tensed. He seemed uncomfortable but she kept hold of his arm as they walked. In fact, she'd come to admire this strange, awkward and taciturn man. Sherlock Muñoz and Julia Watson, she thought, suddenly full of immoderate optimism that only faded when she remembered Menchu.
"What are you thinking about?" she asked Muñoz.
"About the niece."
"Me too. The truth is, she's exactly what we're looking for. Al
though you don't agree."
"I didn't say that she might not be the woman in the raincoat, just that I don't see her as the mystery chess player."
"But there are things that fit perfectly. Doesn't it strike you as odd that such a mercenary woman, only a few hours after the theft of an extremely valuable painting, should suddenly forget her indignation and start calmly talking about chess?" Julia let go of Muñoz's arm and looked at him. "She's either a hypocrite or chess means much more to her than you'd think. Either way, it looks suspicious. She could have been pretending all along. She'd had more than enough time since Montegrifo phoned to prepare what you would call a line of defence, working on the assumption that the police would question her."
Muñoz nodded.
"She could indeed. After all, she is a chess player. And a chess player knows how to make use of certain resources. Especially when it comes to getting out of compromising situations."
He walked on for a while in silence, studying the tips of his shoes. Then he looked up and shook his head.
"I still don't think it's her," he said at last. "I always thought that I would feel something special when I came face to face with 'him'. But I didn't feel anything."
"Has it occurred to you that perhaps you idealise the enemy too much?" asked Julia. "Couldn't it be that, disillusioned with the reality of the situation, you simply won't accept the facts?"
Muñoz's narrowed eyes were devoid of expression.
"It had occurred to me," he murmured, looking at her in his opaque way. "I don't reject that as a possibility."
Despite Muñoz's laconic reply, Julia knew there was something else. In his silence, in the way he put his head on one side and looked without seeing her, lost in hermetic thoughts that only he was privy to, she felt certain that something else, which had nothing at all to do with Lola Belmonte, was going round in his head.
"Is there something else?" she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. "Did you find out something in there you haven't told me about?"
Muñoz declined to reply.
They dropped by César's shop to tell him the details of the interview. He was waiting for them impatiently and rushed to greet them as soon as he heard the bell on the shop door.
"They've arrested Max. This morning, at the airport. The police phoned half an hour ago. He's at the police station in Paseo del Prado, Julia. And he wants to see you."
"Why me?"
César shrugged, as if to say that, whilst he might know a lot about blue Chinese porcelain or nineteenth-century painting, the psychology of pimps and criminals in general was not one of his specialities, thank you very much.
"What about the painting?" asked Muñoz. "Do you know if they've found it?"
"I doubt it very much." César's blue eyes revealed a glimmer of concern. "I think that's precisely the problem."
Inspector Feijoo did not seem pleased to see Julia. He received her in his office but neglected to invite her to sit down. He was obviously in a filthy mood and he came straight to the point.
"This is all a little irregular," he said brusquely, "seeing that we're dealing here with someone supposedly responsible for two murders. But he insists that he will make no proper statement until he's spoken to you. And his lawyer"—he paused, as if about to spit out exactly what he thought of lawyers–"agrees."
"How did you find him?"
"It wasn't difficult. Last night we issued his description to everyone, including border crossings and airports. He was identified this morning at passport control in Barajas airport as he was about to board a flight to Lisbon with a false passport. He didn't put up any resistance."
"Has he told you where the painting is?"
"He hasn't said anything at all." Feijoo raised one plump, stubby fìnger. "Oh, except that he's innocent. But that's a phrase we often hear; it's pretty much par for the course. But when I showed him the statements the taxi driver and the porter had made, he crumpled, and just kept asking for a lawyer. And that was when he demanded to see you."
He accompanied her out of the office and along the corridor to a door where a uniformed policeman was standing guard.
"I'll be here if you need me. He insisted on seeing you alone."
They locked the door behind her. Max was sitting on one of the chairs placed on either side of a wooden table in the middle of a windowless room with dirty padded walls. It was completely bare of any other furniture. Max was wearing a rumpled sweater over an open-necked shirt, and his hair, no longer caught back in a ponytail, was dishevelled, a few locks hung loose over his eyes. His hands, resting on the table, were handcuffed.
"Hello, Max."
He looked up and stared at her. He had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep and he seemed uncertain, as if he had reached the end of a long, vain enterprise.
"At last, a friendly face," he said with heavy irony, and indicated the other chair.
Julia offered him a cigarette, which he lit avidly, moving his face close to the lighter she held out.
"Why did you want to see me, Max?"
His breathing was fast and shallow. He was no longer a handsome wolf, but a rabbit cornered in its burrow, listening to the sound of the ferret getting nearer and nearer. Julia wondered if the police had beaten him, but he didn't seem to have any bruises. They don't beat people up any more, she said to herself. Not any more.
"I wanted to warn you," he said.
"Warn me?"
"She was already dead, Julia," he said in a low voice. "I didn't do it. When I got to your apartment, she was already dead."
"How did you get in? Did she open the door?"
"I've told you; she was already dead ... the second time."
"The second time? You mean there was a first?"
Max leaned his elbows on the table, resting his unshaven chin on his thumbs, and let the ash fall from his cigarette.
"Hang on," he said with infinite weariness. "It's best if I start at the beginning." He raised the cigarette to his lips again, half-closing his eyes against the smoke. "You know how badly Menchu took that business with Montegrifo. She was pacing round her house like a caged animal, muttering all kinds of insults and threats. "They've robbed me!' she kept shouting. I managed to calm her down, and we talked it over. The idea was mine."
"What idea?"
"I have contacts with people who can get almost anything out of the country. I suggested that we steal the Van Huys. At first she went crazy, hurling abuse at me and talking about your friendship. Then she saw that it wouldn't actually hurt you. Your responsibility was covered by the insurance, and as for your share of the profits ... well, we'd find a way of compensating you later on."
"I always knew you were a son of a bitch, Max."
"Maybe I am, but that's beside the point. The important thing is that Menchu agreed to my plan. She had to get you to take her home with you. Drunk or high on drugs ... To be honest, I never thought she'd do it as well as she did. The next morning, I was to phone and see if everything was ready. So that's what I did, and I went over there. We wrapped up the painting to camouflage it and I took the keys Menchu gave me. I was to park the car in the street and come up again to pick up the Van Huys. The plan was that after I left with the painting, Menchu would stay behind to start the fire."
"What fire?"
"In your apartment." Max laughed mirthlessly. "That was part of the plan. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry!" Julia thumped the table in stunned indignation. "Good God, you have the nerve to tell me you're sorry!" She looked at the walls and then at Max. "You must both have been completely mad to think up something like that."
"We were perfectly sane, actually, and nothing would have gone wrong. Menchu would have faked some kind of accident, a discarded cigarette, for example. And with the amount of solvents and paint in your apartment ... We'd decided that she should stay there until the last minute and then leave, choking on the smoke, hysterical and calling for help. Before the firemen managed to get there, half the buildi
ng would be in flames." He made a face of crude apology and regret. "Everyone would assume that the Van Huys had gone up in flames along with everything else. You can imagine the rest. I'd sell the painting in Portugal to a private collector we were already negotiating with ... In fact, the day we met in the Rastro, Menchu and I had just seen the middleman. As for the fire, Menchu would have accepted responsibility; but since she was your friend and it was an accident, the charges wouldn't have been that serious. A charge brought by the owners, perhaps, but nothing more. What delighted her most, she said, was the thought of Montegrifo's face when he found out."
Julia, incredulous, shook her head.
"Menchu wasn't capable of doing something like that."
"Menchu, like all of us, was capable of anything."
"God, you're a bastard, Max."
"At this stage, what I am isn't terribly important." Max's face took on a look of defeat. "What does matter is that it took me quite a while to bring the car round and park it in your street. The fog was really thick and I couldn't find a parking place. That's why I kept looking at my watch; I was worried you might turn up any minute. It must have been about quarter past twelve when I went upstairs again. I didn't ring. I opened the door with the key. Menchu was in the hall, lying on her back, with her eyes wide open. At first I thought she must have fainted out of sheer nervousness, but when I knelt down by her side I saw the bruise on her throat. She was dead, Julia, and she was still warm. I panicked. I knew that if I called the police, I'd have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. So I threw the keys on the floor, closed the door and went racing down the stairs. I couldn't think. I spent the night in a pension, absolutely terrified. I didn't sleep a wink. Then in the morning, at the airport... Well, you know the rest of the story."
"Was the painting still in the house when you found Menchu dead?"
"Yes. That was the only thing I noticed apart from her. It was on the sofa, wrapped up in newspaper and tape, just as I'd left it." He gave a bitter laugh. "But I didn't have the guts to take it with me. I was in enough trouble already."