The Flanders Panel

  Julia offered him a cigarette, and he gave a grateful smile but hesitated.

  "I shouldn't really," he said. "Lola allows me only one milky coffee and one cigarette a day."

  "Forget Lola," Julia replied, with a spontaneity that surprised her. Menchu looked startled, but the old man didn't seem bothered in the least. He gave Julia a look in which she thought she caught a glimmer of complicity, instantly extinguished, and reached out his thin fingers. Leaning over the table to light the cigarette, Julia said: "About the painting ... Something unexpected has come up."

  The old man took a pleasurable gulp of smoke, held it in his lungs as long as possible and half closed his eyes.

  "Unexpected in a good way or a bad way?"

  "In a good way. We've discovered an original inscription underneath the paint. Uncovering it would increase the value of the painting." She sat back in her chair, smiling. "It's up to you what we do."

  Belmonte looked at Menchu and then at Julia, as if making some private comparison or as if torn between two loyalties. At last he seemed to decide. Taking another long pull on his cigarette, he rested his hands on his knees with a look of satisfaction.

  "You're not only pretty, but you're obviously bright as well," he said to Julia. "I bet you even like Bach."

  "I love Bach."

  "Please, tell me what the inscription says."

  And Julia told him.

  "Who'd have thought it!" Belmonte, incredulous, was still shaking his head after a long silence. "All those years of looking at that picture and I never once imagined..." He glanced briefly at the empty space left by the Van Huys, and his eyes half-closed in a contented smile. "So the painter was fond of riddles."

  "So it would seem," Julia said.

  Belmonte pointed to the record player in the corner.

  "He's not the only one," he said. "Works of art containing games and hidden clues used to be commonplace. Take Bach, for example. The ten canons that make up his Musical Offering are the most perfect thing he composed, and yet not one of them was written out in full, from start to finish. He did that deliberately, as if the piece were a series of riddles he was setting Frederick of Prussia. It was a common musical stratagem of the day. It consisted in writing a theme, accompanied by more or less enigmatic instructions, and leaving the canon based on that theme to be discovered by another musician or interpreter; or by another player, since it was in fact a game."

  "How interesting!" said Menchu.

  "You don't know just how interesting. Like many artists, Bach was a joker. He was always coming up with devices to fool the audience. He used tricks employing notes and letters, ingenious variations, bizarre fugues. For example, into one of his compositions for six voices, he slyly slipped his own name, shared between two of the highest voices. And such things didn't happen only in music. Lewis Carroll, who was a mathematician and a keen chess player as well as a writer, used to introduce acrostics into his poems. There are some very clever ways of hiding things in music, in poems and in paintings."

  "Absolutely," said Julia. "Symbols and hidden clues often appear in art. Even in modern art. The problem is that we don't always have the right keys to decipher those messages, especially the more ancient ones." Now it was her turn to stare pensively at the space on the wall. "But with The Game of Chess we at least have something to go on. We can make an attempt at a solution."

  Belmonte leaned back in his wheelchair, his mocking eyes fixed on Julia.

  "Well, keep me informed," he said. "I can assure you that nothing would give me greater pleasure."

  They were saying good-bye in the hallway when the niece and her husband arrived. Lola was a scrawny woman, well over thirty, with reddish hair and small rapacious eyes. Her right arm, encased in the sleeve of her fur coat, was firmly gripping her husband's left arm. He was dark and slim, slightly younger, his premature baldness mitigated by a deep tan. Even without the old man's remark about him, Julia would have guessed that he had won a place in the ranks of those who prefer to do as little as possible to earn their living. His features, to which the slight puffiness under his eyes lent an air of dissipation, wore a sullen, rather cynical look, which his large, almost vulpine mouth did nothing to belie. He was wearing a gold-buttoned blue blazer and no tie, and he had the unmistakable look of someone who divides his considerable leisure time between drinking aperitifs in expensive bars and frequenting fashionable nightclubs, although he was clearly no stranger either to roulette and card games.

  "My niece, Lola, and her husband, Alfonso," said Belmonte, and they exchanged greetings, unenthusiastically on the part of the niece, but with evident interest on the part of Alfonso, who held on to Julia's hand rather longer than necessary, looking her up and down with an expert eye. Then he turned to Menchu, whom he greeted by name, as if they were old acquaintances.

  "They've come about the painting," Belmonte explained.

  Alfonso clicked his tongue.

  "Of course, the painting. Your famous painting."

  Belmonte brought them up to date on the new situation. Alfonso stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling and looking at Julia.

  "If it means the value of the painting will go up," he said, "it strikes me as excellent news. You can come back whenever you like if you're going to bring us surprises like that. We love surprises."

  The niece didn't immediately share her husband's satisfaction.

  "We'll have to discuss it," she said. "What guarantee is there that they won't just ruin the painting?"

  "That would be unforgivable," chimed in Alfonso. "But I can't imagine that this young lady would be capable of doing such a thing."

  Lola gave her husband an impatient look.

  "You keep out of this. This is my business."

  "That's where you're wrong, darling." Alfonso's smile grew broader. "We share everything."

  "I've told you: keep out of it."

  Alfonso turned slowly towards her. His features grew harder and more obviously foxlike, and his smile seemed like the blade of a knife. Julia thought that he was not perhaps as inoffensive as he at first sight seemed. It would be unwise to have any unsettled business with a man capable of a smile like that.

  "Don't be ridiculous ... darling."

  That "darling" was anything but tender, and Lola seemed more aware of that than anyone. They watched her struggle to conceal her humiliation and her rancour. Menchu took a step forward, determined to enter the fray.

  "We've already talked to Don Manuel about it," she announced. "And he's agreed."

  The invalid, his hands folded in his lap, had observed the skirmish from his wheelchair like a spectator who has chosen to remain on the sidelines but watches with malicious fascination.

  What strange people! thought Julia.

  "That's right," confirmed the old man to no one in particular. "I have agreed. In principle."

  The niece was wringing her hands, and the bracelets on her wrists jingled loudly. She seemed to be in a state of anguish—either that or just plain furious. Perhaps she was both things at once.

  "Uncle, this is something that has to be discussed. I don't doubt the good will of these two ladies..."

  "Young ladies," put in her husband, smiling at Julia.

  "Young ladies then." Lola was having difficulty getting her words out, hampered by her own irritation. "But they should have consulted us too."

  "As far as I'm concerned," said her husband, "they have my blessing."

  Menchu was studying Alfonso quite openly and seemed about to say something. But she chose not to and looked at the niece.

  "You heard what your husband said."

  "I don't care. I'm the legal heir."

  Belmonte raised one thin hand in an ironic gesture, as if asking permission to intervene.

  "I am still alive, Lola. You'll receive your inheritance in due course."

  "Amen," said Alfonso.

  The niece pointed her bony chin, in the most venomous fashion, straight at Menchu, and for a moment Jul
ia thought she was about to hurl herself on them. With her long nails and that predatory, birdlike quality, there was something dangerous about her. Julia prepared herself for a confrontation, her heart pumping. When she was a child, César had taught her a few dirty tricks, useful when it came to killing pirates. Fortunately, the niece's violence found expression only in her glance and in the way she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room.

  "You'll be hearing from me," she said. And the furious tapping of her heels disappeared down the corridor.

  Hands in his pockets, Alfonso wore a quietly serene smile.

  "Don't mind her," he said, and turned to Belmonte. "Right, Uncle? You'd never think it, but Lolita has a heart of gold really. She's a real sweetie."

  Belmonte nodded, distracted. He was clearly thinking about something else. His gaze seemed drawn to the empty rectangle on the wall as if it contained mysterious signs that only he, with his weary eyes, was capable of reading.

  "So you've met Alfonso before," said Julia as soon as they were out in the street.

  Menchu, who was looking in a shop window, nodded.

  "Yes, some time ago," she said, bending down to see the price of some shoes. "Three or four years ago, I think."

  "Now I understand about the painting. It wasn't the old man who approached you; it was Alfonso."

  Menchu gave a crooked smile.

  "First prize for guessing, dear. You're quite right. We had what you would demurely call an 'affair'. That was ages ago, but when the Van Huys thing came up, he was kind enough to think of me."

  "Why didn't he choose to deal directly?"

  "Because no one trusts him, including Don Manuel." She burst out laughing. "Alfonsito Lapeña, the well-known gambler and playboy, owes money even to the bootblack. A few months back he narrowly escaped going to prison. Something to do with bad cheques."

  "So how does he live?"

  "Off his wife, by scrounging off the unwary, and off his complete and utter lack of shame."

  "And he's relying on the Van Huys to get him out of trouble?"

  "Right. He can't wait to convert it into little piles of chips on smooth green baize."

  "He strikes me as a nasty piece of work."

  "Oh, he is. But I have a soft spot for low-lifers, and I like Alfonso." She remained thoughtful for a moment. "Although, as I recall, his technique certainly wouldn't have won him any medals. He's ... how can I put it...?" She groped for the right word. "Rather unimaginative. No comparison with Max. Monotonous, you know: the wham, bang and thank-you-ma'am type. But you can have a good laugh with him. He knows some really filthy jokes."

  "Does his wife know about you and him?"

  "I imagine she senses something, because she's certainly not stupid. That's why she gave me that look, the rotten cow."

  III

  A Chess Problem

  The noble game has its depths

  in which many a fine and gentle soul,

  alas, has vanished.

  An old German master

  "I THINK," SAID CÉSAR, "that we're dealing here with a chess problem."

  They'd been discussing the painting for half an hour. César was leaning against the wall, a glass of gin-and-lemon held delicately between thumb and forefinger, Menchu was poised languidly on the sofa and Julia was sitting on the carpet with the ashtray between her legs, chewing on a fingernail. All three of them were staring at the painting as if they were watching a television screen. The colours of the Van Huys were darkening before their eyes as the last glow of evening faded from the skylight.

  "Do you think someone could put a light on?" suggested Menchu. "I feel as if I'm slowly going blind."

  César flicked the switch behind him, and the indirect light, reflected from the walls, returned life and colour to Roger de Arras and the Duke and Duchess of Ostenburg. Almost simultaneously the clock on the wall struck eight in time to the swing of the long brass pendulum. Julia turned her head, listening for the noise of non-existent footsteps on the stairs.

  "Álvaro's late," she said, and saw César grimace.

  "However late that philistine arrives," he murmured, "it'll never be late enough for me."

  Julia gave him a reproachful look.

  "You promised to behave. Don't forget."

  "I won't, Princess. I'll suppress my homicidal impulses, but only out of devotion for you."

  "I'd be eternally grateful."

  "I should hope so." He looked at his wristwatch as if he didn't trust the clock on the wall, an old present of his. "But the swine isn't exactly punctual, is he?"

  "César:"

  "All right, my dear. I won't say another word."

  "No, go on talking." Julia indicated the painting. "You were saying it was something to do with a chess problem."

  César nodded. He made a theatrical pause to moisten his lips with a sip of gin, then dry them on an immaculate white handkerchief he drew from his pocket.

  "Let me explain"–he looked at Menchu and gave a slight sigh–"to both of you. There's a detail in the inscription we haven't noticed until now, or at least I hadn't. Quis necavit equitem can indeed be translated as 'Who killed the knight?' And that, according to the facts at our disposal, can be interpreted as a riddle about the death or murder of Roger de Arras. However, that phrase could be translated in another way." He looked thoughtfully at the painting, assessing the soundness of his argument. "Reformulated in chess terms, perhaps the question is not 'Who killed the knight' but Who captured, or took, the knight?'"

  No one spoke. At last Menchu broke the silence, her face betraying her disappointment.

  "So much for all our high hopes. We've based this whole story on a piece of nonsense."

  Julia, who was looking hard at César, was shaking her head.

  "Not at all; the mystery's still there. Isn't that right, César? Roger de Arras was murdered before the picture was painted." She got up and pointed to the corner of the painting. "See? The date the páinting was finished is here: Petrus Van Huys fecit me, anno MCDLXXI. Two years after Roger de Arras was murdered, Van Huys chose to employ an ingenious play on words in order to paint a picture in which both victim and executioner appear." She paused, because another idea had just occurred to her. "And, possibly, the. motive for the crime: Beatrice of Burgundy."

  Menchu was puzzled, but excited. She'd shifted to the edge of the sofa and was looking at the Flemish painting as if she were seeing it for the first time.

  "Go on. I'm on tenterhooks."

  "According to what we know, there are several reasons why Roger de Arras could have been killed, and one of them would have been the supposed romance between him and the Duchess Beatrice, the woman dressed in black, sitting by the window reading."

  "Are you trying to say that the Duke killed him out of jealousy?"

  Julia made an evasive gesture.

  "I'm not trying to say anything. I'm simply suggesting a possibility." She indicated the pile of books, documents and photocopies on the table. "Perhaps the painter wanted to call attention to the crime. Maybe that's what made him decide to paint the picture, or perhaps he was commissioned to do it." She shrugged. "We'll never know for certain, but one thing is clear: the picture contains the key to Roger de Arras's murder. The inscription proves it."

  "The hidden inscription," César corrected her.

  "That gives further support to my argument."

  "What if the painter was simply afraid he'd been too explicit?" Menchu asked. "Even in the fifteenth century you couldn't go around accusing people just like that."

  Julia looked at the picture.

  "It might be that Van Huys was frightened he'd depicted the situation too clearly."

  "Or else someone painted it over at a later date," Menchu suggested.

  "No. I thought of that too and, as well as looking at it under ultraviolet light, I prepared a cross section of a tiny sample to study under the microscope." She picked up a piece of paper. "There you are, layer by layer: oak base, a very thin preparati
on made from calcium carbonate and animal glue, white lead and oil as imprimatura, and three layers containing white lead, vermilion and ivory black, white lead and copper resinate, varnish, and so on. All identical to the rest: the same mixtures, the same pigments. It was Van Huys himself who painted over the inscription, shortly after having written it. There's no doubt about that."

  "So?"

  "Bearing in mind that we're walking a tightrope of five centuries, I agree with César. It's very likely that the key does lie in the chess game. As for ' necavit meaning 'took' as well as 'killed', that never occurred to me." She looked at César. "What do you think?"

  César sat down at the other end of the sofa, and, after taking a small sip of gin, crossed his legs.

  "I think the same as you, love. I think that by directing our attention from the human knight to the chess knight, the painter is giving us the first clue." He delicately drank the contents of his glass and placed it, tinkling with ice, on the small table at his side. "By asking who took the knight, he forces us to study the game. That devious old man, Van Huys, who I'm beginning to think had a distinctly odd sense of humour, is inviting us to play chess."

  Julia's eyes lit up.

  "Let's play, then," she exclaimed, turning to the painting. Those words elicited another sigh from César.

  "I'd love to, but I'm afraid that's beyond my capabilities."

  "Come on, César, you must know how to play chess."