"I would like to know how you found out about poor Cárceles."
"It was very simple. We had given up the documents for lost. Naturally, we never even thought of you. He turned up at my friend's house out of the blue, asking to talk to him urgently about a serious matter. He was received, and he told us what he wanted: certain documents had come into his possession, and, knowing that my friend was comfortably off, Cárceles asked for a certain sum of money in exchange for the papers and his silence."
Don Jaime drew a hand across his forehead, stunned by the sound of his world crashing about him. "Cárceles too?" The words escaped from him like a lament.
"And why not?" she asked. "Your friend was ambitious and poor, just like anyone else. I imagine he was expecting that the deal would help him escape from his grimy little life."
"He seemed honest," protested Don Jaime. "He was so radical, so intransigent. I trusted him."
"I'm afraid that, for a man your age, you have trusted far too many people."
"You're right. I even trusted you."
"Come, come." She seemed irritated. "Sarcasm will get us nowhere. Do you want to know the rest?"
"I do. Go on."
"He said goodbye to Cárceles in the nicest possible way, and an hour later our two men arrived at Cárceles's house to recover the file. Duly persuaded, your friend ended up telling them everything he knew, including your name. Then you arrived, and I have to say that you put us all in a tight spot. I was waiting outside, in a carriage, and I saw them come running out as if the devil himself were after them. You know, if the situation hadn't been so awkward, I would have found it most amusing. Considering that you're not a young man anymore, you certainly gave them a hard time: you broke the nose of one and the other you hit twice with your sword, in the arm and in the groin. They said you fought like Lucifer himself."
She fell silent for a moment and then said, "Now it's my turn to ask you a question. Why did you get that poor wretch involved in all this?"
"I didn't. I mean, I did so unwittingly. I read the documents, but I couldn't make head or tail of them."
"Are you serious?" The young woman seemed genuinely surprised. "Didn't you just say that you read the documents?"
He nodded, confused. "Yes, I did, but I didn't understand what it was all about. The names, the letters, and all the rest meant nothing to me. I've never taken any interest in such matters. When I read what was in the folder, all I could make out was that someone was betraying someone else, and that there was some matter of state involved. I went to Cárceles precisely because I couldn't work out who the traitor was. He obviously succeeded, perhaps because he knew about the events being referred to."
Adela de Otero leaned forward a little, and the light again fell on her face. There was a small, worried line between her eyebrows. "I'm afraid there's some misunderstanding here, Don Jaime. Do you mean to say that you don't know the name of my friend, the man we've been talking about all this time?"
Don Jaime shrugged, and his frank gray eyes held her gaze unblinkingly. "That is correct."
The young woman put her head to one side and looked at him, absorbed. Her mind seemed to be working very fast. "But you must have read the letter, since you took it out of the folder."
"What letter?"
"The main one, the one from Vallespín to Narváez. The one in which they mention the name of ... You didn't hand it over to the police? You still have it?"
"I don't know what wretched letter you're talking about."
This time she was the one to sit down, tense and fearful. The scar on her mouth no longer seemed to smile; instead, her face bore a look of confusion. It was the first time he had seen her like that.
"Let's get this quite clear, Don Jaime. I came here tonight for one reason only. Among Luis de Ayala's documents there was a letter, written by the Minister of the Interior, in which he gave detailed facts about the agent who was passing them information on Prim's conspiracies. That letter, of which Luis de Ayala himself made a copy for my friend when he first started to blackmail him, was not in the folder that we recovered from Cárceles's house. Therefore you must have it."
"I've never seen that letter. If I'd read it, I would have gone straight to the house of the criminal responsible for organizing all this and put a sword through his heart. And poor Cárceles would still be alive. I hoped that he would be able to deduce something from all those documents."
She made a gesture to indicate that at that moment she didn't give a damn about Cárceles. "He did," she said. "Even without that letter, anyone who had kept abreast of the political ups and downs of the last few years would have seen it. The documents mention the matter of the silver mines in Cartagena, which pointed directly to my friend. There was also a list of suspects for the police to watch, people high up in society, and his name was among them. But his name didn't appear afterward in the list of people detained. In short, there was a whole series of clues that, if you put them together, would have allowed you to discover the identity of Vallespín's and Narváez's confidant without too much difficulty. If you didn't live with your back turned to the world, you would have found that out as easily as anyone else."
The young woman got up and paced the room, deep in thought. Despite the awfulness of the situation, Don Jaime could not but admire her sangfroid. She had been involved in the murder of three people, she had come to his house, thus risking falling into the hands of the police, she had told him the whole horrific story quite calmly, and now she was walking about the room, taking no notice of the revolver and sword on the table, concerned only with the whereabouts of a mere letter. What was this woman who called herself Adela de Otero made of?
It was absurd, but the fencing master found that he too was thinking about where the mysterious letter could have got to. What had happened? Had Luis de Ayala not trusted him enough? Of one thing Don Jaime was sure, he had not read it.
He sat very still, barely breathing, his mouth half-open, trying to hold on to something that had just flashed through his mind. He grasped it, his face contorted with the effort. Adela de Otero turned to look at him, surprised. It couldn't be. It was ridiculous even to imagine that such a thing could have happened. It was absurd, and yet...
"What's wrong, Don Jaime?"
Without answering, he got very slowly to his feet, picked up the oil lamp, and stood for a few moments motionless, looking around him as if waking from a deep sleep. Now he remembered.
"Are you all right?"
The young woman's voice seemed to come from a great distance as his mind worked at top speed. After Ayala's death, after opening the folder and before starting to read it, he had tried to put it in some kind of order. It had fallen from his hands, and the papers had scattered on the floor. That had happened in one corner of the living room, next to the walnut sideboard. Borne along by a sudden inspiration, he walked past Adela de Otero and crouched down by the heavy piece of furniture, slipped one hand between the legs and felt the floor underneath. When he got up, he was holding a piece of paper. He stared at it.
"Here it is," he murmured, waving the piece of paper in the air. "It's been here all this time. How could I have been so stupid!"
She went over to him, looking at the letter incredulously. "Are you telling me that it was there the whole time, that it fell underneath?"
Don Jaime had turned pale. "Good God," he murmured in a low voice. "Poor Cárceles. However much they tortured him, he couldn't tell them about something whose existence he didn't even know of. That's why they were so merciless with him." He left the oil lamp on the sideboard and held the letter to the light.
Adela de Otero was by his side, looking at the piece of paper, fascinated. "Please, Don Jaime, don't read it." There was a strange mixture of command and supplication in her dark voice. "Just give it to me without reading it, please. My friend thought that you would have to be killed too, but I persuaded him to let me come here alone. Now I'm glad that I did. Perhaps we're still in time..."
> The old man looked at her hard. "In time for what? In time to bring the dead back to life? In time to make me believe in your virginal innocence or in your benefactor's virtue? Go to hell." He screwed up his eyes while he read in the smoking light of the oil lamp. This was, in effect, the key to everything.
To: Don Ramón María Narváez,
President of the Council of Ministers
Dear General,
The matter we spoke about privately the other day has taken an unexpected turn, in my view a very promising one. Bruno Cazorla Longo, manager of the Bank of Italy in Madrid, is involved in the Prim affair. Doubtless you are familiar with the name, because he was an associate of Salamanca's in the Northern Railways deal. I have proof that Cazorla Longo has been providing generous loans to Prim, with whom he remains in close contact from his luxurious office in the Plaza de Santa Ana. For some while I have kept him under discreet surveillance, and I think the time is now ripe for us to strike. We have in our possession enough information to uncover a scandal that would ruin him; we could even have him spend a good few years pondering the error of his ways in some delightful place in the Philippines or Fernando Po, which, for a man as accustomed to luxury as he is, would doubtless prove an unforgettable experience.
However, with regard to what we were discussing the other day about the need for more information on Prim's plotting, it occurred to me that we could make better use of this gentleman. So, I obtained an interview with him and put the situation to him as subtly as possible. He is a very intelligent man, and since his liberal beliefs are not as strong as his commercial ones, he has declared his resolve to provide us with certain services. After all, he knows what he stands to lose if we were to take firm action against his revolutionary dabblings, and, like any good banker, he is terrified of the word "bankruptcy." So he is prepared to cooperate with us as long as it is done discreedy. He will inform us of any movements by Prim or his agents, and continue supplying them with funds but from now on we will know exactly to whom and for what.
Of course, he places certain conditions on this agreement. The first is that no word of this matter should go beyond you and me. The other condition is of a remunerative nature. A man like him won't be satisfied with the usual thirty pieces of silver, so he's asking for the concession for the Murcia silver mines, which is to be decided on at the end of the month, a deal in which both he and his bank are extremely interested.
In my view, this would suit both the government and the Crown, for our man has the best possible relationship with Prim and his top brass, and the Liberal Union considers him one of the pillars of the party in Madrid.
The matter has a great many other ramifications, but there is no need to put it all down in writing. I would add only that, in my judgment, Cazorla Longo is intelligent and ambitious. For a very reasonable price, we could have an agent at the very heart of the conspiracy.
As I do not judge it prudent to mention the subject during the Council of Ministers tomorrow, it would therefore be useful if you and I could discuss the matter in private.
Respectfully,
Joaquín Vallespín Andreu
Madrid, 4 November
(Only copy)
Don Jaime finished reading and stood in silence, slowly shaking his head. "So that was the secret," he muttered at last, in a barely audible voice.
Adela de Otero was looking at him, not moving, watching his reaction with furrowed brow. "Yes, that was the secret," she said with a sigh, as if regretting that the fencing master had gained access to the final corner of the mystery. "I hope you're satisfied."
He gave the young woman a strange look, as if surprised to see her still there. "Satisfied?" he seemed to savor the word, only to find that he did not like the taste of it. "What satisfaction could I find in all this?" He held the letter between thumb and forefinger and shook it gently. "I suppose now you're going to ask me to give you this bit of paper. Or am I wrong?"
The young woman's eyes glinted in the light. She held out her hand. "Please."
Don Jaime looked at her long and hard, again amazed at her courage. She was standing there before him in the gloom, coolly demanding that he hand over written proof of the identity of the person responsible for the whole tragedy.
"Perhaps you're thinking of killing me too if I don't give in to your demand?"
A mocking smile appeared on her lips. She watched him like a snake trying to fascinate its prey. "I didn't come here to kill you, Don Jaime, but to reach some agreement. No one thinks it necessary for you to die."
He raised an eyebrow, as if her words disappointed him. "You're not going to kill me?" He seemed to be giving the matter serious consideration. "I must say, Doña Adela, that's very considerate of you."
Another smile appeared on her lips, more mischievous than malign. Don Jaime realized she was choosing her words carefully. "I need that letter, maestro."
"Please don't call me maestro."
"I need it. I've come too far for it, as well you know."
"Yes, I do. I think I can safely say that I can testify to that."
"I beg you. We still have time."
He regarded her ironically. "That's twice you've said that, but time for what?" He considered the paper in his hand. "The man this letter refers to is an utter wretch, a knave, and a murderer. I hope you're not asking me to cooperate in covering up his crimes. I'm not used to people insulting me, far less at this time of night. Do you know something?"
"No. Tell me."
"At first, before I knew what had happened, when I saw you ... that body on the marble slab, I resolved to avenge the death of Adela de Otero. That's why I didn't say anything to the police at the time."
She looked at him thoughtfully. Her smile seemed to soften. "Thank you." There was a distant echo of sincerity in her voice. "But, as you see, no vengeance was necessary."
"Do you really think so?" It was Don Jaime's turn to smile. "Well, you're wrong. There are still people to avenge. Luis de Ayala, for example."
"He was nothing but a ban viveur and a blackmailer."
"Agapito Cárceles."
"A poor fool killed by his own greed."
His gray eyes fixed on the woman with infinite coldness. "That girl, Lucía," he said slowly. "Did she deserve to die as well?"
For the first time, Adela de Otero could not hold his gaze. And when she spoke, she did so with great caution. "Please, believe me, what happened to Lucía was unavoidable."
"Of course. Your word is quite enough for me."
"I'm serious."
"Naturally. It would be an unforgivable crime to doubt you."
An oppressive silence grew between them. She had bent her head and seemed to be immersed in the contemplation of her hands, folded on her lap. The two black ribbons from her hat fell across her bare neck. Despite himself, Don Jaime thought that even if she were the devil incarnate, Adela de Otero was still maddeningly beautiful.
After a few moments, she looked up. "What do you intend to do with the letter?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure," he replied simply. "I don't know whether to go straight to the police or to go first to the house of your benefactor and put a few inches of steel through his throat. Don't tell me you have a better idea."
The hem of her black silk dress rustled softly as she moved across the carpet toward him. He could smell, very close, the scent of rose water. "I do have a better idea, as it happens." She was looking into his eyes, her chin lifted in defiance. "An offer you can't refuse."
"You're mistaken."
"No, I'm not." Her voice was now as warm and soft as the purring of some beautiful cat. "I'm not mistaken. There's always a hidden motive. Every man has his price. And I can pay yours."
Before Don Jaime's astonished eyes, Adela de Otero raised her hands and undid the first button of her dress. His throat went suddenly dry as he stared, fascinated, at the violet eyes fixed on him. She undid the second button. Her perfect white teeth gleamed softly in the darkness.
He
tried to move away, but those eyes held him hypnotized. At last he managed to look away, but instead he saw her bare throat, the delicate suggestion of a collarbone beneath the skin, the voluptuous pulse of smooth skin that formed a soft triangle between the young woman's breasts.
The voice came again in an intimate whisper. "I know you love me. I've always known it, from the start. Perhaps everything would have been different if..."
The words died away. Don Jaime held his breath, feeling as if he were floating far above reality. He felt her breath on his lips, her mouth half-opening like a bleeding wound full of promises. Now she was unlacing her bodice, the ribbon unraveling between her fingers. Then he felt her hands seeking one of his hands; her touch seemed to burn his skin. Slowly, she guided his hand to one of her bare breasts. Her pulsing flesh was warm and young, and Don Jaime trembled to feel again an almost forgotten sensation, one he thought he had renounced forever.
He moaned and half-closed his eyes, abandoning himself to the sweet languor filling him. She smiled quietly, with unusual tenderness, and, releasing his hand, lifted her arms to remove her hat. As she did so, she raised her chest slightly, and Don Jaime slowly brought his lips closer, until he felt the warmth of those beautiful, soft, bare breasts.
The world was removed, a confused tide beating weakly on the shore of a desert island, the sound dimmed by distance. There was nothing, only a vast, bright, luminous plain, a complete absence of reality, of remorse, even of sensation ... An absence even of passion, for there was none. The only note, monotonous and continuous, was that moan of abandonment, a lonely murmur long held in, that the contact with her skin brought to his lips.
But some part of his sleeping conscience cried out from the remote region where it still remained alert. The signal took a few moments to find its way to the springs of his will, and just when he heard that danger signal, Don Jaime looked up into the young woman's face. It was as if he had received an electric shock. Her hands were occupied in removing her hat, but her eyes glowed like burning coals. Her mouth was fixed in a tense rictus, which the scar at the corner transformed into a diabolical grimace. The extraordinary concentration of her features was something that had been written in fire on his memory: it was the face Adela de Otero wore when she was ready to lunge and deal a decisive blow.