The Angel's Game (58 page)

“I’m sorry, Don Pedro,” I begged. “I had nowhere else to go …”

I heard him call out and after a while I felt various hands taking my legs and arms and lifting me. When I opened my eyes again I was in Don Pedro’s bedroom, lying on the same bed he had shared with Cristina during the few short months of their marriage. I sighed. Vidal was watching me from the end of the bed.

“Don’t speak now,” he said. “The doctor is on his way.”

“Don’t believe them, Don Pedro,” I moaned. “Don’t believe them.”

“Of course not.”

Vidal picked up a blanket and covered me with it.

“I’ll go downstairs to wait for the doctor,” he said. “Get some rest.”

After a while I heard footsteps and voices in the bedroom. I could feel my clothes being removed and glimpsed the dozens of cuts covering my body like bloodstained ivy. I felt tweezers poking into my wounds, pulling out needles of glass as well as bits of flesh. I felt the sting of antiseptic and the pricks of the needle as the doctor sewed up my wounds. There was no longer any pain, only tiredness. Once I had been bandaged, sewn up, and mended like a broken puppet, the doctor and Vidal covered me with a sheet and placed my head on the sweetest, softest pillow I had ever come across. I opened my eyes to see the face of the doctor, an aristocratic-looking gentleman with a reassuring smile. He was holding a hypodermic syringe.

“You’ve been lucky, young man,” he said as he plunged the needle into my arm.

“What’s that?” I mumbled.

Vidal’s face appeared next to the doctor’s.

“It will help you rest.”

A cold mist spread up my arm and across my chest. I felt myself falling into a chasm of black velvet while Vidal and the doctor watched me from on high. Gradually, the world closed until it was reduced to a single drop of light that evaporated in my hands. I sank into that warm chemical peace from which I would have preferred never to escape.

…

I remember a world of black water under the ice. Moonlight touched the frozen vault, breaking into thousands of dusty beams that swayed in the current as it pulled me away. The white mantle draped around her body undulated, the silhouette of her body just visible in the translucent waters. Cristina stretched out a hand to me and I fought against that cold, heavy current. When our fingers were only a hair’s breadth apart, a somber mass unfolded its wings behind her, enveloping her like an explosion of ink. Tentacles of black light surrounded her arms, her throat, and her face, dragging her inexorably toward a dark void.

I
awoke to hear Víctor Grandes saying my name. I sat bolt upright, not recognizing where I was—if anything, the place looked like a suite in a luxury hotel. The shooting pain from the dozens of cuts that streaked my torso brought me back to reality. I was in Vidal’s bedroom in Villa Helius. Through the closed shutters, a hint of midafternoon light. A fire was blazing in the grate and the room was warm. The voices came from the floor below. Pedro Vidal and Víctor Grandes.

Ignoring the stinging of my skin, I got out of bed. My dirty, bloodstained clothes had been thrown onto an armchair. I looked for the coat. The gun was still in the pocket. I drew back the hammer and left the room, following the trail of voices as far as the stairs. I went down a few steps, keeping close to the wall.

“I’m very sorry about your men, Inspector,” I heard Vidal saying. “Rest assured that if David gets in touch with me or if I hear of his whereabouts, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“I’m grateful for your help, Señor Vidal. I’m sorry to bother you in the circumstances, but the situation is extremely serious.”

“I understand. Thank you for your visit.”

The sound of the front door closing. Vidal’s labored breathing at the foot of the staircase. I went down a few more steps and found him leaning his forehead against the door. When he heard me he opened his eyes and turned round.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at the gun I held in my hands. I put it down on the small table at the bottom of the stairs.

“Come on, let’s see if we can find you some clean clothes,” he said.

I followed him to a huge dressing room that looked more like a costume museum. All the exquisite suits I remembered from Vidal’s years of glory were there. Dozens of ties, shoes, and cuff links in red velvet boxes.

“This is all from when I was young. It should fit you.”

Vidal chose for me. He handed me a shirt that was probably worth as much as a small plot of land, a three-piece suit made to measure in London, and a pair of Italian shoes that would not have disgraced the boss’s wardrobe. I dressed in silence while Vidal observed me with a pensive look.

“A bit wide in the shoulders, but you’ll have to make do,” he said, handing me a pair of sapphire cuff links.

“What did the inspector tell you?”

“Everything.”

“And you believed him?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

Vidal sat on a stool by a wall that was covered in mirrors from ceiling to floor.

“He says you know where Cristina is,” he said.

I did not deny it.

“Is she alive?”

I looked him in the eye and, very slowly, nodded my head. Vidal gave a weak smile, eluding my eyes. Then he burst into tears, emitting a deep groan that came from his very soul. I sat down next to him and hugged him.

“Forgive me, Don Pedro, forgive me …”

…

Later, as the sun began to drop over the horizon, Vidal gathered my old clothes and threw them into the fire. Before he abandoned my coat to the flames he pulled out the copy of
The Steps of Heaven
and handed it to me.

“Of the two books you wrote last year, this was the good one,” he said.

I watched him poking my clothes about in the fire.

“When did you realize?”

Vidal shrugged.

“Even a conceited idiot can’t be fooled forever, David.”

I couldn’t make out whether there was resentment in his tone or just sadness.

“I did it because I thought I was helping you, Don Pedro.”

“I know.”

He smiled.

“Forgive me,” I murmured.

“You must leave the city. There’s a cargo ship moored in the San Sebastián dock that sets sail tonight. It’s all arranged. Ask for Captain Olmo. He’s expecting you. Take one of the cars from the garage. You can leave it at the port. Pep will fetch it tomorrow. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t go back to your house. You’ll need money.”

“I have enough money,” I lied.

“There’s never enough. When you disembark in Marseilles, Olmo will go with you to a bank and will give you fifty thousand francs.”

“Don Pedro—”

“Listen to me. Those two men that Grandes says you’ve killed …”

“Marcos and Castelo. I think they worked for your father, Don Pedro.”

Vidal shook his head.

“My father and his lawyers only ever deal with the top people, David. How do you think those two knew where to find you thirty minutes after you left the police station?”

A cold feeling of certainty washed over me.

“Through my friend Inspector Víctor Grandes.”

Vidal agreed.

“Grandes let you go because he didn’t want to dirty his hands in the police station. As soon as he got you out of there, his two men were on your trail. Your death was to read like a telegram: Escaping murder suspect dies while resisting arrest.”

“Just like the old days on the news,” I said.

“Some things never change, David. You should know better than anyone.”

He opened his wardrobe and handed me a brand new coat. I accepted it and put the book in the inside pocket. Vidal smiled at me.

“For once in your life you’re well dressed.”

“It suited you better, Don Pedro.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Don Pedro, there are a lot of things …”

“They don’t matter anymore, David. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

“I owe you much more than an explanation.”

“Then tell me about her.”

Vidal looked at me with desperate eyes that begged me to lie to him. We sat in the sitting room, facing the French windows with their view over the whole of Barcelona, and I lied to him with all my heart. I told him that Cristina had rented a small attic in Paris, in Rue de Soufflot, under the name of Madame Vidal, and had said that she’d wait for me every day, in the middle of the afternoon, by the fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens. I told him that she spoke about him constantly, that she would never forget him, and that I knew that however many years I spent by her side I’d never be able to fill the void he had left. Don Pedro’s gaze was lost in the distance.

“You must promise me you’ll look after her, David. That you’ll never leave her. Whatever happens, you’ll stay by her side.”

“I promise, Don Pedro.”

In the pale light of evening all I could see was a defeated old man, sick with memories and guilt, a man who had never believed and whose only balm now was to believe.

“I wish I’d been a better friend to you, David.”

“You’ve been the best of friends, Don Pedro. You’ve been much more than that.”

Vidal stretched out his arm and took my hand. He was trembling.

“Grandes spoke to me about that man, the one you call the boss.
He says you are in debt to him and you think the only way of paying him back is by giving him a pure soul …”

“That’s nonsense, Don Pedro. Don’t pay any attention.”

“Would a dirty, tired soul like mine be of any use to you?”

“I know of no purer soul than yours, Don Pedro.”

Vidal smiled.

“If I could have changed places with your father, I would have, David.”

“I know.”

He stood up and gazed at the evening swooping over the city.

“You should be on your way,” he said. “Go to the garage and take a car. Whichever you like. I’ll see if I have some cash.”

I picked up the coat and went out into the garden and over to the coach house. The Villa Helius garage was home to two automobiles that gleamed like royal carriages. I chose the smaller, more discreet car, a black Hispano-Suiza that looked as if it had not been used more than two or three times and still smelled new. I sat at the steering wheel and started the engine, then drove the car out of the garage and waited in the yard. A minute went by, and still Vidal hadn’t come out. I got out of the car, leaving the engine running. I went back into the house to say goodbye to him and tell him not to worry about the money, I would manage. As I walked across the entrance hall I remembered I’d left the gun on the table. When I went to pick it up it wasn’t there.

“Don Pedro?”

The door to the sitting room was ajar. I looked in and could see him standing in the middle of the room. He raised my father’s revolver to his chest, placing the barrel at his heart. I rushed toward him but the roar of the shot drowned my shouts. The weapon fell from his hands. His body slumped over and he fell to the floor, leaving a scarlet trail on the marble tiles. I dropped to my knees beside him and supported him in my arms. Dark, thick blood gushed from the hole where the bullet had pierced his clothes. Don Pedro’s eyes locked on mine while his smile filled with blood, and his body stopped trembling, and he collapsed. The room was filled with the scent of gunpowder and misery.

I
returned to the car and sat in it, my bloodstained hands on the steering wheel. I could hardly breathe. I waited a minute before releasing the hand brake. The lights of the city throbbed under the shroud of the evening sky. I set off down the street, leaving the silhouette of Villa Helius behind me. When I reached Avenida Pearson I stopped and looked through the rearview mirror. A car had just turned into the street from a hidden alleyway and positioned itself some fifty meters behind me. Its lights were not on. Víctor Grandes.

I continued down Avenida de Pedralbes until I passed the large wrought-iron dragon guarding the entrance to Finca Güell. Inspector Grandes’s car was still tailing about a hundred meters behind. When I reached Avenida Diagonal I turned left toward the center of town. There were barely any cars around so Grandes had no difficulty following me until I decided to turn right, hoping to lose him through the narrow streets of Las Corts. By then the inspector was aware that his presence was no secret and had turned on his headlights. For about twenty minutes we dodged through a knot of streets and trams. I slipped between omnibuses and carts, with Grandes’s headlights relentlessly at my back. After a while the hill of Montjuïc rose before me. The large palace of the International Exhibition and the remains of the other pavilions had been closed for just two weeks, but in the twilight mist they looked like the ruins of some great, forgotten civilization. I took the large avenue to the
cascade of ghostly lights that illuminated the exhibition fountains, accelerating as quickly as the engine would allow. As we ascended the road that snaked its way up the mountain toward the Great Stadium, Grandes was gaining ground until I could clearly distinguish his face in the rearview mirror. For a moment I was tempted to take the road leading to the military fortress on the summit, but I knew that if there was one place with no way out, it was there. My only hope was to make it to the other side of the mountain, the side that looked down onto the sea, and disappear into one of the docks at the port. To do that I needed to put some time between us, but the inspector was now about fifteen meters behind me. The large balustrades of Miramar opened up before us, with the city spread out below. I pulled at the hand brake with all my strength and let Grandes smash into the Hispano-Suiza. The impact pushed us both along almost twenty meters, raising a spray of sparks across the road. I let go of the brake and went forward a short distance while Grandes was still struggling to regain control, then I put my car into reverse and accelerated hard.

By the time Grandes realized what I was doing it was too late. Thanks to one of the most select makes of car in town, I charged at him with a chassis and an engine that were far more robust than those protecting him. The force of the crash hurled Grandes from his seat and his head struck the windshield, shattering it. Steam surged from the hood of his car and the headlights went out. I put my car into gear and accelerated away, heading for the Miramar viewing post. After a few seconds I realized that in the collision the back fender had been crushed against one tire, which now scraped on the metal as it turned. The smell of burning rubber filled the car. Twenty meters farther on the tire blew and the car began to zigzag until it came to a halt, wreathed in a cloud of black smoke. I abandoned the Hispano-Suiza and glanced back at where Grandes’s car still sat—the inspector was dragging himself out of the driver’s seat. I looked around me. The stop for the cable cars that crossed over the port and the town from Montjuïc to the tower of San Sebastián was about fifty meters away. I could make out the shape of the cars dangling
from their wires as they slid through the dusk, and I ran toward them.