The Fencing Master (19 page)

Don Jaime blinked. That remark seemed to him in the worst possible taste. "I'm afraid, Señor Campillo, that I can't be of any help to you on that point either. I will only say that in my opinion Don Luis de Ayala was a complete gentleman." He looked at the policeman's watery eyes and then at his wig, which was somewhat awry. That gave him the courage to raise his voice a little. "And as regards myself, I hope that I merit exactly the same opinion from you; I would therefore prefer to hear no farther sordid gossip on the subject."

Campillo immediately apologized, somewhat embarrassed, slyly adjusting his wig. Of course. Don Jaime mustn't misinterpret his words. It was a mere formality. He would never have dared to insinuate...

Don Jaime was barely listening. A silent battle was being waged within himself, because he was knowingly withholding valuable information that could perhaps point to the motive for the murder. He realized that he was trying to protect a certain person whose troubling image had come to mind the moment he saw the body in the room. Protect? If his deductions were right, this wasn't just protection, it was blatant concealment, an act that not only violated the law but also went against all the ethical principles underpinning his life. He didn't want to rush into anything, he thought; he needed time to analyze the situation.

Campillo was staring at him now, frowning slightly, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. At that moment, for the first time, Don Jaime thought that he too might be considered a suspect in the eyes of the authorities. After all, Luis de Ayala had been killed with a foil.

That was when the policeman uttered the words Don Jaime had been dreading throughout the whole of this conversation: "Do you know a certain Adela de Otero?"

The fencing master's heart stopped for a moment, then started beating wildly. He swallowed hard before replying. "Yes," he said with all the sangfroid he could muster. "She was one of my clients."

Campillo bent toward him, extremely interested. "I didn't know that. Is she still?"

"No. She dispensed with my services some weeks ago."

"How many weeks?"

"I don't know. About a month and a half."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

The policeman leaned back in his chair and took another cigar from his pocket, all the time looking at Don Jaime as if in deep thought. This time he didn't pierce the cigar with a toothpick, he merely gnawed distractedly at one end.

"Did you know about her ... friendship with the marquis?"

Don Jaime nodded. "Only very superficially," he said. "As far as I know, the relationship began after she stopped attending my classes. I never"—he hesitated for a moment before finishing the phrase—"I never again saw the lady."

Campillo lit his cigar amid a cloud of smoke that irritated Don Jaime's nose. Tiny beads of sweat shone on Don Jaime's forehead.

"We've questioned the servants," said the policeman after a while. "Thanks to them we know that Señora de Otero often visited the house. All agree that the relationship between herself and the deceased was of, ah, an intimate nature."

Don Jaime held the policeman's gaze as if none of this affected him in the least. "And?" he asked, trying to adopt a distant air.

The chief of police gave a half-smile, smoothing the ends of his dyed mustache. "At ten o'clock last night," he explained in an almost confidential tone, as if the corpse in the other room might hear them, "the marquis dismissed the servants. We know that he usually did this when he was expecting a visit that might be described as 'romantic' The servants withdrew to their part of the house on the other side of the garden. They heard nothing suspicious, only the rain and the thunder. This morning, at about seven, when they came into the house, they found their master's body. At the other end of the room there was a foil stained with blood. The marquis was stiff; he had been dead for several hours. He was cold meat."

Don Jaime shuddered, unable to share the chief of police's macabre sense of humor. "Do they know who the visitor was?"

Campillo gave a disappointed click of the tongue. "No. We can only deduce that the visitor came in by a discreet door on the other side of the palace, in the cul-de-sac that the marquis often used as a coach house. Some coach house, I might add: five horses, a berlin, a coupe, a tilbury, a phaeton, an English coachman." He gave a melancholy sigh, implying that, in his opinion, the late marquis did not stint himself. "But, returning to the subject at hand, I admit that there is nothing to tell us whether the murderer was a man or a woman, whether there was just one or several people. There are no footprints of any kind, despite the fact that it was pouring."

"A difficult situation, it would seem."

"Difficult and unfortunate. With all the political upheaval we're experiencing at the moment, with the country on the verge of civil war along with everything else, I'm afraid that the investigation may take some time. The murder of a marquis becomes a mere anecdote when the throne is in question, don't you think? As you see, the murderer knew how to choose his moment." Campillo exhaled a large cloud of smoke and looked at the cigar appreciatively. Don Jaime noticed that it was from Vuelta Abajo and bore the same band as those Luis de Ayala used to smoke. Doubtless, in the course of his investigations, this representative of the competent authority had had occasion to ransack the dead man's cigar box. "But let's get back to Doña Adela de Otero if you don't mind. We don't even know if she's a señora or a señorita. Do you happen to know?"

"No. I always called her Señora, and she never corrected me."

"They say she's pretty. A knockout."

"I suppose a certain class of people might describe her like that."

The policeman ignored the remark. "And a bit loose, too. I mean this business of the fencing classes..." He gave a knowing wink, and Don Jaime decided that he had had all he could take. He stood up.

"As I said before, I know very little about the lady," he said brusquely. "If you're so interested in her, you can go and question her yourself. She lives at 14 Calle Riaño."

The policeman did not move, and the fencing master realized that something was not quite right. Campillo was sitting in his chair looking at Don Jaime, his cigar in his hand. Behind his spectacles, the fish eyes glinted with malicious irony, as if the whole business nonetheless had its funny side.

"Naturally." He seemed delighted with the situation, savoring a joke that he had been reserving till the end. "Of course, how were you to know, Señor Astarloa? You couldn't, of course. Your ex-client, Doña Adela de Otero, has disappeared from her home. Don't you find that an odd coincidence? Someone kills the marquis, and she vanishes without trace, imagine that. It's as if the earth had swallowed her."

With an attack on the blade your opponent has gained an advantage.

When their official business was over, the chief of police accompanied Don Jaime to the door, giving him an appointment to come to the office the following day. "If events allow," he added, with a look of resignation, in a clear allusion to the current crisis in the country. Don Jaime walked away in somber mood. He was relieved to escape from the scene of the tragedy and from that disagreeable interrogation, but at the same time he was confronted by an unpleasant fact: now he would have time alone to consider what had happened. He was not looking forward to the prospect of giving free rein to his thoughts.

He stopped outside the Retire Gardens, resting his forehead on the wrought-iron bars of the gate and gazing in at the trees in the park. The respect he had felt for Luis de Ayala and the painful shock of the man's death were considerable but not what filled him with indignation. The existence of a certain shadowy woman, doubtless in some way connected with all this, profoundly altered what in principle should have been an objective evaluation of the facts on his part. Don Luis had been murdered, and Don Luis was a man whom he had respected. That should have been reason enough for Don Jaime to want the authors of the crime to be brought to justice. Why, then, had he not been open with Campillo and told him everything he knew?

He shook his head. He was not in fact sure that Adela de Otero was involved. But that thought lasted only a few moments, under the weight of the evidence. Why deceive himself? Although he did not know if the young woman had actually pierced the marquis's throat with the foil, it was clear that, directly or indirectly, she had had something to do with it. Her sudden appearance in Don Jaime's life, her interest in meeting Luis de Ayala, her behavior in recent weeks, her suspicious disappearance. Everything, down to the last detail, even the last word she had spoken to him, now seemed part of a plan carried out with implacable coldness. And there was the sword thrust.
His
thrust.

But to what end? He was no longer in any doubt that he had been used as a means to reach the Marqués de los Alumbres. But why? A crime could not be explained away that simply; behind it there was, there had to be, a motive of sufficient magnitude for the criminal to take such a step. Don Jaime's thoughts turned logically to the sealed envelope hidden behind the books in his studio. Gripped by a violent excitement, he moved away from the railings and started walking toward the Puerta de Alcalá, quickening his pace. He had to get home, open that envelope and read its contents. The key to everything must lie there.

He stopped a hired carnage and gave his address, although for a moment he thought that perhaps it would be best after all to place everything in the hands of the police and to watch the matter evolve as a mere spectator. He realized at once that he could not do this. Someone had forced him to play a ridiculous role in this whole business, with the indifference of a puppet master pulling the strings of a marionette. His old pride rebelled, demanded satisfaction; no one had ever dared to play with him like that, and it left him feeling angry, and humiliated. Perhaps he would go to the police later, but first he needed to find out precisely what had happened. And then maybe there would be time to settle the score with Señora de Otero. It was not a matter of avenging the Marqués de los Alumbres; what Don Jaime wanted was full satisfaction for being betrayed.

Lulled by the motion of the carriage, he leaned back in his seat. He was beginning to experience a kind of calm lucidity. Out of a purely professional habit, he began carefully going over events, employing his usual method: fencing movements. They helped him impose order on his thoughts when he tried to analyze complex situations. His opponent or opponents had begun with a feint, a false attack. When they came to him, they had quite a different goal in mind, threatening him with a thrust different from the one they intended to use. Their attack was aimed not at him but at Luis de Ayala, and Don Jaime had not been quick enough to see the depth of that movement, making the unforgivable mistake of actually facilitating it.

Everything began to fit into place. Having been successful with their first move, they proceeded to the second. With the marquis, it had been relatively easy for the lovely Adela de Otero to do what in fencing is called forcing an attack: pushing your opponent's foil away at its weakest point, in order to uncover the opponent before lunging. And Luis de Ayala's two weak points were fencing and women.

Then what had happened? The marquis, a good swordsman, had realized that his opponent was using the appel to lure him out of his defensive position. Being a resourceful man, he had immediately placed himself on guard and entrusted to Don Jaime the probable object of all his opponent's moves: that mysterious sealed envelope. Though conscious of the danger, Ayala was a gambler as well as a fencer. Knowing the style of the man, Don Jaime was sure that the marquis had pushed his luck too far, not wanting to interrupt the bout until he could see how it was going to end. He doubtless thought he would be able to deflect the foil at the last moment, when the enemy, his game revealed, lunged. That had been his mistake. A veteran fencer like Ayala should have been the first to know that it was always dangerous to resort to the flanconnade as a way of parrying an attack, especially where a woman like Adela de Otero was involved.

If, as Don Jaime suspected, the aim of the attack had been to make off with the marquis's documents, it was clear that the murderers had failed to complete the movement. By pure chance, the unwitting intervention of the fencing master had frustrated the success of the maneuver. What should have been settled with a simple thrust in quarte through Ayala's jugular became one in tierce, a move that could not be carried out with the same facility. The vital question, which now affected Don Jaime's own survival, was to find out whether or not his opponents knew about the decisive role he had played in all this, thanks to the late marquis's precaution. Did they know that the documents were safe in his house? He thought long and hard and reached the consoling conclusion that they could not possibly know. Ayala would never have been foolish enough to reveal the secret to Señora de Otero, or to anyone else. Had he not told Don Jaime that Don Jaime was the only person to whom he could entrust such a delicate task?

The carriage rolled up the Carrera de San Jerónimo. Don Jaime was impatient to reach his house, tear open the envelope, and reveal the contents. Only then would he know what to do next.

I
T
was starting to rain again as he got out of the carriage on the corner of Calle Bordadores. He walked in through the front door shaking the rain off his hat and went straight to the top floor, up the creaking staircase with the iron banister that shook beneath his hand. On the landing, he realized with annoyance that he had left his case of foils behind at the Palacio de Villaflores. He would go and fetch them later, he thought, as he took the key out of his pocket, turned it in the lock, and pushed the door open. Much to his chagrin, he could not help but feel a certain apprehension as he went into the dark, empty apartment.

He glanced in all the rooms to reassure himself that he was the only person there, and was ashamed to have allowed his imagination to get the upper hand. He placed his hat on the sofa, took off his jacket, and opened the shutters to let in the gray light from outside. Then he went over to the bookshelf, slipped his hand behind the row of books, and removed the envelope that Luis de Ayala had given him.