The Fencing Master

by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

  "To put it bluntly, then, I'm under surveillance."

  Campillo winced, as if such an expression, applied to the fencing master, was excessive. "Let's just say that I am in need of your cooperation, Señor Astarloa. You have an appointment with me in my office tomorrow morning. And I ask you, with all due respect, not to leave the city and to remain contactable."

  Don Jaime nodded silently, abstractedly, while he got to his feet and picked up his hat and cane. "Have you interrogated the maid?" he asked.

  "What maid?"

  "The maid who worked in Doña Adela's house. I think her name was Lucía."

  "Ah, yes, sorry, I didn't quite understand. Yes, the maid, of course ... Well, no, we haven't. I mean we haven't been able to locate her. According to the concierge's wife, she was dismissed about a week ago and hasn't been back. Needless to say, I'm moving heaven and earth to find her."

  "And what else did the concierges in the building tell you?"

  "They weren't much use either. Last night, what with the storm that broke over Madrid, they didn't hear a thing. As regards Señora de Otero, they know little. And if they do know something, they're not saying, either out of prudence or out of fear. It wasn't her apartment; she rented it three months ago through a third party, a commercial agent whom we have also questioned but to no avail. She moved in with very little luggage. Nobody knows where she came from, although there are indications that she lived for some time abroad ... I'll see you tomorrow, Señor Astarloa. Don't forget, we have an appointment."

  Don Jaime looked at him coldly. "I won't forget. Goodnight."

  HE stood for a long time in the middle of the street, leaning on his walking stick, looking up at the black sky; the blanket of clouds had parted to reveal a few stars. Anyone passing would have been surprised by the expression on his face, which was just barely lit by the pale flame of the gaslights. His gaunt features seemed carved out of stone, like lava that had just solidified beneath a glacial blast of air. It wasn't only his face. He felt his heart beating very slowly in his breast, calm and deliberate, like the pulse in his temples. He didn't know why—he refused to go too deeply into it—but from the moment he beheld the naked, mutilated body of Adela de Otero, the confusion that had been tormenting him vanished as if by magic. It seemed that the icy air of the morgue had left a cold residue inside him. His mind was now clear; he could feel the perfect control he had over the smallest muscles in his body. It was as if the world about him had returned to its exact dimensions and he could once again study it with his old serenity, in his usual distant manner.

  For some reason the death of Adela de Otero had liberated him from the shame and humiliation that had tormented him to the point of madness during the last few weeks. He felt a kind of perverse satisfaction at learning that he had been deceived not by an executioner but by a victim. This changed things. He had the sad consolation of knowing that the plot had not been dreamed up by a woman but meticulously carried out by someone completely without scruples, a cruel murderer, a callous swine, whose identity remained a mystery but who might be waiting for him only a few steps away, thanks to the documents that Cárceles must have deciphered by now in Don Jaime's apartment on Calle Bordadores. It was time to turn the page. The puppet refused to play anymore; he had broken free of the strings. Now he would act on his own initiative; that was why he had said nothing to the police. With the confusion gone, he was filled instead by a cold anger, by an immense, lucid, calm hatred.

  Don Jaime took a deep breath of cool night air, gripped his walking stick firmly, and set off toward home. The moment to learn the truth had arrived, because the hour of vengeance was tolling.

  HE had to take a rather circuitous route. Although it was already eleven at night, the streets were full of people. Squads of soldiers and mounted policemen were patrolling everywhere, and on the corner of Calle Hileras he saw the remains of a barricade that several local people were dismantling under the supervision of the police. Near the Plaza Mayor he heard the distant hubbub of a crowd, and halberdiers from the Civil Guard were patrolling outside the Teatro Real with bayonets fixed. It looked as if there would be trouble that night, but Don Jaime barely noticed what was going on around him, so immersed was he in his own thoughts. He hurried up the steps and opened the door, expecting to find Cárceles there, but the apartment was empty.

  He struck a match and lit the oil lamp, surprised by Cárceles's absence. Assailed by foreboding, he looked in the bedroom and in the fencing gallery, but no one was there. When he went back into the living room, he looked under the sofa and behind the books on the shelves, but he couldn't find the documents in either place. It was absurd, he said to himself. Cárceles would not simply go off without saying a word to him. Where would he have hidden the folder? Don Jaime was forced to a frightening conclusion: Cárceles had taken the papers with him.

  He noticed a sheet of paper on his writing desk. Before leaving, Cárceles had written him a note:

  Dear Don Jaime,

  Everything is in hand, but I need to check a few facts.

  Trust me.

  He had not even signed the note. Don Jaime held it in his hand for a moment before crumpling it up and throwing it on the floor. Cárceles had obviously taken the documents with him, and that made Don Jaime suddenly angry. He regretted having placed his faith in the journalist; he cursed himself out loud for his own stupidity. God knows where that man would be now with those documents that had cost the lives of both Luis de Ayala and Adela de Otero.

  It did not take him long to decide what to do. Without properly thinking it through, he found himself heading back down the stairs. He knew where Cárceles lived, and he was prepared to go there, recover the documents, and make him tell what he knew, even if he had to drag it out of him.

  He stopped on the landing and forced himself to reflect. The story had taken a turn that was very far from being a game. "Let's not lose our head again," he said to himself, trying to preserve the calm that was rapidly deserting him. There, in the darkness on the empty stairs, he leaned against the wall and thought about what he should do next. Of course he had to go to Cárceles's house, that much was clear. And then? There was only one reasonable course of action, the one that led to Jenaro Campillo; Don Jaime's little game of hide-and-seek had gone on quite long enough. He thought bitterly about the precious time that he had wasted by his indecision; he would not repeat that mistake. He would open his heart to the chief of police and hand Ayala's file to him, so that justice could at last take its conventional course He smiled sadly, imagining Campillo's face when Campillo saw Don Jaime appear the following morning with the documents under his arm.

  He considered the possibility of going to the police before visiting Cárceles, but that presented certain problems. It was one thing to arrive with the proof in hand, and quite another to tell a story that might or might not be believed, a story that, moreover, seriously contradicted what he had said in the two interviews he had with Campillo during the day. Besides, he had no idea what Cárceles's intentions were; Cárceles might simply deny everything. He had not even signed the note, and there was no written reference to the matter preoccupying them. No, Don Jaime would obviously have to look for his unfaithful friend first.

  It was then and only then that he came to a realization that made an unpleasant shudder run through him. Whoever was responsible for what was happening had already killed twice and might be prepared, if necessary, to kill again. The idea that Don Jaime too was in danger and that he could be murdered along with the others did not greatly perturb him. To his surprise, this possibility aroused in him more curiosity than fear. Seen from that point of view, things became simpler. It was no longer a case of being involved despite oneself in other people's tragedies. Until now, he had been powerless, and that alone had been the source of his torment and horror. However, if he was likely to be the next victim, then everything was easier. He would no longer have to witness the bloody trail left by the murderers; they would come to him. To
him. His blood beat steadily in his weary veins, ready for the fight. He had spent his life parrying all kinds of thrusts, and the thought of one more did not worry him even if it came from behind. Perhaps Luis de Ayala or Adela de Otero had not remained sufficiently alert; Don Jaime would As he used to say to his students a thrust in tierce could not be carried out with the same ease as a thrust in quarte. And he was very good at parrying thrusts in tierce, and at dealing them.

  He had made his decision. He would go and recover the marquis's documents that very night. With this thought, he went upstairs again, left his walking stick in the umbrella stand, and picked up another, made of mahogany and with a silver handle, heavier than the other stick. He went downstairs carrying it in his hand, distractedly dragging it along the iron bars of the banister. Inside that stick was a foil made of the finest steel, as sharp as any razor.

  HE stopped in the doorway and glanced both ways before venturing out into the shadows that engulfed the deserted street. He walked to the corner of Calle Arenal, and consulted his watch by the light of a street lamp, by the brick wall of the Church of San Ginés. It was twenty minutes to midnight.

  He walked for a while. There was now hardly anyone about. Given the way events were shaping, people had resolved to shut themselves up in their houses, and only the occasional nightbird braved the streets of Madrid, which, in the feeble light of the street lamps, had the appearance of a ghost city. The soldiers on the corner of Calle Postas were wrapped in blankets, asleep on the pavement next to their rifles stacked in a pyramid. A sentinel, his face lost in shadow beneath the peak of his cap, saluted in response to Don Jaime's greeting. Opposite the main post office, a few Civil Guards were watching the building with their hands on the hilts of their sabers and their rifles on their shoulders. At the far end of Carrera de San Jerónimo, a round, reddish moon was rising above the black silhouette of the rooftops.

  He was in luck. A hired carriage passed him on the corner of Alcalá, just when he had despaired of finding one. The coachman was on his way home and accepted him as a passenger only reluctantly. Don Jaime sat back in the seat and gave Cárceles's address, an old building near the Puerta de Toledo. It was only by chance that he knew the place, and he was glad of it. On one occasion, Cárceles had insisted on inviting everyone from the Café Progreso there in order to read them the first and second acts of a play he had written entitled All for One; or, The Sovereign People, a stormy drama in free verse. The first two pages of the play had they ever been performed on stage, would have been enough to consign the author to a good long spell in some prison in Africa, unless the fact that it had been blatantly plagiarized from Lope de Vega's Fuenteovejuna served as an extenuating circumstance.

  Gloomy, deserted streets paraded past outside the carriage window, and the horses' hoofs and the occasional crack of the coachman's whip echoed down them. Don Jaime was thinking how best to behave when he found his friend. The journalist had doubtless discovered something scandalous in the documents and perhaps wanted to make some private use of them. Don Jaime would not allow that, because, among other reasons, he was furious at having been the victim of such an abuse of confidence. But then it occurred to him that Cárceles might not in fact have acted in bad faith by taking the folder; perhaps he had merely wanted to check something against information that he had filed away at home. Don Jaime would soon find out. The carriage had stopped and the coachman was leaning down from the driving seat.

  "Here it is, sir. Calle de la Taberna."

  It was an ill-lit, narrow cul-de-sac that smelled of grime and rancid wine. Don Jaime asked the coachman to wait for half an hour, but the coachman refused, saying it was too late. Don Jaime paid, and the carriage moved off. He walked down the cul-de-sac, trying to identify his friend's place.

  It took him a while, but he found it, remembering that it was in an inner courtyard underneath an archway. Once there, he groped his way up the staircase to the top floor, leaning on the banister, conscious of the wooden stairs creaking beneath his feet. When he was in the inner gallery that ran along the four walls of the courtyard, he took a box of matches out of his pocket and lit one. He hoped he had not got the wrong door, because then he would have to waste time in tiresome explanations; it was certainly not an hour to be waking up the neighbors. He knocked three times with the handle of his stick, then knocked again.

  He waited in vain. He knocked once more and pressed his ear to the door, hoping to hear something. Inside, absolute silence reigned. Perhaps Cárceles wasn't there. But where would he be at this hour? Don Jaime hesitated, uncertain what to do, then knocked more loudly, this time with his fist. Cárceles might be in a deep sleep. Don Jaime listened again. Nothing.

  He stepped back, leaning against the balustrade that ran around the gallery. This meant he could do nothing until the following day. But he had to see Cárceles now or, at least, rescue the documents. For they were, he decided, stolen documents. It was clear that what Cárceles had committed in his house, whatever his motives, was theft pure and simple. The thought infuriated Don Jaime.

  An idea had been going around and around in his head for some time, and he found himself struggling with it: Should he break down the door? And why not? Cárceles had acted in a despicable manner by taking the documents. Don Jaime's case was different. He only wanted to recover what, under the most tragic circumstances, had become his property.

  He went back to the door and knocked again, now with little hope. To hell with being considerate. This time he did not wait for a reply. He felt for the knob, testing it. The door was locked. He struck another match and studied the knob for a long time. Breaking the door down would wake the neighbors. On the other hand, the lock did not seem particularly strong. It was odd, but when he bent down and put his eye to the keyhole, he thought he could see the end of the key, as if the door had been locked from inside. He stood up, wringing his hands with impatience. Perhaps Cárceles was in there after all. Perhaps, guessing who his visitor was, he was refusing to open, hoping to make Don Jaime think he wasn't home. Don Jaime felt his resolution growing by the minute. He would pay Cárceles for any damage caused, but he was determined to go in.

  He looked about him in search of something to help him force the lock. He had no experience of that kind of thing, but he imagined that if he could find something to use as a lever, the door would give way. He walked up and down the gallery, lighting his way with matches cupped in his hand; in vain. He stopped, almost ready to give up. He had only three matches left, and still he had found nothing that would serve as a lever.

  He saw a few rusty iron bars fixed in the wall, like steps. He looked up and saw a trapdoor in the ceiling of the gallery, which no doubt led to the roof. His heart beat faster when he remembered that Cárceles's building had a small terrace to one side; perhaps that was a more practical way in than through the front door. He took off his hat and jacket, gripped his walking stick between his teeth, and climbed up to the trapdoor. It opened easily, and he emerged beneath the star-filled sky. With great care he pulled the rest of his body up and out, feeling for broken tiles. It would be no joke to slip and go crashing down to the ground three floors below. The constant practice of fencing kept him in reasonable shape for his age, but he was no longer a vigorous young man. He decided to move as carefully as he could, looking for solid holds and moving only one limb at a time. In the distance, a clock struck the four quarter hours, and then one. As he crouched on the roof it occurred to him how utterly grotesque this whole thing was, and he was grateful for the cover of darkness, so he would not be seen in such a preposterous position.

  He moved across the roof with infinite caution, careful not to make any noise that might alarm the neighbors. Miraculously, he avoided several loose tiles and found himself leaning over the eaves above the porch outside Cárceles's rooms. Holding on to the gutter, he lowered himself. He waited on the porch for a few moments, in vest and shirtsleeves, his walking stick in his hand, while he recovered his breath. Then he lit anoth
er match and went to the door. It was a glass door with a simple latch that could be worked from the outside. Before opening it, he looked through the glass; the place was in darkness.

  He gritted his teeth and lifted the latch as quietly as he could. He found himself in a narrow kitchen, next to a stove and a sink. The moon filtered its feeble light through the window, allowing him to make out various pots on a table, next to what seemed to be the remains of a meal. He struck his next-to-last match in search of something he could use to light his way and found a candlestick on top of a cupboard. With a sigh of relief, he lit the candle. Roaches scuttled across the floor.

  He went from the kitchen into a short corridor where the wallpaper was peeling off the walls in strips. He was about to draw a curtain to a bedroom when he thought he heard something behind a door to his left. He stopped, listening hard, but could hear only his own rapid breathing. His mouth was dry, his tongue stuck to its roof, and his ears buzzed; he felt as if he were living through some completely unreal scene, a dream from which he could awaken at any moment. Very slowly he pushed open the door.

  It was Cárceles's bedroom, and Cárceles was in there, but Don Jaime, who had several times imagined what he would say to him when he found him, was completely unprepared for the sight that met his eyes. Cárceles was lying face up, completely naked, his hands and feet tied to the four corners of the bed. From chest to thighs, his body was a bloody mass of cuts, made by a razor that lay glinting in the candlelight; the mattress was drenched in blood. But Cárceles wasn't dead. When he saw the light, he moved his head slightly, not recognizing the person in the room and from his lips, swollen with suffering, hoarse cry of animal terror, a guttural, unintelligible plea for mercy.