by Andrés Vidal
“We need to proceed carefully. You never know what you’re going to find when you enter a place you’ve never been,” Murillo whispered. He was approximately forty years old, but with a childish face. A threadbare corduroy jacket covered his slight torso.
“You assured me there wasn’t any danger …”
“And there’s not, but we need to be careful all the same.”
“Fine.” Quiles’s enormous mouth closed into a thin crack under his pointed nose.
They looked left and right, making sure the street was empty. Murillo moved on toward the door and pulled out a ring of lock picks. Quiles made sure no one passed by. They had left the watchman unconscious with a blow to the head and had laid him out in a distant doorway. They only hoped there were no neighbors up late who might surprise them. With a bit of forcing, the lock gave. They pushed the metal door, which gave off a soft creak. Then they entered and closed the door carefully.
There was no lock that could resist Murillo. He knew all the brands of safes, all the armored doors, and he had never failed in opening any of them. In the Jufresa workshop, the safe was a Padrós, with a numeric code and hydraulic lock. But that didn’t represent any serious difficulty.
“Duck! Fast!” Murillo exclaimed, muffling his voice as soon as they’d gone in.
In the back of the room they could see the light of a desk lamp. They began to crawl past the tables and chairs in the workshop. They had made it halfway across the rows of worktables that divided the room when they made out an old jewelry maker bent over one, at the end of one row in the opposite corner. Luckily, he had his back turned. With Murillo in front and Quiles behind, they made a sign and crouched between the tables. They waited a few minutes in silence, making sure the old man hadn’t noticed their presence. Quiles then motioned toward the exit, to abort the mission, but Murillo ignored him and took a blackjack from the back pocket of his pants. Surprised, Quiles’s big eyes opened wider. He knew there was no turning back.
Murillo began to advance in the direction of the light where the artisan was working, stepping softly to avoid any noise and carefully maneuvering around the furnishings. His frail body and long neck gave him the look of a nervous lizard. Quiles turned back toward the exit, as if in doubt, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Then he followed Murillo.
The old man suddenly got up from his chair and the two thieves stayed there paralyzed. Quiles was breathing nervously, but Murillo simply waited defiantly, without letting any detail slip by him. For a moment, the worker left the lighted area around the lamp and Murillo leaped backward like a spring out of the aisle where the man was walking. Curled up at the foot of a table, Quiles lowered his head and prayed not to be discovered. When he looked up, he saw Murillo staring at him. He lowered his eyes, intimidated by his coconspirator.
In the back, the old man had returned to his chair with something in his hand, and he went on with his work beneath the blinding light of the desk lamp. Murillo began to rise up slowly; he was right behind the old man and moved up on him silently. He had the blackjack in his hand and nothing but determination in his eyes. In the midst of the absolute silence, the blackjack came down, and just before it landed on the old man’s head, he turned, frightened, and managed to leap out of its way, pushing Murillo and knocking him back. Then the man ran to the exit, pleading repeatedly for help. Quiles, timid, had stayed farther behind and now didn’t know what to do. When the old man passed by him, he stuck out one foot, tripped the man, and brought him down. The old man hit his head against one of the tables and fell to the floor like a sack of bricks, lain out and unconscious.
Quiles sat up from his hiding place and looked down at the unconscious body. Murillo came up to him, and without wasting words, gave the victim two more strikes to the head.
“That’ll win us more time, just in case,” he said, no longer afraid of being heard. Then he added, “Now, first things first.”
He hid the blackjack in his pants and turned to the office, where he knew the safe would be found. Quiles stayed by the body a few minutes more, watching it as if it might rise up at any moment. But the man remained immobile.
When he had waited long enough, he went over to Murillo. The safe was already open.
“Fill it,” he ordered Quiles, passing him a sack.
The latter obeyed without opening his mouth, grabbing cash, precious metals, and jewels from inside the safe. When it was empty, they both walked around randomly through the workshop, opening drawers, disarranging the desks and even turning them over, opening boxes and scattering tools. Whenever they saw something glimmer, they swooped down on it like two frantic ravens.
When they made it back to the body, Quiles stopped again. Murillo struck him in the back.
“Quiles, you imbecile!” he shouted. “Get it together.”
Quiles looked up with a stupefied expression. He ignored him and bent down. The old man’s hand seemed to still be holding something. Quiles turned it over and pulled out what was inside: a piece of white gold shaped like three cypresses joined by a red cross under the tallest one in the center. The thief stood up and bit down on the object to check its authenticity. He looked at the exit, where Murillo was already leaving, and put the jewel in his coat pocket.
“This is for me. For my troubles,” he muttered. And he walked out calmly, leaving Francesc Jufresa alone, abandoned in the darkness of his beloved workshop.
CHAPTER 42
The next morning, very early, Dimas got out of the streetcar in San Gervasio. The sun could be detected faintly on the other side of the sea, brightening up a speck of the nocturnal sky. The workers were heading toward the factories, dragging their feet mechanically; the watchmen were headed home, their services no longer needed; the lamplighters continued making their rounds, snuffing out one light after another, while everything around them began to stretch out and shake off the dew of the night.
When he arrived at the Jufresa mansion and knocked, no one let him in, so he remained outside kicking the ground to warm his feet and kill time, ignoring his irritation.
Ferran appeared before him with a serious expression, in his dark coat, with his hat pressed down, and went directly to the car. They greeted each other coldly and Dimas followed him. On the way to the workshop, they exchanged not a single word, which Dimas found strange. The day before, he had avoided going to terrorize the residents of Campo del Arpa and he expected some kind of comment about that. But Ferran was taciturn, distracted.
Dimas parked in his usual space and they got out of the car. Both walked toward the entrance. When Ferran went to open the door, he stopped, frozen, with the key in his hand. Dimas came over and understood what had happened: the door was hanging open. In a low voice, he said to his boss, “Maybe we should get the police. … It’s possible that whoever did this might still be in there …”
His cheeks flushed with fury, Ferran replied angrily, “Earn your salary for once, Navarro! Hopefully they are in there and we can give them what they deserve!” With that, Ferran kicked the door open violently. He hadn’t been ready for the workshop’s appearance. “Sons of fucking bitches!” he shouted in a guttural voice.
On the floor lay scraps of material, plans, and invoices, things that the thieves would have had no use for. Ferran ran immediately back to his office. The door of the safe was open and nothing remained inside.
“Shit!” he cursed. “They’ve stolen everything …” His voice began to crack.
He took off his hat and left it on one of the tables. With both hands, he pulled at his hair. He rubbed his eyes, his lips. … He seemed to be trying to awaken from a bad dream.
“This is all I needed …”
Dimas was well aware Ferran was going through rough times. The sunken shipment of cellulose, the fight with the Antichs, the delay on the work on the Ensanche …
“I’m going to call the police and find the logbook for
the safe to turn in to them,” Dimas said.
Ferran nodded while he walked forlorn around the workshop. Dimas went into his office and looked for the book where they wrote down every day what was deposited in the safe for when they needed to audit. From the back of the studio, he could hear Ferran moving tables and cursing. He was clearly eaten alive by frustration.
“Nooo! Dimas, quick! Get a doctor!”
He ran quickly from the office, leaving the book aside. He saw Ferran in one corner, backing away, his face suffused with dread. He was pale, and his eyes were bulging from their sockets. Dimas ran up to him and followed his gaze to see where he was looking. Then he saw the body of Francesc Jufresa on the ground, facedown; a thin thread of blood was draining from one ear. He looked at Ferran and saw how he was shaking his head, unable to close his mouth. Dimas knelt down and touched the patriarch’s neck with his fingers, feeling for a pulse. He couldn’t find one.
Around seven o’ clock, the police took over the crime scene. They grouped together the workers who were arriving one by one and waved away the onlookers who were gathering in the street. The watchman was there too, standing by the doorway, still stunned. He offered excuses to anyone who would listen: in all his years on the job, nothing like this had ever happened. Sad times we’re living through, he said.
Inside, Ferran, completely helpless, stewed silently. After the first moments of disorientation, he had flown into a frenzy. When the police arrived, he told them to get his father out of there, to do whatever was possible to get him to a hospital, home, or some bed where he could be cleaned up and treated with the respect he deserved. “My father’s dead,” he repeated over and over, as if he had to give words to a situation he didn’t understand. But it was impossible; they had to wait for a judge’s order to move the body.
Dimas stayed faithfully by his side. He tried to look calm, but inside he was torn apart. The image of that good man thrown to the ground like a piece of trash was horrible. He couldn’t stop thinking how when death arrives with its sickle to carry off its victims, it doesn’t distinguish between rich or poor, upper class or humble; before death, everyone was equal.
And then his thoughts turned to Laura. She must not know anything. Just imagining how she would react when they told her, her enormous suffering on finding out that her father, the person she loved most in the world, was gone—he wanted to leave and run to her side to offer his shoulder to cry on, and for those tears to bring whatever relief they could to her profound sorrow.
As the investigation progressed, while the workers filtered into the workshop as on any other Friday, the agents told them what had occurred. They had already notified everyone they would be interrogated without exception. From the office, Dimas could see their expressions, which varied from surprise and incredulity to rage. The death of Francesc, especially for the more veteran workers, was a dreadful, baffling blow.
Ferran, his eyes red and his face desolate, got up suddenly from his seat.
“This is enough, I want to get out of here.”
At that moment, Esteban Bragado entered the office in his overcoat and hat. A damp gust seemed to enter the room with him, taking it over. Ferran gave him a look that seemed strange: Was it reproach, because the police had allowed such a thing to happen, or helplessness, asking for help that was too long in coming? The chief of police’s face was vaguely stoic—the same face he used to give consolation to the widows of fallen comrades.
“My sympathies. It’s a terrible loss,” he said. Then he looked over to Dimas, eyeing him up and down without speaking.
“Yeah,” Ferran replied between clenched teeth. “Now that you’re here, I want to go give the news to my family.”
Ferran’s tone with the policeman was surly.
“Of course, Ferran. You should be with them at this difficult time. I will personally be in charge of the investigation.”
Ferran put on his hat and coat and prepared to leave.
“A moment,” the policeman interrupted, his eyes bearing down on Dimas. “We have to take a statement from all the workers.”
“You can’t do it later?” Ferran asked, exasperated.
Bragado shook his head, and Dimas could tell by his face the effort it was taking for him not to explode. Ferran was treating him like a lackey and not like the chief of police of Barcelona. Maybe out of friendship or because of the trauma Ferran was living through, Bragado said nothing. He just insisted, in a sympathetic voice, that they would need to take Dimas’s statement; he too might have valuable information.
“Fine, fine, I’ll wait ’til you’re done. But do it outside. I want to be alone.”
While Ferran sat back down, Bragado opened the door to the office and jerked his head to one side to indicate that Dimas should accompany him. After glancing around the workshop, taking stock of the various men walking from one end to the other, he chose a table and had the young man sit down. Though only fleetingly, Dimas couldn’t help but look over at the place where the corpse of Francesc Jufresa lay. He couldn’t believe that this was really happening. He sighed and looked at the inspector, who took a pen and a small notebook from the inner pocket of his trench coat. With exasperating slowness, Bragado flipped through the pages until he found a clean one. He tried the pen to be sure it worked well, then looked at the hour on his watch and wrote it down. Then, without even looking up, he began to ask basic questions: full name, place of birth, current residence. … The scratching of the pen on the paper that followed each of the questions began to irritate Dimas.
“What time did you arrive at the workshop?”
“Between six and seven, I don’t remember the exact time, but I came with Ferran Jufresa. I was driving.”
Bragado nodded and wrote it down.
“What did you do last night?”
Dimas was surprised by the question. He responded nervously, “Well … I was at home, sleeping. Today I had to get up early to go to the Jufresas’ mansion.”
Bragado’s tiny eyes looked up from the paper and fastened onto Dimas like two claws grabbing hold of their prey, without blinking.
“Do you have witnesses who can corroborate that?”
Dimas couldn’t believe what the policeman was insinuating. He would need to tread with caution. For some reason he couldn’t quite grasp, the man was doubting the truth of his responses and considering him a possible suspect in the robbery and murder of Francesc Jufresa. Dimas could see that as clearly as if it were right in front of his face. With as much confidence as he was capable of, he said, “My father and my brother live in the apartment upstairs; I had dinner with them.”
“Sure,” Bragado responded. “So, if I understand correctly, there is no one who can testify to your whereabouts in the time between dinner and this morning, is that correct?”
Rage began to boil in Dimas’s stomach, inflaming him like a poison. When he was on the verge of giving a piece of his mind, the policeman intercepted him.
“They’re routine questions, don’t be alarmed.” Dimas lowered his head. “So, there are no witnesses who can testify as to your whereabouts during that period, correct?” Bragado concluded.
“No, I have none.”
The policeman took his time to write down this information. Then he looked at Dimas, scrutinizing him in what seemed like an eternal silence.
“What is your relationship with the Jufresas?”
Dimas couldn’t bear it anymore. “You know perfectly well. I work for Ferran Jufresa. I don’t understand what these questions are about. …”
As if he hadn’t heard a single word, Bragado proceeded.
“Would you consider your relation with Ferran Jufresa a good one?”
“Our relationship is employer and employee, so in that sense, yes, it’s good,” Dimas said, getting impatient.
“But I myself was witness to how you rebelled against your boss, refusin
g to fulfill a direct order not even—”
Dimas leaned forward in his seat, approached Bragado menacingly and interrupted him. “At no moment did I refuse to fulfill anything,” he said between clenched teeth.
Suddenly Ferran emerged from the door of his office.
“Are you done yet?”
Bragado nodded, circumspect, and turned to Dimas to dismiss him.
“Try not to leave the city in the upcoming days. I may need to talk to you again.”
Dimas got up without answering. He was enraged by what the inspector had just insinuated. Bragado had gone too far with his hypotheses, but he was a powerful man and it was foolish to have him as an enemy.
Dimas and Ferran made a path through the officers and workers who were walking from one side to the other and left the workshop.
The trip in the car was silent once more. On the return trip to the mansion, the stupor and sorrow replaced the deliberate reserve both men had shown on their way there. Through the windshield, Dimas looked at the streets that he had traveled over so many times, and they seemed different to him. Everything had changed in those few hours between the two drives. It even seemed offensive to him that no one else seemed to notice, that everyone went on with their daily rounds, that no one was a participant in the pain that was swallowing the Jufresa family. He couldn’t stand their indifference to the death of Francesc Jufresa. How could Bragado even think … He was frightened to think of what role the police would play in all this. Dimas was certain of his innocence, but he knew that nothing, absolutely nothing, not even the truth, would stop Esteban Bragado in his tracks.
Dimas stopped the car in front of the house. Ferran sat motionless for a moment before getting out. Maybe he was gathering his strength to give the terrible news to his mother and siblings. For that brief moment, Dimas thought Ferran might let him in. But it wasn’t to be.
