The Labyrinth of the Spirits

by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

  “That’s not a priority.”

  “Says who? Excuse me, Alicia, but are we still trying to find Minister Valls while it’s possible that he may still be alive?”

  “The car is a waste of time.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Valls’s. But if it makes you feel better, OK. You win. Let’s follow up on your suggestion.”

  “Thanks.”

  12

  True to his promise, Rovira was waiting in the street, trembling with cold and looking as if he cursed the day he’d been born and all the days that followed. The spook apprentice seemed to have shrunk noticeably overnight. His anxious grimace suggested the start of an ulcer.

  Vargas spotted him before Alicia had pointed him out. “Is that the ace of spies?”

  “That’s him.”

  Rovira looked up when he heard approaching footsteps. He gulped when he saw Vargas and searched for his cigarettes with a shaking hand. Alicia and Vargas hemmed him in, one on either side.

  “I thought you would come alone,” he mumbled, gazing at Alicia.

  “You’re such a romantic, Rovira.”

  He breathed out a sort of nervous laugh. Alicia pulled the cigarette from his mouth and threw it far away.

  “Hey . . . ,” Rovira protested.

  Vargas bent over him slightly, making him shrink, if that were possible, a bit more. “You only speak to the young lady when she asks you something. Is that clear?”

  Rovira nodded.

  “Rovira, this will be your lucky day,” said Alicia. “No more standing around in the cold. You’re off to the cinema. The Capitol matinees begin at ten, and they’re showing a cycle of films with Cheetah the monkey, which you’ll love.”

  “Oscar winning,” Vargas corroborated.

  “I’m sorry, Doña Alicia, but before your colleague breaks my neck, I’d like to ask you, if it’s not too much bother and thanking you in advance for your generosity, whether you could help me a little. I’m not asking for much. Don’t tell me to go to the cinema. I’d love to, but if they find out at headquarters, I’ll be in big trouble. Let me follow you. At a great distance. If you like, you could let me know where you’re going, and that way I’ll be out of your hair. I promise you won’t even see me. But at the end of the day I have to write a report about where I’ve been and what I’ve done, or they’ll boil me alive. You’ve no idea what these people are like. Your colleague can tell you . . .”

  Vargas looked at the poor devil with some sympathy. There seemed to be a wimp like him in every police station, the doormat on which everyone cleaned the mud off their shoes.

  “You tell me what places I can report on and what places I can’t. That way it’s a win-win situation for both. I beg you on my knees . . .”

  Before Alicia could say a word, Vargas pointed at Rovira and took the floor. “Look here, son, you remind me of Charlie Chaplin, and you seem like a nice guy. This is what I propose: you follow us from afar, and I mean from very afar. Something like from the Pyrenees to the Rock of Gibraltar. If I as much as see you, smell you, or even imagine you at less than two hundred meters, you and I will have a face-to-face, and I don’t suppose they’ll think much of you showing up at headquarters after I’ve beaten the shit out of you and they have to pull your head out of your ass.”

  Rovira seemed unable to breathe for a few seconds.

  “Is that understood, or would you like a free sample?” Vargas said.

  “Two hundred meters. Done. Let’s call it two hundred and fifty, and the extra is on the house. Thank you so much for your generosity and understanding. You won’t be sorry. No one will be able to say that Rovira doesn’t keep his word—”

  “Clear off. Just seeing you gets me going,” Vargas grunted in his most unpleasant voice.

  Rovira gave him a quick bow and rushed off. Vargas smiled as he watched him slip away among the crowd.

  “You’re such a softie,” murmured Alicia.

  “And you’re a little angel. Let me call Linares to find out whether they’ll let us go and see the car this morning.”

  “Who is Linares?”

  “One of the real ones. We started out together, and he’s still a good friend. How many people can you say that about after twenty years in the Force?”

  They went back into the café, and Miquel let them use the phone. Vargas called police headquarters on Vía Layetana and launched into a conversational two-step of male camaraderie, foul-mouthed jokes, and studied tough-guy bonding with his pal Linares, eventually getting the go-ahead for checking out the car that was allegedly used by Valls and his driver, gunman, and stooge to travel from Madrid to Barcelona. Alicia followed the conversation as if she was listening to a drawing-room play, enjoying Vargas’s knack of flattering his colleagues and coming up with grand statements that said nothing at all.

  “All solved,” he concluded as he hung up.

  “Are you sure? Haven’t you thought that perhaps this Linares would have liked to know that you’re with me?”

  “Of course. That’s why I didn’t mention it.”

  “And what will you say when they see me?”

  “I’ll say we’re going out together. I don’t know, I’ll think of something.”

  They took a taxi opposite the city hall, setting off just as the traffic on Vía Layetana was beginning to thicken in the tortuous early-morning rush hour. Vargas gazed thoughtfully at the parade of monumental buildings emerging like ships in the morning mist. The taxi driver cast occasional furtive glances in the mirror, probably speculating on the odd couple they made. But soon he was distracted by a sports program on the radio, in which it was furiously debated whether the soccer league was already lost or, on the contrary, there were still reasons to go on living.

  13

  They called it the Museum of Tears.

  The huge pavilion stood in a no-man’s-land between the zoo and the beach. A citadel of factories and hangars spread all around it, their backs to the sea, watched over by a great water tower like a circular castle perched at heaven’s door. The museum was a relic, a ruin spared from the demolition that had swept away almost all the structures built for the 1888 Universal Exhibition. After years of abandonment, the city had given the pavilion to Central Police Headquarters, which had transformed it into a depot and modern-day catacombs. Stuff had been piling up there, forming an endless forensic warehouse: decades of legal reports, evidence material, plunder, confiscated goods, weapons, and all manner of contraptions, notebooks, and other treasures resulting from over seventy years of dust, crime, and punishment in the city of Barcelona.

  The building had a vaulted ceiling not unlike that of the neighboring Estación de Francia. Blades of light fell from its laminated roof, cutting through the darkness and spreading over a tangle of corridors that were hundreds of meters long and even taller than many of the buildings in the central district. A complex system of staircases and footbridges that seemed to dangle from the heights like ghostly stage machinery led to the upper areas, where a nest of documents and objects told the secret history of Barcelona from the closing years of the nineteenth century. During the seven decades of its existence, all kinds of artifacts had become trapped in that limbo, from ancient carriages and motorcars used in crimes to an encyclopedic arsenal of weapons and poisons. The building held enough works of art linked to an inventory of unsolved cases to open several museums. Particularly famous among experts was a collection of stuffed bodies that had been discovered in the basement of a mansion in the San Gervasio neighborhood. The mansion had belonged to a wealthy colonial baron who, in his years of prosperity and glory in Cuba, had developed a predilection for hunting slaves like game. On his return to Europe, he’d left a trail of disappearances among the underclass who frequented the salons and cafés of the Paralelo district, which had never been resolved.

  An entire gallery was devoted to glass bottles in which a varied fauna of permanent tenants floated in yellowish embalming fluid. The palace also boasted an impres
sive armory of daggers, chisels, and other cutting devices that would alarm the most experienced butcher. One of the most famous sections, a securely closed-off pavilion that could only be accessed with permission from the highest authorities, housed materials and documents requisitioned from criminal investigations involving religious and occult matters—an archive said to contain enticing dossiers on members of Barcelona high society in connection with the case of the so-called Lady Vampire of Calle Poniente, as well as correspondence and fees related to the exorcisms performed by the infamous late priest Cinto Verdaguer in an apartment close to Calle Princesa that had never seen the light of day and never would.

  The perpetual residence for such a vast exhibition of misdeeds naturally exudes an aura of malevolence that makes visitors want to get out of there as fast as possible, lest they be trapped inside and end up part of the permanent collection. The Museum of Tears was no exception, and although police records referred to it by its official name, Section Thirteen, its reputation and the ever-expanding accumulation of grisly tales stockpiled inside it had earned it its well-known nickname.

  A fellow who seemed to be the gatekeeper was already waiting at the Section Thirteen entrance when they arrived. A bunch of keys hung from his belt, and his face would have won top prize in a gravedigger competition.

  “That must be Florencio,” said Vargas in a low voice before opening the taxi door. “Let me do the talking.”

  “He’s all yours,” said Alicia.

  They got out of the taxi, and Vargas held out his hand to the guard. “Good morning. Juan Manuel Vargas, from Central Police Headquarters. I spoke to Linares a few minutes ago. He said he was going to call you and let you know I was coming over.”

  Florencio nodded. “Captain Linares didn’t say you were bringing company.”

  “The young lady is my niece Margarita. She’s been kind enough to act as my guide and secretary while I’m in Barcelona for a few days. Didn’t they mention it?”

  Florencio shook his head and looked at Alicia.

  “Margarita, say hello to Florencio. It’s Florencio, right? He’s the authority in Section Thirteen.”

  Alicia stepped forward and timidly held out a hand. Florencio frowned but led them to the main door and invited them in.

  “Have you been here long, Florencio?” asked Vargas.

  “A couple of years. Before that I was in the house for ten years.”

  Vargas looked at him, confused.

  “The dead house—the morgue,” the guard explained. “If you’ll please follow me, what you’re looking for is in pavilion nine. I’ve left it ready for you.”

  What from the outside looked like an old abandoned railway station, inside revealed a gigantic cathedral-like space stretching into infinity. Electrical cables hung in wreaths of lightbulbs that exhaled a golden hue. Florencio guided them through countless galleries peopled with all kinds of gadgets, boxes, and trunks. Alicia sighted an entire collection of stuffed animals and a battalion of mannequins. There were pieces of furniture, bicycles, weapons, paintings, religious statues, and even an eerie enclosure populated exclusively by what looked like automatons from a funfair.

  Florencio must have noticed Alicia’s look of wonder. He drew closer to her and pointed toward what looked like a circus big top. “You wouldn’t believe the things that end up here. There are times when even I don’t believe it.”

  As they penetrated deeper into the mesh of passageways, they noticed a strange litany resembling animal sounds floating in the air. For a moment, Alicia thought she was venturing into a jungle full of tropical birds and prowling wild cats.

  Enjoying the bewilderment on their faces, Florencio let out a childish guffaw. “No, you haven’t both gone mad, even if this is the perfect place for making you go off your rocker. The noise comes from the zoo, which is just behind. You can hear all sorts of creatures from here. Elephants, lions, and cockatoos. At night the panthers start howling—they make your hair stand on end. But the monkeys are the worst. Like people, only without all the fuss. This way, please. We’re almost there . . .”

  The car’s shape was visible under the thin tarpaulin that covered it. Florencio flicked the cover off expertly, then folded it. He’d already set up a couple of spotlights on tripods placed on either side of the vehicle, and now he connected them to an extension hanging from the electrical cables. Two intense yellow beams transformed the car into a shining metal sculpture. Pleased with his set design, Florencio opened all four doors of the car and moved back a few steps with a bow. “There it is.”

  “Do you have the technical report at hand?” asked Vargas.

  Florencio nodded. “It’s in my office. I’ll go and fetch it right now.” He hurried off, seeming to levitate a few centimeters above the floor.

  “You stay on the side of the passenger seat,” Vargas told Alicia.

  “Yes, dear uncle.”

  The first thing Alicia noticed was the smell. She looked up at Vargas, who nodded.

  “Gunpowder.”

  The policeman pointed at the dark stains of dry blood splattered over the passenger seat.

  “It’s not much blood for a bullet wound,” Alicia said, considering. “Perhaps a scratch . . .”

  Vargas shook his head slowly. “A shot inside the car would have produced an exit wound, and the bullet would be embedded in the bodywork, in the seats. Such a small amount of blood probably comes from another wound, perhaps a blade of some sort. Or from a blow.”

  Vargas touched the halo of small marks piercing the back of the seat. “Burned,” he murmured. “The shot was from the inside to the outside.”

  Alicia moved away from the seat and looked for the window handle. When she turned it, a thin line of glass shards showed over the edge. On the floor beneath the window were fragments of pulverized glass.

  “You see?”

  For a few minutes they examined the car from top to bottom, without saying a word. The local police had combed it thoroughly and hadn’t left anything of interest for them, except a wad of old road maps in the glove compartment and a spiral notebook with no covers. Alicia leafed through the pages.

  “Anything there?” asked Vargas.

  “It’s blank.”

  Florencio, who had returned quietly with the technical report, watched them from the shadows. “As clean as a whistle, eh?”

  “Was there anything in the car when they brought it here?”

  Florencio handed them the report. “It was like this when they brought it in.”

  Vargas took the report and began going through the inventory of items.

  “Is this normal?” asked Alicia.

  “Excuse me?” Florencio inquired politely.

  “I was asking whether it was normal that the car was not examined here.”

  “That depends. Usually there is a first inspection at the scene and then a more in-depth one here.”

  “And was there one?”

  “No, not that I know.”

  “Here in the report it says that the car was found on Carretera de las Aguas. Is that road used a lot?” Vargas wanted to know.

  “No. It’s more like a dirt track, a few kilometers long, and it winds around the hillside,” said Florencio. “There’s no real road and no water either, in fact.”

  The explanation was meant for Vargas, but Florencio winked at Alicia as he spoke. She smiled at the joke.

  “The investigators believe the car was abandoned there after the event, but the incident took place somewhere else,” Florencio added.

  “Any idea why?”

  “They found bits of fine gravel in the grooves of the tire treads. Limestone. Not the same sort that covers Carretera de las Aguas.”

  “What might that mean?”

  “If you ask the investigators, they’ll tell you there are dozens of places where that sort of gravel is found.”

  “What if we asked you, Florencio?” said Alicia.

  “A landscaped enclosure. Perhaps a park. It could be th
e entrance patio to a private house.”

  Vargas pointed at the report. “I can see you two have solved the case already,” he interrupted. “But if it’s not too much to ask, could we have a copy?”

  “That is a copy. You can keep it. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “If you would be kind enough to call us a taxi . . .”

  14

  In the cab, Vargas didn’t open his mouth. He kept his eyes fixed on the window, his bad mood spreading like poison in the air.

  Alicia tapped his knee gently. “Cheer up, man. We’re off to Casa Leopoldo.”

  “They’re wasting our time,” he mumbled.

  “That surprises you?”

  He looked at her, fuming.

  She smiled calmly. “Welcome to Barcelona.”

  “I don’t see what you find so funny.”

  Alicia opened her bag and pulled out the notebook she’d found in Valls’s car.

  Vargas sighed. “Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

  “Does it whet your appetite?”

  “Leaving aside the fact that removing official evidence is a serious misdemeanor, all I can see is a notebook with blank pages.”

  Alicia pushed her nail between the rings of the spiral and pulled out a couple of shreds of paper that had gotten trapped inside.

  “So?”

  “Pulled-out pages.”

  “Of great use, I’m sure.”

  Alicia spread the first page of the notebook on the taxi’s windowpane. The sunlight brought out the indentation of lines marked on the paper.

  Vargas leaned over and screwed up his eyes. “Numbers?”

  Alicia nodded. “There are two columns. The first is made up of a sequence of numbers and letters. The second only has numbers. Sequences between five and seven digits. Have a good look.”

  “I can see. And?”

  “The numbers are consecutive. They start with forty thousand three hundred and something and end in forty thousand four hundred and seven or eight.”

  Vargas’s eyes lit up, although a shadow still hovered over his face. “It could be anything,” he said.