Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Flanders Panel

Julia closed her eyes. Cesar left his final words floating in the air and had retreated into silence. When, ashamed and embarrassed, she’d gathered enough courage to look at him again, he gave a dismissive shrug, as if what he was about to say was not his responsibility.

“With those words, Princess, Alvaro signed his death warrant. He went on smoking in the chair opposite me but, in fact, he was already dead. Not because of what he’d said – after all, his opinion was as valid as anyone else’s – but because of what it revealed to me about myself. It was as if he’d pulled back a curtain which, for years, had separated me from reality. Perhaps because it confirmed ideas that I’d kept locked away in the darkest corner of my mind, never allowing myself to cast the light of reason and logic on them.”

He stopped, as if he’d lost the thread of what he was saying and looked hesitantly at Julia and at Munoz. At last, with an ambiguous smile, simultaneously perverse and shy, he raised his glass to his lips to take a sip of gin.

“I had a sudden inspiration. And then, wonder of wonders, a complete plan revealed itself, just the way it happens in fairy tales. Each and every one of the pieces that had been floating randomly about found its exact place, its precise meaning. Alvaro, you, me, the painting. It fitted in too with my shadow side, with all the distant echoes, the forgotten feelings, the dormant passions. In those few seconds everything was laid out before me, like a giant chessboard on which each person, each idea, each situation found its corresponding symbol in a chess piece, found its exact place in time and space. That was a Game with a capital G, the great game of my life. And of yours. Because it was all there, Princess: chess, adventure, love, life and death. And at the end of it, there you stood, free of everything and everyone, beautiful and perfect, reflected in the bright mirror of maturity. You had to play chess, Julia; that much was certain. You had to kill us all in order, at last, to be free.”

“Good God.”

Cesar shook his head.

“God has nothing to do with it. I can assure you that when I went over to Alvaro and struck him on the back of the neck with the obsidian ashtray that was on the table, I no longer hated him. That was nothing but a rather unsavoury part of the plan. Irritating but necessary.”

He studied his right hand with some curiosity. He seemed to be weighing the capacity to inflict death contained in his long, pale fingers with their manicured nails, which at that moment were holding, with elegant indolence, his glass of gin.

“He dropped like a stone,” he concluded in an objective tone, once he’d finished examining his hands. “He fell without even a groan, with his pipe still clenched between his teeth. Once he was on the floor, I made sure he was well and truly dead with another blow, rather better judged. After all, if a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well. The rest you know already: the shower and everything else were just artistic touches. Brouillez les pistes, Arsene Lupin used to say. Although Menchu, God rest her, would doubtless have attributed the saying to Coco Chanel. Poor thing.” He drank a sip of gin to Menchu’s memory. “Anyway, I wiped my fingerprints off with a handkerchief and took the ashtray with me, just in case, throwing it into a rubbish bin some miles away. I know I shouldn’t say so, Princess, but for a novice’s my mind worked in an admirably criminal way. Before leaving, I picked up the report on the painting that Alvaro had intended delivering to you, and I typed the address on an envelope.”

“You also picked up a handful of his white index cards.”

“No, I didn’t actually. That was an ingenious touch, but it only occurred to me later. There was no way I could go back for them, so I bought some identical cards in a stationer’s. But first I had to plan the game; each move had to be perfect. What I did do, was to make sure that you got the report. It was vital that you knew everything there was to know about the painting.”

“So you resorted to the woman in the raincoat.”

“Yes. And here I must make a confession. I’ve never gone in for cross-dressing, it doesn’t interest me in the least. Sometimes, especially when I was young, I used to dress up just for fun, as if it was Carnival time. But I always did it alone, in front of the mirror.” Cesar’s face wore the roguish, self-indulgent look of someone evoking pleasant memories. “When it came to getting the envelope to you, I thought it would be amusing to repeat the experience. A whim really, a sort of challenge, if you want to think of it in more heroic terms. To see if I was capable of deceiving people by playing at telling a kind of truth or a part of it. So I went shopping. A distinguished-looking gentleman buying a raincoat, a handbag, low-heeled shoes, a blond wig, stockings and a dress doesn’t arouse suspicion if he does it in the right way, in one of those big department stores full of people. The rest was achieved by a good shave and some make-up, which, I confess without embarrassment now, I did already have. Nothing over the top, of course. Just a discreet touch of colour. No one suspected a thing at the courier’s. And I must say I found it an amusing experience… instructive, too.”

He gave a long, studiedly melancholy sigh. Then his face clouded over.

“In fact,” he added, and his tone was less frivolous now, “that was what you could call the playful part of the affair.” He gave Julia an intense look, as if he were choosing his words carefully for the benefit of a more serious and invisible audience, on whom he believed it important to make a good impression. “The really difficult bit came next. I had to guide you both towards solving the mystery, that was the first part of the game, and towards the second part, which was much more dangerous and complicated. The problem lay in the fact that, officially, I didn’t play chess. We had to progress together in our investigation of the painting, but my hands were tied when it came to helping you. It was horrible. I couldn’t play against myself either; I needed an opponent, someone of stature. So I had no alternative but to find a Virgil to guide you on the adventure. He was the last piece I needed to place on the board.”

He finished his drink and put the glass on the table. Then he dabbed carefully at his lips with a silk handkerchief he drew from the sleeve of his dressing gown. At last he looked across at Munoz and gave him a friendly smile.

“That was when, after due consultation with my neighbour Senor Cifuentes, the director of the Capablanca Club, I decided to choose you, my friend.”

Munoz nodded, just once. If he had any thoughts on that dubious honour, he refrained from voicing them.

“You never doubted that I would win, did you?” he said in a low voice.

Cesar doffed an imaginary hat, in ironic salute.

“No, never,” he agreed. “Quite apart from your talent as a chess player, which was apparent the moment I saw you in front of the Van Huys, I was prepared, my dear, to provide you with a series of juicy clues, which, if correctly interpreted, would lead you to uncover the second enigma: the identity of the mystery player.” He gave a satisfied click of his tongue, as if savouring some delicious morsel. “I must admit you impressed me. To be honest, you still do. It’s that way you have, so peculiar to you, of analysing each and every move, of gradually discounting all the unlikely hypotheses. I can only describe it as masterly.”

“I’m overwhelmed,” remarked Munoz expressionlessly, and Julia couldn’t tell if his words were intended sincerely or ironically.

Cesar threw back his head and gave a silent, theatrical laugh of pleasure.