Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

Michael himself escorted Nunzio to the closing session of the Congress after a detective captain named Lerida reluctantly released him. When he reached the speakers’ platform, the somber young man said nothing but “Thank you!” This brought cheers as he immediately left the platform.

“We did a good thing,” Michael Vlado told Garib. “I wonder why he isn’t more pleased.”

The tall Rom at his side said simply, “If he is not the Butcher of Seville, someone else is. The real killer has not struck in seven weeks. Now he may kill to implicate Nunzio.”

Michael knew he was right. “I may stay here a few days extra.”

“For what purpose?”

“The latest killing, during Holy Week — does anything about it strike you as odd?”

“That man Juan Diaz? He was killed in the back of the cathedral by one of the masked penitents. Another member of his religious brotherhood was assaulted earlier and his robe and hood were stolen.”

“I must speak with that man. What is his name?”

“I’ll find out,” Garib promised.

The following day, when most of the Gypsy delegates were leaving for home, Michael took a taxi to a house in the north part of the city, on the Avenida de Eduardo Dato. It was a wide, busy street, the main route east to Granada. Michael had phoned first, and Enrique Montoto was waiting for him. He was a slender, pale man in his forties who appeared to be a member of the professional class. A doctor or lawyer, Michael thought, and when he mentioned he was a druggist with a shop near the center of the city it was only a slight surprise.

“I want to ask you about the killing of your friend Juan Diaz,” Michael said.

The slender man nodded. “It was terrible. I’d known Juan Diaz most of my life.”

“The killer assaulted you first?”

A nod. “We’d brought our robes and hoods to the church hall because we’d be marching from St. Quiteria’s to the downtown cathedral.” He spoke quickly, in Spanish, but Michael had no trouble understanding him.

“That is where you were attacked?”

The man nodded. “I was alone in the changing room and I’d just donned my robe and hood when I heard someone else enter. I could only see straight ahead through the hood’s eyeholes so I started to turn to see who it was. There was a blow to the side of my head and I remember nothing else until I came to in a closet about an hour later. By that time, Juan Diaz was dead.”

Michael knew the rest of it. The killer had discarded the robe and hood after stabbing Juan Diaz at the cathedral, then mingled with the crowd of worshipers and escaped. “Did Juan Diaz have any enemies?” he asked the druggist.

“No one. These killings are the random acts of a madman.”

“They say he argued with that Gypsy the police were holding.”

“I know nothing of that. I saw him mainly at church services and meetings of the confraternity.”

“What are these brotherhoods? Why do the members hide their faces with hoods?”

“It is an act of penance during Holy Week and at certain other times of the year. Tomorrow, for instance, is the feast day of our patron saint, St. Quiteria. The brotherhood will be present at the High Mass. Our robes and hoods date back hundreds of years. In some parts of the Christian world penitents still scourge themselves and hang from crosses.”

“Do you know the Gypsy who was accused?”

“No. I think the case against him was very weak.”

“And the earlier victims? Was there any connection between Juan Diaz and the woman tourist, or the old Gypsy?”

“Nothing that I know of.”

Michael was frustrated but he tried one more question. “Do you remember anything from the moment you were hit?”

“Nothing.”

“Try! A sound, a smell, anything—”

Montoto opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

“What is it?”

“There was something. It just came back to me now. It was a faint spicy odor. I caught a whiff of it just before I was hit.”

“Thank you, Mr. Montoto. That could be of help.”

Michael Vlado returned to his hotel. He half expected to find the handsome Garib awaiting him in the lobby, but the local Gypsy was nowhere in sight. It was while he was scanning the lobby chairs and sofas that he happened to glimpse the young woman who appeared to have been eavesdropping on his initial conversation with Garib. He circled around the lobby once, and when he was sure she was watching him he approached her.

“My name is Michael Vlado,” he said quietly. “Can I be of help?”

“I—” She stumbled for something to say. “You must be mistaking me for someone else. I’m waiting for a friend.” Her dark hair and brown eyes gave her a Mediterranean look although her voice carried the trace of a British accent.

“You’ve been waiting a long time. I saw you watching me at the atrium the other day.”

She closed her eyes for an instant and blushed like a child caught in the candy box. “You’re very observant, Mr. Vlado.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Samantha Mercer. The Butcher’s first victim was my mother.”