The Flanders Panel

“We were perfectly sane, actually, and nothing would have gone wrong. Menchu would have faked some kind of accident, a discarded cigarette, for example. And with the amount of solvents and paint in your apartment… We’d decided that she should stay there until the last minute and then leave, choking on the smoke, hysterical and calling for help. Before the firemen managed to get there, half the building would be in flames.” He made a face of crude apology and regret. “Everyone would assume that the Van Huys had gone up in flames along with everything else. You can imagine the rest. I’d sell the painting in Portugal to a private collector we were already negotiating with… In fact, the day we met in the Rastro, Menchu and I had just seen the middleman. As for the fire, Menchu would have accepted responsibility; but since she was your friend and it was an accident, the charges wouldn’t have been that serious. A charge brought by the owners, perhaps, but nothing more. What delighted her most, she said, was the thought of Montegrifo’s face when he found out.”

Julia, incredulous, shook her head.

“Menchu wasn’t capable of doing something like that.”

“Menchu, like all of us, was capable of anything.”

“God, you’re a bastard, Max.”

“At this stage, what I am isn’t terribly important.” Max’s face took on a look of defeat. “What does matter is that it took me quite a while to bring the car round and park it in your street. The fog was really thick and I couldn’t find a parking place. That’s why I kept looking at my watch; I was worried you might turn up any minute. It must have been about quarter past twelve when I went upstairs again. I didn’t ring. I opened the door with the key. Menchu was in the hall, lying on her back, with her eyes wide open. At first I thought she must have fainted out of sheer nervousness, but when I knelt down by her side I saw the bruise on her throat. She was dead, Julia, and she was still warm. I panicked. I knew that if I called the police, I’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. So I threw the keys on the floor, closed the door and went racing down the stairs. I couldn’t think. I spent the night in a pension, absolutely terrified. I didn’t sleep a wink. Then in the morning, at the airport… Well, you know the rest of the story.”

“Was the painting still in the house when you found Menchu dead?”

“Yes. That was the only thing I noticed apart from her. It was on the sofa, wrapped up in newspaper and tape, just as I’d left it.” He gave a bitter laugh. “But I didn’t have the guts to take it with me. I was in enough trouble already.”

“You say Menchu was in the hall? Yet she was found in the bedroom. Did you see the scarf round her neck?”

“There was no scarf. She had nothing round her neck, and her neck was broken. She’d been killed by a blow to the throat.”

“And the bottle?”

“Don’t you start on about that bloody bottle. All the police keep asking me is why I stuck that bottle up Menchu’s cunt. I swear I don’t know what they’re talking about.” He put what remained of his cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply, nervously, giving Julia a suspicious look. “Menchu was dead, that’s all. Killed by a single blow and nothing else. I didn’t move her. I was only there for about a minute. Someone else must have done that afterwards.”

“Afterwards? When? According to you, the murderer had already left.”

Max frowned, trying to remember.

“I don’t know.” He seemed genuinely confused. “Perhaps he came back later, after I left.” Then he turned pale as if he’d just realised something. “Or perhaps…” Julia saw that his cuffed hands were trembling. “Perhaps he was still there, hidden. Waiting for you.”

They’d decided to share the work. While Julia visited Max and subsequently recounted the story to the Inspector, who listened to her without even trying to disguise his scepticism, Cesar and Munoz made enquiries amongst the neighbours. The three of them met in an old cafe in Calle del Prado in the evening. Max’s story was scrutinised from all angles during a prolonged discussion round the marble table, the ashtray overflowing and the table crowded with empty cups. They leaned towards each other, like conspirators, talking in low voices.

“I believe Max,” concluded Cesar. “What he says makes sense. After all, the story about stealing the painting is just the sort of thing he’d do. And I can’t believe he was capable of doing the rest… The bottle of gin was too much, my dears. Even for a man like him. On the other hand, we know that the woman in the raincoat was also around. Lola Belmonte, Nemesis or whoever she turns out to be.”

“Why not Beatrice of Ostenburg?” asked Julia.

Cesar looked at her reprovingly.

“I find that kind of joke completely uncalled for.” He shifted nervously in his seat, looked at Munoz, whose face was a blank, and then, half-joking, half-serious, held up his hands, as if warding off ghosts. “The woman who was prowling round your building was flesh and blood. At least I hope she was.”