The Angst-Ridden Executive by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Page B

you a new pair:
    When all was said and done, there was no reason why the theory propounded by Golden Hammer shouldn’t be right. Four thugs have a girl on the streets. Jauma turns up. They realize that he’s loaded, so they decide to blackmail him. Jauma won’t play ball, so they kill him. But why the knickers? There could only be two reasons for that particular detail. Either it’s a ritual part of things when pimps kill people, or it’s because someone knew Jauma well enough to know that people wouldn’t be surprised to find him with a pair of women’s knickers. Golden Hammer had said that the former was not a possibility, so that left the latter. It was a bit implausible, though, to set him up with a pair of knickers that were completely new. And why was everyone in such a hurry to accept this as the truth?
    ‘There’s someone to see you, boss.’
    Carvalho was plucked out of his reverie by the realization that they were not alone. In the middle of his office stood two long-haired types flashing police badges at him.
    ‘Jose Carvalho?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’ve been sent to ask you a few questions about the murder of Antonio Jauma.’
    Biscuter went to fetch another chair from the bathroom. Cold, blue Formica and metal. Carvalho unobtrusively moved the lever which enabled him to raise the height of his own chair a few inches above those of his interlocutors.
    ‘Are you a private detective?’
    Carvalho handed over his license, but they ignored it.
    ‘In Spain private detectives aren’t supposed to stick their noses into other people’s business, particularly when the police are involved.’
    ‘As far as I knew, the Jauma case was closed.’
    ‘So why are you re-opening it?’
    ‘I’ve been asked by the widow.’
    ‘Our boss has told us to give you a bit of advice, strictly between these four walls. If you find out anything, he expects you to tell us first. Be very careful with anything you find out before we do. A private detective’s license lasts as long as we decide. . .’
    ‘I’m not expecting an Oscar. Or a Nobel Prize either. All I expect is that my client pays me, and obviously as soon as I know anything I’ll tell my client first. Then it’s up to her what she decides to do with the information.’
    Biscuter’s eyes switched to and fro between his boss and the two detectives as if he was watching a game of tennis.
    ‘Watch who you stir up and who you ruffle. They get angry with us, and then we have to cool them out. The boss says you’ve been seeing too many Bond movies.’
    ‘Actually, I fancied myself more as Gregory Peck.’
    ‘We’re not joking, pal. . . ,
    The voice sounded irritated. There was a moment’s silence,
    ‘We’ve tried to keep this pleasant, but don’t think we don’t know who we’re dealing with. You’ve got a very interesting past, and when the chief read your dossier he was kicking himself that you were ever given an investigator’s license in the first place.’
    ‘I knew the nephew of a nephew of the man who was prime minister at the time.’
    ‘When was that?’
    ‘When the glorious General Franco was still alive.’
    That cuts no ice these days.’

The evening paper gave the news that a car with foreign license plates had been found in the river Tordera. The river had been unusually swollen because of the recent rains, and evidently the current had carried the car a few yards downstream. There was no sign of the car’s driver. All that was known was that it was an Avis car, and that it had been hired in Bonn by a Peter Herzen. The strange thing was that there was no sign of luggage in the car either, and it was suggested that, since he was traveling alone, he had kept his traveling bag on the back seat of the car, and that the water had swept it away.
    As night settled on the Ramblas, Carvalho began to register the symptoms that marked the onset of the daily confrontation. The riot squad had begun moving into position, according to the prescribed