“Why did he kill Menchu?”

“Perhaps he wasn’t expecting to find her there and eliminated her as an inconvenient witness,” Munoz said. “The move he’d planned might not have been queen takes rook. It’s possible it was all a brilliant improvisation.”

Cesar raised a shocked eyebrow.

“Calling it ‘brilliant’ is a bit much, my dear.”

“Call it what you like. Changing the move like that, on the spur of the moment, coming up with an instant variant appropriate to the situation and placing the card with the corresponding notation next to the body…” The chess player reflected on this. “I had a chance to have a look at it. The note was even typed, on Julia’s Olivetti, according to Feijoo. And there were no fingerprints. Whoever did it acted with great calm, but also with speed and efficiency. Like a machine.”

Julia suddenly remembered Munoz, hours before, while they waited for the police to come, kneeling by Menchu’s corpse, not touching anything and saying nothing, studying the murderer’s visiting card as coolly as if he were sitting before a chessboard at the Capablanca Club.

“I still don’t understand why Menchu opened the door.”

“Because she thought it was Max,” suggested Cesar.

“No,” said Munoz. “He had the key, which we found on the floor when we arrived. She knew it wasn’t Max.”

Cesar sighed, turning the topaz ring round and round on his finger.

“I’m not surprised the police are hanging onto Max for all they’re worth,” he said, sounding demoralised. “There aren’t any other suspects. And at this rate, soon there won’t be any more victims left either. If Senor Munoz continues to stick strictly to his deductive systems, it’s going to end up – I can see it now – with you, my dear Munoz, surrounded by corpses, like the final act of Hamlet, and being forced to the inevitable conclusion: ‘I am the only survivor, therefore, according to strict logic, discounting all impossible suspects, that is, those who are already dead, the murderer must be me…’ and then giving yourself up to the police.”

“That’s not necessarily so,” said Munoz.

“That you’re the murderer? Forgive me, my dear friend, but this conversation is beginning to sound dangerously like a dialogue in a madhouse. I never for one minute thought…”

“I don’t mean that.” The chess player was studying his hands, holding his empty cup. “I’m talking about what you said a moment ago: that there are no more suspects.”

“You don’t mean,” murmured Julia, “that you’ve got someone else in mind?”

Munoz looked at her for a long time. Then he clicked his tongue, put his head a little to one side and said:

“Possibly.”

Julia protested and begged him to explain, but neither she nor Cesar could get a word out of him. Munoz was gazing absently at the empty stretch of table between his hands, as if he could see in the marbled surface the mysterious moves of imaginary chess pieces. From time to time the vague smile, behind which he shielded himself when he preferred not to be drawn into things, would drift across his lips like a fleeting shadow.

“Naturally,” Paco Montegrifo said, “this regrettable incident will not affect our agreement.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. We know you had nothing to do with what happened.”

The director of Claymore’s had gone to visit Julia at the workshop in the Prado, taking advantage, he said when he turned up there unexpectedly, of an interview with the director of the museum with a view to their buying a Zurbaran commended to his company. He’d found her in the middle of injecting an adhesive made from glue and honey into an area of incipient flaking on a triptych attributed to Duccio di Buoninsegna. Julia, who was not in a position to stop what she was doing, greeted Montegrifo with a hurried nod of her head while she pressed the plunger of the syringe to inject the mixture. The auctioneer seemed delighted to have surprised her in flagrante – as he said, at the same time bestowing on her his most brilliant smile. He’d sat down on one of the tables to watch her.

Julia felt uncomfortable and did her best to finish what she was doing quickly. She protected the treated area with water-repellent paper and placed a bag filled with sand on top, taking care to mould it carefully to the surface of the painting.

“A marvellous piece of work,” said Montegrifo, indicating the painting. “About 1300, isn’t it? The Master Buoninsegna, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s right. The museum acquired it a few months ago.” Julia looked critically at the results of her labours. “I’ve had some problems with the gold leaf along the edge of the Virgin’s cloak. In some places it’s been lost completely.”

Montegrifo leaned over the triptych, studying it with a professional eye.

“It’s still a magnificent effort,” he said when he’d finished examining it. “Like all your work.”

“Thank you.”

The auctioneer gave her a look of deepest sympathy.

“Although, naturally,” he said, “there’s no comparison with our dear Flanders panel.”

“Of course not. With all due respect to the Duccio.”

They both smiled. Montegrifo tugged at his immaculate shirt cuffs to ensure that the required inch was showing below the sleeves of his navy blue double-breasted jacket, enough to reveal the gold cuff links bearing his initials. He was wearing a pair of impeccable grey trousers and, despite the rainy weather, his black Italian shoes gleamed.

“Do you have any news of the Van Huys?” Julia asked.

The auctioneer adopted an expression of elegant melancholy.

“Alas, no.” Although the floor was strewn with sawdust, paper and splashes of paint, he made a point of dropping the ash from his cigarette in the ashtray. “But we’re in contact with the police. The Belmonte family have put me in charge of all negotiations.” The look on his face was one that managed simultaneously to praise the owners’ good sense in doing so and regret that they had not done so before. “The paradoxical thing, Julia, is that if The Game of Chess ever does turn up, this whole unfortunate series of events will send the price sky high.”

“I’m sure it will. But, as you said, that’s if it ever does turn up.”

“You don’t seem very optimistic.”

“After what I’ve been through the last few days, I don’t really have much reason to be.”

“I understand. But I have faith in the police investigation. Or in luck.

And if we do manage to recover the painting and put it up for auction, I can assure you it will be a real event.“ He smiled as if he had a marvellous present for her in his pocket. ”Have you read Art and Antiques? They’ve dedicated five colour pages to the story. We’ve had endless phone calls from specialist journalists. And the Financial Times is doing an article on it next week. By the way, some of those journalists asked to be put in touch with you.“

“I don’t want any interviews.”

“That’s a shame, if you don’t mind my saying so. Your reputation is your livelihood. Publicity can only increase your professional standing.”

“Not that kind of publicity. After all, the painting was stolen from my apartment.”

“We’re trying to gloss over that fact. You’re not to blame, and the police report leaves no doubt about that. Everything points to your friend’s boyfriend having handed over the painting to an unknown accomplice. That’s their main line of enquiry. I’m sure it will turn up. It wouldn’t be easy to export a painting as famous as the Van Huys illegally. At least, not in theory.”

“I’m glad you’re so confident. That’s what I call being a good loser. Good sportsmanship, I think they call it. I’d have thought that the theft would have been a real blow to your company.”