“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.

“I must say,” he added with an ambivalent, almost coquettish look on his face, “that the feeling of being gradually cornered by you became genuinely exciting, really. Something… almost physical, if you’ll allow me that word. Although, admittedly, you’re not exactly my type.” He remained absorbed in thought for a few moments, as if trying to decide exactly how best to categorise Munoz, but then appeared to abandon the attempt. “With the final moves I realised that I was becoming the only possible suspect. And you knew that I knew… I don’t think I’d be wrong in saying that it was from that moment that we began to draw closer to each other. Wouldn’t you agree? The night we spent sitting on a bench opposite Julia’s building, keeping watch with the aid of my flask of cognac, we had a long conversation about the psychological characteristics of the murderer. By then, you were almost sure I was your opponent. I listened with rapt attention as you explained, in response to my questions, the relationship of the known hypotheses on the pathology of chess. Except one, of course. One that you didn’t mention until today but which, nevertheless, you were perfectly aware of. You know which one I mean.”

Munoz nodded, a calm, affirmative gesture. Cesar pointed at Julia.

“You and I know, but she doesn’t. Or at least not everything. We should explain it to her.”

Julia looked at Cesar.

“Yes,” she said, feeling tired and irritated with both of them. “Perhaps you’d better explain what you’re talking about, because I’m beginning to get thoroughly fed up with all this bloody matiness.”

Munoz kept his eyes fixed on Cesar.

“The mathematical aspect of chess,” he replied, unaffected by Julia’s ill humour, “gives the game a very particular character, something that specialists would define as anal sadistic. You know what I mean: chess as a silent battle between two men, evocative of terms such as aggression, narcissism, masturbation… and homosexuality. Winning equals conquering the dominant father or mother, placing oneself above them. Losing equals defeat, submission.”

Cesar raised one finger, demanding attention.

“Unless, of course,” he pointed out politely, “that is the real victory.”

“Yes,” said Munoz. “Unless victory consists precisely in demonstrating the paradox: inflicting defeat upon oneself.” He looked at Julia for a moment. “You were right in what you said to Belmonte: the game, like the painting, was accusing itself.”

Cesar gave him a surprised, almost joyful, look.

“Bravo,” he said. “Immortalising oneself in one’s own defeat; isn’t that it? Like old Socrates when he drank the hemlock.” He turned towards Julia with a triumphant air. “Our dear friend Munoz knew all this days ago, Princess, but didn’t say a word to anyone, not even to you or me. Finding myself conspicuous by my absence in my opponent’s calculations, I modestly assumed that he must be on the right track. In fact, once he’d talked to the Belmontes and could finally discount them as suspects, he had no further doubts about the identity of the enemy. Am I right?”