Julia stuck out her lower lip, feeling words burning in her mouth.

“I don’t believe you, Cesar. Not any more.”

“Whether you believe me or not, my dear, doesn’t change a thing.” He made a resigned gesture, as if the conversation were beginning to weary him. “At this stage it really doesn’t matter. What counts is that it wasn’t you, but Max. I heard him saying: ‘Menchu, Menchu’. He was terrified, but he didn’t dare cry out, the villain. I’d calmed down by then. I had a dagger in my pocket, the Cellini you’ve often seen. And if Max had begun sniffing round the rooms, he would have encountered that knife in the most stupid way possible, right in his heart, suddenly, before he could say a word. Luckily for him, and for me, he didn’t have the courage but chose instead to run off. Such a hero.”

He paused and sighed, but not boastfully.

“He owes his life to that, the cretin,” he added, getting up from his chair. Once on his feet, he looked at Julia and Munoz, both of whom were watching him, and wandered round the room, the carpets muffling his footsteps.

“I should have done what Max did and run away as fast as I could, since, for all I knew, the police could have been about to arrive. But what we might call my artistic honour got the better of me, and I dragged Menchu into the bedroom and… well, you know what happened. I rearranged the decor a bit, certain that Max would get the blame. It took five minutes.”

“Why did you have to do that with the bottle? It was completely unnecessary. Disgusting and horrible.”

Cesar tutted. He’d paused before one of the paintings hanging on the waif, Man by Luca Giordano, and was looking at it as if he expected the god, encased in the gleaming metal of his anachronistic medieval armour, to provide an answer.

“The bottle,” he murmured without turning to face them, “was a complementary detail. A final inspirational touch.”

“It had nothing to do with chess,” Julia pointed out, and her voice had the cutting edge of a razor. “More of a settling of accounts… with all women.”

Cesar turned slowly round to her. His eyes this time neither begged indulgence nor hinted at irony; they were, instead, distant, inscrutable.

“Then,” he said at last, in an absent tone and as if he hadn’t heard what Julia had said, “I used your typewriter to type out the next move, picked up the painting wrapped up by Max and left with it under my arm. And that was that.”

He’d been speaking in a neutral voice, as if the conversation was no longer of any interest to him. But Julia was far from considering the matter closed.

“But why kill Menchu? You could come and go in my apartment whenever you wanted. There were a thousand other ways of stealing the painting.”

That comment brought a spark of life back into Cesar’s eyes.

“I see, Princess, that you’re determined to give the theft of the Van Huys an exaggerated importance. In fact, it was just another detail. Throughout this whole affair I did some things simply because they complemented others. The icing on the cake, if you like,” he said, struggling to find the right words. “There were several reasons Menchu had to die: some are irrelevant now and others aren’t. Let’s say they go from the purely aesthetic, and that’s how our friend Munoz made his astonishing discovery of the link between Menchu’s surname and the rook that was taken, to other deeper reasons. I’d organised everything to free you from pernicious ties and influences, to cut your links with the past. Unfortunately for her, Menchu, with her innate stupidity and vulgarity, was one of those links, as was Alvaro.”

“And who gave you the power over life and death?”

Cesar gave a Mephistophelian smile.

“I did, all on my own. And forgive me if that sounds impertinent.” He seemed suddenly to recall the presence of Munoz. “As regards the rest of the game, I didn’t have much time. Munoz was like a bloodhound sniffing out my trail. A few more moves and he would point the finger at me. But I knew our dear friend wouldn’t intervene until he was absolutely certain. On the other hand, he was sure by then that you weren’t in any danger. He’s an artist too, in his way. That’s why he let me continue, while he looked for proofs that would confirm his analytical conclusions. Am I right, friend Munoz?”

Munoz’s only reply was to nod slowly. Cesar had gone over to the small table on which the chess set stood. After observing the pieces for a while, he delicately picked up the white queen, as if it were made of fragile glass, and looked at it for a long time.

“Yesterday evening,” he said, “while you were working in the studio at the Prado, I got to the museum ten minutes before it closed. I hung about in the rooms on the ground floor and planted the card on the Brueghel painting. Then I went to have a coffee to while away the time before I could phone you. That was all. The only thing I couldn’t foresee was that Munoz would dust off that old chess magazine in the club library. I had forgotten its existence.”

“There’s something that doesn’t make sense,” Munoz said suddenly, and Julia turned to him, surprised. He was staring at Cesar with his head on one side, an inquisitive light shining in his eyes; it was the way he looked when he was concentrating on the chessboard, tracking a move that didn’t quite satisfy him. “You’re a brilliant chess player; on that we agree. Or, rather, you have the ability to be one. Nevertheless, I don’t believe you have the ability to play this game the way you did. The combinations were too perfect, inconceivable for someone who hasn’t been near a chessboard in thirty-five years. In chess, what counts is practice and experience. That’s why I’m sure you’ve been lying to us. Either you’ve played a lot during these years, alone, or someone helped you. I hate to wound your vanity, Cesar, but I’m sure you had an accomplice.”

A long dense silence followed these words. Julia was looking at them both, disconcerted, unable to believe what Munoz had said. But just when she was about to shout that it was all utter nonsense, she saw that Cesar, whose face had frozen into an impenetrable mask, had finally arched one ironic eyebrow. The smile that then appeared was a grimace of recognition and admiration. He sighed deeply, crossed his arms and nodded.

“My friend,” he said slowly, dragging out the words, “you deserve to be something more than an obscure weekend chess player in a local club.” He threw out his right hand as if to indicate the presence of someone who’d been there with them all the time, in a shadowy corner of the room. “I do, in fact, have an accomplice, although in this case he can consider himself quite safe from any reprisals on the part of Justice. Would you like to know his name?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“Of course I will, since I don’t believe my betrayal will harm him much.” He smiled, more broadly. “I hope you won’t feel offended, my esteemed friend, that I kept this small source of satisfaction to myself. Believe me, it affords me great pleasure to know that you didn’t find out absolutely everything. Can’t you guess who he is?”

“I can’t, and I’m sure it’s no one I know.”

“You’re right. His name is Alfa PC-1212. He’s a personal computer with a complex chess programme with twenty levels of play. I bought it the day after killing Alvaro.”

For only the second time since she’d known him, Julia saw a look of amazement on Munoz’s face. The light in his eyes had gone out and his mouth hung open in astonishment.

“Haven’t you got anything to say?” asked Cesar, observing him with amused curiosity.

Munoz gave him a long look but didn’t answer. After a while, he looked across at Julia.

“Give me a cigarette, will you,” he said in a dull voice.

She offered him the pack, and he turned it around in his fingers before taking out a cigarette and putting it to his lips. Julia proffered a lit match, and he inhaled the smoke slowly, deeply, filling his lungs. He seemed to be a million miles from there.