“Does Ariadna manage to find her parents and save some of those souls?”

“No, unfortunately she doesn’t. But she tries hard. In her own way she’s a heroine, although her flirtations with the Scarlet Prince also turn her slowly into a dark and perverse reflection of herself—a fallen angel, one might say.”

“It sounds like an uplifting story.”

“It is. Tell me, Alicia, is this what you devote your time to? Descending into hell in search of problems?”

“Why would I want to search for problems?”

“Because, as I imagine you’ve already been told by that dimwit Benito in my employ, not long ago an individual who looked like a butcher from the political police came to the bookshop asking questions similar to the ones you’ve asked, and I have a feeling that you two are acquainted with one another.”

“The individual you’re referring to is called Ricardo Lomana, and you’re on the right path.”

“I’m usually on the right path, miss, however thorny it may turn out to be.”

“What exactly did Lomana ask you?”

“He wanted to know whether anyone had recently bought one of Víctor Mataix’s books, either at auction, as a private purchase, or on the international market.”

“Didn’t he ask you any questions about Víctor Mataix?”

“Señor Lomana didn’t strike me as a great reader, but I got the impression that he knew everything he needed to know about Mataix.”

“And what did you say to him?”

“I gave him the address of a collector who for the last seven years has been buying all the copies of The Labyrinth of the Spirits that were not destroyed in 1939.”

“All the Mataix books in the market have been bought by the same person?”

Barceló nodded. “All but yours.”

“And who is this collector?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve just told me you gave Lomana his address.”

“I gave him the address of the lawyer who represents him and carries out all the transactions in his name. His name is Brians—Fernando Brians.”

“Have you spoken to this lawyer Brians, Don Gustavo?”

“I must have spoken to him once or twice, at the most. On the phone. A serious man.”

“About matters connected to Víctor Mataix, Don Gustavo?”

Barceló nodded.

“What can you tell me about Víctor Mataix, Don Gustavo?”

“Very little. I know he often worked as an illustrator, that he’d published various novels with those scoundrels Barrido and Escobillas before he started to work on the Labyrinth books, and that he lived as a recluse in a house on Carretera de las Aguas, between Vallvidrera and the Fabra observatory, because his wife suffered from some strange disease and he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, leave her alone. Not much else. That and the fact that he disappeared in 1939, after the Nacionales entered Barcelona.”

“Where could I find out more about him?”

“It’s difficult. The only person I can think of who could help you is Vilajuana. Sergio Vilajuana, a journalist and writer who knew Mataix. He’s a regular customer at the bookshop and the person who knows most about the subject. I remember hearing someone say that Vilajuana was working on a book about Mataix and the whole doomed generation of Barcelona writers who vanished after the war—”