An entire gallery was devoted to glass bottles in which a varied fauna of permanent tenants floated in yellowish embalming fluid. The palace also boasted an impressive armory of daggers, chisels, and other cutting devices that would alarm the most experienced butcher. One of the most famous sections, a securely closed-off pavilion that could only be accessed with permission from the highest authorities, housed materials and documents requisitioned from criminal investigations involving religious and occult matters—an archive said to contain enticing dossiers on members of Barcelona high society in connection with the case of the so-called Lady Vampire of Calle Poniente, as well as correspondence and fees related to the exorcisms performed by the infamous late priest Cinto Verdaguer in an apartment close to Calle Princesa that had never seen the light of day and never would.

The perpetual residence for such a vast exhibition of misdeeds naturally exudes an aura of malevolence that makes visitors want to get out of there as fast as possible, lest they be trapped inside and end up part of the permanent collection. The Museum of Tears was no exception, and although police records referred to it by its official name, Section Thirteen, its reputation and the ever-expanding accumulation of grisly tales stockpiled inside it had earned it its well-known nickname.

A fellow who seemed to be the gatekeeper was already waiting at the Section Thirteen entrance when they arrived. A bunch of keys hung from his belt, and his face would have won top prize in a gravedigger competition.

“That must be Florencio,” said Vargas in a low voice before opening the taxi door. “Let me do the talking.”

“He’s all yours,” said Alicia.

They got out of the taxi, and Vargas held out his hand to the guard. “Good morning. Juan Manuel Vargas, from Central Police Headquarters. I spoke to Linares a few minutes ago. He said he was going to call you and let you know I was coming over.”

Florencio nodded. “Captain Linares didn’t say you were bringing company.”

“The young lady is my niece Margarita. She’s been kind enough to act as my guide and secretary while I’m in Barcelona for a few days. Didn’t they mention it?”

Florencio shook his head and looked at Alicia.

“Margarita, say hello to Florencio. It’s Florencio, right? He’s the authority in Section Thirteen.”

Alicia stepped forward and timidly held out a hand. Florencio frowned but led them to the main door and invited them in.

“Have you been here long, Florencio?” asked Vargas.

“A couple of years. Before that I was in the house for ten years.”

Vargas looked at him, confused.

“The dead house—the morgue,” the guard explained. “If you’ll please follow me, what you’re looking for is in pavilion nine. I’ve left it ready for you.”

What from the outside looked like an old abandoned railway station, inside revealed a gigantic cathedral-like space stretching into infinity. Electrical cables hung in wreaths of lightbulbs that exhaled a golden hue. Florencio guided them through countless galleries peopled with all kinds of gadgets, boxes, and trunks. Alicia sighted an entire collection of stuffed animals and a battalion of mannequins. There were pieces of furniture, bicycles, weapons, paintings, religious statues, and even an eerie enclosure populated exclusively by what looked like automatons from a funfair.