“What can I do for you?” Brians asked, sitting down on a corner of the desk and looking at them with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Perhaps he had a soft spot for lost causes, but he seemed to be nobody’s fool.

Vargas spoke first, pointing to Alicia. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll let my wife explain our case to you. She’s the one in charge.”

“As you wish.”

“Shall I take notes, Don Fernando?” asked Puri, who was watching the scene from the doorway.

“There won’t be any need. You’d better go and keep an eye on the movers. They’re blocking the street with boxes, and the van won’t be able to get through.”

Puri nodded, disappointed, and went off on her mission.

“You were saying?” said Brians, picking up where they’d left off. “Or your wife was, who is the one in charge . . .”

His slightly steely tone made Alicia wonder whether Gustavo Barceló, the bookseller she’d spoken to in the Equestrian Club, had warned the lawyer about her possible visit. “Señor Brians,” she began, “an aunt of my husband Jaime has recently died and left us a collection of works of art, as well as a library of extremely valuable books.”

“My condolences. Do you perhaps need help with executing the will, or—”

“The reason why we’ve come to see you is that among the books in this collection, there is one by an author named Víctor Mataix. It’s part of a series of novels published in Barcelona in the thirties—”

“The Labyrinth of the Spirits,” said Brians, finishing the sentence.

“Precisely. We’ve been told that you represent a collector who is very interested in acquiring all extant copies by this author, and that’s why we thought it would be a good idea—”

“I see,” said Brians, abandoning the corner of his desk and taking shelter in the armchair.

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to put us in touch with your client, or, if you prefer, give us his details so that we can—”

Brians was nodding, more to himself than to Alicia’s suggestions. “Unfortunately, I can’t do that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t give you that information, or put you in touch with my client.”

Alicia gave him a conciliatory smile. “And may I ask why?”

“Because I don’t know him.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Brians sat back in his armchair and linked his hands over his chest, rubbing his thumbs together. “My relationship with this client has been conducted strictly by correspondence through a secretary. I’ve never seen him in person, nor do I know his name. As usually happens with some collectors, he prefers to remain anonymous.”

“Even with his own lawyer?”

Brians smiled stiffly and shrugged.

“So long as he pays the bill, right?” Vargas ventured.

“Well, if you’re in touch by letter with his secretary, you will at least have an address where you can write to him,” Alicia suggested.

“It’s a PO box whose number, needless to say, I cannot give you for reasons of confidentiality. Just as I can’t give you the name of his secretary, since I’m not authorized to divulge any information about my clients that they do not wish to make public. It’s a simple formality, but you must understand that I have to observe it.”