“Valls,” Vargas murmured.

The door of the room opened behind him, and he turned around to encounter a lean, almost fragile-looking middle-aged man, with scant fair hair as fine as a baby’s. The man wore an impeccably tailored alpaca suit that matched his gray eyes, steady and penetrating.

“Good morning. My name is Ignacio Sanchís, director general of this company. I gather, from what Lorena tells me, that you wish to speak to me. I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. We’re preparing the annual shareholders’ meeting, and we’re rather snowed under. How can I help you, Captain?”

Sanchís exuded a cultivated air of friendliness and utmost professionalism. His eyes transmitted both warmth and authority while he cataloged Vargas meticulously. Vargas was certain that before ending his introductory sentence, Sanchís already knew the brand of the shoes he was wearing and how old his second-rate suit was.

“This face looks familiar,” said the policeman, pointing at one of the oil paintings hanging in the room.

“That’s Don Miguel Ubach,” Sanchís said, smiling benevolently at the ignorance or ingenuousness of the man speaking to him. “Our founder.”

“Of the Banca Ubach?” asked Vargas. “The Gunpowder Banker?”

Sanchís offered him a light, diplomatic smile, but his look grew colder. “Don Miguel Ángel never liked that nickname, which, if you don’t mind my saying so, does not do the person justice.”

“I heard that it was the Generalissimo himself who gave it to him, for his services,” Vargas ventured.

“I’m afraid that’s not the case. The nickname was conferred on Don Miguel by the red press during the war. The Banca Ubach, together with other institutions, helped finance the campaign of national liberation. A great man to whom Spain is hugely indebted.”

“For which no doubt he has been generously rewarded . . . ,” mumbled Vargas.

Sanchís ignored his words without losing any of his cordiality.

“And what is the relationship between Don Miguel Ángel and this company?” Vargas inquired.

Sanchís cleared his throat. “When Don Miguel Ángel died in 1948, the Banca Ubach was divided into three companies,” he said patiently. “One of these was the Banco Hipotecario e Industrial de Cataluña, which was absorbed by the Banca Hispanoamericana de Crédito eight years ago. Metrobarna was created at that time to manage the property investment portfolio that was on the bank’s balance sheet.”

Sanchís pronounced those words as if he had recited them often, with the expert and absent air of a museum guide instructing a group of tourists while eyeing his watch. “But I’m sure that the company’s history doesn’t interest you that much,” he concluded. “How can I help you, Captain?”

“It’s a small matter, probably unimportant, Señor Sanchís, but you know the routine with these things. One has to check everything.”

“Of course. I’m listening.”

Vargas pulled out his notebook and pretended to be reading through a few lines. “Could you confirm whether a car with the license plate B-74325 belongs to Metrobarna?”

Sanchís looked at him in bewilderment.