“He probably won’t be able to help us, but we have to go through the formalities.”

“Of course.”

“One last thing. Does Señor Morgado, by any chance, have any distinctive feature?”

Sanchís nodded. “Yes. Valentín was wounded during the war. Part of his face is disfigured because of a mortar explosion.”

“How many years has he been working for you?”

“At least ten. Valentín was already working for my wife’s family, and he’s a trusted person in this house. I can confirm that.”

“One of the witnesses mentioned something about a mask covering part of his face. Could that be so? I just want to make sure this is the right person.”

“That’s right. Valentín wears a prosthesis covering his lower jaw and left eye.”

“I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Señor Sanchís. Thank you so much for your help. I’m sorry I interrupted your meeting.”

“Don’t worry at all. My pleasure. It’s a duty and an honor for a Spaniard to collaborate with the State Security Forces.”

As Sanchís was leading Vargas to the exit, they passed a large carved door behind which lay a monumental library with a view of Paseo de Gracia. Vargas stopped a moment and peeped inside. The library stretched out like a Versailles gallery that seemed to occupy the entire side of the building. Floor and ceiling were lined with polished wood, so shiny they were like two mirrors facing each another, in which columns of books multiplied to infinity.

“Impressive,” said Vargas. “Are you a collector?”

“A modest one,” replied Sanchís. “Most of these books come from the collection of the Ubach Foundation, although I must admit that books are my weakness and my escape from the world of finance.”

“I understand you. In my own humble way, I do the same,” said Vargas. “My hobby is serving arrest warrants on rare and unique books. My wife says it’s the policeman in me.”

Sanchís gave a nod, keeping his polite and patient expression, although his eyes were betraying mounting fatigue and a desire to rid himself of the policeman as soon as possible.

“Are you interested in rare books, Señor Sanchís?”

“Most books in this collection are eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Spanish, French, and Italian texts, although we also have an excellent selection of German literature and philosophy, as well as English poetry,” the director explained. “I suppose that among some circles this would already be considered rare enough.” Sanchís took Vargas’s arm gently but firmly and led him back to the corridor and toward the front door.

“I envy you, Señor Sanchís. If only . . . I have limited means and must make do with more modest items.”

“There are no modest books, only arrogant ignorance.”

“Of course. That’s exactly what I told a secondhand bookseller whom I’ve asked to find a series of novels by a forgotten author. The name might ring a bell. Mataix. Víctor Mataix.”

Sanchís held his gaze impassively, then shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of him.”