“That’s what everyone tells me. A man can devote his whole life to writing, and then nobody remembers his words . . .”

“Literature is a cruel lover that easily forgets its suitors,” said Sanchís, opening the door to the landing.

“Much like justice. Luckily there is always someone who, like you and me, is ready to give them both a nudge.”

“That’s life: it forgets us all too soon. Now, if there’s nothing else I can do for you . . .”

“No, thank you again for your help, Señor Sanchís.”

24

As he left the building, Vargas noticed the watercolorist, who was putting away his tools and lighting an old sailor’s pipe. Vargas smiled at him from a distance and walked over.

“Hey, it’s Chief Inspector Maigret,” cried the artist.

“The name is Vargas.”

“Dalmau,” the painter introduced himself.

“How is it going, Master Dalmau? Have you finished your painting?”

“A painting is never finished. The trick is to know at what point to leave it unfinished. Are you still interested?” The artist lifted the rag covering the canvas and showed him the watercolor.

“It looks like something out of a dream,” said Vargas.

“The dream is yours for ten duros plus whatever you think fit.”

The policeman pulled out his wallet. The artist’s eyes shone like the embers in his pipe. Vargas handed him a one-hundred-peseta note.

“That’s too much.”

Vargas shook his head. “Consider me the day’s patron.”

The painter wrapped up the watercolor with brown paper and string.

“Can one make a living doing this?” asked Vargas.

“The picture-postcard industry has hit us hard, but there are still people with good taste.”

“Like Señor Sanchís?”

The artist raised an eyebrow and looked at him suspiciously. “I thought there was something fishy going on here. I hope you’re not going to get me in trouble now.”

“Has Sanchís been a customer for long?”

“A few years.”

“Have you sold him lots of pictures?”

“Quite a few.”

“Does he like your style that much?”

“He buys them out of pity, I think. He’s a very generous man, at least considering he’s a banker.”

“Perhaps he has a bad conscience.”

“He wouldn’t be the only one. There’s loads of those in this country.”

“Are you referring to me?”

Dalmau muttered a curse under his breath and folded his easel.

“Are you leaving? I thought you’d be able to tell me something about Señor Sanchís.”

“Look, if you like I’ll give you back your money. And you can keep the picture. Hang it in one of the dungeons in the police station.”

“The money is yours. You’ve earned it.”

The artist hesitated. “What do you want with Sanchís?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious.”

“That’s the same thing the other policeman said. You’re all alike.”

“The other policeman?”

“Sure. Pretend you know nothing about it.”

“Could you describe my colleague to me? There might be another note if you lend me a hand.”

“There’s little to describe. Another thug like you. Although this one had a scar on his face.”