Farther on they came across a dismantled merry-go-round behind which, barely visible, lay the broken remains of a traveling fair. On the other side of the corridor was a collection of coffins and funeral paraphernalia—all in the ornate nineteenth-century style—including a glass baldachin, containing a silk bed on which one could still see the imprint left by some worthy deceased soul.

“Jesus Christ . . . ,” murmured Vargas. “Where does all this come from?”

“Mostly from fortunes that went downhill, families that had already fallen into disgrace before the war, and companies that have vanished into the black hole of time.”

“Are you sure someone still remembers that all this is here?”

“Someone is still paying the rent.”

“Makes your hair stand on end.”

“Barcelona is a haunted house, Vargas. What happens is that you tourists never think of looking behind the curtain. Look, here it is.”

Alicia stopped in front of one of the compartments and pointed to the notice:

BRIANS-LLORAC

family

No: 28887-BC-56. 9-62

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I didn’t think you’d be so squeamish, Vargas. I’ll take the blame.”

“Whatever you say. What exactly are we looking for?”

“I don’t know. Something that connects Valls, Salgado, David Martín, the Semperes, Brians, your list with the undecipherable numbers, the Mataix books, and now Sanchís and his faceless driver. If we find that piece, we’ll find Valls.”

“And you think it’s here?”

“We won’t know until we find it.”

The enclosure was sealed with a simple padlock, the sort you can buy at any hardware store. It yielded at the fifth blow of the revolver’s butt. Not wasting a second, Alicia slipped inside.

“It smells as if a corpse was dumped here,” Vargas griped.

“It’s the sea breeze. All those years in Madrid have made you lose your sense of smell.”

Vargas cursed and followed her in. A pile of wooden boxes covered with tarpaulins formed a passageway leading to a sort of yard, where the relics of various generations of the Brians dynasty seemed to have been scattered by the force of a tornado.

“The lawyer must be the black sheep of the family,” Vargas said. “I’m not an antiquarian, but there’s at least a fortune or two here.”

“Then I hope your sense of legal rectitude will stop you filching one of Grandma Brians’s silver ashtrays.”

Vargas pointed to the hodgepodge of dinner sets, mirrors, chairs, books, sculptures, chests, wardrobes, console tables, chests of drawers, bicycles, toys, skis, shoes, suitcases, paintings, vases, and thousands of other belongings piled up to form a haphazard mosaic that looked more like catacombs than anything else. “What century would you like to start with?”

“Brians’s files. We’re looking for medium-sized cardboard boxes. It shouldn’t be too difficult. The moving men must have chosen the closest free space to the entrance to drop off the lawyer’s stuff. Anything that isn’t covered with a thick coat of dust is a possible candidate. Would you rather start left or right? Or is that a stupid question?”