Hendaya nodded, and the two men forced the man to lie down on a wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Then they tied his hands and feet to the four table legs. Meanwhile, Hendaya removed his jacket and folded it neatly over the chair. He went up to the table, leaned over the driver, and pulled off the mask that covered half his face. Hidden under it was a terrible wound that had disfigured the man’s face from his chin to his forehead; part of the jaw and his cheekbone were missing.

Once the chauffeur had been immobilized, the two officers brought the chair on which the banker’s wife was sitting close to the table. One of them held the woman’s head with his hands, so that she could not look away. Fernandito felt a wave of nausea, and tasted bile in his mouth.

Hendaya knelt down next to the banker’s wife and whispered something in her ear. She didn’t even open her mouth: her face was frozen in anger. The policeman stood up. He stretched an open hand toward one of the officers, who handed him a gun. Then he inserted a bullet in the chamber and placed the gun’s barrel just above the driver’s right knee. For a moment he glanced at the woman, expectantly. Finally he shrugged again.

The roar of the gunshot and the driver’s screams pierced the windowpanes and stone walls. A fine mist of blood and pulverized bone spattered the woman’s face. She began to shout. The driver’s body was convulsing as if an electric current was running through him. Hendaya walked around the table, placed another bullet in the chamber, and pressed the barrel against the driver’s other kneecap. A pool of blood and urine spread over the table, dripping onto the floor. For a second, Hendaya looked at the woman. Fernandito closed his eyes and braced himself for the second shot. When he heard the yells, the nausea got worse, and he doubled over. Vomit rose up his throat and spilled over his chest.

He was trembling when the third shot rang out. The chauffeur no longer screamed. The woman in the chair was stammering, her face covered with tears and blood. Hendaya knelt down next to her once more, listening to her while he stroked her face and nodded. When he seemed to have heard what he wanted, he got up and, with barely one last look at him, shot the driver in the head. He returned the gun to the officer and walked over to a corner, where he washed his hands in a sink. Then he slipped on his jacket and his coat.

Fernandito suppressed his retching and moved away from the window, sliding down toward the bushes. He tried to find the path back along the hill to the tree he’d used to jump over the wall. He was perspiring like never before, a cold sweat that stung his skin. His hands and legs shook as he climbed up the wall. When he jumped over to the other side, he fell flat on his face and threw up again. At last, feeling there was nothing left inside him, he staggered down the road. As he passed the gate through which he’d seen Hendaya enter, he heard voices drawing nearer. He hurried on and ran to the little square.