“Why do you think Don Mauricio took so long to inform the police, or the security staff, of the existence of those letters?” Alicia asked again.

Doña Mariana turned away from Vargas for a moment, her predatory eyes settling on Alicia.

“Young lady, you must understand that the volume of letters received by a man as important as Don Mauricio is vast. A large number of people and associations decide to write to the minister, and quite often there are eccentric or simply crazy letters, which I throw away, so Don Mauricio doesn’t even see them.”

“And yet you didn’t throw those letters away.”

“No.”

“Did you know the person identified by the police as the most likely to have sent them? Sebastián Salgado?”

“No, of course not,” the secretary snapped.

“But you knew of his existence?” Alicia insisted.

“Yes. I remembered him from the time the minister had been processing his pardon, and later from the time the police reported on the result of their investigation into the letters.”

“Of course, but before that, do you remember ever having heard Don Mauricio mention Salgado’s name? Perhaps years ago?”

Doña Mariana remained silent for a while. “I might have,” she said finally. “I’m not sure.”

“Could he have mentioned him?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he did. I think he did.”

“And this would have been in . . .”

“March 1948.”

Alicia frowned with surprise. “You remember the date clearly, yet you’re not sure he mentioned the name Salgado?”

Doña Mariana blushed. “In March 1948, Don Mauricio asked me to organize an informal meeting with the successor in his post as governor of the prison in Montjuïc Castle, Luis Bolea.”

“For what purpose?”

“I gathered it was an informal get-together, a courtesy meeting.”

“And were you present during that courtesy meeting, as you call it?”

“Only every now and then. It was a private conversation.”

“But perhaps you were able to catch the occasional fragment. Accidentally. As you went in and out of the room . . . taking in the coffee . . . Perhaps from your desk at the entrance to Don Mauricio’s office . . .”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, young woman.”

“Anything you can tell us will help us find the minister, Doña Mariana,” Vargas put in. “Please.”

The secretary hesitated. “Don Mauricio asked Señor Bolea about some of the prisoners who had been under his charge. He wanted to find out details, such as whether they were still in the prison or had been released, moved to another prison, or died. He didn’t say why.”

“Do you remember any of the names that were mentioned?”

“There were lots of names. And that was many years ago.”

“Was Salgado one of them?”

“Yes, I think it was.”

“Any other name?”

“The only name I remember well is Martín. David Martín.”

Alicia and Vargas looked at one another. He wrote the name down in his notebook.

“Any more?”

“Perhaps a surname that sounded more like French, or foreign. I can’t remember. As I said, it was years ago. How can that be important now?”