The Antiquarian by Julián Sánchez Page B

case with some people at the Financial Crimes Unit down at police headquarters. I gave them all the information available on the new shops, and they promised to make the “relevant inquiries.” I’ll let you in on something: except for Fornells and a couple of fellow old-school police, our new law enforcement leadership is made up of nothing but a bunch of bureaucrats who are all photocopies of each other, as much in the way they talk as in the way they act: they say the same things and they dress the same way. Let’s hope that their investigation is successful and allows us to unmask the newcomers before any untoward filth taints our old profession.
    My dear godson, I must stop here. Don’t forget to write soon. Your letters are, and I mean this with all my heart, a true source of joy for this old antiquarian.
    Yours,
    Artur
    P.S.: I am writing this several days after finishing the letter, on my way to send it. Just a few days ago I purchased a lot that includes all the contents of an old, noble mansion belonging to a historic Catalan clan, the Bergués family. I’ve found something unbelievable in their library, something that could surpass even a mad antiquarian’s expectations. I can’t tell you anything until I’ve determined what it is, until I’ve made sure that it’s not just the imagination of an old man, and that the foundation of it proves true. For some reason I can’t understand, I’m uneasy. For the first time in many years, I feel I’m in over my head. Should anything happen tome—who knows, one of those funny illnesses that befall us old folk, a heart attack or anything of the sort—I recommend you read
The Practice of Christian Perfection
, volume one. It contains all the information necessary to continue my work. You’ll find it in the library of my shop.
    I don’t know why I’m adding this—as if anything were going to happen to me! How silly I am!
    A big, heartfelt hug.
    Enrique finished the letter with a smile on his face. As always, Artur’s comments were as accurate as his humor was subtle. He had not been able to bring his novel under control with the original plot idea. Enrique had wasted a lot of time before realizing that the work he’d done was of little quality, cohesion, or interest, and he had been forced to start over with a simple outline of the topic, as his godfather had indicated. The time he would have saved if he had received the letter earlier! There could be no doubt: Artur knew him all too well, much better than many parents knew their children. And he probably loved him even better than he knew him.
    But if anything piqued Enrique’s curiosity, it was the end of the letter: What could the mysterious discovery be? It must have been huge, as he had never known his adoptive father’s self-control to falter as much as it had in his postscript. “Should anything happen to me …” Happen to him? He could understand that, having made a discovery of certain import, Artur was afraid of dying before getting to the bottom of it. Time did march on, but his health was fine, and he was not so old as to believe that the end was near. The finding must have been very special for Artur to harbor such fears. Curiosity about the mystery normally would have ignited his writer’s imagination, always ready to take in unlikely stories and situations, but Enrique was too tired to make anything of it for the moment.
    After reading the postscript, Enrique left the pages of the letter on the sink. He had been in the water quite a while, and it was starting to cool off. He got out of the bathtub and was drying himself with an oversized towel when the phone rang. He was tired enough to ignore it, but his answering machine was off, and whoever was calling was being persistent. He picked up after the tenth ring and sat down on the sofa.
    The sun lit the room with warm golden rays. A familiar