The Blind Man of Seville

‘Would you like to take a look?’ he said, moving across the patio, not wanting her to intrude further into his private life.

Her heels clicked sexily on the old marble flagstones around the fountain. Falcon opened up the glass doors into the room, turned on the light, waved her in and noticed the instant shock on her face.

‘Something the matter?’ asked Falcon.

Consuelo Jimenez walked slowly round the room taking in each painting, from the domes and buttresses of the Iglesia de El Salvador to the pillared Hercules of the Alameda.

‘They’re all here,’ she said, looking at him, amazed.

‘What?’

‘The three paintings I bought from your father.’

‘Ah,’ said Falcon, economical with his embarrassment.

‘He told me they were originals.’

‘They were … at the time of selling.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, gripping her jacket at the waist, annoyed now.

‘Tell me, Sra Jimenez, when my father sold you the paintings … you had some drinks and tapas on the patio and then, what? He took you by the elbow and brought you in here. Did he whisper on your shoulder: “Everything in this room is for sale except … that one”?’

‘That’s exactly what he said.’

‘And you fell for that three times?’

‘Of course not. That’s what he said the first time … ‘

‘But that was precisely the painting you ended up buying?’

She ignored him.

‘The next time he said: “This one is too expensive for you.”’

‘And the time after that?’

‘ “The frame is all wrong on this one … I wouldn’t sell it to you.”’

‘And each time you bought the painting he told you that you shouldn’t or couldn’t buy.’

She stamped her foot, very angry in her retrospective humiliation.

‘Don’t be too upset, Sra Jimenez,’ said Falcon. ‘Nobody else owns the paintings you have in your possession. He wasn’t stupid or careless. It was just a little game he liked to play.’

‘I’d like an explanation,’ she said, and Javier was glad he wasn’t one of her employees.

‘I can only tell you what happened. I was never very sure of his motive,’ said Javier. ‘I didn’t go to any of the parties. I’d sit in my room reading my American crime novels. When the guests had gone, my father, who was normally drunk at this stage, would burst into my room, whether I was asleep or not, shouting “Javier!” and shaking a wad of cash in my face. His takings for the night. If I was asleep I’d grunt something encouraging. If I was awake I’d nod over the top of my book. Then he’d go straight up to the studio and paint the exact painting he’d just sold. By morning it would be framed and hanging on the wall.’

‘What an extraordinary person,’ she said, disgusted.

‘I actually watched him paint that one of the cathedral roof. Do you know how long it took him?’

She looked at the painting, a fantastically complicated series of flying buttresses, walls and domes all laid down with a cubist energy.

‘Seventeen and a half minutes,’ said Javier. ‘He asked me to time him. He was drunk and stoned at the time.’

‘But what’s the point of it?’

‘A one hundred per cent profit on the night.’

‘But why should such a man …? I mean, it’s just too ridiculous. They were expensive, but I don’t think I paid more than a million for any of them. What was he playing at? Did he need this money or something?’

Silence while a warm wind did a turn of the patio.

‘Would you like your money back?’ he asked.

Her head turned slowly from the painting, eyes fixed on him.

‘He didn’t spend it,’ said Falcon. ‘Not a peseta of it. He didn’t even bank it. It’s all in a detergent box upstairs in his studio.’

‘And what does it all mean, Don Javier?’

‘It means … that maybe you shouldn’t be so angry with him because the game he was playing was ultimately against himself.’

‘Can I smoke?’

‘Of course. Come out on to the patio, I’ll give you a drink.’

‘A whisky, if you have it. I need something strong after that.’

They sat on some wrought-iron chairs at a mosaic-covered table under a single wall lamp in the cloister of the