Free The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte Page A

him any medals. He’s… how can I put it… ?” She groped for the right word. “Rather unimaginative. No comparison with Max. Monotonous, you know: the wham, bang and thank-you-ma’am type. But you can have a good laugh with him. He knows some really filthy jokes.”
    “Does his wife know about you and him?”
    “I imagine she senses something, because she’s certainly not stupid. That’s why she gave me that look, the rotten cow.”

III
    A Chess Problem
    The noble game has its depths
in which many a fine and gentle soul,
alas, has vanished.
An old German master
    “I think,” said Cesar, “that we’re dealing here with a chess problem.”
    They’d been discussing the painting for half an hour. Cesar was leaning against the wall, a glass of gin-and-lemon held delicately between thumb and forefinger, Menchu was poised languidly on the sofa and Julia was sitting on the carpet with the ashtray between her legs, chewing on a fingernail. All three of them were staring at the painting as if they were watching a television screen. The colours of the Van Huys were darkening before their eyes as the last glow of evening faded from the skylight.
    “Do you think someone could put a light on?” suggested Menchu. “I feel as if I’m slowly going blind.”
    Cesar flicked the switch behind him, and the indirect light, reflected from the walls, returned life and colour to Roger de Arras and the Duke and Duchess of Ostenburg. Almost simultaneously the clock on the wall struck eight in time to the swing of the long brass pendulum. Julia turned her head, listening for the noise of non-existent footsteps on the stairs.
    “Alvaro’s late,” she said, and saw Cesar grimace.
    “However late that philistine arrives,” he murmured, “it’ll never be late enough for me.”
    Julia gave him a reproachful look.
    “You promised to behave. Don’t forget.”
    “I won’t, Princess. I’ll suppress my homicidal impulses, but only out of devotion for you.”
    “I’d be eternally grateful.”
    “I should hope so.” He looked at his wristwatch as if he didn’t trust the clock on the wall, an old present of his. “But the swine isn’t exactly punctual, is he?”
    “Cesar.”
    “All right, my dear. I won’t say another word.”
    “No, go on talking.” Julia indicated the painting. “You were saying it was something to do with a chess problem.”
    Cesar nodded. He made a theatrical pause to moisten his lips with a sip of gin, then dry them on an immaculate white handkerchief he drew from his pocket.
    “Let me explain” - he looked at Menchu and gave a slight sigh - “to both of you. There’s a detail in the inscription we haven’t noticed until now, or at least I hadn’t.
Quis necavit equitem
can indeed be translated as ‘Who killed the knight?” And that, according to the facts at our disposal, can be interpreted as a riddle about the death or murder of Roger de Arras. However, that phrase could be translated in another way.“ He looked thoughtfully at the painting, assessing the soundness of his argument. ”Reformulated in chess terms, perhaps the question is not ’Who killed the knight‘ but ’Who
captured,
or
took,
the knight?“ ”
    No one spoke. At last Menchu broke the silence, her face betraying her disappointment.
    “So much for all our high hopes. We’ve based this whole story on a piece of nonsense.”
    Julia, who was looking hard at Cesar, was shaking her head.
    “Not at all; the mystery’s still there. Isn’t that right, Cesar? Roger de Arras was murdered
before
the picture was painted.” She got up and pointed to the corner of the painting. “See? The date the painting was finished is here:
Petrus Van Huys fecit me, anno MCDLXXI.
Two years after Roger de Arras was murdered, Van Huys chose to employ an ingenious play on words in order to paint a picture in which both victim and executioner appear.” She paused, because another idea had just occurred to her. “And, possibly, the motive for