Free Havana Red by Leonardo Padura Page B

conversation: “When was the last time you saw him?”
    â€œYesterday morning at the Centre. I took some paintings to sell. Was he really dressed as a woman?”
    â€œWhat did you talk about? Try to remember.”
    â€œAbout the paintings. He wasn’t too keen on them. He was like that, meddling in other people’s business. I expect that’s why someone murdered him.”
    â€œAnd what can you tell me about the relationship you had with him?”
    â€œThat’s pure slander. Just try to get someone to come and say to my face that he saw me . . .”
    â€œThat would be more difficult, you’re right. So you deny it?”
    â€œOf course I do,” he said, and seemed to gain in confidence.
    â€œWhat’s your blood group, Salvador?”
    His confidence evaporated again. The Count looked daggers at Sergeant Palacios. He’d never have asked him that question at that point, but the one buzzing round his head. Manuel Palacios was definitely better.
    â€œI really don’t know,” he said, and he did really seem not to.
    â€œDon’t worry. We can find out in the Policlinic. Which one do you go to?”
    â€œOn the corner of Seventeenth and J.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t see him last night?”
    â€œI told you I didn’t. But what’s my blood group got to do with it?”

    â€œAnd where were you last night between eight and midnight?”
    â€œPainting in the studio I’ve got on Twenty-First and Eighteenth. Hey, I don’t know anything . . .”
    â€œOh . . . And who saw you there?”
    Salvador looked at the floor, as if searching a point of support that continually eluded him. His fear and embarrassment were as prominent as his muscles.
    â€œI don’t know, who might have seen me? I don’t know, I work alone there, but I arrived at around six and worked until around midnight.”
    â€œAnd nobody saw you. What bad luck!”
    â€œIt’s a garage,” he tried to explain. “It’s outside the building and if nobody’s parking nearby . . .”
    â€œTwenty-First and Eighteenth are very near the Havana Woods, right?”
    The man didn’t reply.
    â€œHey, Salvador,” the Count then intervened. He thought it a good time to move the direction of the dialogue on a little . . . “What does the K mean?”
    â€œOh, my surname is Kindelán, that’s why I sign K.”
    â€œPredictable. Something else I’ve been wanting to ask you for some time. I only see reproductions of famous paintings, but no works by you. Don’t you think that strange?”
    The painter smiled, at last. He seemed back on firm ground and breathed loudly.
    â€œHave you never heard the anecdote about the friends of Picasso who go to his place to eat and don’t see a single work by him? And one of them asks, intrigued: ‘Maestro, why don’t you have any of your work here?’ And Picasso replies: ‘I can’t afford the luxury. Picassos are too expensive . . .’ ”
    The Count faked a smile, to accompany Salvador’s.
    â€œI get you, I get you, and the other day, did he mention the day of the Transfiguration to you?”
    The painter looked down, making it clear he was making an effort to remember. The Count saw that he was deciding what would be the best reply.
    â€œI don’t know, it doesn’t ring a bell. But I do remember he had a Bible on his desk yesterday . . . And so what?”
    â€œNothing, police curiosity pure and simple . . . By the way, Salvador, why do you think Alexis dressed up as a woman last night?”
    â€œHow should I know . . . I told you, it’s just gossip . . .”
    â€œOf course, there’s no reason why you should know. Well, that’s enough for today,” the Count added, as if tired, and his sergeant was the man most surprised by this dénouement. The Count sighed exhaustedly as he stood up, and looked the