Free While the Women are Sleeping by Javier Marías

(only distinguished people bought books at Rota). He couldn’t get rid of them though, they weren’t breaking any law, they were simply looking at a window full of old books. But that particular window contained the typescript of Watt, and Watt was worth £50,000.
    Lawson stood up and went over to them, still keeping to his side of the glass. Perhaps they would go away if they saw him watching them from inside. He folded his arms and fixed them with his blue eyes. He knew that one glance from those cold, blue, unfriendly eyes had often proved an effective deterrent in the past, one which he intended to deploy now to intimidate those three beggars. But the beggars were still embroiled in their argument, taking not the slightest notice of him, or else his presence, closer now, remained a matter of complete indifference to them. Now and then, the first beggar would again point at the window and Lawson was certain now that the focus of his interest was the Epigram. Lawson could stand it no longer. He opened the door and addressed them from the threshold:
    ‘Can I be of any assistance?’
    The beggar with the reddish beard looked Lawson up and down, as if he were an intruder. He was considerably taller than Lawson, indeed, despite his years and his wretched appearance, he was very solidly built. The man could easily have knocked him to the ground, thought Lawson, or else the other two could have held him down whilst the first beggar grabbed and made off with the Epigram or, worse still, with the typescript of Watt worth £50,000. He regretted having opened the door. He was exposing himself to attack.
    ‘Yes, yes, you can,’ said the beggar after a pause of a few seconds. ‘Tell my two friends here who the King of Redonda was. You must know.’
    Lawson looked at him, perplexed. Hardly anyone knew anything about the King of Redonda, only a handful of bibliophiles and scholars, people of great learning, experts. He saw no reason, however, not to reply.
    ‘His name was John Gawsworth, although in fact his real name was Armstrong. Quite by chance, he inherited the title of King of Redonda or Redundo, an uninhabited island in the Antilles, of which he never actually took possession. He did, however, set about creating an aristocracy, bestowing a few fictitious titles on friends, like this one given to the poet Dylan Thomas,’ explained Lawson, indicating the pamphlet to his left. ‘He was only a very minor writer. Why are you interested in him?’
    ‘You see, isn’t that what I told you? How else could I possibly know all that?’ said the tall beggar, turning to the other two. Then to Lawson he said: ‘How much are you selling the Epigram for?’
    ‘I’m not sure you could afford it,’ said Lawson in paternalistic tones, feigning hesitancy. ‘It’s worth £500.’
    The jockey with the domed cranium jibed: ‘Yeah, £500 that won’t be coming your way. Why don’t you give us a few of your other books and we can sell them all to this gentleman?’
    ‘Shut up, you idiot, I’m telling you the truth. That pamphlet was mine once and the loyalty expressed in it was dedicated to me.’ And turning to Lawson again, the man with the beard added: ‘Do you know what became of John Gawsworth?’
    Lawson was growing weary of the conversation.
    ‘I don’t actually. I think he died. He’s an obscure figure.’ And Lawson looked at the typescript of Watt, fortunately still there (no one inside the store, none of the other employees, had stolen it while he, like a fool, was standing at the door with these three beggars).
    ‘No, sir, there you’re wrong,’ said the beggar. ‘You’re right about him being a minor writer and an obscure figure, but he isn’t dead. Though these two fellows here won’t believe me, I am John Gawsworth. I am the King of Redonda.’
    ‘Oh, come now,’ said Lawson impatiently. ‘Stop cluttering up the pavement and move away from this window. You’re drunk, the lot of you, and if you stumbled