Free The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman by Mamen Sánchez

he found his way back to his hotel.
    The next thing Atticus knew, he was waking up naked on the messy bed of his luxury room with a headache that all the Earl Grey in England wouldn’t ease. He had apparently slept alone, because there were no signs of a female visitor. Nor a male visitor, thanks to God and all the saints in heaven. It didn’t appear that either of his kidneys had been removed during the night—there were no stitches down his sides—or that he had been raped, or beaten, or robbed. The most probable scenario was that he had made it back to the hotel under his own steam, although in a truly lamentable state, and that, incredibly, he had been able to remember his room number before passing out on the bed.
    After recovering his physical composure and his dignity with a cold shower and plenty of cologne, Atticus, between throbs of pain, slowly remembered where he was (in Madrid), and why (on business), and about the meeting he had arranged with a certain Berta Quiñones at ten o’clock that morning.
    He looked at his watch. It was a quarter to eleven. He cursed alcohol and swore he would never again touch a drop as long ashe lived. In a flash of inspiration, he thought to blame his tardiness on the time difference between Madrid and London. Better to look like an idiot than a drunk, he said to himself, and with typical British foresight he ordered a taxi on the telephone in his room.

CHAPTER 15
    A week and two days had passed since Marlow Craftsman’s visit to Manchego’s office, and the inspector had to admit that the investigation had ground to a halt. After ruling out hospitals, prisons, hotels, and all other logical possibilities, the matter was starting to acquire an air of mystery. He had interrogated all five members of Librarte ’s editorial team, but this had proved fruitless. They had all corroborated Berta’s version of events. They said they hadn’t heard anything from Atticus Craftsman for three months, and although this was somewhat puzzling, it was a real relief because the company director’s son had apparently come to Spain with the intention of closing the magazine down.
    â€œAs I’m sure you’ll understand,” Berta Quiñones had explained, “we’ve kept as quiet as mice these last few months. The truth is, Inspector, that while they’re still paying our salaries we’d rather not investigate Mr. Craftsman’s whereabouts too closely. He’s a grown man, after all, and perfectly free to do what he likes.”
    Manchego opted to call Bestman this time, instead of Marlow, so he could speak in Spanish. Explaining the disappointing results of his search was going to be rather complicated and would require a good deal of diplomacy.
    He got through to Bestman at his London office, where he was sheltered behind several bilingual receptionists, to all of whom Manchego informed who he was, what he was investigating, and the difficulties he was having in tracking down Mr. Craftsman.
    â€œMr. Manchego,” said Bestman finally.
    â€œInspector.”
    â€œAs you like.”
    Bestman didn’t seem to be in a good mood.
    â€œI’m sure I don’t need to reiterate how crucial it is that our conversations remain confidential. The fact that we are unsure of the whereabouts of one of Mr. Craftsman’s sons is a delicate matter that we must handle with the utmost discretion.”
    â€œOf course,” replied Manchego. “My lips are sealed.”
    â€œIn that case,” Bestman clenched his jaw slightly, “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from sharing your professional concerns with all of Craftsman & Co.’s receptionists. It would not be entirely advantageous for this matter to become the talk of the office or to go beyond its walls and enter the public arena. It would not be good for the business.”
    â€œI understand,” said the inspector, backing down.
    There followed