The Angst-Ridden Executive Read Online Free PDF

Pepito. You’re so charming.’
    ‘If you find out anything, I’ll be in my office till one, and then I’ll take a stroll round the billiard halls. I’ll be lunching at the Amaya.’
    He had no desire to hang about for a question and answer session with Charo. He left her flat intent on enjoying the morning’s sunshine and getting to the Ramblas as soon as possible. He let the road carry him down to the harbour, where the April morning light was beginning to get a grip on the city. If he stood still, the heat of the sun made him feel as if he was slowly cooking inside his winter jacket and he needed to cool off. Having drawn new energy from the heat and light, he walked back up the Ramblas. With a burst of energy he went up the wooden steps two at a time. The house that had once been a brothel run by a Madam Petula was now divided into a maze of offices belonging to a variety of small enterprises: wholesalers of eau de cologne, solicitors catering for small-time crooks, a commercial agent, a journalist bent on plumbing the depths of the Barrio Chino with a view to writing an urban realist novel, an ageing lady chiropodist, a dressmaker, a hairdresser’s with faithful clients who had been going there since the 1929 Exposition, and a few flats occupied by pelota players from the Colon club and girls from the Barcelona by Night troupe. Carvalho’s premises consisted of a small apartment measuring about thirty-five square yards. The office proper was painted green, and had a selection of nineteen-forties office furniture. There was also a tiny kitchen, with a fridge and a small toilet. The major domo of this establishment was an ex-convict byname of Biscuter, who had once shared a prison cell with Carvalho. The detective had never known his real name. Over the years he had occasionally told himself to ask, but the name ‘Biscuter’ seemed to serve well enough. Biscuter had had an unhealthy fascination with cars—other people’s cars. Between the ages of fifteen and thirty he had spent most of his time in prison. He was very short, with the head of a forceps-baby, and was bald in a comical sort of way, with a thick blond growth protruding from above his ears. He had red cheeks and a mealy complexion, thick pendulous pink lips, and cod’s eyes. He was proud of his fitness and the way his life was constantly being put to the test in Carvalho’s service. They had met in the street a few blocks from the Modelo prison. He’d asked Carvalho for twenty-five pesetas.
    ‘It’s for the bus, chief. I’ve lost my travel card.’
    ‘You’re going to get pulled in by the police if they find you hanging around here, Biscuter. Don’t you recognize me?’
    ‘Good God—it’s the student!’
    That was what the prisoners used to call Carvalho when he was inside. He invited Biscuter for a meal, and they reminisced about the meals they had managed to concoct in Lerida prison, with a stove made out of a big tomato tin and a small red-pepper tin equipped with a wick and fuelled by methylated spirits.
    ‘You even managed to make a crab bouillabaisse, chief.’
    From the end of Carvalho’s sentence to the present day, Biscuter had been in and out of prison many times. He’d been cured of his passion for stealing cars, but his record stuck with him. He would occasionally fall foul of a police round-up, and, being unemployed, would find himself charged under the Vagrant Persons Act.
    ‘If only I could find a job. . .’
    ‘How would you fancy working for me? You’d be in charge of a small office. You’ll make me a coffee or a potato tortilla every now and then, but apart from that your time’s your own.’
    ‘I also know how to make bechamel, boss.’
    ‘Fine. I’ll even risk eating it. You can sleep in the office. You’ll get board and lodging, and I’ll give you a couple of thousand pesetas a month for your expenses.’
    ‘And a letter of employment, so’s they don’t keep picking me up?’
    ‘And a letter of