Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 03

by The Golden Spaniard

  “God’s death!” he groaned, “I knew our luck was too good to last.”

  Swinging round abruptly Richard saw that the Duke had already whipped his blackjack from his pocket. He also glimpsed the white face and terrified, protruding eyeballs of the poor wretch the hooligans were now carrying shoulder-high towards the burning church. It was Simon Aron.

  Chapter Thirteen – The Miracle

  As though impelled by two catapults, the Duke and Richard flung themselves headlong into the yelling crowd. Gone were all thoughts of their mission and the imperative necessity of keeping out of trouble. Nothing mattered now except saving their old friend from a horrible death at the hands of the very people whom he had come out to Spain to help.

  The intention of the mob was all too clear. Half a dozen brawny ruffians had the still struggling Simon in their grip and were bearing him along stretched out at full length on a level with their heads. They were now twenty feet away from the car and heading for the church. They meant to pitch him into the roaring flames.

  Thrusting, pushing, clawing at the people in front of them, the Duke and Richard fought their way through the milling throng, seeking to head off the little group that was carrying Simon. Even as they barged their way to the rescue, using their elbows freely on the ribs of the people about them, whether men or women, they realized the frightful odds that were against them. The church-burners numbered a good fifty not counting the many wild-looking women with them, and the crowd of onlookers consisted of some two hundred poorly dressed people who certainly could not be expected to risk the fury of the Anarchists by coming to the rescue of some unknown rich man when he had attempted to run them down in his luxury car.

  That terrible lust for inflicting pain and death which at times grips even orderly decent people when their normal instincts are submerged by the primitive passions of the herd, had now inflamed the spectators as well as the hooligans. Raising their clenched fists on high they screamed: “Burn him! Burn him!”

  De Richleau knew that any attempt at rescue by force must inevitably prove hopeless. Their only chance of bringing Simon alive out of that maddened mob was by using all the wits that God had given them. If the church had not been burning already he would have suggested setting it alight—anything, anything, anything to district the mob’s attention from their present purpose.

  He reached the church ten yards ahead of the men who were carrying Simon and leapt up the steps. Richard was only just behind him and, shielding his eyes from the glare, stumbled to his side. Turning on the topmost step they faced the shrieking rabble that swirled below.

  “Don’t use your gun,” panted the Duke. “They’ll murder us if you do.”

  The heat was ghastly. The doors of the church had burnt away and fallen inwards but the interior of the building was now a roaring inferno. There was little smoke but gusts of scorching hot air poured out making the backs of their necks and ears feel as though they were already on fire.

  Suddenly De Richleau flung both his clenched fists above his head. “Comrades!” he bellowed in Spanish, “Comrades!”

  It was his dark figure, like that of an avenging angel, in the very centre of the fallen doorway, silhouetted against a background of leaping flames which caught the attention of the mob more than his stentorian shout.

  The yelling gave way to an angry murmur and when he burst out again with all the power of his lungs his words could be heard like a clarion call above the crackling of the furnace behind him.

  “Friends of Liberty! Proletarian Brothers! What would you do? Who are your friends and who are your enemies? It is the Fascists who seek to trample you in the mud!”

  A howl of execration went up at his mention of the Fascists. Sweat was streaming down De Richleau’s face and he gulped in a searing breath of hot air before thundering forth again. “Who will help your Fascist enemies to deprive you of your liberties? Hitler and Mussolini.”

  Another yell of hate went up drowning his next words but he bellowed on “... Germany and Italy. And who will help you to fight them? France and England! The workers of the free Democracies who are the true friends of the Spanish people.”

  A vague murmur of approval ran through the crowd. Their attention was now firmly held as the gasping Duke panted out, “I am a French Comrade. My friend here is an English Comrade. We are with you heart and soul. What report of our Spanish Brothers shall we take back to our own people? Are we to say that they are gallant Sons of Toil who do not fear to fling themselves upon the machine-guns of the oppressors? Or do we say that they are lower than brutes? Bestial savages; who in their blind stupidity spend their time burning peaceful people....”

  His voice was drowned again in angry shouts but one came louder than the rest, “What’s all this to do with the dirty capitalist we pulled out of the car?”

  “That’s just it,” De Richleau shouted back. “He’s an English Comrade too. A man from Communist Headquarters sent out to help you. We know him! Look at his papers. You’ll see I’m right.”

  The wretched Simon was lowered to the ground. A man in a blouse thrust a hand in his breast pocket and pulled out a bundle of papers. There was no Communist Party ticket among them but Simon’s British passport was there.

  The Duke and Richard staggered down the steps from the blazing building and, half-stifled by the heat, joined the group about Simon.

  “You see,” gasped the Duke, “he’s English. He’s one of us.”

  Simon wriggled his neck and managed a feeble smile as Richard patted him on the shoulder.

  “He’s got no Party ticket,” said the man in the blouse doubtfully.

  “He tried to run us down in his blasted car,” said another.

  “Go on! Don’t be stupid. He hasn’t hurt anyone. Let him go,” said a third.

  “That’s right,” chorused a fourth. “The French and English are all good Democrats. Let them go.”

  For a moment their fate hung in the balance but the tide was definitely turning in their favour. Simon had his wits about him again and was talking in jerky Spanish assuring his listeners that he had come to Spain to work in their interests.

  A section of the crowd was already moving off to seek fresh excitements; a few straggle-haired harridans had begun to dance again on the steps of the church. All seemed about to end well when there came a sound of trampling feet and a cry went up, “Here’s Fulchio Zorolo and his boys! Viva, Fulchio! Viva, Fulchio!”

  De Richleau cast an anxious glance down the street and said swiftly to the man nearest him, “Who is the chap they’re cheering?”

  “He’s an Anarchist—like us,” came the quick reply, “and the terror of the Reactionaries in the Quarter. Now he’s turned up we’ll ask him what he thinks before we let you go.”

  The mass parted to make way for the Terrorist, and a gang of about twenty variously armed ruffians who crowded on his heels. Fulchio Zorolo was a huge man standing a good six feet three and broad in proportion. His head was curiously small for his enormous body. It was round as a cannon ball, shaven close, and set on a short, thick neck. His greasy shirt had blood-stains on it and was open to the waist showing his hairy chest which glistened with sweat. Two abnormally long arms also covered with hair dangled at his sides like those of a gorilla. In one hand he carried a butcher’s chopper which was clotted with half-dried blood.

  “Well, Comrades, what’s on here?” he cried with horrible joviality, his wide mouth stretching almost from ear to ear in a grin which showed uneven, blackened teeth. “Found some dirty capitalist for me to try my axe on?”

  A gabble of voices explained the situation. At the words “driving into us in his car,” Fulchio spat. At the mention of “foreigners” he spat again.

  De Richleau held out his passport and in a voice made husky by his previous efforts began to state his case afresh.

  Fulchio waved aside the passport. “I can’t read,” he said abruptly. “If you’re on our side let’s see your Party cards.”

  �
�They haven’t got any,” one of the original crowd informed him.

  “Oh, yes, they have,” he cried with a leer. “Everyone carries their Party tickets about with them. Look at this!”

  With a sudden swoop he grabbed Simon’s hand and held it out for the others to see. It was a little dirty from his recent struggle but delicately moulded and the nails on the slender fingers were carefully manicured.

  “Is that the hand of a Worker, Comrades?” Fulchio roared, flinging Simon’s arm away from him with a gesture of disgust. “No—the hand of one who battens on the sweat of the poor. They’re spies, all of them. Chuck ’em in the church and let ’em burn.”

  The fickle mob had been swayed again. “Spies! Spies!” they shouted and shaking their fists crowded in on the three Englishmen.

  Even when they stood in the middle of the street the heat from the blazing building was so intense that the sweat was pouring from them all, but before the hideous, yelling faces that were now thrust into theirs the three friends backed towards the steps. They were hemmed in on either side and no other course than retreating into the scalding air which billowed out of the church was open to them.

  For a moment the crowd hesitated, driven back by the frightful heat, but at a yell from Fulchio they made a rush to drive their victims through the high doorway. A whirling melée on the top step ensued. De Richleau hit out with horrible and deadly precision with his black-jack, smashing in the faces of his aggressors. Simon, unarmed but desperate, flung himself at Fulchio’s knees and brought the big Anarchist crashing down beside him. Richard had clubbed his automatic and was using it as a giant knuckle-duster. At his feet Fulchio, who had fallen on his back, was grabbing at Simon’s throat. Without the least scruple Richard kicked the great brute savagely in the groin. Fulchio let out a scream of agony and rolled down the steps clutching wildly at his lower stomach.

  The mob gave back, temporarily beaten, but the three friends were now half-roasted and almost exhausted. Their scalps prickled, the skin on their necks was rising in blisters, they gulped and gasped in the suffocating air.

  Fulchio was lying in the gutter roaring with rage and pain. He swayed up into a sitting position and pointed at Richard. “Get me that one! Get him for me alive! I’ll skin him! I’ll skin him!” The mob rallied to obey.

  The Duke saw that the end had come. In the next attack they must be overborne by weight of numbers or retreat into the church where they would be burnt alive. He had been in many tight spots but this was the worst that even he had ever encountered and there was no way out of it. In a few moments now they would be dead. The only thing to do was to kill as many of the rabble as possible before they were killed themselves.

  “We’re for it this time,” he gasped. “Use your guns and let them have it in their stomachs. Sorry I dragged you into this, Richard. See you in the next world, Simon.”

  “I—I never carry a gun,” panted Simon.

  “Here, take this,” De Richleau thrust the blackjack into Simon’s hand and drew his own automatic.

  The Anarchists were now a packed mass in the middle of the street; muscular young men, shrivelled old crones with wispy hair, hard-bitten, middle-aged workers, and girls with painted faces from the brothels close by. They had excited each other to a pitch of absolute frenzy and seemed like a pack of ravenous wolves in human guise. The whole line of them moved forward impelled by no word of command but by the primitive impulse to rend and kill.

  De Richleau got in two shots, Richard only one, Simon had no chance to use the blackjack. As the mob reached the steps there was an awful crunching noise which increased to a roar that drowned all other sounds. The human wild beasts paused for a second, their heads suddenly flung up. Piercing screams of terror issued from their gaping mouths only to be cut short by a crash like thunder. The great statue of the Virgin surmounting the peristyle of the church came hurtling down upon the Church’s enemies. With it came huge blocks of masonry and an avalanche of rubble, killing, maiming, burying half a hundred people. The three friends still stood defiant on the topmost step roasting alive where they stood, but still unscathed.

  Great clouds of dust bellied up obscuring half the street. These millions of particles reflected the glow from the flaming pile. The scene was like a primitive painting of the damned in Hell.

  “A miracle!” gulped the Duke, “A miracle! Holy Mother of God, we thank thee!” and he sprang down the steps into the chaos that reigned below.

  Richard and Simon tumbled after him. All three instinctively turned sharp right before reaching the huge pile of débris. Utter confusion was reigning there as scores of people half-blinded by the dust tried to drag the mangled bodies and whimpering wounded from beneath the huge limbs of the statue and other great blocks of stone.

  There was another rending crash as the roof on the church fell in. Fountains of sparks shot high into the air and great tongues of flame leapt upwards, but by that time the three friends were fifty yards down the street. Only one person recognized them as they fled. It was a tall, lean woman. She began to shriek a warning that they were escaping after all, but Simon cut it short with a back-handed blow from his fist which sent half her teeth down her throat.

  Two minutes later they had put three streets between themselves and the church. By comparison they had hardly noticed their burns before but now they felt as though they were alight all over. Their clothes were singed, their faces blackened, the sweat they had exuded was congealing on them and they could easily have been mistaken for members of the mob that had tried to murder them.

  “Where are we going?” Richard gasped suddenly.

  “Back with me,” Simon gulped. “Impossible to say thank you but—if we reach the Palace Hotel all right—at least I’ll guarantee the safety of you both till we can make other arrangements.”

  The Duke placed a hand on his arm. “Forget it, Simon. I’m only glad we happened to see you when we did. I’ll willingly agree an armistice until we’re all in better shape to take the field again.”

  “An armistice?” Simon groaned. “I suppose that’s it. But must we go on like this? For us to be on opposite sides is terrible.”

  “We must,” said Richard bitterly, “as long as your friends continue to throw parties like they did to-night.”

  “Ner. That isn’t fair,” Simon protested. “You can’t condemn Liberal Spain because a few poor devils know no better than to use the only form of protest they’ve got against people they believe responsible for their misery.”

  “Please,” cut in the Duke, “Please. While we’re together let’s not talk of these things. Whatever happens we mustn’t let our feelings make us bitter against each other.”

  In silence, except when they were forced to show their passports, they traversed the length of the Calle Alcala and turned into the Prado. It was two o’clock in the morning but almost every window in the huge Palace Hotel was lit up.

  Two men with rifles lounged on the steps and one of the hotel porters, also armed, was standing with them. His uniform-coat was unbuttoned, his cap on the back of his head, and he was smoking a large cigar. As Simon came up the porter gave him a nod of recognition and, glancing at his companions, said, “Friends of yours, Comrade?”

  “Yes. They’ll be staying here to-night,” Simon answered and as they passed into the vestibule he volunteered to the others, “Place was taken over at midnight. Everyone slung out except people like myself who have quarters here already. Must see if I can get you rooms?”

  He walked over to the bureau behind which a Committee, composed of certain members of the hotel staff and other armed men were sitting. Richard sank down in a vacant chair, the Duke leaned wearily up against the wall and let his aching head sink into his hands.

  Simon came plodding back. “It’s all right,” he said. “Double room on the third floor facing the street but it’s got a bath. That’s the best I can do for you.”

  “It sounds Heaven,” Richard murmured. “I only wish to God the back of my
neck wasn’t hurting so.”

  “Have you got any bicarbonate of soda?” De Richleau asked suddenly.

  “Bicarbonate, yes,” Simon nodded. “Always take it with me wherever I go in case I get indigestion.”

  “It’s the finest thing in the world for burns. Take us to your room first and we’ll see what we can do to draw the sting out of the scorching.”

  Simon led the way up to his room on the second floor where they cleaned themselves up as well as they could while refraining from washing their skin where it was blistered. Then they dressed each other’s burns with the bicarbonate, using some of Simon’s clean handkerchiefs which they wound round their necks as bandages.

  “Where’s Rex got to?” asked the Duke, when they had done.

  “Rex?” repeated Simon with as much surprise as if he had been asked about the Archangel Gabriel.

  “Yes, Rex,” said De Richleau testily. “And for goodness’ sake don’t try and pretend he isn’t in this with you. We saw the two of you driving round Madrid together in a car last week.”

  Simon grinned sheepishly. “Well, I’ll tell you. He flew me out here ten days ago but we didn’t expect things to come to a head quite so quickly. So he flew back to England last Tuesday.”

  “When’s he coming out again?”

  “That,” grinned Simon, “is—er—more than I can say.”

  “Any chance of getting a drink before we turn in?” Richard inquired. “I’ve got a throat like a lime-kiln.”

  “Yes. How about a magnum?” the Duke supplemented. “I can’t go to bed with a throat like I’ve got after that roasting.”

  ‘“Fraid we’ll have to go downstairs for it,” Simon said. “The floor waiters have all packed up but orders have been given for the lounge waiters to remain on duty.”

  “It’s interesting to know that you Proletarians still command your slaves,” Richard remarked sarcastically.