Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 03

by The Golden Spaniard

The other people in the restaurant had come rushing out including its proprietor; a corpulent man with a napkin under his arm and a glass and bottle in his hands.

  Lucretia’s police whistle was still shrilling round the corner and her gun was going off about every thirty seconds as she continued to fire it regularly into the air. While two of Fulchio’s men held the half-unconscious victims of their attack, and Fulchio stood glowering before them, the third dashed to the corner screaming that he’d cut her guts out unless she stopped her filthy row. As he reached it a bullet sent his hat spinning from his head and he dived back again.

  Fulchio’s little beady eyes glared with triumph from the shaven cannon-ball head set so strangely on his enormous shoulders.

  “I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he repeated. “An’ I’m going to skin you alive—understand? Tear yer skin from yer body for wot yer done to me.”

  “Come on,” urged one of his men. “Come on. That hell-cat’ll bring the police on us in a minute.”

  “Police!” Fulchio spat. “That don’t mean anything now.”

  “Don’t they?” challenged the fellow who had had his hat shot off. “Things aren’t what they were! They beat up Carlo’s boys last night.”

  “Yes, they’re on the move again,” croaked the third man huskily. “Let’s get these two along to the warehouse. We’ll squeeze their eyeballs out for you then. Take our time at it and no questions asked.”

  Richard and the Duke were only just recovering. The arms of both of them were held firmly behind their backs. For the time being they were quite incapable of any serious resistance. At a signal from Fulchio his men thrust them round and half-pushed, half-dragged them up the street.

  They had not gone twenty yards before there was the sound of excited shouting and running feet. De Richleau flung his weight sideways, wriggled from the grip of his man and turned in his tracks but the huge Fulchio flung his gorilla arms about him. Richard tried to trip his captor but failed and they fell together in a tangled heap. A challenge sounded, then a volley of shots whistled over the heads of the struggling group. Fulchio’s men abandoned the fight and made to run, but three Guardias Asalto were entering the far end of the street with levelled carbines. The hooligans were caught between two fires.

  Lucretia and the posse of police who had fired the volley came dashing up; the attacked and attackers were surrounded.

  “What’s happening here?” snapped the Guardia Sergeant who with his two men had blocked the roughs’ retreat.

  “Fascists,” said Fulchio loudly. “Killers. They were at a church-burning on the night of the glorious revolution. They fired on our women. We saw ’em. We were arresting ’em for you.”

  “That’s a lie!” cried Lucretia. “Comrade Sergeant, I am a member of the F.A.I. I charge you to arrest these men for an unprovoked assault on two peaceful citizens.”

  “They’re foreign spies!” yelled Fulchio. “Look at their papers, Comrade, and see if I’m not right.”

  “Come down to the street lamp, all of you,” ordered the Sergeant, “and, you two, produce your papers.”

  The small crowd had all taken refuge in the restaurant while the shooting was going on but now they were back on the pavement except the fat proprietor who straddled the top step.

  The Sergeant took the passports and read out the names: “Richard Eaton, British; and Hypolite Dubois, French. That sounds all right.”

  He motioned to his men. “See if they’ve got any other papers.”

  While the police stood by, the two Guardia troopers thrust their hands into the breast pockets of the two suspects. Each produced two papers only; a C.N.T. Party membership card and a permit to carry arms.

  “What’s this?” said the Sergeant quickly. “Foreigners with C.N.T. cards. Something fishy here.”

  Both cards were signed by André Nin, the famous Barcelona Anarchist, but they did not bear the names of Richard Eaton and Hypolite Dubois; neither did the arms permits.

  “Where d’you get these?” the Sergeant asked.

  “Found them on two dead men,” promptly replied the Duke. “We’re carrying our own passports. We only took those as interesting souvenirs.”

  “What did I tell yer?” snarled Fulchio. “They murdered two of our lot to get those cards. They’re spies. Foreign spies.”

  Suddenly he leaned forward and peered in the Duke’s face. “That’s funny. This one had a birthmark right across half ’is face when we see him before. Didn’t he, boys?”

  “Yes—that’s right,” chorused two of Fulchio’s friends.

  “There y’are!” the hooligan insisted. “When we see him first he was disguised. They’re aristocrats. Out here killing the defenders of the People’s liberties.”

  The Sergeant looked at Richard. “Do you maintain your real name is Eaton?”

  “Si,” said Richard.

  “He’s right there,” cut in a new voice. “Last time I saw him he was sitting swilling champagne in evening dress. His wife’s a Princess something or other. Little dark woman with jewels worth a fortune.” It was the restaurant proprietor who had spoken.

  A sudden murmur of excitement went up. “Princess! Aristos! What did I tell you!” while the crowd turned to stare at the stout man on the steps.

  “I know the other one, too,” he went on, “but his name’s not Dubois. He’s a Duke and a rich one. They bow and scrape to him in half the restaurants of Europe as Monseigneur le Duc de Richleau.”

  Chapter Twenty-one – Out of the Frying Pan Into the Fire

  To Richard the restaurant proprietor was only vaguely familiar but De Richleau knew him at once as a waiter called Luis. For a year or two after the war he had been a sous chef at the Spanish Restaurant in London at the time King Alfonso’s visits had made it so deservedly popular. Later, he had been a floor waiter at the Ritz in Madrid and had served the Duke on his last visit to the Spanish capital. That was six years before, but it is part of a waiter’s stock-in-trade to have a long memory for names and faces.

  “A Duke! A Duke!” the crowd were crying. “Fulchio’s right. They’re spies—aristos. Leave ’em to us and we’ll deal with them.”

  “Silence!” shouted the Guardia Sergeant, and turning to the Duke, “What have you to say?”

  “This man’s mistaken,” said De Richleau firmly. “I am a servant—an interpreter—and my name is Dubois.”

  “Oh, no, it’s not!” said the ex-waiter with equal firmness. “You’re the Duke de Richleau all right. Cantaloup melon for breakfast at ten pesetas a go. That’s your mark. And truffles cooked in champagne for supper. Remember?” He suddenly broke into a facetious imitation of the Spanish equivalent of the Oxford accent, “Waitah, give Madame some more caviah Waitah, no restaurant worthy of the name ever serves cold lobstah with capahs in the heads. A disgustin’ habit.”

  A howl of laughter went up and the excited crowd pressed in upon De Richleau until the police forced them back.

  The Sergeant looked at Lucretia-José. “Comrade, what do you know of these men?”

  “I know them as Comrades Eaton and Dubois, visitors to Madrid, from two friendly democratic nations.”

  “Not good enough!” he said shortly. “They’ve deceived you and been using these C.N.T. cards to fool other people. They’re hand in glove with the Rebels to upset the Government I’m arresting them for using false papers with the object of promoting treason.”

  There was nothing to be done, absolutely nothing. De Richleau and Richard could only thank their stars that Lucretia had got them out of Fulchio’s hands. Yet in one sense they were out of the frying-pan into the fire. It was conceivable that they might have ransomed themselves from Fulchio since the large sum they had on them in bank notes was sufficient earnest that they were good for a further very considerable payment, whereas there was no hope of their being able ransom themselves from a State prison. Moreover, the very worst thing that could conceivably happen to them had happened. Their identities as members of the old ruling cast
e was now known. Even Simon might not be able to protect them in view of the damning discovery that the Duke had been carrying a faked passport and that both of them had been in possession of forged C.N.T. Party cards with arms permits to match.

  They were marched back to the Gran Via. After some delay a police patrol wagon arrived. By way of good-bye Fulchio and various members of the crowd spat in their faces as they entered it—handcuffed.

  Lucretia accompanied them to the Model Prison. She had no official position but everyone in Madrid who had was now almost scared out of their wits at the sight of a representative of that terrible body consisting of utterly ruthless idealists, the F.A.I.

  Actually she was desperately afraid for her friends since she knew that, from that night on, she would not be able to show herself openly as their protector. It was quite certain that in the morning the word of the ex-waiter who had unmasked them would be accepted; that one of them was a Duke and the other the husband of a Russian Princess. Lucretia could bring no evidence to prove the contrary so her only course would be to admit to having been deceived and disassociate herself from them; otherwise she might become suspect herself and have her ill-important secret work brought to a premature conclusion. All she could do while the night lasted was to maintain her contention that they were foreign Comrades, insist that they should be given as decent accommodation as the crowded state of the prison allowed, and threaten the prison officials with the direst penalties if any harm befell the prisoners before their case had been heard.

  The prison people were almost cringingly polite under the ash of her quick tongue. They were mostly good Republicans but men of moderate views who were trying to do a thankless job under most difficult conditions. The last thing they wanted was trouble with the wild fanatics of the F.A.I, who had already threatened to burn the prison down and massacre the hundreds of prisoners in it. Assuring Lucretia that her friends would be well looked after they bid her a courteous good night.

  The Duke’s and Richard’s handcuffs were unlocked and they were marched off to a cell. It was obviously only built for a single prisoner but a wooden bunk had been fitted above the iron bedstead now that the number of prisoners far exceeded the original accommodation. There was a wash-basin, a W.C., a barred window high up in the whitewashed wall and a steel door without a handle but with a spy-hole in it. Each bed had two blankets and a pillow on it. There was nothing else in the cell at all.

  “Well, here we are,” said Richard with forced joviality.

  “Yes. It was a bad break but one that might happen to anybody.” De Richleau lowered his voice. “Be careful what you say, or disguise it. Someone who understands English may have been put to listen in on us.”

  “D’you think Goldie-Locks will be able to work the oracle?”

  “I doubt it. If extreme measures are threatened the person you speak of is certain to attempt something, but otherwise it would be most impolitic on their part. I hope to God they don’t.”

  “We can ask for assistance from the B.E.”

  “No harm in asking. We are entitled to the protection of our respective Embassies.” De Richleau winked, which gave Richard the tip that the fiction of Hypolite Dubois was to be kept up.

  “How have we been disporting ourselves since Independence Day?”

  “Here on a globe trot. Caught by events. Unable to vamoose.”

  “And where hitting hay?”

  “With daughters of joy, various.”

  “What! For just on a month?”

  “Think of a better one.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Neither can I. It’s thin as a willow wand but it might just go down. I’ve known Spaniards take that sort of holiday in Paris. That’ll do in case we’re pulled out for catechising to-night. Let’s get some sleep now, we may be able to improve our Odyssey in the morning.”

  There were no palliasses, only wire mattresses, but they slept in their clothes on the blankets.

  In the morning they were given a mess of rice and a drink of coffee. Two hours later their cell was unlocked and a warder marched them along to a large, sparsely furnished room. It was not a proper court and they had no proper trial, but an investigation of sorts was held there.

  The prison Governor and three representatives of the Government sat with an interpreter behind a long wooden table. Lounging on chairs at either side of it were numerous people, not members of the tribunal but representatives of the U.G.T., F.A.I., Partido Communista, Izquierda Republicana, etc., holding a watching brief for their various organizations.

  The Guardia Sergeant who had made the arrest was present, also Lucretia, the ex-waiter Luis, and another man. The Sergeant gave an account of the previous night’s happenings and reported that, like numerous other gang-leaders of his kind, Fulchio Zorolo was in his own fortified headquarters, a warehouse he had commandeered for himself, so short of sending a company of troops it was impossible to bring him as a witness.

  Lucretia was asked what she knew of the prisoners. She said that she had first met them on a recent visit to London where they had been introduced to her as Eaton and Dubois; two comrades of strong Proletarian sympathies. She had since met them in Madrid and had never had any cause to suppose they were other than they represented themselves to be.

  Luis then testified that before taking a small place of his own in Madrid, he had worked in de luxe restaurants all over Spain for twenty-five years. He had also worked as a waiter for eighteen months in London and during two seasons at Biarritz. It was at the Palace at Biarritz that he had seen Richard, who had had a suite of rooms there with his wife, a Russian Princess. Regarding the alleged Dubois, he was able to go into much greater detail. He could not possibly be mistaken in asserting that the prisoner was the Duke de Richleau, because the Duke was always treated as a star client at any restaurant to which he went and pointed out to junior waiters so that they might know him again. He, Luis, had first seen the Duke at Algeciras before the Great War. Later he had waited on him on numerous occasions in London and lastly he had served him as floor waiter for nearly three weeks when he had had a suite at the Ritz in Madrid in the spring of 1930.

  The man Luis brought with him bore out the last statement, having been employed as a valet in the hotel at that time, and also identified Dubois as the Duke. This clinched the matter as far as the Tribunal was concerned.

  Richard and De Richleau were questioned as to their motives for coming to Spain and their doings while in the country. Their passports were produced as showing their date of entry and De Richleau at once asked that they should be allowed to have these back as the only available evidence of their foreign citizenship. The request was granted and they then told the story they had agreed upon. It was quite obvious that nobody in the room believed them but they stuck to their account.

  When Richard was asked for the names and addresses of the women with whom he was supposed to have stayed, he answered coyly, “Well, let me think now. There was Carmen, and Maria and Consuelo, and Pepita.”

  “No, no,” interrupted the Duke. “Pepita was mine.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Richard protested. “I remember her distinctly; she had red hair.”

  “Ah, sorry! There were two Pepitas, weren’t there. I was thinking of the dark one we picked up in the Negresco Bar.”

  “Right; then there was Conchita. D’you remember? The nice little thing who sprained her ankle going upstairs to that flat somewhere near the Hippodrome.”

  De Richleau nodded. “Yes, beastly place. Don’t forget the twins we met that first Sunday at the bull-ring. What were their names?”

  “I can’t think now, but they lived miles out at a place called Tetuan. Oh, and there was Inez, too, and her friend; but that wasn’t so funny.”

  “When their husbands tried to blackmail us, Lord no!”

  “Then Dolores, she was very pretty. And those two French girls we found at Molinero’s. And the one who tried to commit suicide because her boy-friend had been shot. But she wa
s yours.”

  By this time the interpreter was fed up, and said so. The Tribunal took his view that further questioning on these lines was quite useless. Either the prisoners were positive Casanovas or incorrigible liars, and in the light of Luis’s testimony the latter was almost certainly the case.

  However that might be, one fact was clear. Neither Don Riccardo Eaton and the Duke de Richleau nor Comrades Eaton and Dubois had permits to carry arms; yet the two prisoners had been doing so. That was quite enough to justify their detention.

  For the rest, Anarchist Party cards in other names having been found on them and their most unsatisfactory account of themselves pointing strongly to their being engaged in subversive activities on behalf of the Rebels, they were to be strictly confined and their application to see members of their Embassy staffs refused.

  As the two were being marched out they heard the F.A.I. representative say to Lucretia-José, “You’d best be more careful how you pick your friends in future, Comrade.”

  They did not catch her reply but it was evidently something witty as the man burst into a roar of laughter and all the others joined in; which conveyed the comforting thought to the prisoners that her association with them was not suspected to be anything but a casual one.

  Back in the cell they sat down on the iron bed side by side and a feeling of great depression swept over them. Unless a much more serious charge than carrying arms without a licence, or even false passports, could be brought against them they were in no danger of losing their lives; particularly as they were not Spanish subjects. But they were very definitely prisoners for a quite indefinite period and in a really modern prison where the prospects of escape were extremely slender.

  Their first glance round the previous night had convinced them that any attempt to break out would be sheer waste of time. Only one possibility remained to them. When they were searched everything had been taken from them, but beneath their borrowed black coats they still wore their original waistcoats and sewn into the linings were Spanish and English banknotes worth many hundred pounds. They had now succeeded in getting their passports back and it was possible that they might be able to bribe their way out.