by Mathew Carr
The crowd cheered, but Esperanza felt both amazement and trepidation as she stared at the stricken vehicle lying on its side like a wounded mammoth. Further down the avenue an even larger crowd was beginning to form at the Plaza Catalunya, and a mounted detachment of Civil Guards was lined up in front of the Sarrià station, watching the people coming into the square. The guardia sat impassively in the saddles in their green capes, four-cornered hats, and leather boots, with their sabers and carbines protruding from scabbards and holsters.
Esperanza hurried past them onto the Ramblas, where groups of men and women were moving back and forth between the Raval and the Gothic Quarter. None of them seemed to be on their way to work. Esperanza saw women carrying extra bread and baskets of food back from the market, and groups of protesters listening carefully to instructions from their respective anarchist, socialist, and Radical Party organizers. The Athenaeum was packed with unionists and strike organizers who were shouting the names of streets and rendezvous places to each other, and Esperanza immediately began looking around for Ruben, when Arnau Busquets came up to her with a wide grin.
“Espe!” he said. “Have you seen? It’s working! I thought you’d be in Gràcia all day.”
“I’m looking for Ruben,” she replied.
“He’s in Poblenou but he’s going to meet us at the docks later. Why don’t you come with us?”
Esperanza was about to reply when she noticed some comrades comforting a woman who looked about her same age, who was sobbing quietly on the other side of the room. Arnau said she was the compañera of a Russian comrade named Klimov, who had disappeared three nights ago, coming back from the night shift.
“She thinks the Monster got him,” he said.
Esperanza felt as if an icy finger had run down her spine. “Has she told the police?”
“She did. Fat lot of good it did her. The coppers only have one thing on their minds now—and so should we. For today at least.”
Esperanza knew he was right. In a city where even her own comrades could not be trusted, it was comforting to know that there were men like Arnau Busquets around, who still burned with the pure flame that had first attracted her to the Idea. Arnau was like tempered steel, hardened in oppression and adversity, but the same could not be said of Ruben, and now it was obvious that he had done his filthy work once again.
Arnau would know what to do with Ruben. For a moment she was tempted to abandon Lawton’s plan and tell him everything she knew, but there was no time to talk as the Invincibles and the other strikers headed out toward the Ramblas. Soon they were back on the sand-covered thoroughfare, and she no longer cared if Director Vargas or Ugarte saw her as the crowd marched past the policemen and Somaten, with children running alongside them. It soon became obvious that what she had seen on the Passeig de Gràcia was not an exception. At the Calle Hospital she saw a crowd pelting a tram with stones and a group of women haranguing a shopkeeper outside his shop, one of whom was waving a revolver. Even though the woman wore the red Radical Party bow on her dress, the comrades cheered and raised clenched fists as they continued marching toward the harbor.
Despite the presence of Civil Guards, militiamen, and police at various points along the Ramblas, none of them made any attempt to intervene as the crowds grew larger and angrier. At the bottom of the Ramblas a group of protesters were setting fire to the guard house where the customs taxes were collected, while a contingent of soldiers stood watching passively from the barracks.
They reached the harbor just as the sun was coming up to find the dockworkers standing calmly next to the unloaded crates and the cranes that loomed over the water’s edge. Only the pier at the far end of the harbor beneath Montjuïc still remained operational, and two ships were still being loaded with ammunition and soldiers. Elsewhere the dockers, stevedores, and warehousemen were in complete control and they appeared to have accepted these exceptions. Just then Esperanza heard shots coming from the direction of the Plaza Catalunya, and as she looked past the burning excise house she saw a cyclist coming toward them, and even before she could see his face she recognized Ruben Montero.
* * *
The sight of him filled her with an almost physical disgust, as he came toward them and dismounted. Arnau and some of the other comrades gathered around as Ruben reported that all the factories in Poblenou were now on strike or closed for the day. The Lebon gasworks and the electricity plant were also closing, he said, and it would not be long before Poblenou, Sant Martí, and Clot were completely shut down.
“Excellent!” Arnau gave him a pat on the back. “And Raval is with us, too. And Gràcia. And as you see the docks are ours. Except for two troop ships. Too many soldiers guarding them. But it doesn’t matter. There won’t be any others.”
Ruben nodded with satisfaction. “That’s good. I saw people breaking into gun shops on my way over. And they say the comrades in Clot are getting ready to attack the police station. Ferrer was wrong. This is more than a protest now.”
Arnau and the comrades looked thrilled at the prospect, and Esperanza wanted to shout out at them that the great revolutionary was a liar and a traitor and an agent of the state. Once again she resisted the temptation. There was no reason to remain at the docks now, and Arnau suggested that they go back to the Athenaeum. Esperanza was not sure whether Ruben had detected her hostility, but he looked slightly wary as he pushed his bicycle alongside her, and described how he and the comrades from Poblenou had stood outside one of the Marquess of Comillas’s textile factories that morning and persuaded the entire early morning shift to turn back at the gates.
Esperanza tried to look pleased. “I have news too,” she said, lowering her voice. “About our other matter.”
“Oh?”
“Mata introduced me to a foreign detective yesterday. He knows who betrayed Pau. He says it’s one of us. An Invincible.”
“What?” Esperanza thought she saw a flicker of alarm in Ruben’s black eyes, and then his face hardened. “Did he tell you who it is?”
“No. But he’s going to give the name to Mr. Arrow.”
“Well we need to get to him first. You need to get that name. The police can’t do anything today. When the strike is over we’ll deal with this. I’m meeting Ferrer this afternoon. I’ll ask him what he thinks we should do about this murderer.”
“Ferrer’s in Barcelona?” Esperanza looked at him in surprise. “So he’s supporting the strike after all?”
Ruben shrugged. “He’s here on some other business. But he wants to be kept informed. I’m meeting him at his office. I’m going to try and bring him around. When he sees what’s happening…”
Once again Esperanza felt incredulous that anyone could be as depraved as Ruben and yet lie so convincingly, to the point when even Ferrer had been taken in.
“I can’t,” she replied. “I need to be in Gràcia.”
Ruben nodded. “Well, I’ll tell you what Francesc says.”
All along the Ramblas strikers were ordering shopkeepers to close their shops, and some shops had had their windows smashed. Just beyond the Plaza Reial, an angry crowd was pelting an empty streetcar with bricks and bottles while its driver sat hunched over the wheel with his hands over his head. An even larger crowd was gathering on the corner of the Conde del Asalto, and Rosa saw that some of its members were armed with pistols and shotguns.
As they came closer to the Plaza Catalunya she heard the sound of shouts and broken glass coming from the adjoining streets, and she saw people running toward them from the top of the Ramblas, yelling and screaming. Some of them had blood on their clothes and faces. Behind them she saw the black hats and capes of the Guardia Civil and the glint of sabers as they came charging down the central thoroughfare. Even as she and the comrades ran into the side streets to take cover, she imagined Ruben lying to Francesc Ferrer, as he had lied to everyone else, and she told herself that she could not allow this to happen, and that the teacher she still regarded as an inspiration needed to know exactly
what kind of man he was dealing with.
22
Lawton woke up to hear the crackle of gunfire breaking in the distance like a summer storm. At first he thought he was back in Africa, moving up with his regiment toward the front line. He could smell blood, and he could see the lines of stretcher bearers and wagons bringing back the dead and wounded. But there were no cannons, and the shooting was feeble and intermittent. He knew he was not dreaming, and even though he was conscious he did not seem able to move. It was not until be blinked and saw the ceiling and the light above his head that he remembered that he was still in Barcelona.
In the same moment he caught the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. He felt the unmistakable softness of a woman’s skin against his shoulder, but it was colder than any living woman should be. For a moment he thought it must be Zorka, but it was difficult to keep his eyes open and focus. After several attempts, he managed to sit up. Beside him a woman he had never seen before was lying with her head turned to one side and her thick black hair spread out across her bare shoulders. There were dark patches on the sheet that covered the rest of her body, and it was not until he turned her over that he saw the bruises and teeth marks on her chest and throat. Apart from the few splashes on the sheets and bedclothes, there was very little blood around her, and yet it was obvious from her pallor that she did not have much blood left in her body.
Lawton felt a mixture of pity, panic, and revulsion at the sight of her dead fishlike eyes. From her jet-black hair he thought she must be Spanish, and the smudged lipstick and the smell of perfume made it clear what her occupation had been. He tried to stand and immediately fell back against the wall. As he picked himself up he tried to remember what she was doing there and why he had been lying naked in the bed beside her. He saw his clothes draped across a chair at the foot of the bed, and his revolver was lying on the chest of drawers nearby, but he could not remember taking his clothes off or what had happened afterward. He was still looking around him when he spotted the wolflike creature in the little mirror on the wall with the blood on its face. On moving closer, he realized that he was looking at his own reflection, and when he raised his hands he saw that they were stained red, too.
In that moment he remembered the stories and legends his grandparents had told him, of Airetech and his three werewolf daughters, of the priest who encountered a talking wolf on the road from Ulster to Meath. He thought of dogmen and apemen and the Raval Monster. Now the face in the mirror seemed to tell him that he had finally become the monstrous thing that had always feared himself to be. And yet another part of him refused to accept it, and as he felt the bump on his forehead he remembered the cigarette that Zorka had given him, the strange taste in his mouth, and the needle in his neck before he fainted. He turned away and went out into the little sitting room, but there were no cigarettes or even an ashtray on the table. Had he made them up? Had Zorka even been there at all? Why could he not remember anything?
He was still trying to answer these questions as he stumbled into the kitchen and washed the blood from his face and hands. Afterward he returned to the bedroom and put his clothes back on. The murdered woman continued to stare at him accusingly, and he leaned over her to shut her eyes. In the same moment he noticed that he was treading in water, but there was no sign of a bottle or a glass.
He peered down through the shutters, and looked out at the flawless blue sky and the deserted boulevard. The café where he had spent the previous evening was empty and a black touring car with its top up was parked in front of it. Further back, a charred streetcar was lying on its side, and he heard another exchange of shots coming from the direction of the Ramblas. It was only then that he remembered the strike. He looked at his watch and saw that it was two o’clock in the afternoon. He sat down at the table now, in the same chair where he had sat talking to Zorka the night before, and lit one of his own cigarettes. As far as he could see there were only two explanations for the corpse in the next room. Either Weygrand or whoever had come into the apartment had brought her with them and killed her. Or else Weygrand had put him in a trance and got him to kill her with his own hands, and perhaps his teeth as well.
Could Weygrand have gotten him to drink her blood? The possibility was too revolting to contemplate. Just then he heard the sound of horses’ hooves coming from the street below. Once again he went into the bedroom and looked down through the shutters. He watched as the black police wagon pulled up below the building and Inspector Bravo Portillo and three police officers jumped down and came running toward the main entrance. It was only then that he roused himself from his stupor and ran back into the bedroom.
He grabbed the Smith & Wesson and his jacket and stumbled out into the corridor. Even as he climbed the short flight of stairs to the rooftop, he heard the footsteps coming up from down below. The door was closed with a bolt, and he drew it back and ran outside. The sunlight was so bright and so intense that he had to stop to accustom his eyes to the glare before he looked around him for a way out. To his left a low wall separated him from the next building. He ran toward and climbed over, and continued running toward the next entranceway.
The door was locked from the inside, and he stepped back and gave it a kick. He heard shouting from behind him as the door flew open, and then he was running down the darkened stairway with the revolver in his hand. By the time he reached the ground he could hear the police coming down the stairs behind him, and he slipped the door open and ran out into the street. On the other side of the avenue the touring car’s engine was throbbing gently, and he thought the driver was looking in his direction. To his right a uniformed police officer was standing by Bravo Portillo’s carriage, holding a shotgun by his side.
Lawton was still trying to decide what to do when the driver of the police carriage yelled and pointed toward him. Even as he sprinted up the boulevard he saw the policeman with the shotgun running toward him. There had been a time when he had been able to outrun most of the villains he pursued, but now he felt drained and weakened by whatever poison Zorka had given him. He had just turned the corner when he heard the engine starting up behind him. He knew without even looking back that the tourer was coming toward him. There was a stitch in his side and he was still wondering whether he would have to use his revolver when the car pulled up alongside him.
“Get in.” The driver spoke in English, with a French accent. Lawton looked hesitantly at the craggy face, the curly gray hair beneath the driving cap, the leather driving coat, gloves, and goggles, and the cigarette stub protruded from his lips.
“You don’t have a lot of choice, mon ami.”
Lawton looked back. The policeman was aiming his shotgun now. Even as he jumped into the passenger seat, he heard the metal pinging off the back of the car, and it was not until the officer was out of sight that he realized that he had left his hat in Zorka’s apartment.
* * *
Lawton did not ask where he was going, and the driver did not speak to him. They drove northward through streets that seemed devoid of traffic and pedestrians, as if the population had retreated from a plague. As they drove up through Gràcia, he noticed that some side streets had been barricaded and he saw men, women, and even children carrying cobblestones, pieces of furniture, and bed frames to make the barricades higher. Soon the streets disappeared, and the tourer slowed to a crawl as they made their way up a winding mountain road, past occasional villas, shacks, and cultivated plots.
They continued to drive at the same pace until they reached the top of a mountain overlooking the city. Lawton knew this was the mountain he had often seen from the Ramblas, as the car pulled into an open esplanade next to a pavilion-like building bearing the words GRAN HOTEL TIBIDABO. The hotel appeared to be open. Some customers were sitting at the terrace tables and a few cars were parked outside the main entrance. Some of their passengers were standing by the edge of the esplanade looking over the city, while others were making their way to what seemed to be an amusement park. The driver parked
away from the restaurant, and switched off the engine before drawing back the googles. He pulled a pack of Pall Malls from his jacket pocket and offered it to Lawton.
“So, Monsieur Lawton.” The Frenchman held up a lighter and lit their cigarettes. “I’m sorry to find you in trouble with the police again.”
“Again?” Lawton sucked on the cigarette and released a long stream of smoke.
“Alors,” the Frenchman replied. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Captain Georges Bonnecarrère. I work for the French government.”
“ In what capacity?”
“Let’s just say I’m not a tax collector. And you, my friend, are definitely not a tourist, even though you said in your statement in Villefranche that you were.”
“Sweet Jesus, you’ve been following me! And I never even saw you.”
Bonnecarrère looked pleased. “I am good at my job, monsieur. And grenade attacks are not common in Vernet. My department’s responsibilities include the protection of our frontiers. We had reason to believe that you were connected to men who are already of interest to us. Enemies of my country. It seems our instincts were correct, seeing as you have led me to both of them.”
“Weygrand and Zorka?”
“Weygrand, yes. And Herr Klarsfeld.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, he has certainly heard of you. I saw you enter Weygrand’s building last night. Twenty minutes later Weygrand and Klarsfeld arrived in a red Delaunay-Belleville, carrying two large wooden boxes, and accompanied by a woman. It wasn’t until 0600 hours that he and Weygrand came downstairs with the boxes, accompanied by Weygrand’s female companion, but there is no sign of you or the woman. I thought maybe I should follow them, but it’s too obvious—one car following another through an empty city. So I waited for you instead. When you do finally appear, you come running out of another building with the police after you. And where is the woman, I ask myself?”