by Mathew Carr
Lawton felt vaguely nauseous now, as Bonnecarrère looked at him expectantly. “I assume you know Dr. Randolph Foulkes?” he said.
“Indeed. We know a great deal about him.”
“So you know he’s dead?”
Bonnecarrère frowned. “No, we didn’t know that. We knew he came here with Weygrand.”
“Well, he got blown up by a terrorist bomb. And I was sent here by his widow to find out what happened to him. And I think Weygrand did it.”
Bonnecarrère looked increasingly mystified as Lawton summarized his investigation and told him what he suspected about Weygrand. He told him about the Luna Bar bombing, his meeting with Weygrand and Zorka, his visit to Vernet and his suspicions about the Explorers Club, right up to the point when he had woken up to find himself lying next to a corpse in Zorka’s apartment. He could not bring himself to tell the Frenchman that he had been naked and covered in blood himself, but Bonnecarrère still looked disgusted.
“You mean this woman was drained of all her blood, and you didn’t see any of this?” he asked.
“I told you. I was drugged. Weygrand must have done it—to frame me.”
“So what happened to the blood?”
Bonnecarrère was looking at him suspiciously now, Lawton thought.
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “By those marks in her throat she should have been bleeding like a stuck pig, yet there was hardly a drop spilled. That means whatever blood she had was in those boxes. They took it from her and they took it away.”
“Took it? How?”
“Those boxes must have had bottles inside them. And I can tell you this—if that’s what they did with her, then Weygrand and this Klarsfeld will have done the same to all the other victims of this so-called Monster.”
“But why would anyone do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. I might be able to make more sense of it if you told me who this Klarsfeld is.”
Bonnecarrère looked momentarily doubtful. “Very well. His name is Manfred Klarsfeld. Or Baron von Klarsfeld, as he calls himself. Though he’s no more of a baron than I am. And that may not be his real name. Klarsfeld has been many things.”
Lawton continued to stare down at the city as Bonnecarrère described the many lives of the Baron von Klarsfeld. According to the Frenchman, Klarsfeld had been an adventurer, a scholar, a polar explorer, a smuggler, and a soldier. He had spent time in Africa, including some years as a member of King Leopold’s militia, the Force Publique, in the Congo Free State, before it became the Belgian Congo. He had fought with the Boers as a volunteer and he had also taken part in Germany’s campaigns against the Herero and Nama peoples in South West Africa. For the last four years, the French secret service believed that he was working as a spy for the German government in Vernet, Bonnecarrère said, and also in Barcelona.
“Obviously this is of interest to us,” Bonnecarrère said, “but it should also be of some concern to your own government. Klarsfeld and Foulkes were both members of the Institute for Racial Hygiene. They both took part in the 1906 Greenland expedition. Klarsfeld, as I told you, used to be a smuggler when he was in Africa. He specialized in an unusual and distasteful form of contraband. He supplied scientists and collectors with human skulls. Specific types and sizes. In most cases these items were taken from corpses or cemeteries, but we have reason to believe that Klarsfeld may have used other methods.”
“What methods?”
“I mean he may have killed natives in order to collect these artifacts.”
Lawton reached into his pocket and showed Bonnecarrère the photograph of the Explorers Club meeting in Vernets. “Is this Klarsfeld?” he pointed to the man with the duelling scar.
“That’s him, yes. And that is the Count of Arenales. Well that makes sense.”
“What kind of sense?”
Bonnecarrère shrugged. “At the moment Spain is not a member of any of the great alliances. It’s in Germany’s interest to change that. Germany also has ambitions in Morocco. It’s possible that Klarsfeld is seeking to shift the Spanish position. When the war comes, it would not be helpful to France to have a hostile Spain. Especially with a Spanish army in Morocco. Arenales might be useful in facilitating these contacts.”
“And Weygrand? What do you know about him? Apart from the fact that he’s a fraud and a murderer.”
“Weygrand may be those things, but he isn’t a complete charlatan. He is a genuine doctor. Or used to be. We believe that he may also be connected to German intelligence. Until now, we thought that he and Klarsfeld may have infiltrated this Explorers Club in order to obtain intelligence information. Vernet is a good place to do this. There are members of the British general staff who go there for their holidays, as well as some high-ranking officers from my country. Klarsfeld may have been using Foulkes for this purpose. But now these murders. Hypnotists. Monsters. Draining people of their blood. It’s très pertubant—very confusing.”
“It is,” Lawton agreed. “And I would very much like to speak to Klarsfeld and Weygrand and see what they have to say about it.”
“I don’t know where they are. But we have intercepted a telegram that was sent to Klarsfeld from Berlin on Saturday.” Bonnecarrère took a piece of paper from his wallet, and Lawton stared at the message: Excelsior. M. S Bertran. 28. 24.
“What does this mean?” he asked.
“Well, Wednesday is the 28th. The second number could be a time.”
“So twelve o’clock on the 28th?”
Bonnecarrère nodded. “Perhaps. But I don’t know what the rest of it refers to.”
“Excelsior was the name of the 1906 Greenland expedition.”
“What does Greenland have to do with Barcelona?” Bonnecarrère asked.
“I don’t know. But there is someone who might be able to help us.”
“Your journalist friend?”
“You really have been following me, haven’t you?”
Bonnecarrère grinned. “My superiors would not be happy if I revealed my identity to a newspaperman. I’ll let you ask Señor Mata. And then you can tell me if he’s been helpful. I’m at the Hotel Internacional. It’s very near where you’re staying.”
“I know where it is.”
“Bien. But I advise you to be careful, Monsieur. A lot of things have happened while you were sleeping. The city is under martial law. There are mobs in the streets. It’s not a good time for a manhunt. And if what you say is true, the people we are looking for may also be hunting you.”
“Well, next time I’ll be ready for them.”
Bonnecarrère reached for the crank, and got down to start up the car. “I very much hope so,” he said. “Because next time I may not be around to help you.”
23
By the middle of the morning it was clear to Esperanza that the strike had exceeded all its expectations. In downtown Barcelona, public transport had ceased to function, and there were no trains coming in or out of the city. So many trams had been attacked, blocked, or destroyed that the Marquess of Foronda called all the remaining vehicles back to their barns. The post and telegraph offices were also closed, along with the shops, offices, hotels, barbers shops, businesses, and warehouses in and around the Ramblas. Some shopkeepers closed because they supported the strike, others did so in order to avoid the Radical Party women who roamed the streets, smashing the windows of any shops that dared to stay open.
At ten o’clock the Invincibles joined the metalworkers from the Hispano-Suiza factory in the Calle Floridablanca in a mass walkout. Shortly afterward she heard shooting coming from the direction of the Ramblas, and it was not until an hour later that she learned of the armed assault on the Atarazanas police station. All morning news continued to circulate through the neighborhood of assaults, gun battles, and cavalry charges from different parts of the city. There were rumors that the whole country was now on strike; that the Maura government had fallen and the king was about to announce his abdication; that the civil governor of Barcelona had res
igned; that soldiers were refusing to obey orders to suppress the strike. In the backstreets of the Raval, she saw crowds enthusiastically building barricades from cobblestones and furniture, while men and even women armed with rifles and pistols took up defensive positions around them.
Esperanza did not know whether troops were really refusing to obey orders, but it was clear that they were making no obvious attempt to prevent these activities. Apart from a few police and Civil Guards protecting some of the offices on the Ramblas, the security forces seemed to have abandoned the streets to the roving crowds who moved back and forth chanting slogans denouncing the war and celebrating the Republic. All this was thrilling and exhilarating, as if the city had become an entirely different place to the one she had known. As Esperanza roamed the streets with her comrades she had the feeling that they were riding an irresistible wave that might take them anywhere.
At half past one, news reached the Athenaeum that the civil governor Ossorio had resigned, and the captain-general Luis de Santiago had taken command of the city and declared martial law. As she listened to the wild cheers that greeted this announcement, Esperanza felt that she was about to witness something no less momentous than the fall of the Bastille and the Paris Commune. It was at that point that she decided to go to Ferrer’s offices to warn him about Ruben. She was surprised to find Ferrer’s secretary calmly editing a manuscript by Kropotkin, and she was even more astonished when the secretary told her that Ferrer was having lunch at the Maison Doreé.
She arrived at the restaurant to find the Great Teacher sitting by a window overlooking the Plaza Catalunya, where the Civil Guard and protesters had clashed only a few hours before. Esperanza had never been to the Maison Doreé, but she knew of its reputation and she felt disconcerted by the sound of clinking cutlery and glasses and the polite murmur of genteel conversation all around her. Ferrer looked equally surprised to see her and not at all displeased.
“Miss Claramunt.” He smiled graciously and kissed her on the cheeks. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
Esperanza could smell the wine on his breath, and as she sat down she wondered why the country’s most famous anarchist was having lunch in the city’s most celebrated restaurant in the midst of a general strike. “I need to speak to you, Señor,” she said.
“Of course. Can I get you something?”
Esperanza glanced at his bowl of onion soup. She had not eaten since the early morning, but it seemed wrong to eat in any restaurant on a day like this, and she could not understand how Ferrer was able to do it. She asked for some water, and Ferrer filled her glass. He asked how the strike was going, and listened attentively as she told him some of the things she had seen and heard that morning.
“This does sound promising.” Ferrer sipped his wine. “And I’ve heard that soldiers have refused to fire on the strikers at the port. And that Santiago has withdrawn the army to barracks because he’s afraid they might mutiny. So are we looking at a revolutionary strike? Or is this just a protest? What do you think, Esperanza—you don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”
Esperanza felt Ferrer’s foot against her boot, and she hastily moved her leg away. “Well, the strike committee is meeting this evening to decide whether to extend it for another day,” she said.
“And if they do?”
“Then anything is possible.”
Ferrer looked pleased. “I appreciate your insights. And your caution. I’ll be interested to see what your comrade Ruben has to say. Something tells me he won’t be quite as circumspect.”
“No, he won’t,” Esperanza said. “And that’s why I wanted to talk to you. Señor, you cannot trust this man.”
Ferrer’s face fell. “Why on earth not?”
“Because,” Esperanza leaned forward and lowered her voice, “he is a liar and a traitor!”
* * *
Esperanza had spoken quietly, but her vehemence seemed to reverberate around the nearest tables, as if a stone had been dropped into a pond, so that some of the nearby customers directed curious glances in their direction. She waited until the waiter had replaced Ferrer’s soup bowl with a plate of boeuf bourguignon, and then proceeded to explain her suspicions about Ruben. Ferrer’s face darkened as she went on, and he made no further attempt to touch her foot.
“These are serious allegations, Miss Claramunt,” he said. “In fact they couldn’t be more serious.”
“I know. But when I heard that Ruben was coming to speak to you, I felt I had to warn you.”
“That’s very sweet of you. Well it’s true that Ugarte would like to see me dead. And he isn’t the only one. But these allegations need further investigation—and not by the police.”
“I know.”
Ferrer looked thoughtfully out the window. “It’s not really a good time to carry out such an investigation, and I have to return to Montgat tonight. But there is someone I can speak to before I leave. I’ll see if he can make some discreet inquiries—without alerting Ruben obviously. In the meantime I think it’s best that you stay away from him. Go back to your barrio, and leave this with me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“On the contrary my dear, I’m the one who should thank you.” Ferrer smiled once again and laid his hand on hers. “I promise you we will get to the truth of this. And when it’s over, I do hope you can come to Montgat. I know Soledad would like to see you again. And so would I.”
Despite the reference to his wife, Ferrer’s hand remained there for just a little too long. Esperanza felt that she had done her duty, but she was relieved to get away from his discomforting presence, and equally relieved to step out of that incongruous outpost of bourgeois comfort. Even as she hurried back across the square, she caught a whiff of gunpowder and she heard what might have been gunshots or fireworks coming from the direction of Poblenou. In that moment it occurred to her that she had set in motion a chain of events that might lead to Ruben’s execution, and she thought of Marta Tosets and Pau’s mother and wondered if she had done the right thing. The Passeig de Gràcia was still largely devoid of traffic, and the streetcar she had seen earlier that morning was still lying on its side, but it soon became obvious that her own neighborhood had changed dramatically in her absence.
At the corner of the Mayor de Gràcia and the Diagonal, men, women, and children were cheerfully assembling a barricade out of cobblestones, old bed frames and pieces of furniture. Similar barricades were being built in some of the backstreets, and as in the Raval some of the strikers were armed. As she passed the Travessera de Gràcia, she saw another barricade under construction and she heard what sounded like a gun battle unfolding from the direction of the market. At the Plaza Lesseps, she found a contingent of infantry and cavalry camped out in the north side of the square, armed with Mauser rifles and two pieces of artillery, while a large crowd of strikers occupied the south side, where the local strike committee had its headquarters. Despite the presence of the army, the atmosphere in the square was relaxed and even convivial, as some members of the crowd took food to the soldiers and tried to persuade them to hand over their weapons.
Esperanza was glad to be reunited with the Gràcia comrades, and she finally ate a sandwich as she described the situation downtown. As in the Raval, it soon became clear that her comrades were being carried along by events that they had little control over. No one had given orders to build barricades, yet they were going up everywhere. Some of the workers had broken into armories and had laid siege to the Guardia Civil Electricity Factory near the Travessera. Others had declared Gràcia an independent republic and were preparing to defend it at the barricades, and there were rumors that the churches and monasteries were going to be set on fire.
The strike committee seemed at a loss to know what to do next. It was not until seven o’clock that a messenger arrived by bicycle from the Raval. The messenger announced that the central committee had decided to extend the strike for another twenty-four hours, and instructed all local committees to des
troy train and telegraph lines leading into the city in order to prevent the authorities from bringing in troop reinforcements. As night fell groups of volunteers dispersed through the darkened streets, armed with pickaxes, wire cutters, and dynamite to cut the train and telegraph lines that passed through the neighborhood.
Esperanza spent the evening walking around the neighborhood with her comrades, making sure that bakeries and the market opened the next morning for long enough to buy food, and that food would be distributed to those who needed it most. It was nearly midnight when she finally returned home. Even though she took her boots off in the hallway, her mother immediately emerged from her bedroom in her nightdress, holding a candle. Esperanza knew she had been up waiting for her, and she braced herself for recriminations, but her mother looked more relieved than angry. She said that she had left some supper out for her, and that Eduardo had been frightened by the shooting, and was sleeping in her bed, and then she withdrew to her room.
Esperanza was glad she did not have to tell her mother that she had not been to work, and she did not feel any need to justify herself. Because a part of her no longer belonged to her family now, but to the masses, who were out there on the barricades and reclaiming the city for themselves. She had no idea whether they would succeed, but even as she sat eating the food her mother left her, she already had the feeling that 1909 would take its place in the list of momentous years 1789, 1848, 1870, and 1905 as a year that had transformed the world and set her country on a new path. And it was only afterward, when she lay in bed, listening to the sporadic shots and explosions that had frightened her brother, that she felt alone again, and she felt suddenly afraid of what the next day might bring.
* * *
“In England you use butter on your bread. We Catalans do things differently.” Mata held up half a tomato in one hand and a grater in the other. “And this is more or less the only thing I know how to do in the kitchen. I usually eat in restaurants when Sylvia’s not here.”