“I’d rather sleep,” Richard murmured. “I would, too, if I wasn’t so damned curious to hear what’s behind all these metal deals and nightly junketings you’ve been at during my hours of solitary toil.”
“Good. You’ve done a fine job, Richard, every bit as important as my own but with none of the fun I’ve had. It has been great fun, by the by, to sting some of these Madrileños. My only regret is that I had not longer to do it in.”
“Yes. You’re an avaricious old brute except where your personal friends are concerned.”
The Duke chuckled. “I suppose that’s true. But, you see, this sort of people paid taxes to keep my ancestors and now it is I who have to pay taxes to keep their poor relations. One must get one’s own back somehow, mustn’t one, especially with the supertax at its present high level.”
“I don’t know. Marie-Lou and I never grudge paying our supertax. We always feel rather grateful that we have an income big enough to warrant the charge. Anyhow, you’re only joking. Let’s get back to business. What do we do now? Sit here till all the King’s horses and all the King’s men march up the street and march back again?”
“Have an Hoyo,” de Richleau pushed over the box of cigars, “and tell me what you think will happen if in a few days or weeks there’s a blow-up and the Reds get control of Madrid.”
“They shoot up poor old Don Lluis in his office, if he’s mug enough to be there to be shot at, and go down to the vaults. Directly they see that busted door they’ll come through to the cellars, find the gold and pinch it.”
“Full marks. That is just what they will do. Therefore we have now to remove the gold to a safer hiding-place.”
Richard puffed with satisfaction at the cigar. “If you’re counting on me to turn myself into a pack-mule and take it to the coast you’d better think up another one.”
“I have already done so. Unfortunately the coast is too ambitious a move to contemplate but I think we might get it out of Madrid in a day or two.”
“How? You’ll need lorries and men to load it.”
“I know, and at the moment I have no plan to secure either. The lorries are easy enough but the men are the difficulty—men who will not talk afterwards about having visited this place.”
“If you’re going to get help, and it seems to me that you must, why couldn’t you have let the helpers shift it straight from the bullion chamber instead of landing me with two-thirds of the blasted business?”
“Because the helpers would then realise that they were removing something from the vaults of the bank, whereas now they can only know they are shifting some cases from the cellars of a private house.”
“I see. Well, that’s sound, but I’m afraid they’ll guess it’s gold in the boxes owing to their ghastly weight.”
“Not necessarily, if we change the markings on the cases, as we can easily do with a pot of paint. There are other metals which weigh nearly as heavy as gold.”
“So that’s the game.” Richard grinned. “Hence the metal business, eh? I suppose you’ve been fixing some place to which we can safely take it.”
“Take it and lose it,” supplemented the Duke, his grey eyes shining, “and this is where you come into the game again. By this time tomorrow night I hope you will be the proud owner of a metal-goods factory.”
“Like Jurgen, ‘I’ll try any drink once,’” Richard agreed, “But why me? I don’t know any of your new friends. Surely they would accept you as a purchaser much more readily.”
“No. It must be you for one very definite reason. My passport is a fake. Señor Joao da Silva has no real existence. Whereas your passport has only been tampered with for present purposes. God knows what may happen in the next few weeks, but if Richard Eaton buys this property he can always establish a legal claim to it afterwards, and that is of the first importance.”
“D’you mean to put me up as a mug Englishman, or the sort of chap who’s paid a hundred pounds to act as a nominee so that in times of civil commotion a factory can fly the British flag?”
“The rich mug, I think. You see, officially, we shall part company afterwards, because I’m at my old game of building up a succession of culs-de-sac for the enemy to blunder into once they get busy.”
“I get it—baby and all,” laughed Richard, “but I’ll hold it for you. When do we see this bird who’s going to sell me a dud factory?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. His name is Arturo Gomara and we are to meet at his house—as it is Sunday.”
“Well, the better the day the better the deed,” Richard yawned. “You can tell me all about your culs-de-sac in the morning.”
De Richleau had bought an alarum-clock on his first shopping expedition but, for once, there was no need to set it so both of them slept on until midday. They lingered over their simple lunch, deriving enormous pleasure from their unaccustomed ease after the gruelling week they had been through, but at a quarter to three the Duke said that it was time for them to start.
“Why? It’s early yet,” Richard demurred. “You said this chap was not expecting us till half-past four.”
“True, but he lives out in the Garden City of Ciudad Lineal, and it will take us some time to get there. Also I wish to make another call, to unload the pictures, first.”
A few minutes later they left the Palacio, each with a fat roll of canvases, neatly tied up in linen, underneath his arm. From La Cibels they took a tram to the western extremity of the Gran Via, and from there proceeded northward on foot.
As they passed the ex-Royal Palace, which dominates the whole countryside from its height on the east bank of the Manzanares river, Richard noted that it now had a dreary, unkempt air in spite of the fact that the President of the Republic had quarters there. Gone were the magnificent mounted sentries of the Cavalry of the Guard, with their braided pelisses and glittering dolmans that he recalled so well, and half the windows of the building were now thick with grime. As some compensation to the brightness of the city there were many pretty girls about and most of them looked smart and attractive dressed in their Sunday best. Six years before, the promenaders in Madrid’s streets had been almost entirely male, but the coming of the Republic had brought about the emancipation of women in Spain and respectable girls were now accustomed to strolling about in pairs without fear of molestation.
The day was intensely hot again and across the river in the open spaces to the west of the city innumerable people were enjoying their Sunday leisure. Many of the older members of the family groups were still sleeping after their picnic lunches unheeding the children who played riotously near them; the younger folk were flirting and laughing together or, paired off in couples, sat silent in dreamy bliss. In the far distance, beyond the great, partially wooded sweep of grassland, the jagged edges of the Guadarrama Mountains stretched glittering against a pale-blue sky.
In a short street not far from the ex-Royal Palace de Richleau halted before a well-kept private house which bore a coat of arms above its door showing it to be one of the Scandinavian Legations. To the butler who answered his ring he said in Spanish, “Kindly give these two packages to the Minister without delay,” and the canvases were handed over.
“Pretty casual way of parting with a collection of Old Masters worth a fortune—isn’t it?” Richard remarked as they walked back towards the Gran Via.
“Not really,” de Richleau smiled. “All I had to do was to telephone yesterday and ascertain that the Minister is the same good fellow who’s been en poste here for the last eleven years. He was a great friend of Lucretia’s father and has been to the Coralles Palace scores of times. He’ll recognise the pictures at once and know to whom they belong, so naturally he’ll take care of them till things are all right again.”
Back in the Gran Via they succeeded in struggling into a crowded Yellow Tram. As it proceeded more and more people flung themselves on to it; packing themselves like sardines on the front and rear platforms and even clinging to its rails. The streets too were full of traffic; ca
rs, horse-drawn vehicles and pedestrians, nine-tenths of which were moving with them in an easterly direction.
“Where are all these people off to?” inquired Richard.
“Plazo de Toros out at Las Ventas,” replied the Duke, “they’re off to the usual Sunday bull-fight. That’s the one and only thing which holds a greater interest for them than politics.”
“It’s a fascinating game to watch but devilish hard on the horses,” Richard commented.
“Yes. Queen Ena hated it so she used to shut her eyes when she was compelled to attend on State occasions. It was that more than anything which made her so unpopular. Don Alfonso damaged himself enormously too by his attempts to divert public interest from the bull-fight to horse-racing. He kept a splendid stud and an excellent trainer, a Belgian named de Nerter, I remember. The King persuaded all his richest Grandees to start stables so that they could race against him, but the people wouldn’t have it. They boycotted the meetings and, of course, he had all the Matadores, who are the idols of the populace, to contend with.”
At Las Ventas they edged their way through the good-tempered thousands who were swarming towards the bull-ring, and boarded a White Tram on the suburban circuit which took them to Ciudad Lineal where Señor Arturo Gomara had his house.
As they approached it the Duke remarked, “We should be on an easy wicket. I selected this fellow because he’s a real bad lot. The sort who’s liable to be hung by his dirty neck whichever side wins. He knows what’s likely to happen to him and he’s simply jittering with fear. By buying his place we give him a chance to quit the country so I ought to be able to get it at my own price.”
The house of the metal-goods manufacturer proved to be a new and pretentious building with a white stucco front and hideous china animals dotted about the parched grass before it which did duty for a garden. De Richleau had explained to Richard on the way out that it was not usual for Spaniards of Arturo Gomara’s class to invite strangers to their homes on such short acquaintance but that the approaching crisis had caused him to waive formalities.
Señor Gomara let them in himself and with the air of a conspirator led them to a garishly furnished room. He was a huge man with a stomach which hung down between his thighs when he had eased himself into an upright arm-chair where he sat with his slippered feet spread wide apart.
Richard was duly presented and they exchanged amiable grimaces as neither could understand the other’s language, the ensuing conversation between Gomara and the Duke took place in Spanish.
After swopping the usual meaningless courtesies they followed the Spanish tradition of discussing everything they could think of before approaching the business upon which they had met. It was half an hour before the purchase of Señor Gomara’s aluminium plant at Valmojado was broached and then he casually said that he had changed his mind. He did not intend to sell.
De Richleau pretended intense surprise and declared that he had thought the whole thing settled except the price of the stock, which was to be fixed on the books Gomara had promised to produce that day.
“I don’t want to disappoint your friend,” Gomara said unctuously, “but it hurts to part with an old family concern like this after having spent so many years in it. The workmen now—they’re like chums almost with me. I’d have to pension some of the older ones, too, so if I took less than two hundred and thirty thousand pesetas, stock included, I’d ruin myself.”
“Is that so?” The Duke was now reassured that nothing had occurred to render the deal impossible and his voice was dangerously smooth. He knew from inquiries he had made that the grotesquely fat Spaniard was lying. The factory had not been in his possession more than eighteen months and he treated his hands abominably. The fellow was not worth wasting valuable time on, de Richleau decided, and must be brought to heel by being shown the future in its blackest guise.
“You are going to be ruined anyhow,” he snapped abruptly, “make up your mind to that. The Fascists have little use for people like you and the Reds will have you shot the moment they’ve seen your record—as I have. I’m giving you the chance to save eighty thousand from the wreck and get out while the going’s good.”
“Eighty thousand!” screamed Gomara in a high falsetto. “But.…”
“Eighty thousand I said, and not a peseta more. Do you know what the workers in Russia did with your kind of employer? They soaked them in petrol, lit it and danced round them while they burnt to death. That’s going to happen here.”
“But the plant alone cost me two hundred thousand,” wailed Gomara, spreading out his pudgy hands.
“All right. You have a car. Take us out to see it tomorrow morning when it’s working.”
The Spaniard shuddered and drew back. “No,” he said hurriedly. “No, I do not go to the factory often. I have not been there for some weeks.”
“Months, you mean. You’re afraid those chums of yours among the workers might lynch you, eh?” sneered the Duke. “Pull yourself together, man, and talk sense. Do you accept my friend’s offer and pay me my commission or do I find him what he requires elsewhere?”
“A hundred and sixty thousand,” pleaded Señor Gomara, “a hundred and sixty thousand and it is his. You as good as agreed to pay a hundred and forty thousand yesterday.”
De Richleau laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “Yesterday was one thing—today is another. The Revolution, with all the bloodshed and festering wounds, and looting and torture that it will bring in its train, is twenty-four hours nearer. Have you ever thought about death? I don’t suppose so, but it’s time you started. The great shadow is creeping nearer to you every moment you remain in this house.”
Gomara’s prominent eyes bulged under their heavy lids. He crossed himself quickly and wheezed, “But there is still time—time to cross the frontier into Portugal.”
“Yes, if you leave at once. And eighty thousand pesetas is a useful sum to take with you. Far better than remaining the theoretical owner of this factory out of which you’ll never see a penny piece again.”
“It is a cruel bargain you drive … but … but.…”
The Duke stood up and taking a wallet out of his inner pocket produced a thick wad of bank-notes. “I brought the money in cash as I promised,” he said coldly. “You intended to sell anyhow, so you had better produce the contract you said you would have prepared and fill in the figure. The two of you can sign it and my friend can get it witnessed later. We need not observe the formality of the witness being present. It is preferable that a Spaniard who is remaining in Madrid should do it, rather than myself, since I am returning to Portugal in the next few days.”
With a groan Gomara heaved himself up out of his chair and waddled over to an oak bureau from a drawer of which he took the contract. De Richleau counted out a pile of notes on a small table and the Spaniard checked the amount.
“But there are only seventy-two thousand here,” he protested.
“My commission of ten per cent makes up the sum,” the Duke said sharply. “You do not think I would risk waiting until tomorrow to collect that—do you?”
Gomara’s eyes flickered towards Richard but de Richleau went on: “Don’t bother yourself about this English fool. He does not understand a word we’re saying.”
The contract was duly signed and Richard became the owner of a small aluminium-factory at Valmojado, a village situated about twenty-five miles south of Madrid. Five minutes later the two friends left the house.
“If I were given to spitting I would spit now,” exclaimed the Duke, directly they were outside. “Even talking to that swine was enough to leave a dirty taste in one’s mouth. It’s brutes like him who are the worst enemies of the poor. There were plenty of blackguards among the old aristocrats but at least they could be looked to for leadership in times of national crisis; whereas the Arturo Gomaras of this world sweat their labour unmercifully and give nothing in return.”
“If what one hears is true plenty of the big landowners in Spain are every bit as
bad,” rejoined Richard. “But the great thing is we’ve got the factory.”
“Yes, and that horrible fellow made me so angry that I forced him to sell it to me for forty thousand pesetas less than I meant to pay originally.”
“Was that quite wise? He’ll bear you a lifelong grudge and that might prove awkward if we ran into him again later on.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be heading for the frontier as soon as he can get his passport fixed. I was counting on that to round off my succession of culs-de-sac when I picked him.”
“Right-ho. Let’s hear just where we stand in this maze you’ve been building up.”
“Certainly, but here’s our tram. We’d best not talk while we’re in it.”
When they were back in the centre of the city and walking side by side down the Calle Alcala, de Richleau spoke again, “This is the situation. First, although we’ve been here just a week, the authorities still have no knowledge of our presence in Spain. Second, only Don Lluis Trueba knows it was we who removed the gold from the vaults of the bank. Once we’ve got it to the factory all inquiries through him will be blocked. I’ve no doubt that he’s perfectly trustworthy, but the very best and bravest can’t guarantee that they won’t squeal under torture. By keeping him out of our new plans I have ensured that, even unwillingly, he can’t possibly give away to our enemies the new hiding-place we’ve chosen for the gold.”
“One minute!” Richard interrupted. “He knows you’re passing under the name of Joao da Silva and have speculated on the metal market. You had to let him in on that so he’d play the right cue if he ran up against you by chance during any of your business dealings.”
“True. But all my deals were made in cash so he has no idea with whom I’ve been dealing. Even if they got the name of Joao da Silva out of him it would take days of hard work to check up on all the metal merchants the Portuguese has done business with during the past week.”
“And if they do trace da Silva to Arturo Gomara?”
The Golden Spaniard Page 9