The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  “We’d better ditch the car here,” remarked the Duke, running it on to the edge of a field some distance from the nearest house. “We can come back for it later if things are all right but it would be as well to investigate first. It looks as though the local Soviet is making a bonfire of the monastery.”

  Getting out they tramped down the road to the entrance of the town. No light showed in any of the houses. As they neared the square they immediately noticed a large gap in one of its sides; the church seemed to have completely disappeared. When they were closer they could see that it had been burnt to the ground. Only one side wall was standing and a huge pile of ashes in its centre still smouldered, giving a faint, rosy light.

  “Last night’s jollification, I suppose,” de Richleau said curtly. “Let’s go over to the inn. Old Perez will be able to tell us what’s been happening.”

  The inn was in darkness but its door stood open. A horrible unnatural quiet pervaded the place. The Duke pulled out his torch and shone it round. On the floor of the little bar-room they found the landlord; he was quite dead. Smashed glass littered the floor and all the bottles had disappeared from the racks.

  “Anita?” whispered Richard.

  De Richleau had found an unbroken oil lamp and was lighting it. “We’ll have a look round upstairs,” he said.

  The girl was in her bedroom; a small neat apartment dotted with pretty chintzes. The only evidence that the mob had entered it was the smashed picture of the Virgin over the small iron bed and the figure that lay upon it.

  For a moment they almost doubted that it was Anita. She had aged twenty years in a short week-end. Her cheeks had fallen in and her black hair was streaked with grey. But it was Anita, naked and stretched out in the form of a St. Andrew’s cross, her wrists and ankles lashed with stout cord to the four posts of the bed. She had an ugly wound in the lower portion of her body from which the handle of a big carving-knife still protruded. As they stared at her with a dreadful sick feeling she opened her eyes.

  “Water,” she whispered from between cracked lips. “Water.”

  Richard felt his head swimming, swayed for a second, recovered, and dashed downstairs. When he returned with a supply from the kitchen tap he found that de Richleau had cut the girl free and covered her up, but she still lay with her arms stretched out above her head. They were too stiff to move after being pinioned for so long.

  The Duke looked across at Richard as they gave her the water and gently sponged her burning temples. “The poor child can’t last much longer,” he said. “She’s lost a lot of blood from that diabolical wound, and she started bleeding again just now by moving before I could stop her; while I was cutting the last cords. She’s bleeding internally too.”

  Anita did not understand him as he spoke in English, but her lips twisted into the semblance of a smile so they realised that she recognised them.

  “Can you tell us who did this?” de Richleau asked her softly in her own language.

  “There—were—so many—of—them,” her words came slowly, “Don Rubén—was—the first. He always—wanted—me.”

  She paused for a moment and went on with an effort, “The others were—mostly boys. Didn’t mean—just—just—very drunk.”

  De Richleau nodded. “When was it?”

  “Last night.” Anita twisted her head painfully. “We heard about—Madrid—in the afternooon. I was—to have—been married—in.…” her voice trailed off.

  Taking a small metal box out of an inner pocket the Duke slipped four tablets from it into her mouth and gave her another drink of water. “You’re going to sleep now,” he said placing his firm cool hand on her forehead. In a few moments her features relaxed. She had fallen into a coma.

  “Morphia?” asked Richard gently.

  “Yes. I’m so glad we were in time to save her the pain of the last spasms.”

  “Wasn’t there any chance at all?”

  “Not an earthly with a wound like that in her intestines. She would only have lingered on in agony till the morning.” The Duke drew down the coverlet and carefully eased the carving-knife out of the wound. It seeped blood a little but Anita lay still and rigid, almost as they had found her.

  They sat there for a little, until, standing up abruptly, de Richleau covered her face. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and find Don Rubén.”

  “Nothing I’d like better,” Richard declared, “but it’s up to me to remind you of your own dictum. We’ve got a job to do and mustn’t get ourselves mixed up in other people’s quarrels.”

  The Duke sighed. “You’re quite right, Richard. I was out of my mind even to think of it but to see anything beautiful deliberately soiled or broken or hurt drives me insane. We’ll get along to the factory.”

  Yet it was decreed by fate that Don Rubén should not escape the vengeance de Richleau had had in mind for him. As they were about to leave the inn they saw the Red Mayor of Valmojado standing outside in the moonlight which now filled the deserted square. He was evidently on his way home from the monastery-burning and having noticed the light in Anita’s window paused to wonder what was happening up there. His head was still tilted back as he stared at the upper part of the little hotel, probably reliving the revolting scene he had enacted there on the previous night.

  After a moment he turned on his heel and walked away. Without a word or even a glance passing between them, Richard and the Duke followed him on tiptoe. In the dark shadow round the corner they came upon him with unexpected suddenness. He was standing there facing the blank wall. It was all over in a matter of seconds. Richard grabbed him by the throat and de Richleau plunged the carving-knife he had taken from Anita’s body into the Mayor’s liver.

  They waited while he choked out his life and turned away from his carcass feeling a strong sense of elation, although it had never seemed conceivable to either of them before that they would ever commit, much less derive pleasure from, a cold-blooded murder.

  As they neared the factory a figure rose silently from a ditch near the last block of peasant hovels. It was Basilio, Jacinto’s second son. He had been posted there to watch for their coming or that of any curious person who might decided to pay the factory a visit outside official working hours. He and his comrades had been taking turns at this duty since the previous night.

  Basilio reported all well, up to the moment, as far as the gold was concerned, and led them to his father who, with the other three, was at work on it.

  Old Jacinto had carried on in spite of his fears that some accident had befallen them in Madrid and he was overjoyed to see them safely back again. He plunged at once into an account of events in Valmojado. Rumours of the Military Rising had not reached the town until mid-morning on the Sunday. These had been confirmed by the afternoon and soon after the siesta the Reds had held a meeting in the square. Don Rubén had brought a barrel of wine and by his fiery oratory had whipped their passions to a frenzy. By sundown they had been ripe for any mischief.

  In the meantime the Catholics and members of the anti-Red organisations had also held meetings. Their numbers were considerably less than those of their opponents but they decided to give battle. The clash had occurred about eight o’clock but Jacinto and his four lads had not been present. He had insisted that their secret work was of far more importance than breaking the heads of a few Reds in a street-fight, and their duty lay in keeping out of it.

  To have to desert his friends at such a time had been hard but they had proved not only justified but wise in doing so, since their numbers would have been too few to turn the scale. The Reds had had an easy victory, killing two Catholics, wounding half a score and driving the rest pell-mell to their homes.

  Drunk with alcohol and excitement the victors had set fire to the church and looted the inn. That morning there had been many sore heads and quite a number of repentant men, gravely frightened at what they had done, in Valmojado; but such of them as had gathered at the factory had been persuaded by the Syndicalist worker, Matias
Falcon, to down tools.

  Jacinto and his squad, whose sympathies were not generally known, had shouted for a strike with the loudest, as the shrewd old chap had seen at once that if the factory became ostensibly idle during the day-time as well as at night it would be all the easier to get on with the job of camouflaging the gold.

  De Richleau praised him unreservedly for his good sense, and asked, “What has happened to Coello and his clerks?”

  Jacinto shrugged, “They’re in hiding, I expect—scared of their lives. None of them has been near the place all day.”

  “And the old priest—Dom Ignatius?”

  “Don’t talk of it,” the foreman covered his eyes. “I am told those devils crucified that good old man upside-down on the doors of his church before they set fire to it.”

  The Duke crossed himself and the others followed suit. “What part have the police played in all this?” he asked after a moment.

  “They would stop it if they could but they are too few. They barricaded themselves into their office and they are there still.”

  “D’you think the Reds are likely to burn this place?”

  “Our main danger lies in the Mayor, Don Rubén. He has become Dictator here in the short space of a few hours. Tonight he filled them with wine again and urged them to burn down the monastery. To keep up his prestige he may find it expedient to incite them to fresh acts of violence.”

  De Richleau grunted. “Apart from him d’you think the others are likely to attack us?”

  “No. They think of the factory as their living and have no quarrel with Señor Eaton who has made himself well liked. He would be wise, though, not to show himself in the town for a bit. At times like this, masters, however good, are always liable to be set upon by the trouble-makers.”

  “Just as I thought,” nodded the Duke. “It will be best if no one except yourselves knows of our return. We’ll help here whenever possible and for the rest of the time remain concealed in our room above the office.”

  Jacinto agreed that the idea was sound. Since he and his men had declared in favour of the strike they were not regarded with suspicion and would have ample warning if the factory-hands decided on any drastic action.

  Richard insisted on returning with de Richleau to fetch the car and they ran it into one of the lock-up sheds. Their night had been an exhausting one mentally rather than physically so when they got back they settled down to painting pots and pans until the first streaks of dawn reddened the sky.

  Tuesday passed without episode. Most of the townspeople were too terrified to move out of doors and the roughs were sleeping off the effects of their two-nights’ orgy. On the Wednesday the secret workers had a scare. Coello put in an appearance. He had called at Jacinto’s lodging and, failing to find him there, had come along to see if he was at the factory. The man on watch spotted Coello and Jacinto, warned in time, was able to slip out of the factory so that he appeared only to be taking a casual look round when Coello came upon him.

  The manager, having heard about the strike, wanted to consult his foreman as to what terms the men demanded before they would return to work. Jacinto advised him that it was too early to open negotiations yet and that it would be wisest if he kept out of the way until things were a bit more settled. Coello accepted this suggestion with alacrity; only too glad of an excuse to get home again after so satisfactorily transferring his responsibilities to Jacinto’s broad shoulders.

  On both nights there was further rioting in the village but it was of a less general nature. The murder of the Mayor, which was naturally put down to an anti-Red reprisal, had taken the stuffing out of most of the mob leaders. They were no longer so eager to take a prominent part in attacking the helpless for fear that they might be marked down for sudden death themselves. A few of the larger houses were sacked and several people killerd in the process but these acts were mainly due to private vengeance. It was a fine chance for the unscrupulous to pay off old scores oi wipe out their debts and the local moneylender was among tin victims.

  By Thursday the mob’s passion had spent itself, bodies were being collected for burial, and the police came out into the streets again. By Friday the more prosperous citisens who had survived the four-nights’ Terror removed the barricades from behind their doors and began, diffidently, to go about their normal business, speaking in hushed whispers of the miraculous escapes they had had.

  During all this time the secret shifts at the factory were continued while Richard and the Duke put in eighteen hours a day painting gross after gross of pots and pans. Even so they could not keep up with Jacinto’s output but the Duke decided that it was best to get the gold camouflaged as quickly as possible. Later on, if need be, they could all put in some extra sessions locked in the sheds and painting at night.

  As de Richleau had had the forethought to lay in a stock of tinned provisions on their first arrival at the factory he and Richard were able to live on these eked out with fruit, vegetables and wine which Jacinto brought them each evening.

  The room upstairs above the office was stuffy and uncomfortable. Whenever a light was lit there they had to cover the window with a blanket so that no glimmer should be seen from the road and the heat in the little room was sometimes almost more than they could bear. Their washing arrangements were of the most primitive kind and they had no means of cooking anything unless they crossed the yard to the factory furnace.

  Little news reached them from Madrid and none that was official. It was generally reported that all classes in Spain were furious at the attack which the Army chiefs had made upon their liberties and were uniting to preserve them. The Government appeared to be gaining the mastery everywhere. After a three-day battle in Barcelona General Goded had been captured and compelled to order his still-resisting troops to surrender. The Revolt had been crushed throughout practically the whole of Eastern Spain. In Toledo, where the officers and cadets of the Military Academy had mutinied, the people now had the upper hand and, having driven the Military back into the Alcazar, were besieging it.

  It was on the Saturday, after Jacinto had retailed one of these gloomy bulletins, that Richard threw aside a gold-lined fish-kettle he was about to start painting. “What the hell’s the good of us going on with this?” he complained to the Duke. “Why not let’s bury the rest of the stuff and have done?”

  De Richleau smiled patiently. “Sorry, old chap. I know the boredom of doing a job like this hour after hour with only intervals for sleep is enough to drive any intelligent person insane. It would be much more fun to be on the General Staff or scouting in a fast plane, but fighting isn’t the only thing that goes to win a war—particularly in these days. We’re unlucky this trip, that’s all. The work’s no worse than they get in a labour battalion—except that we put in double the hours—and it’s got to be finished.”

  “By the time it is the rebellion will be finished too.”

  “I doubt that. We’re in Red territory, remember, so we know nothing of what’s happening on the other side.”

  “But d’you really think we’ll be able to get all this stun to the coast?”

  “With Lucretia’s help I don’t see why we shouldn’t.”

  “If the Insurgents last out till we do it will have developed into a pukka war by then. Is even this amount of gold going to make any difference to either side?”

  De Richleau laughed and kicked the heavy fish-kettle. “The lining of that thing alone would buy a nice whippet tank, and how many bits of kitchen gear have we handled in the last ten days?”

  “God knows. I’m somewhere in my fourth thousand and you must have painted nearly as many.”

  “Judge for yourself, then, if what we’re trying to carry through is worth while.”

  Richard pulled the fish-kettle towards him again. “You’re right. I only wish we had a good York ham to cook in this thing, though.”

  “Well, you shall have a break tomorrow,” the Duke promised. “It’ll be eight days since we visited the unfortunat
e Pédro and he must be getting short of food.”

  “By Jove, I’d almost forgotten all about him.”

  “I hadn’t.” The Duke frowned. “The fellow’s been an infernal nuisance to us but there was no other way to deal with him. Jacinto shall get us some supplies, as shopping in Madrid may not be too easy now. We’ll drive in after dark, wash our supper down there with a bottle of Lucretia’s best—which will be a nice change from this filthy local stuff they call wine—and get back here in the early hours of Monday.”

  The following morning the Duke told Jacinto of his intention and added that now peace was fully restored in Valmojado he thought it time for Señor Eaton and himself to put in a public appearance again; so they meant to return quite openly and say they had spent the past ten days in the British Embassy.

  At eleven o’clock that night they started for the capital in the ancient Citroen. At Carabanchel they were challenged and had to show their papers but the barricades had been removed and they arrived at the garage in the Calle Alva without incident.

  The man there told them that provided their C.N.T. cards were all right nobody was likely to interfere with them. Order, of some sort, had been restored and the Madrileños, having been swept by a wave of patriotism, were now concentrating their energies in forming columns of Militia to go out and fight the Generals. Murders were still taking place at the rate of about two hundred a night but these were mostly perpetrated by little groups of extremists who, having raided some wealthy man’s house, tortured him until he disclosed the whereabouts of any portable riches he possessed, then took him out of Madrid in a car, shot him and left him in a ditch. Each morning now the police in the outlying districts were bringing in scores of such abandoned bodies but the main streets of the city were comparatively safe.

  They removed the big bundles of cooked foods, fruit and bread, that Jacinto had secured for them, from the car, and set out to walk the rest of the way. It was only a little after midnight but the cafés, theatres and dance-halls were all shut and although barricades no longer blocked the streets there was hardly any traffic. Here and there a pedestrian hurried past, in most cases taking advantage of every shadow and crossing the road rather than meet another. There were occasional patrols who stopped the pedestrians if they saw them and twice the two friends had to show their faked Party cards, but the Terror had been driven underground.