The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  It was he who brought an end to the jollifications by suddenly shouting: “And what about the factory? We haven’t settled that.”

  Willing hands lifted Lucretia back on to her perch and the crowd fell silent to await her adjudication. She pointed to the flag now gently fluttering over the office building. “Friends! You see that. These works are foreign-owned. We can’t afford to quarrel with countries which still hold different views from our own about property; particularly when those countries are anti-Fascists, giving us their sympathy and support. If this were a Spanish-owned place I’d know how to act. As it is, all I can do is to ensure that the owners give you a fair deal—otherwise I’ll call on you to strike.”

  The Duke stepped forward raising his clenched fist.

  “Comrade, I speak for the owner who is an English Socialist, Through me he has already offered to run the factory on a profit-sharing basis under a Committee.”

  “Demonios! What could be fairer than that?” she exclaimed and extended her hand to de Richleau, who shook it warmly. “Is the Committee elected yet?”

  “Not yet,” he told her.

  “Who’ll serve?” she said and, pointing to Falcon, added, “You for one—no shirking now!”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I’m willing.”

  “Show your fists, men, if you want him,” she appealed to the crowd.

  In another five minutes it was all over. A Committee of seven had been appointed which consisted of de Richleau, Jacinto, his son Carlos, a gaunt, elderly man who was a nominee of Jacinto’s, a harmless clerk from the office, dragged forward against his will, young Falcon, and his uncle who had also refrained from offering himself as a volunteer.

  With such a committee the Duke still had the factory virtually in his hands and everybody now seemed satisfied. Actually it was Richard who administered the coup-de-grâce to any rancour which might have lingered. A word from him to the Duke secured the announcement that Comrade Eaton would like to make a present of a month’s wages to each of the volunteers, out of his own pocket, and he further suggested that, if the Committee were agreeable, a double portion of profits should be reserved, pro rata, for each of these brave comrades while they were away fighting.

  This generous gesture was greeted with frenzied cheers and Lucretia signalised her approval by kissing Richard on both cheeks and the lips. Immediately afterwards Mudra caught her by the arm and cried, with a grin, “What about me?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t know you’d done anything to deserve a kiss, Comrade Lieutenant.”

  “Ha! But think what I’m going to do to them blasted Generals,” he laughed.

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes,” and kissed him quickly.

  “That’s the spirit,” he cried. “You’re a fine gal. Pity there aren’t more like you. Now, Comrades! We must all drink a glass to the health and safe return of the new recruits.”

  Pulling Lucretia by the hand he led her to her car. The long-nosed racer held only two and he eased himself in beside her but they were not allowed to start the engine. The cheering mob tied ropes to the bumpers and drew them in a triumphal procession the half-mile to the inn.

  In the square the rest of Mudra’s militia were congregated. Some were lounging about or sleeping; others making leisurely preparations for the next stage of their trek southwards, to Portillo twelve miles away, which was to take place in the cool of the evening.

  The column consisted of about three hundred men and sixty women. There were some forty regular soldiers among them; all the rest were clad, men and women alike, in blue overalls.

  De Richleau studied this formation of the new citizen army with the eye of a professional soldier. Some of the men were fine, stalwart fellows, evidently used to heavy work and capable of marching considerable distances, but he would have rejected a good third of the column as unfit for active service. So many of them were weedy, underfed, youths with little but enthusiasm to buoy them up; good enough material in a street-fight where it was just a question of kill or be killed but next to useless in an arduous campaign. Their sole equipment consisted of a rifle, bandolier and water-bottle, so its lightness would make the marching easier, but on the other hand it would mean a terribly high percentage of casualties through their lack of proper entrenching tools and steel helmets. Their lack of overcoats mattered little in these ghastly summer heats but they would feel the need of them if the war lasted more than a couple of months, or even earlier if they had to spend a few nights up in the mountains. And their boots, the most important thing to any army after its rifles, were pathetic.

  Some of them had doubtless done their year’s military service in the past but the majority were either too young to have been called up as yet or were of types that would have been rejected on medical grounds. This complete lack of training in at least half the force would be bound to prove an appalling handicap, and their musketry would be hopelessly ineffective except at close range. The regulars might put up a fair show but they were conscripts and not a very formidable-looking lot. Their sense of discipline had obviously suffered badly already from contact with the militiamen and would soon go to pieces altogether unless they were handled by martinets; but the authority of all officers and N.C.O.s had, naturally, been seriously undermined by the Revolution.

  The Duke decided that Franco’s Moors and Foreign Legionaires would soon make mincemeat of them. He felt that he could have taken on the whole boiling himself, in open country, with fifty British Tommies or German Jerries to back him.

  The militiawomen were an equally motley crew. Quite a number were tough but staid middle-aged females, sitting quietly with their men; obviously wives of life-long Socialists and as fanatical as their husbands in their creed. A few were rugged old harridans from the markets or young women with the clear mark of the lower-class brothel; but most were fresh-faced factory girls; by no means a beautiful lot, though clean and decent-looking; just drawn into this adventure for the excitement it offered by sharp contrast to their dull, everyday lives.

  All of them would probably fight like tigresses when actually in a scrap but the main value of them was their capacity for hounding on their men; yet against that must be set the slackness, immorality and jealousies, leading to violent quarrels, that their presence with the column was bound to cause.

  As the procession from the factory approached, most of those who were sprawling on the ground got to their feet, and when the car was drawn up to the inn they all began to make a clamour round it, mingling with the factory hands. Mudra stood up in the car and pulled Lucretia up beside him. Placing one arm tightly round her waist he shouted for silence and then cried loudly. “Comrades! I’ve brought you some new recruits. Twenty-two good fellows—and this girl here.”

  De Richleau and Richard, who were standing close to the car, saw Lucretia start and half-pull away from him. The announcement that she was numbered among the volunteers had evidently come as a complete and most unpleasant surprise to her. She began to speak but the cheering of the crowd round her drowned the words. At last she got a hearing.

  “Comrades!” she called. “The Lieutenant is joking. I would gladly go with you but I’ve urgent work waiting for me in Madrid.”

  “No work’s as urgent as fighting,” shouted a young militiaman, and a great roar of approval greeted his words.

  “Listen!” Lucretia cried. “I am La Española Dorada, one of your leaders, and my work can be done by no one else.”

  There were mingled cheers and quick murmurs of interest, but Mudra challenged her immediately. “I thought you were an Anarchist?”

  “I am,” she nodded. “I’m a member of the F.A.I.”

  “Well then,” he laughed, and his booming voice carried so that most of the crowd could hear. “The Anarchists don’t have leaders. They’re all on the same level and say that each one must tackle the most urgent job that comes to hand.”

  Lucretia knew that she was caught. It is an extraordinary anomaly that, although the C.N.T. and i
ts inner body, the F.A.I., constitutes one of the most powerful Trade Unions in the world, it does not officially recognise any one of its individual members as being of more importance than any other. For years past, in order to remain consistent with their principles, the Anarchists had even refused to pay those of their members who represented them on conferences and devoted their whole time to running the great organisation. Whatever Lucretia-José’s actual importance might be, officially she was only one tiny cog in the vast Anarchist machine. De Richleau, too, knew that she was caught and watched the scene with such acute anxiety that he bit his lip until the blood came.

  “I’m sorry, friends,” Lucretia shouted desperately, “but I can’t come with you. I can’t! I’ve got to get back to Madrid.”

  “She’s afraid!” howled a deep-bosomed old crone, waving a shot-gun in the air. “She’s afraid!”

  “I’m not!” Lucretia denied the charge hotly. “I’m not afraid and I’m as keen as you, but I’ve got other work that must be done.”

  The woman spat. “Gam! Look at her lily-white skin. She’s not one of us. She’s the sort as sends the fellows off to get killed but hasn’t the pluck to go herself.”

  The volunteers from the factory crowded round crying, “Come on, Comrade! It’s through you we joined. Who talked of cowards half an hour ago? You owe it to us to see this business through.”

  Lucretia looked swiftly from side to side. It was absolutely vital that she remained in Madrid to continue her secret work. No one was so well placed as she to supply her Monarchist friends with accurate information. In addition, she was well aware what sort of fate would be her lot if she were forced into going off with the column. Mudra had taken a fancy to her—that was clear enough. The whole country was, temporarily at least, given over to a state of lawlessness. Outside Madrid his authority would be absolute in the places where his column halted for the night. Not a man or woman in this rabble would dare to protest and most of them would only laugh when he dragged her off into his tent or billet. Kissing a score of workmen was one thing; that was just part of her job, but the horror of a forced surrender of herself to the bull-like, middle-aged lieutenant was quite another. Even her courage wilted at the thought.

  Mudra roared with laughter at her obvious discomfiture. “Don’t worry, Comrades,” he bellowed. “She’s coming along all right. Best get your meal now. We move off in an hour.” Before she could protest further he picked her up bodily, lifted her out of the car and carried her into the inn.

  “I don’t know what the idea is,” Richard said suddenly, “but this chap Mudra seems to be going a bit too far.”

  “Far!” echoed de Richleau, nearly choking with anger; then he swiftly explained the mess Lucretia had got herself into by coming to their assistance.

  Richard’s jaw dropped. “The swine!” he exclaimed. “But how the hell are we going to stop him? We can’t take on the whole column.”

  “We could join up and go with her,” hazarded the Duke unhappily.

  “That would mean abandoning the gold.”

  “Oh, damn the gold!”

  “I agree. I’m beginning to hate the very sight of it; and I can quite appreciate what you must be feeling. Still, it is important, and she’s going to be a very angry young woman if we risk it on her account when it’s quite on the cards that with her quick wits she’ll think of a way to wriggle out of this mess unaided.”

  “That’s just it,” muttered de Richleau miserably. “She’ll never forgive me if we bungle the whole thing.”

  “We’ll join up if you like, but I doubt if that would do much good. It’s unlikely that our position tonight will be any better than it is now, and if we try to protect her when Mudra starts in on her, we’d only get shot for our pains.”

  The Duke nodded. “I’m afraid you’re right. We must try to get her out of his hands before the column leave Valmojado. Where’s Jacinto got to?”

  “He turned back as we entered the square. I saw him.”

  “Right. I’m going along to the factory. You stay here. Get into the inn, but for God’s sake don’t start anything. Just mingle with the crowd in there and keep as near to her as possible so that, at least, she has the comfort of knowing we realise what’s going on. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  As de Richleau turned away Richard began to shoulder his way through the press that choked the trellis-covered space before the inn door. Fortunately the bulk of the militia were now concerning themselves with their suppers. It was the factory people who blocked the way, as they had started to drink the health of the volunteers in Valdepenas from a cask on a near-by wagon which Mudra’s Quartermaster had broached for the purpose. Richard was forced to join in the health-drinking and cash out the month’s money he had promised the volunteers, which delayed him for about fifteen minutes.

  At last he got into the small parlour. A dozen of Mudra’s troop leaders were munching hunks of bread and garlic moistened with olive oil. The Lieutenant was seated at the only table with Lucretia and three others. They were half-way through a cocido which he had evidently had cooked for him. It was the usual Spanish stew which the peasants serve in three courses—soup, meat, vegetables—although all the ingredients are boiled together.

  Richard edged round so that Lucretia should see him. At the moment she was putting a brave face on things, joking and laughing with the other men at the table but practically ignoring Mudra. It looked as if she were playing them in the hope that they would fall for her and quarrel with Mudra on her account. Turning over the probabilities of such a development in his mind, Richard helped himself to a mug of wine from a jug near-by. He did not see that her game was likely to get her anywhere. Time was too short for her to intrigue one of the other men sufficiently, for him to play a chivalrous role and fight for her to be allowed to return to Madrid. It seemed to him that she was only making a rod for her own back. The others would be keener than ever to carry her off with them in the hope that when Mudra had done with her they might be able to have a crack at her themselves.

  Everyone in the smoke-filled room was talking loudly. No one took any notice of Richard, who had found a dark corner where the fading light hardly penetrated. Lucretia-José knew he was there; that was all that mattered for the moment. He watched the four eat their meat course and then the vegetables from the stew.

  Time drifted on. He began to wonder what had happened to the Duke. The column would soon be moving. He had been ordered not to start anything; just to stick around and be on hand as a sort of Job’s comforter; but every moment he felt more strongly that some sort of desperate action was imperative if Lucretia were to be saved from undergoing the most unpleasant experience any girl with a considerable knowledge of the world could possibly think of.

  A furious irritation seized Richard at his inability to speak Spanish. If only he could have done so he felt that he might at least have gone up to the table and created some kind of diversion. Any sort of argument was quite likely to intrigue these Spaniards into delaying their departure—particularly after a heavy meal—but how could he start an argument when he was only capable of stammering such phrases as “How much does this cost?” or “I wish my eggs to be boiled exactly four and a quarter minutes.”

  Outside now all was bustle and activity. Through the window he could see a corner of the square. Covers were being drawn over the wagons and horses harnessed up. The militia were making their last preparations for the evening march.

  In the parlour Mudra and the others were hacking into a lump of strong-smelling goat’s-milk cheese that had been placed on the table. The room was gradually emptying as one troop leader after another left it to see that his detachment was ready for the road. Richard leaned against the wall in his corner. He reckoned that it must be almost an hour since de Richleau had left him. Why the hell didn’t he come back or at least send him a written message by Jacinto or one of the others? Lucretia-José was still flirting with the men at the table. Obviously she was playing for time
in the hope that some plot was on foot to prevent her being carried off. She glanced covertly at Richard now and again, evidently expecting him to do something. But what could he do? Except draw his Mauser and shoot Mudra where he sat.

  ‘That wouldn’t do much good,’ he thought. They all carried pistols and Richard had no illusions as to how they would use them. He would be riddled with bullets before he could kill any of the others. In his mind he began to plan a hold-up.

  If he could scare the men into sitting still under the threat of his gun for a few minutes Lucretia might be able to slip away through the back-entrance of the inn. How far she would get without being discovered was extremely problematical. If only the Duke were there he might accompany her and cover her retreat, but all alone it seemed unlikely that she would get clear away. Still, anything was better than to allow her to be forcibly abducted without lifting a finger. Even if he accompanied the column, as the Duke had at first suggested, it was unlikely that another situation so suitable as the present one would present itself that night, and tomorrow … tomorrow it wouldn’t make quite so much difference to Lucretia what anyone did. It was clear that de Richleau loved her so no risk was too great to take that might save her.

  The men at the table stood up and went out with laughing salaams to ‘La Española Dorada’; who remained seated with Mudra.

  ‘That’s a spot better,’ thought Richard. There’s only him left to deal with now—except the people outside.’

  He was alone in the room with them but appeared almost unconscious of their presence since he stared out of the window while he slowly drank his wine. Mudra was much too interested in the girl to take any notice of the solitary drinker.

  One of the troop leaders returned and casually reported the column all ready to move off. As he left the room with a perfunctory salute Mudra got to his feet and grinned down at Lucretia. “Little Comrade—the column waits.”

  “Let it wait—or march,” she cried with sudden venom. “I’m not coming!” and springing up she grabbed an empty bottle by its neck.