The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  With one swift dive he caught her wrist and gripped it so violently that she dropped the bottle with a sharp squeal of pain.

  “Oh, yes—you are, my pretty!” he guffawed. “We’ve got an easy evening’s trek, no silly ceremonies about a Communist wedding to delay us—and we sleep tonight at Portillo.”

  Chapter XIX

  Back into the Maelstrom

  Richard had left it until the very last moment. Never in his life had he had less desire to start a riot. The hideously unpleasant fact that there were the best part of four hundred armed people outside, all of whom would come dashing to Mudra’s assistance at the first call, was never out of his mind for an instant.

  If the Duke had been with him he did not see that two of them, any more than one, could have materially altered the situation. Even if de Richleau were urgently employed in collecting Jacinto, his squad and any other factory workers they could persuade to come with them, what chance would such a handful stand against this whole column of Militia?

  With a little sigh Richard turned to face the struggling group at the table. Definitely making up his mind to intervene before Lucretia started on her enforced journey was, perhaps, the bravest thing he had ever done. Marie-Lou would have been immensely proud of him if she had known all the circumstances and seen him walk slowly but deliberately forward with a smile on his face.

  “Excuse me, Comrades,” he said quietly.

  Mudra turned and threw him an angry scowl. “What do you want?” he shouted in Spanish, still gripping Lucretia-José by the wrist.

  “A few words with the Señorita,” said Richard in English.

  “He wants to thank me for having settled things at his factory,” Lucretia said as though translating.

  Seeing that Mudra did not understand English, Richard went on smoothly, “I’m sorry my friend’s not here but he left me to look after you.”

  Lucretia managed a smile. “Bless you for your courage! But I’ve made a mess of things. I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do.”

  “Yes, there is. I’ve got a gun in my pocket and I can send this brute bumping down to hell.”

  “No! If I could have laid him out with that bottle the others would only have laughed. Shooting’s different. I’ve got a gun too but I’m not using it—yet.”

  “If I shoot him you could bolt for it out of the back door. I could hold off his friends for a few.…”

  “Cara-pe!” cut in Mudra, suddenly converting a filthy expletive into a harmless one. “Get back to your blasted factory! Can’t you see you’re not wanted here?”

  Richard smiled at him, deliberately misunderstanding the angry order to clear out that his tone conveyed. Lucretia was speaking urgently. “For God’s sake, don’t try anything. Those devils out there would shoot you to pieces in two minutes. Killing him wouldn’t save me and things are bad enough without having the blood of a brave man like you on my head.”

  “We must sort this somehow,” Richard said firmly. “I’d never be able to look at my face in a mirror again if I let him take you out of here.” His eyes gazed straight into hers and in that instant they knew that they were friends for all time. From their first meeting he had considered her strikingly attractive but now he really understood something of what de Richleau saw in her. She was splendidly courageous and vital and fine.

  His hand went to his pocket. “Don’t do it,” she pleaded. “Don’t…”

  “Drop that woman’s arm!” The sharp order came from the doorway. In the intensity of the moment they had been deaf to all but each other’s words. No sound of footsteps had reached them but Cristoval Ventura stood there and de Richleau was behind him.

  From the sudden tension between Lucretia and Richard, Mudra had sensed trouble and had stepped back. Now he swung round and bellowed, “Who the thundering hell are you?”

  Cristoval advanced into the room. His face was deadly white, his black eyes staring. “My name’s Ventura and I’m a member of the Secretariat of the T.U.C.”

  “I don’t take orders from the T.U.C,” growled Mudra.

  “You will in this case,” Cristoval snapped. “The Government does what the T.U.C. tells it these days. We are the Government, and there’s no higher authority than the Secretariat.”

  “So what?”

  “Are you prepared to accept my orders or do I take you outside and have you shot?”

  Mudra laughed. “That’s a pretty story. I could eat a little chap like you. And what about the men of my column? It’s you who’d be up against a brick wall if I gave a nod.”

  “What are the men of your column going out to fight for? That the men and women of Spain may be free! How does that square with their Commander’s dragging off a young woman who’s unwilling? You’re disgracing the army of the people and they’ll see it quick enough after I’ve talked to them for about half a minute. What’s more, I’ve got two lorry-loads of Asaltos with machine-guns outside. Quite enough to deal with you and any of your personal friends who may make trouble.”

  “Well, well,” Mudra changed his tone. “I’m not saying you’d have the best of it but we don’t want a private war, Comrade. What’s your interest in this girl?”

  “That she’s doing work of the first importance for the Republic.”

  The Lieutenant shrugged. “I thought she was just kidding about that and only needed a little persuasion to join up. Anyway, there’s no harm done and none intended.”

  “Good. Then you’d better march your column off.”

  With quiet deliberation Mudra gathered up his field-glasses, haversack and torch. He nodded cheerfully to Lucretia and said, “If you ever get tired of office work and want to see a bit of fighting, girlie, remember me. I like your face and I like your spirit. I could always find room in my bed for one like you.” Dragging his game leg slightly he walked out of the room.

  Richard caught de Richleau’s eye. The Duke was beckoning imperatively from the passage-way. Cristoval was staring at Lucretia so Richard supped behind him and went out, leaving the two alone together.

  Suddenly Lucretia broke down. She put one hand up to her face and burst into tears. In two strides Cristoval reached her and took her in his arms.

  “Querida! Querida!” he murmured. “It’s all right now. There’s nothing to be afraid of—nothing. Oh, my love, my love.”

  She smiled through her tears as she leant against him. “I’m sorry. It’s absurd to give way like this. I’m not usually scared, but—but.…”

  “There! There, my sweet,” he kissed her feverishly. “It’s men like this Lieutenant who brings shame on us. They do endless damage to our cause by providing the sort of dirt the foreign journalists like to write about, so that half the world thinks we’re barbarians. But there aren’t many like him really and we’re getting them under control. He’s gone now, anyway.”

  “Oh, no, he’s not,” came a harsh voice from the doorway. Mudra was framed in it scowling at them as they stood cheek pressed to cheek.

  “Come back for me map-case,” he added abruptly, and striding over he picked it up from under a chair. Before going out again he paused to look at Cristoval. “What did you say your name was? Ventura, isn’t it? All right, Comrade Secretary Ventura. We’ll be meeting again some time I don’t doubt.”

  When he had gone Lucretia dried her tears and said, “Well, I suppose we must be getting back to Madrid.”

  “I came out in one of the lorries,” Cristoval volunteered, “but I see your car’s outside. I’ll drive you if you like.”

  “Thanks, my dear. I would like. But first I must find Mr. Eaton to thank him for standing up for me. He was on the very point of getting himself shot on my account when you came in.”

  “Yes. I want a word with that French interpreter of his, too. What’s his name—Dubois.”

  They went out of the inn together. The Militia column was moving off. Mudra at its head was already out of sight, having turned into a street leading from the square. The strangely assorted collection
of army and civilian wagons followed batches of the Militia, men and women mixed, marched raggedly between them without any attempt at military formation. The volunteers from Valmojado made up a squad. They had now been served out with equipment like the others; a rifle, bandolier, water-bottle and suit of blue overalls apiece. Their rifles had been decorated with coloured ribbons by the local girls and a number of these were pressing last-minute presents upon them: buttons and brooches with the sickle and hammer to put in their blouses or caps.

  For a second Lucretia’s heart seemed to turn to water as she watched them go. She had sent them; and how many of them would come back? Certainly not all, probably only a handful, and those would now be marked men; work for the execution-squads of the victorious Generals as they relentlessly mopped up all who had borne arms against them in town after town. She had sent these men, now laughing like schoolboys setting out on a spree, to their deaths. They had never harmed her and the thought of what she had done appalled her utterly.

  Yet in a moment another thought came to restore her balace. This very evening, far to the north and south, other squads of townsmen and villagers with beribboned rifles were marching out. They too were innocent of any crime which might justify a cutting short of their lives, but they wore swastikas and crosses instead of hammers and sickles on the brooches in their caps. Those of the Sickle must die in order that those of the Cross should live.

  She glanced at Cristoval. His dark eyes were flashing and he smiled with pride as the column marched out. Not pride in their martial glory, for they had none, but pride in the spirit that animated this ragged band and made it possible for them to go forth so fearlessly against the trained troops of the enemy. For him it was just as necessary that those of the Cross should die in order that those of the Sickle should live.

  Lucretia recalled his words spoken on that day less than a month ago, yet already seeming half a lifetime away, when they had first met at Simon Aron’s. “It means a fight to the finish—victory or death.” And so it was proving. The whole nation was roused so that there could no longer be any hope of a quick ending. Poor Spain was to be purged; purged as terribly as she herself had purged the Netherlands during the Reformation.

  The Militia shouted, the girls waved, the townsfolk cheered; the last heavily loaded wagon passed out of the square. Cristoval and Lucretia looked round for Comrade Dubois and Richard Eaton; they were nowhere to be seen among the dispersing crowd.

  “They’re probably on their way back to Madrid,” Lucretia suggested, suddenly realising that the two friends had probably disappeared for their own good reasons.

  “How would they do that?” Cristoval asked. “There’s hardly a private car left that hasn’t been commandeered.”

  “They probably got a lift from someone passing through.”

  “That’s about it. Dubois said something about their having a look round here to see how things were outside the capital. I expect they came out on a lorry this morning. Let’s see if we can catch them.”

  By the time the red racer was roaring out of Valmojado towards Madrid, Richard and the Duke, who had slipped off deliberately to avoid possible questions, were settling down in the small room above the office at the factory.

  “Well, ‘all’s well that ends well’.” Richard was saying. “But it was mighty lucky you found him in when you telephoned the Palace Hotel. He would never have got out here in time otherwise and I’d be as dead as cat’s-meat by now.”

  De Richleau nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry I had to leave you to hold the fort all that time, but it was essential that I should go out to the edge of the town and wait for him, so that I could explain what was going on.”

  “Lucretia settled the trouble here for us all right.”

  “True. But you see what this party’s cost us?”

  “You mean having to disclose to Cristoval that we were out here in Valmojado?”

  “That’s it. He thinks we were just here for the day. But he’s only to mention having seen us here to Simon and all our hard work’s gone for nothing. Simon knows we’re not in Spain as a pair of goggle-eyed trippers and he’d never let a piece of information like that pass. He’d be out here under the hour with squads of police, to investigate, and the very first person he questioned in Valmojado would lead him straight down here to the factory. The last and most vital of my culs-de-sac has now been broken down.”

  “Then we may as well consider our goose as cooked.”

  “That’s just about it,” agreed the Duke. “But the bird is not yet out of the oven and even then it’s got to be dished up. Lucretia’s escape will be hot news to Cristoval for the next few days and whenever he mentions it we’re pretty certain to come into the story. But fortunately he’s a busy man and so can’t have much time for gossip. There’s just a chance that Simon may not hear what happened at first hand and learn nothing of the part we played. Anyhow, our only course is to hope for that and push on with the job.”

  On the Wednesday normal work started at the factory again and the new Committee held its first session. The two Syndicalists, Matias Falcon and his uncle, proved irritating rather than really troublesome to deal with. Quite logically they maintained that the Committee was now the employer at the factory but, with a logic that seemed less sound, that although they were members of the Committee they would not be held responsible for any of its decisions because their creed forbade them to make any bargains with employers, and the Committee was now an employer.

  However, when it came down to business they were severely practical. They did not demand absurdly short hours or fantastic wage increases which would have killed all profit. On the contrary they were insistent that all slackers should be kicked out and workers wasteful of material must be warned that if they did not take better care of the common property they must go.

  De Richleau soon saw that these men knew what they wanted and, given a fair chance to learn the business end of manufacturing, would unquestionably run the show most economically and at a better profit than it had ever made under the capitalist system. He and they were poles apart on many other matters but in this he gave them his ungrudging admiration, with the feeling that if only all their class were as keen, capable and unselfish, rule of Soviets might be no bad thing. As it was, he did not have to recall the Madrid mobs to reinforce the conviction of years that in practice Soviets were quite unworkable.

  His own position was an absurdly easy one as he was not representing an owner who had his property and his livelihood at stake, but one who did not care who got the factory and its profits once the treasure in it had been removed. In consequence he was able to let Falcon have his own way on all major counts and only stood out on minor points, such as retaining the keys, which were of little apparent significance.

  The next few days were ones of grave anxiety for the Duke and Richard. At any moment they expected to hear a car draw up and see Simon’s narrow head and sloping shoulders pop out; but the secret night sessions went on undisturbed. Jacinto’s squad was tiring now. Their sunken faces and irritable tempers showed the terrible strain they had been put to of working for so many days with insufficient sleep in the atrocious heat, but they laboured grimly on; cursing each other for clumsiness one moment and encouraging each other the next.

  Jacinto was as good as his word. In the early hours of Thursday morning the last of the eight-hundred-odd bars of gold was melted down and went into the bottoms of some cake tins; the last sawdust-lined box in which the bullion had been packed was consumed in the furnace.

  From that point all hands could be employed in the painting. By the week-end de Richleau felt considerably more optimistic as, so far, there had been no sign of Simon. The men, too, although almost on their last legs, were better tempered for seeing the end of their arduous undertaking in sight and knowing that they were on the last lap of a job which would bring them not only a princely reward but a great satisfaction.

  By Wednesday night the job was done, but Richard and de Richleau
were not there to witness its completion. Knowing the work would be finished that night the Duke had decided to waste no time in making arrangements for the next stage in the itinerary he had planned for the Coralles fortune.

  He had announced to Matias Falcon and the rest of the Committee that now the Government were undertaking the organisation of a great Citizen Army, they would certainly require large quantities of cooking utensils. A special price might have to be quoted but it would be well worth cutting profit if they could pull off a really big deal. He was in touch with certain people buying for the Army; particularly a man, now in Madrid, from Alicante who was negotiating the purchase of various stores for the forces that were being raised there.

  The Syndicalists had swallowed this bait, hook, line and sinker, giving ‘Comrade’ Dubois full permission to go ahead and pull off the sale if he could. That ensured there being no trouble with the workmen if a considerable portion of the stock were suddenly to be removed from the factory premises. It now remained to transfer the goods to Alicante after which there should be no great difficulty in getting them loaded on to a British ship. The manner of their transport to the coast was the real problem, and de Richleau was relying on Lucretia-José to help him out in that. It meant another visit to Madrid to fix things up with her.

  The two conspirators did not at all relish the idea of this trip into the Capital, as there were now far too many people there who might see them and ask awkward questions, but it was just one of those things that had to be done. De Richleau knew the risk when he climbed into the small Citroen on the Wednesday evening but he hardly thought he was leaving Valmojado never to return.

  Chapter XX

  Just Sheer Bad Luck

  For this expedition the Duke had borrowed Jacinto’s Sunday-go-to-meeting suit, minus tie and collar, while Richard had borrowed that of Basilio, who was nearer his size. At the garage in the Calle Alva they changed into these, Richard shedding his attire as the sporting Englishman and the Duke the cheap French gaberdines in which ‘Comrade’ Dubois had always gone about. In addition he removed his birthmark and smarmed back the black swathe of hair that he had recently worn plastered across his forehead. After the transformation had been effected it was unlikely that anyone who had seen de Richleau as Dubois would know him again, and their stuffy black suits, relieved only by coloured and heavily fringed silk sashes at their waists, changed their appearance sufficiently to prevent either of them from being spotted by Simon or Rex except at close quarters.