The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  Their first glance round the previous night had convinced them that any attempt to break out would be sheer waste of time. Only one possibility remained to them. When they were searched everything had been taken from them, but beneath their borrowed black coats they still wore their original waistcoats and sewn into the linings were Spanish and English banknotes worth many hundred pounds. They had now succeeded in getting their passports back and it was possible that they might be able to bribe their way out.

  Sitting there doing nothing proved a most extraordinary feeling. It was such an utter contrast to their violent and almost continuous activities of the past month. They had an awful guilty feeling that they ought to be up and doing; yet there was nothing they could do and nowhere they could go. The sinister quiet of the prison stifled them like some invisible blanket and, when they had said to each other all they dared say in hushed voices and ambiguous phrases, they felt an urge to break it by shouting.

  They had no means of checking the passage of time as their watches had been taken from them but, judging by the angle of the sunlight on the wall, the hours seemed to drag with maddening slowness. It was late in the afternoon when the basilisk eye of the warden appeared at the spy-hole in the steel door and his key turned in the lock.

  Without a word he handed in a neatly-done-up brown paper parcel about ten by six by nine inches in size, and slammed the door shut again.

  They could only imagine that Lucretia-José had very rashly sent them a parcel of food which might contain some message.

  While Richard stood with his back to the door so as to block the spy-hole de Richleau struggled with the parcel. He had no knife so he had patiently to unpick the knots since the string was too tightly done for him to slip it off.

  After three frantic minutes he gave a last jerk. The brown paper and some corrugated cardboard remained in his hands while ten French yellow-backs tumbled out and scattered over the floor.

  The Duke swore violently and loudly. It was a set of Proust.

  Richard gave way to an absolute gale of laughter and a moment later de Richleau joined in. Both of them were tickled by Simon’s little jest and they knew there was not a trace of malice in the way he had chosen to let them know he had learned they were in prison.

  At ten o’clock that night Simon arrived in person. The two prisoners had already turned in as there was nothing else to do and no lights on to read by, but getting up entailed no more than rolling off their beds on to their feet and at the warder’s summons they followed him at once down to a reception-room where they found Simon, Rex, and the Prison Governor waiting for them. After a word with Simon the Governor ordered the warder to remain in the passage and went out himself, leaving the four old friends alone.

  “Thanks for the books,” said the Duke. “I really do want to read A la Recherche du Temps Perdu again and it was kind of you to remember my mention of it when we last talked of prison.”

  Simon smiled. “Had quite a job routing out a bookseller. It took police persuasion to get him to open up bis shop, and the poor chap nearly had a fit when I insisted on paying for the books. Few other things here Rex and I’ve brought you.”

  “Soap, towels, shaving kit, smokes, matches, insect powder, biscuits and chocolate,” Rex added, handing over two big parcels. “I wouldn’t say you deserve it, though—seeing the way you pulled one on us in that cellar.”

  “Oh, come, Rex,” de Richleau laughed. “We only gave our parole not to try anything once you’d handed us over to the police.”

  “Oh, sure. I was only kidding. We haven’t been holding it against you, any.”

  “Speaking of paroles,” Simon cut in. “What about it? Governor here’s a decent fellow and—er—I’ve got a bit of pull. If you’ll both give your parole now we can make things ever so much easier for you.”

  “Is the alternative our being handed over to the tender mercies of those sweet little Trotskyites you spoke of last time?” Richard asked.

  “Ner. Never meant that really. Only bluffing. We’re Liberal Socialists. No more Trotskyites than you are and there aren’t any here anyhow. You’ll find the warders in this place a decent lot as long as you don’t try and get out.”

  “I’m afraid we couldn’t give our paroles in any case,” said the Duke gently.

  “Didn’t expect you would,” Simon grinned. “Pity though, as I could have given you the run of the Governor’s garden. How about the gold? Now everybody knows de Richleau and Dubois are one you’ve landed yourselves in a proper muddle. Government wants that gold pretty badly and even I can’t get you out of here unless you’re prepared to hand it over. If you will, though, you can start for home the moment the deal’s through.”

  “It’s no good, my friend. You know quite well I’d never make that kind of bargain.”

  “Then you’ll have to stay here. I can get you a better cell and one bath a week, but that’s all I can do.”

  “It’s very nice of you to do so much.”

  Simon shuffled. “I’ll do anything I can to make things endurable—you know that. Food won’t be up to much as the whole city’s being rationed now but Rex and I’ll send in some odds and ends from time to time. Nasty part is you may be here for months. This war’s going to take some settling now the Rebels have got so much territory in their hands.”

  “I imagined the Government weren’t having it all their own way,” said the Duke slowly, “but owing to the censorship we know practically nothing of what’s going on outside Madrid.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. We hold the whole of the eastern coast from the Pyrenees to its southern corner, and most of central Spain including a tract that runs right through to the Portuguese frontier, cutting the two Rebel Armies off from each other. Also we’ve got Bilbao, with a strip about eighty miles deep and two hundred and fifty long which comprises practically the whole of the north coast; and another strip about fifty miles deep and a hundred miles long on the south coast, including Malaga.

  “On the other hand, the Rebels have Navarre with about a third of the Pyrenees and a block of country a hundred or more miles deep running south to Saragossa. From there their line runs roughly west along the Douro to the Portuguese frontier, cutting us off from Bilbao. The north-west corner of Spain is all part of that block under Mola, who’s commanding from Burgos. In the south Franco has the coast from Gib. to Portugal and nearly as far north as Badajos. Queipo de Llano’s joined forces with him from Seville and to the south-east they have a wide corridor running through Granada to a strip of coast fifty miles long which cuts us off from Malaga. Majorca’s theirs but Minorca remains ours.”

  “I see,” said the Duke. “Then the Government has succeeded in holding about two-thirds of the country.”

  Simon nodded. “Trouble is though it’s not going to be easy to subdue the other third. Mussolini’s been backing Franco from the outset; helping him get his troops across from Morocco by plane, and now Hitler’s sending staff officers and technical experts to assist Mola in the north.”

  “Meanwhile our old friend Comrade Stalin is just sound asleep, I suppose,” remarked Richard with a grin.

  “Ner,” Simon grinned back. “Quite a lot of Russians in Barcelona and Madrid already. They’re flying through via Czecho-Slovakia and war material’s on its way to us from the Black Sea ports. Only point I’m making is that, now the big boys have muscled in, there can’t be any quick decision. Spaniards’ll find themselves just puppets dancing to other people’s tunes.”

  “Yes. I quite see that,” agreed the Duke.

  “And,” Simon went on, “as each side scores a hit the foreign backers will pump new stuffing into the other so they’ll be able to stay the pace and score a round in their turn. See if I’m not right. Unless the whole of Europe’s involved and the big boys have their hands full, fighting openly among themselves, this show may drag on for a year or more, and all the time you’ll be in prison.”

  “If I had my way I’d put every Communist leader and every Fas
cist leader in the world on the Galapagos Islands and let them fight it out together among the cactus,” said Richard bitterly. “It’s utterly iniquitous that millions of peaceful people should be hypnotised into killing each other because a handful of fanatics want to impose their ideas on everybody else.”

  “O.K. by me!” grinned Rex, “but you’ve got to face facts. Like it or not, the killing’s on and you’re here till the party’s over.”

  “Then you might try and raise me a Spanish-English dictionary and a few text-books so I can amuse myself learning the language.”

  “Sure. Anything else you want?”

  “I’d be glad if you’d write to Marie-Lou. Tell her what’s happened but that the Duke and I are quite safe here and that you two are looking after us.”

  “Is she at Cardinal’s Folly?” asked Simon smiling, “or hanging about somewhere off the Spanish coast in the yacht?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Nothing. Just thought she might be.”

  “Then send it to Cardinal’s Folly.” Richard knew that the letter would be forwarded on to an address in Bordeaux where Marie-Lou could pick it up. There would be a few days’ delay while it went to England and back but he did not mind that as he had already sent her several unsigned postcards, the last having been despatched only the night before, to let her know in the only way he dared risk, the bare facts that he and de Richleau were safe and well.

  When Simon and Rex had gone Richard and the Duke were escorted back to their cell. The following morning they were transferred to another larger one which overlooked a courtyard. The change raised their spirits considerably as, through the barred window, they could watch relays of prisoners being marched round and round at exercise. The prison was so full that these exercise parties were going on all day except during the siesta so there was nearly always something fresh to watch. Most of the groups were composed of men, but about every fourth consisted of women. A further advantage of the new cell was that the two beds in it had palliasses well stuffed with clean straw. It also had a chair and a small iron table screwed to the floor. Apparently it was one in which political prisoners had been confined, before the Revolution, with an extra bed put in.

  Late in the afternoon they themselves were taken down to exercise; and joining a long crocodile marched round the yard in single file for twenty minutes while a dozen armed warders stood by keeping a careful eye on the prisoners. The stretching of their legs made a pleasant break and the two friends passed their second night in prison much more comfortably.

  The Spanish grammars arrived for Richard and with the Duke to help him he began to study the language seriously. The food consisted almost entirely of vegetables which varied from day to day in quantity and kind, the ration depending on what the authorities could get hold of, but the Duke and Richard were spared any pangs of hunger owing to the steady supply of oddments which reached them from their friends outside.

  With one exception the warders were decent, civil fellows; but de Richleau thought it best to study them for a bit before making any attempt at bribery. Rex was allowed to see the friends for half an hour every three days and brought kind messages from Simon, who was frantically busy. Having been spared the terrible monotony of solitary confinement, the two captives settled down with apparent resignation to the prison routine.

  Although they were confined to their cell for twenty-three-and-a-half hours out of every twenty-four, they were soon making contact with other prisoners. Richard had often heard that extraordinary devices were resorted to by men in gaols so that they could communicate with each other, and now he was initiated into many of them. He learnt to talk without moving his lips when at exercise, to palm scraps of paper with messages on them or roll them into balls and flick them with great accuracy; to Morse by covering and uncovering the spy-hole of the cell and to signal to certain of the prisoners in the yard without the guards realising what he was up to. De Richleau was almost as accomplished as an old lag in many of these practices and by the end of their first week ‘inside’ they were in a position to tap the constant stream of news which penetrated from no one knew where and ran round the prison like wild-fire.

  In the opposite cell there was a good-looking young Conde known to the warders and his fellow prisoners alike as Pépé. He was an amazingly cheerful and extremely ingenious person and the ringleader in the corridor of all organised attempts to secure better conditions by concerted drumming on the cell doors, slogan-chanting and so on. To their left they had a member of the Madrid Bourse who spent his time thinking up dirty stories with which to entertain his friends during exercise each day, but the occupant of the cell on their right remained an enigma. He was a poor, bent old man who would not speak nor even tell his name to any of the others and the mystery surrounding him was much increased from his calloused hands and other signs which clearly indicated that he came from the poorest class.

  The behaviour of some of the prisoners might have led a casual visitor to believe he was in a lunatic asylum, as in fact, quite a number of them had been driven out of their minds by the terrible scenes they had witnessed. There was an old Dowager who stumped round the courtyard every morning carrying an ebony stick and looking neither to the right nor left but staring before her with blank, sightless eyes. It was said her two sons, their wives and all her grandchildren had been killed in front of her and that she had only escaped herself through having been pushed backwards out of a window beneath which were some bushes. Another case was a young girl who screamed as though she had been burnt every time anyone touched her; even if it were only one of the other women prisoners. One man believed himself to be a holy prophet and from time to time proclaimed the end of the world to be at hand in solemn and sonorous tones; another laughed with childish glee every few moments at some secret joke which he kept muttering over and over inaudibly to himself.

  Nearly every one of the three thousand prisoners had either lost someone dear to them in the massacres or was in dire anxiety as to whether their loves, relatives and friends were alive or dead. All those who were sane had some almost incredible story to tell of the ferocity of the mobs and their own miraculous escapes. The whole of their thrilling and terrifying experiences could not have been related in half a year.

  Richard and the Duke learned brief versions of a few of them every day, mostly from the irrepressibly active and resourceful Pépé, opposite; but it was not only of personal horrors and triumphs that they heard. For the first time they became aware of the true heroism of many of the leaders in the Military Rebellion; so ill prepared on account of the urgent necessity of advancing its date to forestall a Red coup-d’état.

  How General Goded, having accomplished his task in Majorca, had deliberately left his safe command there to fly to Barcelona so that he might lead the loyal troops in that furnace of Anarchy although he knew it to be a forlorn hope before he started. How Colonel Castajon had set out in a small ship from Morocco with only thirty-five officers and, on reaching the Spanish coast, had driven straight inland, without support, gathering volunteers as he marched who could only be armed with weapons captured from the enemy; defeating regiment after regiment of troops who were sent against him until he had penetrated right into the centre of Southern Spain. How Colonel Móscardo, isolated in Toledo hundreds of miles from any other Nationalist forces, had defied the Government and was holding the Alcazar with a few hundred young soldiers and a score or two of Toledo Nationalists.

  How Queipo de Llano had taken the great Red stronghold of Seville with only one hundred and eighty-three supporters. He had landed in a plane outside the city, commandeered lorries, and driving straight in had seized the radio station to broadcast the staggering news that the whole Moroccan Army of forty thousand men was advancing on Seville. At that moment the only Moroccan forces in Spain were Colonel Castajon and his thirty-five officers who had landed that morning. De Llano summoned all who loved Spain and hated Anarchy to rally round him. The Reds panicked and, r
ushing to the artillery barracks in the suburbs, turned the guns on the centre of the town. Whilst the shells burst about the radio building the General bawled into the microphone, “Do you hear those guns? Listen to our glorious Artillery blasting the Red Marxist murderers! Rally to me and welcome the saviours of National and Catholic Spain!” The people in the cafés listening to the loud-speakers, already terrified of a Red massacre, began to cheer. The police, the Guardia, and regiments of troops came out in support of the courageous General. Queipo de Llano had taken Seville with the guns of the enemy.

  Such accounts put extraordinary heart into the majority of the prisoners; particularly those with strong religious tendencies. Knowing the absurdly small forces with which the Rebellion had started in so many centres they were convinced that God was intervening with miracles on behalf of His children, otherwise, they asked, how could such an amazing series of successes have been achieved? The less religious gave more credit to the reckless daring of the gallant officers concerned and the old adage that, all parties being given courage, one man with brains was worth ten with brawn.

  On 11th August, Colonel Castajon arrived before Badajos; on the 13th he took it. Nothing could have been a clearer proof than his remarkable inarch that the bulk of the people in the south were heart and soul with the Nationalists. He and his gallant thirty-five had marched two hundred and fifty miles without reinforcements or fresh supplies of ammunition except those gathered on the way. Such a march, including twenty minor actions, would have been utterly impossible if the peasants and townsfolk on his route had proved hostile, but they were welcoming him everywhere as their deliverer.