The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  The two prisoners could now hear the distinct rat-tat-tat of machine-guns and the explosion of hand grenades. Evidently the mob had forced its way out of the far side of the building and was being driven back by troops called out to suppress the prison rising.

  After a time things quieted down. Then came the trampling of feet in the corridor and the slamming of cell doors again. The exhausted mob having failed in its attempt to break out was being herded back into the blocks and hurled three and four at a time into the nearest cells that offered.

  At last the sad morning dawned. Fifty-odd bodies lay sprawled about the courtyard; groans and lamentations came from nearly every cell. No breakfast ration was issued; instead, the tramp of marching feet echoed on the concrete and a squad of Marxists began to pull the prisoners out for examination. Some were taken, others left, according to the names on a long list carried by one of the prison officials. To their dismay Richard and the Duke, having admitted their identity, were ordered to step outside.

  “But,” Richard protested, “we weren’t in last night’s affair.”

  Yet even as he spoke he realised the futility of arguing. Nearly every prisoner had been loose and how could the authorities know that a few had remained locked in their cells?

  Two bearded men in overalls pulled him out into the corridor and led him away; the Duke followed between two others. Their captors were all armed with pistols as well as rifles. To attempt to escape seemed hopeless. Just at the entrance of the building one prisoner broke away. His guards shot him dead before he had covered six yards.

  Outside some lorries were drawn up; guards and prisoners were crowding into them and the leading one was already driving off packed to capacity.

  With the muzzle of a rifle at his back de Richleau scrambled on to a lorry and wedged himself in next to Richard. “This looks bad,” he said gruffly.

  “Yes, I’m afraid we’re for it,” Richard swallowed hard. “What filthy luck to be outed for something we had no hand in.”

  “What idiots we were to send Simon off to Barcelona, you mean. If he’d been in Madrid he’d have heard about the mutiny and been along first thing this morning to take care of us.”

  “What the hell are we going to do—jump for it?”

  “No good. They’d shoot us like rats. You saw them scupper that chap outside the prison.”

  “Where are they taking us? D’you think there’ll be some sort of trial?”

  “There may be. We can only hope there is.” The Duke took out his cigarettes; offering them to Richard and then to the nearest guard.

  “Thanks, hombre” said the man, lighting up.

  “Where are we going?” asked de Richleau.

  “Circulo de Bellas Artes, hombre. You started a fine fire last night so we’re going to put you out by sending you for a swim.” He laughed, not unkindly, at his own joke.

  The Duke knew that the mockeries that the Reds called trials were held at the Arts Club and that, having drained the swimming-bath downstairs, they used it for their executions, so the grim humour of the jest was not lost upon him.

  “It looks as though there’ll be a trial,” he told Richard, “but—old chap—I wouldn’t hope too much from it.”

  Richard nodded. He was still half-dazed by the suddenness with which calamity had overtaken them. The streets through which they passed had many shuttered shops and lines of people queuing up for their various rations at others, but those were the only signs now of the Revolution. The men and women passing on the pavements appeared normally cheerful and scarcely bothered to turn and look at them. It seemed impossible that he would probably be dead in half an hour.

  He tried to make himself realise that he would never see the adorable Marie-Lou again, or his little daughter Fleur, or his lovely old home, Cardinal’s Folly, back there in dear peaceful England. He kept on telling himself that it was true, real, definite. All his loves and friends and life itself was passing from him as he stood there rocking from side to side in the bumping lorry. Never again would he smell the new-mown hay or see the lights of Piccadilly. Never more spend a grand evening round the fireside yarning with that wonderful trio of old friends; two of whom had gone so unaccountably astray in the last throw with Fate—and all because of some dirty stinking politicians.

  He could have screamed for mercy when he thought again of Marie-Lou, and had he been alone he might have given way as some of the poor wretches near by were already doing; but the Duke; the best, the dearest, and the greatest of all his friends was still beside him. It was somehow impossible to lose face in de Richleau’s presence and, even in captivity, he seemed to give forth a strange strength and serenity which buoyed his companion up.

  As Richard looked at him he smiled slightly and said in a low voice, very gently, “Keep your eye on me all the time. If there’s a chance come in the second I act. If not, take it quietly. It won’t be half as painful as a nasty motor smash.”

  “Righto,” said Richard and was immensely relieved to find his voice sounded normal. “I do hope this isn’t the end, though—I mean, that we’ll meet again somewhere—else.”

  “But, my son, if we leave together we shall not part.” The Duke’s voice was firm with absolute conviction. “Surely you realise that. Even my small powers are enough, once the abyss is passed, to draw you up after me.”

  De Richleau had spent many years delving deeply into strange mysteries and much that was hidden to most earth-dwellers had been made plain to him. Richard was well aware of that although he had not thought very much about it except during the terrible experience they had had a few years before with Simon.

  Now, at the Duke’s words, all fear suddenly left him. They were going together; all would be well.

  He had hardly realised the import of that one sentence when the lorry drew up before the Arts Club. The guards prodded the prisoners into a rough line with the muzzles of their rifles and the whole contingent passed inside. The hall was crowded with the previous loads which had arrived.

  Richard and de Richleau took their place in this grim queue which waited to pass before the Terrorist tribunal; its head was already moving through an inner door. During their time of waiting only two men came out again; both white and shaken as they were led away to some unknown destination between guards. Every few moments there came a faint tapping sound as though some machine hammer was hitting a block of concrete quickly and regularly a few hundred yards away; yet it came from somewhere beneath their feet.

  The Duke was the first to face the Tribunal. It was composed of two men and a woman. A thin man with a high, narrow skull and an incredibly long nose, evidently the President as he sat in the centre, did what little talking there was done.

  “Name?” he asked.

  “Hypolite Dubois.”

  The man looked at his list. “Alias the Duc de Richleau. Conspirator against the legally elected Government of the Spanish People,” he said dryly, and signed to the guards. “Take him down.”

  “I demand the right to see a representative of my Embassy,” announced the Duke loudly.

  “Not granted,” snapped the President.

  “I am a friend of Comrade Simon Aron.”

  “Never heard of him. Next.”

  As the guards shuffled up to lead de Richleau away he suddenly leaned forward and stared straight into the Terrorist’s eyes. His voice came almost in a whisper but it was very clear: “May the Brothers of the Shadow have you in their keeping.”

  A little tremor ran through the President such as those which are spoken of jokingly as ‘someone walking over my grave’. He did not know what had affected him but for a moment those brilliant grey eyes which had bored into his had made him feel afraid. With a quick shrug he recovered himself yet he had an uncanny feeling that he was going to see those eyes again.

  De Richleau had passed on and Richard, who had been standing in the doorway, was pushed forward.

  “Name?”

  “Richard Eaton.”

  “A
ssociate of the last. Conspirator against the legally elected Government of the Spanish People. Take him down.”

  Richard did not even bother to make an appeal to be allowed to see a representative of his Embassy. In view of the last case it was so obviously useless and his one thought was not to lose touch with the Duke. Hurrying ahead of his guards he caught him up.

  At the bottom of the flight of stairs there was a long corridor, a turning, and then some marble steps. As they came down them they saw the swimming-bath.

  It was dry of water but on its bottom there was plenty of fresh-spilled blood. In the deep end one squad of Militiamen were passing out some dead bodies while another lot was lining up a batch of prisoners against the bullet-scarred wall. Stationed on the rim at the shallow end was a machine-gun and its crew. The bath was a well-chosen place for executions because it could so easily be sluiced down.

  De Richleau had assessed the possibilities of escape each moment since they had left the lorry and decided that it was quite hopeless. With the gun’s crew, the two squads at the end of the bath, and the guards, a number of whom stayed on to see the fun after having brought a batch of prisoners down, there were at least forty armed men present. He smiled at Richard and they stood quietly together with about ten other men from the prison, waiting their turn to be shot.

  All the bodies had been taken from the bath and piled up on its side to await removal. The next batch of victims was now lined up ready. A machine-gunner was fitting a new belt of ammunition to his gun. The Duke and Richard turned away so that they should not actually witness the massacre. Two Militiamen began to bind the hands of the prisoners in their group.

  Suddenly there was a stentorian shout. Every man in the baths swung round to stare at the marble steps. Rex came bounding down them, six at a time.

  “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop!” and catching sight of his two friends, he gasped, “God! that was a near one! I didn’t wake till ten this morning. When I got the low-down on what was doing at the prison I thought my heart had stopped. I’ve been running ever since.”

  Richard put his hand over his eyes for a second then took it away again to make certain Rex was really there.

  De Richleau drew a sharp breath and released it slowly. “That was touch and go,” he said. “Another five minutes, or ten at the outside, and you could only have collected our corpses.”

  “Whew!” Rex whistled, rolling his big head from side to side on his enormous shoulders. “What a relief. Well, tell ’em it’s all right and let’s go.”

  “Tell them.…” the Duke hesitated, glancing at some Militiamen who had come up to see what was happening. “My dear fellow, they won’t take their orders from us. You must tell them yourself.”

  “But I can’t speak Spanish,” Rex complained. “That’s why I was so long making this dive. Those fool cops at the prison couldn’t understand King’s English. I had hell’s own job before I found out you’d been taken here.”

  “Well, what shall I say to them?”

  “Oh, the usual gup about your both being good Comrades. Salud! Oo-archie-pay! an’ all that. Then that you’re friends of Simon’s.”

  “Do—do you mean you haven’t brought any order of release—or anything?” Richard stammered.

  “Of course not. How’d I get it? Simon’s the big shot in these parts but he’s in Barcelona. I wouldn’t even know who to apply to and anyhow I had no time.”

  “The devil you didn’t,” murmured the Duke. “This is not looking quite so pretty. How did you get in here?”

  “Barged my way in. I’m too big for most people to try and stop when I’m going places. Besides, most of these birds think I’m a batty Americano. They just all go jolly and pleasant when I make fancy faces at ‘em.”

  “Then you’d better try that now. I’ve a feeling we shall need all the grimaces you’ve got in your repertoire if we’re to succeed in excusing ourselves from the next bathing party.”

  Rex grinned widely and lifted his huge clenched fist above his head as he broke into mangled Spanish addressing the Militiamen who seemed to be in charge.

  The watching Terrorists had been looking curious and suspicious. They now gathered round the hulking American, listening politely and smiled a little at the strange words he uttered but, after a bit, they began to shake their heads and murmur, “Non compréhendo. Non compréhendo.”

  De Richleau quickly came to the rescue. He explained with a wealth of idiom and graphic gestures that a terrible mistake had been made. They were not Reactionaries at all but good Comrades, all for the Revolution.

  It did not work. Not even for a moment. The men went hard and cold. The Tribunal upstairs, they said, knew its business. No mistake was possible. If their friend, the Americano, had been allowed in to say good-bye to them that was one thing, but they weren’t such fools as to believe this silly story. As for Comrade Aron, who was he? They didn’t know him.

  “It’s no good, Rex, unless you can get some sort of order for postponement,” said de Richleau at last. “We might persuade them to stay the executions for an hour if you’ve any hope of getting that.”

  “I’ll get it,” Rex nodded, seriously perturbed now. “I’ll get it if I have to turn every office in Government Spain upside-down.”

  The Duke spoke to the Militiamen again but they were adamant. They were busy people. They had their work to do. The siesta hour was approaching. No, they would not allow a fresh appeal to the Tribunal. The Tribunal had already given its decision. One of the condemned was a Duke, wasn’t he? Someone had said so. Well, by all the rotting bodies of the stinking Saints, that was enough, wasn’t it? Any more nonsense from the Americano and they’d put him in the swimming-bath too.

  As this was interpreted in snatches to Rex his face became more and more anxious. It was the ugliest situation in which he had ever been. He began to glance quickly from side to side. There were dozens of these murderous devils lounging round the baths and it had no other entrance but the way he had come.

  He decided that Simon’s neck wanted wringing for having got them all into this, and that when that normally amiable person got back from Barcelona, he’d wring it. But that wouldn’t help the Duke and Richard. They would be dead long before Simon returned to Madrid. They would be dead in a few minutes unless he, Rex, did something.

  Several of the Militiamen had turned away to go about their terrible business. Rex’s eye fell upon one who had just come up to tie Richard’s hands.

  Chapter XXIII

  The Blood Bath of Madrid

  “You’d better go, Rex,” said the Duke.

  “Go!” repeated Rex. “Now is that likely?”

  “You can’t assist us by remaining, and to see the finish of this would be horrible for you.”

  “D’you think I’m going to let these murderous swine.…”

  “Steady, man. For God’s sake don’t start anything. You’ll only get yourself killed too.”

  Richard retreated from the man with the cord. “No!” he exclaimed sharply. “Don’t bind my hands. I’d rather take it smoking a cigarette.”

  “It’s the regulation, hombre” the man insisted. “Here, Juan, pull this chap’s arms behind his back.”

  “Who’s the big shot here?” Rex called in his mangled Spanish.

  “I am,” declared a lanky fellow who had already done most of the talking. “Keep out of this, Americano. We’ve had quite enough of you.” He turned contemptuously away to speak to one of the three men crouching by the machine-gun.

  “Damn you! Take your hands off me!” exclaimed Richard as Juan reached out to grab him. De Richleau moved back to his side but was watching Rex intently.

  “Out of the way, you,” growled Juan to the Duke. “Come on, Manuel. Bring the cord round here behind him.”

  As the lanky leader turned away Rex put a leg of mutton hand on his shoulder and jerked him round again. “For the last time! Do you call this shooting off?”

  The man snarled suddenly, “You crapa �
��” He never finished the word. Rex’s left hand closed round his neck like a vice; his right gripped the man’s belt, A mighty heave and the Marxist was kicking in the air. Next second he was hurtling through it head-first down into the swimming-bath. His head cracked like an eggshell on the bottom.

  The man’s feet had hardly left the ground when de Richleau acted. In his pocket he had been clutching a loose packet. It contained pepper hoarded from provisions Simon had sent into prison. As it hit Juan full in the face the packet burst. Blinded by the fiery grains, he let out a howl of pain. At the same second the Duke snatched the blinded man’s gun.

  As de Richleau flung the packet Richard side-stepped. Lunging forward he grabbed at the pistol in Manuel’s belt. Manuel had both hands occupied with the cord. He gave back quickly. The gun came loose but clattered on the floor. That saved Richard for the moment. A third Militiaman already had him covered. As he stooped to snatch up the fallen gun the man fired. The shot whistled through the air where Richard’s head had been. Manuel had drawn back to kick the stooping Richard in the face. A second shot rang out. Manuel reeled and fell screaming, shot through the stomach by the Duke.

  The actions of the three friends were almost simultaneous. Within five seconds of Rex’s first move two of the Militiamen were as good as dead and a third staggering wildly about convulsed in agony by the pepper in his eyes.

  Before the lanky man’s head had cracked on the bottom of the bath, Rex had sailed into the kneeling machine-gun crew. His boot took one fellow in the mouth, sending him flying after his leader. Another felt himself seized by the scruff of this neck and his head was bashed in against a pillar. The third flung himself at Rex’s legs but Rex came down on top of him with eighteen stone of weight and drove the breath out of his body.

  Right and left, all over the baths, Militiamen were now running, shouting, grabbing up their rifles and drawing automatics. The three friends would have stood no earthly chance, had it not been for the other prisoners. Ten of them were standing near the Duke; six of them were still unbound; two more had just been brought down from the Tribunal.