The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Well, damn me!” he exclaimed, staring at Lucretia. “If it isn’t the Golden Spaniard! I heard someone say ‘Valmojado’ and I thought of you at once. Remember our meeting there when you were settling matters for that Englishman at his factory?”

  “I remember your trying.…” Lucretia began icily, but Simon broke in:

  “Englishman? Factory, eh? D’you remember his name? Was it Richard Eaton? Had he an interpreter with him? A Frenchman named Dubois?”

  “That’s right,” nodded Mudra. “They were running some sort of aluminium plant. The workers wanted to take it over and the girl friend here.…” he broke off abruptly as Cristoval thrust his way forward.

  With his jaw sticking out and his eyes sparkling angrily Cristoval snapped, “The less said about that business in Valmojado the better for you, Comrade.”

  “Ho, indeed!” sneered Mudra, and ignoring Cristoval he turned to Lucretia. “So you’ve still got your little Comrade Secretary on the tapis, eh? Pity, as I was going to offer you a berth down in Malaga.”

  Before she could reply he went on in half-earnest gallantry, “Now all these bright boys have turned up to defend Madrid yours truly’s being given a rest. Cushy billet in the sunshine. I’m sailing day after tomorrow from Valencia. Care to come along?”

  “The answer is ‘No!’” cried Cristoval furiously.

  “What’s it got to do with you?” Mudra asked with studied insolence. “You her husband?”

  “No, I’m not,” Cristoval rapped out. “But I’ve got enough.…”

  “Please!” Lucretia intervened, catching his arm. “Please! Let’s dance.”

  For a second Cristoval hesitated, then, fuming with anger, he allowed himself to be led away just as Simon said to Mudra, “This Englishman and Frenchman. You sure they were operating an aluminium plant at Valmojado when you were there?”

  “Yes,” Mudra nodded. “The Frenchman—fella with a birthmark all over his face—did all the talking, but he was only an interpreter. The Englishman owned the place. They had a Union Jack run up on a flagstaff there.”

  “When was this?”

  “Towards the end of July. Let’s see, I marched my column out of Madrid on the 27th, so it’ud have been on the 28th.”

  “Very interesting,” said Simon.

  “Very interesting indeed.”

  “Why?” asked Mudra.

  “Oh, nothing. Just to me, I mean. Helps me in my job.”

  “What is your job?”

  “Finance Office. Checking up the movements of dangerous foreigners is part of it at times.”

  “You’re a sort of ‘tec, then?”

  “Well, in a way,” Simon admitted.

  Mudra shook his big square head. “I’d hate that sort of thing. Always did dislike office work. Give me a bit of fighting and a spirited girl with a bottle of wine at the end of it. That’s my mark.”

  “Very nice,” said Simon politely. “Very nice, I’m sure.”

  “And a little aristocrat-killing to wind up with,” added Mudra. “The priests never did me any harm and I don’t mind the Fascists; but the nobility must be wiped out, man, woman and child. It’s the caste system that’s been the curse of Spain.”

  “What’s that about Fascists?” asked a man near by, and Mudra turned away to answer him.

  Simon took Rex by the arm and nodded towards a quiet corner. “Come over here a moment,” he said. “Want to talk to you.”

  “I’m your prisoner,” Rex laughed. “What’s the big idea?”

  When they were out of earshot Simon stooped his head suddenly and chuckled into his hand. “This is great, Rex,” he tittered. “Although they’re kicking you out, you’re still for the Government, aren’t you?”

  “Sure. Who wouldn’t be after two months in the Finnish Legation?”

  “Grand! Well, I’ll tell you. I’d like you to do another little job for us if you will.”

  “How can I when I’m being thrown out on my ear?”

  “Simple. Return to Spain as soon as you can but through an insurgent port, and proceed to Valmojado.”

  “For what?”

  “I take it you’d like to score off our friends so we can call it evens about their locking us up in that cellar?”

  “I certainly would so long as no harm’s coming to them personally through anything I do.”

  “Then it’s easy. They’ve gone to earth in the British Commercial Attache’s office next door to the Finnish place. You saw me hand them the pick that got them through the wall, and Cristoval’s evidently checked up that they’re still there. They’re safe as houses now provided they don’t start popping out. But I’m on to it now where they cached the gold.”

  “You don’t say!”

  “Um! Didn’t you hear what that murderous-looking Colonel said? End of July they were running an aluminium plant in

  Valmojado. Must have bought it in order to conceal the goods there. No other possible reason for them to buy a place like that. Probably ran the stuff out of Madrid hidden in a big consignment of other metal. Don’t know what happened then. They may have buried it somewhere or smelted it down; may have disguised it by turning it into girders and painting them over. Anyhow I’m dead certain it’s still there.”

  “Why? I don’t see that. The Insurgents took Valmojado round about the 22nd of last month. They’ve been sitting pretty there for over a fortnight now. The Duke would sure have gotten a message through telling Franco’s people where he’d parked the stuff and asking them to clear it.”

  “Ner,” Simon shook his head. “You said yourself that you all honoured your undertaking not to communicate with anybody while you were in the Finnish Legation. Note to me yesterday was different. Case of emergency, and anyhow the chap who ran the place had dishonoured his own contract by doing a bunk.”

  Rex pulled thoughtfully on his cigarette. “I’ll say you’re right about that, but the Duke’s been loose thirty-odd hours now and he’s not the sort of guy to let the grass grow under his feet.”

  “Now I’ll tell you! He was bottled up for over three months. Madrid’s changed no end in that time. We’re taking the sting out of scores of these Fifth Column people and most of those still at large have had to change their addresses. May be days before the Duke can re-establish his communications. He daren’t go out except at night and from now on I’ll have the British Commercial Office isolated by the police. If he puts a toe out I’ll have him shooed back again. Telephone can constantly be tapped and we’ll search every soul that leaves the building. That’ll prevent his getting any message through and, honestly, I don’t think he can possibly have done so yet.”

  “O.K. Spill the beans some more. Let’s hear what part you want me to play in all this.”

  Simon nodded his head up and down like a china Mandarin. “Want you to go to Valmojado. Must be some Government supporters among the factory-workers there. Get hold of them and find out how the Duke and Richard spent the time during their stay. Couldn’t have handled all that gold without someone suspecting something. Try to locate it. Insurgents won’t hold Valmojado for ever. With the International Brigade we’ll be back there soon. Then you can turn it over to me—understand?”

  “Yes, I get the idea,” Rex conceded slowly. “But I don’t see the Insurgents there giving me the ‘Huge Hello!’ Why should they? The odds are they’ll think it pretty fishy if a strange Americano suddenly arrives out of the blue and starts poking around.”

  “Can fix that all right. Passports of all sorts in our possession. We’ll fake a British one with your photo and signature as William Eaton.”

  “You’ll what!”

  Simon smiled broadly and continued nodding. “The Duke was clever enough to secure what protection he could for the place by establishing British ownership. Couldn’t buy it himself because he was posing as a Frenchman. Made Richard buy it instead. That’s as clear as daylight. Now you turn up as William Eaton, Richard’s cousin and partner, and claim the factory as your property.
Franco’s sore with Britain because half the cargo boats in the Mediterranean are making a packet running his blockade under the Red Ensign—but he’s no quarrel with any foreign capitalist who’s investing in Spain. You’ll be welcomed at Valmojado. Make any inquiries you like. No questions asked.”

  “I’d never get away with it,” Rex said with decision. “I haven’t got an English accent.”

  “Say you’ve spent most of your life in Canada.”

  “To hell with that! Canadians have a sort of English accent too.”

  “All right. Tell them your mother came from the States and that you’ve got relations there that you visit every year. Will you play?”

  Rex thought for a moment and grinned. “Yes. I’ll play. I’d get one hell of a big kick out of beating the Duke by a short head in the Coralles stakes.”

  They discussed the plan in greater detail for some time to the tuneful clatter of castanets, as a beautiful Spanish girl was now entertaining the bulk of the company by dancing a Fandango.

  She was loudly applauded and received two encores, after which general dancing started again. The drinks were flowing freely and the crowd was warming up. Lucretia danced with two men she knew and an amusing Frenchman of the Brigade who soon showed signs that he would have liked to keep her with him indefinitely, but Cristoval carried her off and they decided that they had stayed at the reception long enough.

  Neither had brought a car as petrol was now strictly rationed, even for Party Executives, and they saved it whenever they could for special jaunts, but in the Prado they picked up one of the old horse cabs and Cristoval told the man to drive to Lucretia’s apartment in Rios Rosas.

  It was almost pitch dark and decidedly smelly inside the old vehicle, but no sooner were they in it than his arms were round her and his fierce kisses on her lips.

  That was no new experience for either of them. These passionate embraces had been going on whenever opportunity offered during the last three months. During August and September they had spent every evening they could snatch from their duties, picnicking in the country a few miles outside Madrid. There had been a few glorious days, too, when they were both delegates to a conference in Valencia, far from the war, with their evenings free to bathe and lounge upon the seashore in a little bay some distance from the town.

  In the last few weeks such opportunities to abandon themselves to their passion had been more difficult to come by. For one thing, the advance of the Insurgent Army had meant a much greater pressure of work for those concerned in organising the defence of the capital. For another, the time for picnicking was past owing to the chill winds of approaching winter. Neither of them had any relations in Madrid who might have entertained them in their houses and discreetly left them alone for a little, while still exercising a formal chaperonage.

  There were hotels where they could have secured a private room, his lodging and her flat; but although the Revolution had brought with it a certain amount of immorality, custom dies hard. Normally the Spaniard has a great respect for any woman of a type that he would marry, and the standard of morality among the women of all classes is an extremely high one. Anglo-Saxon couples enjoy far greater liberty because they do not inevitably regard love as bound up with an immediate display of passion, but a Spanish girl knows that she could not remain mistress of her emotions if, without fear of interruption, she were alone for any length of time in a room with a man she loved.

  Now the nights were colder Cristoval and Lucretia had been reduced to driving out to a quiet spot in a car and sitting in it clasped in each other’s arms. It was to appease their hunger for each other, as well as they could, in this way that they saved as much as possible of their rationed petrol.

  Half way to Rios Rosas Lucretia forced Cristoval away from her and sat up. “No, no more,” she said firmly.

  “But why?” he cried. “Why?”

  “No, please!” she pleaded as he sought to draw her to him afresh.

  “But, darling! We’ll be there in a moment,” he expostulated miserably, now thoroughly worked up.

  She shook her head in the darkness. “No. We’ve quite a way to go yet.”

  Cristoval peered out of the window. “We haven’t. We’ll be there in another couple of minutes.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk to me about marriage.”

  “I do. But—darling! D’you mean you’ve changed your mind?”

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, hell! Why drag it up now then, and rob me of the little bliss I get?”

  “You poor sweet. I’m afraid I’ve been very cruel to you these last three months.”

  He passed a hand over his hot forehead. “I don’t say that. I’m crazy about you, but you’re not crazy about me. That’s all there is to it.”

  “But I am crazy about you.”

  “Then why not do something about it? I didn’t mean to mention it, but look at that chap tonight. That Colonel fellow. You heard him ask me when I butted in: ‘What’s it to do with you? Are you her husband?’ And what could I say? Why not give me the right to protect you from such people?”

  “Is that the only thing that troubles you?”

  “You know it’s not!” Cristoval broke out desperately. “Naturally it makes my blood boil to see you exposed to that sort of thing, but I don’t try to deceive myself about the root of the matter. I want you. Want you as I’ve never wanted anything in my life before. And life is slipping from us. Can’t you see that? It’s not as if we stand the same chance of growing old as ordinary people. Every morning now when I wake up I break into a cold sweat at the thought that you may have been blown to bits by one of these accursed bombs. When the air raids come I lie in bed praying—yes, praying—anti-Catholic as I am, that God will forgive me my sins and spare us both so that I may live to see you at least once more the following day.”

  “Oh, darling, darling. I do just the same.”

  He turned at that cry wrung from her very heart and gripped her hands. “Then why deny yourself to me when our time together may be so short? The Insurgents have fought their way right into the suburbs. From now on there’ll be bombardments day and night as well as air raids. We’ll fight them off but the loss of life will be simply terrible. One or both of us may be dead this time next week. At least while there’s life still in us let’s… Oh, hell!”

  The cab had stopped with a jolt and the old-fashioned driver, scrambling down, flung the door open.

  Cristoval gave the man a black look and stepping on to the pavement helped Lucretia-José out.

  On two or three similar occasions recently when he had brought her home late at night he had been so overwrought that he had frankly begged her to let him come up to her flat, and Spaniards when they get that far have the buttons off their foils. They do not mutter conventional phrases about wanting a drink or one more cigarette.

  Each time he had pressed her Lucretia’s answer had been a clear and definite refusal. He had had to be content with a last, lingering kiss under the dark archway by the entrance to the flats. Tonight he was about to tell the cabman to wait a few minutes, when he saw her thrust some money she was already holding into the man’s hand.

  With his heart hammering wildly Cristoval followed her across the pavement. When he reached her she was fishing for her key and he saw that her hands were trembling. Lucretia-José did not often tremble, and she was not trembling now with fear. She turned to look at him and her face was very close to his. Her eyes seemed enormous and they were moist and shining; a little smile hovered on her slightly parted lips.

  A solitary shell crumped somewhere in a far part of the city. Lucretia looked away from him and unlocked the door. They did not exchange a single word but she reached out for his hand and drew him gently inside.

  Chapter XXVIII

  The Treasure Hunt Begins

  Rex arrived in Valmojado three days later. He had been deported with special courtesies and despatch via Valencia to Marseilles. There he had bought a sm
all, fast plane and flown straight back to Spain.

  The necessity for speed in this affair was one which Simon had now no need to impress upon him. When they had talked the matter over in more detail they had both seen that it was not enough merely to find out where the gold had been concealed and sit on it in the hope that in the course of the next few weeks the International Brigade might retake Valmojado for the Government. There was the Duke to be reckoned with.

  Both Simon and Rex knew that in cunning de Richleau was the father and grandfather of all the foxes there ever were in the world. Now he was a free agent again Simon might succeed in isolating him for a time, but only for a time. Even as a virtual prisoner and with every possible cordon drawn round him to prevent his getting into communication with the Monarchists, it was certain that his subtle brain would sooner or later evolve a scheme to defeat the police blockade.

  In consequence Rex’s task was not only to discover where the gold had been secreted but, with the aid of any Government sympathisers he could find, to shift it to a new hiding-place.

  Had they known that the Duke had himself lost trace of the gold they might have been considerably easier in their minds but, as they saw the situation, it was now a race between Rex finding and removing the bullion to a place where it could be concealed, for several weeks if need be, until the International Brigade had driven the Insurgents back; and the Duke getting a message through to let the Monarchists know where it was cached at the moment.

  It was good flying weather and in his flight over Spain Rex surveyed several of the endless and far-flung fronts of war. He passed over Red Barcelona which, apparently, lay sleeping in the wintry sun, but he noted the silent hulks out in the harbour which were said to be crammed with thousands of middle-class hostages. Turning inland he flew low over the small town of Huesca where, from the occasional puffs of smoke, it was clear that the little Nationalist garrison was still holding out. Their story, he knew, was one of even greater courage than that of the defenders of the Alcazar. A brave man himself, he admired their bravery although they were on the other side and, diving suddenly to within fifty feet of the towers of the old fortress, he threw over a packet of English and American papers, bought in Marseilles, which contained accounts of Franco’s recent victories outside Madrid.