He was feeling sick and wretched and from lunch-time onwards had been tossing uncomfortably in bed with a slight temperature. Directly he heard that Marie-Lou wished to see him urgently, however, his manner changed. He agreed to dress at once and come down as quickly as he could to the Café Las Palmas on the waterfront to meet them.
Malaga had known the grip of the Terror, and under the iron rule of its Revolutionary Council all night-life in it had been dead for months. No taxis were available any more, and at this hour the streets down by the docks were empty except for occasional sailors returning to their ships. In a corner of the dimly lit café they waited with as much patience as they could muster, over three coffees.
Just as half-past eleven was striking, Simon’s slim stooping figure, muffled in an overcoat, appeared. He wasted no time in polite greetings as, with Marie-Lou arriving at such a moment, he had already guessed that Richard’s safety must be involved and that there had been some blunder in the ambush that Cristoval had laid. Within three minutes he was in full possession of the facts.
“This is a muddle,” he smiled, directly Marie-Lou had done. His eyes flickered uneasily but his tone gave no hint of the acute anxiety he was really feeling. “Best thing for you is to stay here while I go to the Military Headquarters and find out what’s happened. Don’t worry too much. Sorting out muddles is my speciality. Expect we’ll fix everything all right.”
Extracting what comfort they could from his calm assurance, they ordered some brandy to warm them up and settled down to wait again.
Simon was away for very nearly an hour. When he at last returned he still appeared quite unruffled although he looked distinctly ill, and immediately on sitting down swallowed a couple of aspirins.
Seeking to keep the agony of impatience she was feeling out of her voice, Marie-Lou asked, after a moment, “Well, Simon dear. What have you found out?”
“Now I’ll tell you,” he said, taking her hand in his and patting it gently. “No need to worry. None at all. Colonel Picón—Military Governor here—had gone home. Got most of the story from his Chief-of-Staff, but thought we’d best phone the place where they’ve been taken, to get details. That’s what took so long.”
He nodded quickly. “Um. All three of them caught. None wounded. Rex has been very naughty. Tried to get away and pushed one of the guards over a cliff—chap broke his neck. Pity, that. Still, can’t be helped. They knocked Rex out but he came round again within ten minutes. Whole lot were taken to that monastery overlooking the bay. It’s a military post now. H.Q. for the north-western sector of the defence here. They’ve been tried, of course, and sentenced. Foregone conclusion. To be shot—usual hour—but that doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Oh, Simon! You don’t mean that. You’re only trying to break it to me gently.”
“Ner, honestly.” Simon’s eyes flickered again but he went on calmly, “Only half-past twelve. Lots of time before dawn.”
“You can get them reprieved, or something?”
“Going to see the Military Governor about it the moment I leave you.”
“Oh bless you, darling!”
“Did—did you hear anything about Cristoval?” Lucretia inquired anxiously.
Simon turned to look at her and began to rub his forefinger up and down his arc of nose. “That’s another muddle. ‘Fraid it’s a bit outside my sphere, though. Lies between you and him.”
“Why?” she asked quickly.
“Trouble is you’ll be front-page news tomorrow. Anarchist Leader Turns Out To Be Titled Nationalist Spy. You know the sort of thing. Big story. They rang up from the monastery at once. It’s all over the town already. Awkward, very awkward for Cristoval. Lot of people know he was your—er—boyfriend. Pity you were in his charge when you escaped.”
“They haven’t done anything to him, have they?”
“Ner. Just put him under arrest, that’s all.”
“Arrest!”
“Um. Seems the man who’s commanding the north-western sector from the monastery cut up rough when he heard who you were and that you’d got away. Got a bit of a grudge against Cristoval, I think. At least, that’s the rumour. They say he couldn’t say anything bad enough about him over the phone. Declared he’d let you go on purpose and wanted to have him shot out of hand.”
“Shot!” echoed Lucretia aghast.
“No need to worry. Chap was most unreasonable.”
“They are safe, aren’t they?” pleaded Marie-Lou.
“Naturally Colonel Picón wouldn’t hear of it. Still, he agreed that Cristoval should be placed under close arrest.”
Lucretia’s eyes were wide and scared as she cried, “But they won’t harm him, will they? His record’s so good! They couldn’t possibly do anything serious to him just because he let me escape.”
“He’s safe enough—for the moment.” Simon moistened his lips and went on slowly. “He’s a big shot, of course; but unfortunately you’re an even bigger one. Idea is to hold him as hostage, in your place. They know the two of you are—well, pretty friendly, and they’re counting on that to bring you in. Dirty trick, but there it is. It’s to be broadcast tomorrow that if you don’t give yourself up within seven days he’s to be shot instead.”
“Oh, God!” moaned Lucretia.
Marie-Lou put an arm round her shoulders and said imploringly, “Simon, darling, is there really nothing you can do?”
He shook his head. “If they’d condemned him we could appeal to Valencia. But they haven’t. Only holding him as bait. Very fond of Cristoval—but don’t see how I can help at all.”
“Yes. I see that,” Lucretia agreed. “Cristoval is my responsibility. But the others? Rex van Ryn got them into this ghastly mess on your account. You’ll be responsible for them?”
Simon stood up. “Going to see Picón at his private house now.”
“Shall we wait here,” asked Marie-Lou anxiously, “or in the yacht?”
“Moment I’ve seen Picón I shall go out there by car. You’d best take the yacht back to the entrance of the bay. Don’t want any more muddles, so keep well outside the three-mile limit. As the launch was beached I can bring them straight off in that.” Simon smiled kindly into Marie-Lou’s miserable face and added, “Now, off you go! Remember my speciality is muddles, and split a bottle between you to keep you going directly you get on board.”
“Oh, bless you, Simon!” She went up on tiptoe to kiss him on the forehead. “When it comes to holding hands in trouble I think you’re the best one of them all.”
Outside the café they parted, Simon hurrying off to the house of the Military Governor while Captain Sanderson, who had sat silent during the conference, escorted the two girls back to the yacht. By half-past one the Golden Gull was once more at the entrance of the bay.
During the return run, Marie-Lou and Lucretia followed Simon’s advice about having a glass of wine to keep up their strength, but they did not follow it about remaining outside the three-mile limit. A long and earnest talk they had had resulted in Captain Sanderson’s bringing the yacht as close inshore as he dared and lowering a boat to take the two girls to the beach.
As Lucretia stepped out on to the sand, Marie-Lou caught her hand and cried, “Are you sure—are you really sure there’s no other way?”
Suddenly putting her arms round the little Princess, Lucretia kissed her and replied, “You admitted yourself that you’d do just the same.” Then she turned and ran up the beach, disappearing into the shadows.
It was two o’clock in the morning when Lucretia reached the monastery and a sleepy sentry turned out the Sergeant of the Guard. At first he flatly refused to disturb his Commanding Officer at such an hour for the tanned young sailor in oilskins, but she insisted that he would find himself in trouble if he did not, as her business was personal and urgent.
He left her for a few minutes. On his return he led her up a broad stone stairway, flung open a door and motioned for her to pass inside. She found herself in a bedroom facing Colon
el Mudra, who was sitting up in bed.
“You’re going to get it in the neck, hombre, if your message isn’t urgent, for waking me up like this,” he said gruffly. “Come on! Let’s have it.”
“I am the Condesa de Cordoba y Coralles,” she said quietly.
“What! The Golden Spaniard’!” he jerked upright. “By God, so you are. I recognise you now.”
“You’re holding Cristoval Ventura as a prisoner here, aren’t you?”
He nodded and smiled. “That’s right. We’ve got your little Comrade Secretary boyfriend cooling his heels in the lock-up down below. I bet you didn’t know who’d pinched him, though, or you wouldn’t have come walking in on me like this.”
“I did,” she replied calmly. “It’s been my business for a long time now to know which officer is commanding in every Government sector. I would have preferred to deal with someone else, but if you’d been the devil himself it would not have prevented my coming to see you about Cristoval.”
“Not very flattering, are you?” he grinned. “But never mind. Seeing the reason of your visit, we’ll soon get more matey. Specially as I’ve always had a soft spot for you. Come and sit down on the bed here, girlie, and tell me all about it.”
Chapter XXXIV
Simon Aron Goes to War
Simon had spoken optimistically enough to Marie-Lou. He had the kindest heart in the world and it had distressed him immeasurably to see her looking so utterly wretched. He had felt that the least he could do was to send her away comforted and confident in his ability to put everything right for her. Nothing whatever could have been gained by allowing her to pass a night of torturing anxiety. By morning or earlier he would have to face her whichever way things went; if it were with his three friends, as he hoped from the very bottom of his heart it might be, all would be well; but if not, it would be time enough then to break the terrible news to her.
As he hurried along the waterfront he was swiftly assessing his friends’ chances of life. He felt that there was a good chance of his being able to save Rex. That Rex had been captured with the Nationalist sympathisers was a sheer accident, and that he should have killed a man in endeavouring to escape was appalling luck but, even so, the Government owed him an immense debt for having got the Condesa’s huge fortune out of Nationalist hands for them.
De Richleau and Richard were another matter. Both had been conspiring against the Government for many months. Both had killed a number of Government supporters. Both were escaped prisoners who had already been condemned to death and both had been caught again tonight, red-handed, in an attempt to steal bullion which, under the new law, was Government property. In addition, their situation was rendered even more hopeless by the fact that orders had been issued for the execution of all Nationalists caught in this night’s secret work.
Had they been captured in Valencia, he would have felt reasonably confident of securing their release on condition that they refrained absolutely from any future interference in Spanish affairs. His many friends in high places would, almost certainly, have seen to it that a supreme authority granted his request; but he was in Malaga, where he knew no one, apart from the few officials he had met during his brief stay, and to them the name of Simon Aron meant nothing.
Worse, the prisoners had been captured at about nine o’clock. It was getting on for one already. They had been formally tried immediately they had reached the monastery and actually sentenced to death. It was even possible that they were already dead. The execution might take place at any hour, as firing squads did not always wait till dawn.
At that thought he began to run. His fever had mounted. His usually clear head was heavy and dull. Before he covered fifty yards perspiration was streaming down his face. He had already secured the address of Colonel Eusebio Picon’s house when he had visited the offices of the military command, but he feared the Colonel would have gone to bed. When he reached it he saw with relief that there were still lights in a first-floor room of the tall building.
Panting and gasping, Simon demanded an immediate interview with the Military Governor. The sentry passed him on to a drowsy orderly who was sitting in the hall. The orderly returned a few moments later to say that the Colonel was just getting into bed and could not see him that night. Simon insisted that the matter would brook no delay and, with the protesting orderly beside him, walked straight upstairs. On the landing the man begged him to wait for one moment and went in to speak to the Colonel again. When he came back he was smiling. With an abrupt nod Simon pushed past him into a book-lined room which seemed part library, part office; it was obvious that the Colonel carried on a good portion of his work there.
Simon was still mopping the perspiration from his face when the Colonel, clad in a purple silk dressing-gown and smelling strongly of scent, came stumping in from his bedroom next door. Hardly waiting for him to sit down at his desk, Simon plunged into the matter that had brought him.
“Yes,” the Colonel cut him short. “I’ve already heard that we’ve bagged the Nationalist agents, except for the Condesa whom that fool Ventura allowed to get away. Mudra rang up to tell me. What about it?”
“Three friends of mine among them. I want an order for their release,” said Simon urgently.
“On what grounds?” snapped the Colonel, who was obviously in an ill temper at being kept from his bed.
“Two of them are Englishmen and one’s an American. Don’t want more trouble with neutral countries—do we?”
Picón grunted. “That’s not my business. Orders have been issued for their execution and you’re only wasting my time.”
“I’m not. You’ve got to listen to me. Your orders only apply to the Spanish Nationalists. Had a promise of immunity before I left Valencia for everyone on that yacht. These three, Richard Eaton, Rex van Ryn, and the Duc de Richleau should have been on the yacht. Only got themselves mixed up in this business by mistake.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the Colonel. “All three of them have been wanted by the Government for months. I’ve got their dossiers here. Cristoval Ventura left them with me yesterday, and a more dangerous set of blackguards it would be hard to find. Now we’ve caught them we’re going to out them—quick—before they can do us any more damage.”
“Now I’ll tell you.” Simon wriggled his thin neck. “There’ll be hell to pay if you kill these people. Between them they’re mixed up with half the big-wigs in Washington and Whitehall. Shooting them’ll do the Government cause more damage than the loss of all that gold. You’d be mad not to let them go.”
“Well, I’m not going to,” Picón shrugged.
“But, hang it all! One of them, Rex van Ryn, has been fighting on our side till now.”
“Till now!” The Colonel caught him up with acid sarcasm. “That shows just how far we can trust our foreign friends— doesn’t it? We’ve got far too many foreigners interfering in this war. Perhaps the execution of these three may induce some of the others to clear out.”
“Thanks!” snapped Simon. “Perhaps you consider me an interfering foreigner, too?”
“If you want to know the truth, Señor Aron—I do. You’ve done good work for the Finance Office, I believe; but it’s international interference that’s bleeding Spain to death. If we could be rid of the lot of you we’d be through with this ghastly business, one way or another, inside a month.”
“Perhaps,” Simon agreed. “But that’s not the question at the moment. These three men are lifelong friends of mine.”
“Then you’ve got some very strange friends.” Picón opened a drawer in his desk and took a sheet of paper from it. “Now, look here. These are a few notes my secretary made from their dossiers. The two Englishmen came to Spain early in July. The first thing they did was to knock a caretaker on the head and falsely imprison him for the best part of a month. According to a report that came in later they were mixed up in a church-burning about the time of the outbreak and.…”
“When they saved me from being murdered by the
mob,” Simon interrupted.
“I don’t know anything about that. They deliberately killed several members of the crowd and the affair resulted in the deaths of about forty others, mostly innocent bystanders. Shortly afterwards they secured the release of two important hostages, the Catholic Deputy, Don Palacio Alverado and the daughter of a traitor General, Doña Favorita de los Passos-Inclán. You were mixed up in that apparently.
“In August they were arrested and later involved in the mutiny at the Model Prison. As they were about to be executed the American comes on the scene. Nineteen of our Militiamen were killed in the ensuing affray, and these three beauties escaped, taking with them four other condemned men: Colonel Julio Castrillo, the Conde Gonzalo d’Almagro, Don Jiménez d’Olwer, Don Domingo Cambó, and a boy, Alonso Haga.
“Early in November they broke out of the Finnish Legation, where they had taken refuge, and the check-up afterwards showed that they got three more enemies of the Government—the Marquis de Mondragon-Villablanca, Don Leopoldo Romanones and Don Joaquim de Bermejo y Santos—away with them. Then, to finish up with, the American goes and throws some poor devil of a Militiaman over a cliff this very night.
“What a record!” Colonel Picón banged the desk in front of him and went on angrily, “There’s enough against these men to hang half a battalion, and you have the infernal nerve to ask me to release them.”
Simon nodded. “They’ve killed a lot of our people and rescued a lot of others, but that doesn’t affect the fact that it would be bad policy on your part to.…”
“Bad policy be damned!”
“Well, will you postpone the execution till I can get in touch with Valencia? I’m sure they don’t know.…”
“They do know. I cabled them full particulars directly I heard from Mudra, with the names of all the prisoners taken. There’s the reply.” Picón flicked a flimsy telegraph form across the desk. “It only came in ten minutes before you got here.”
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