Leaving it there, he walked back up the hall and unlocked the door of the lavatory. The strange sounds that had come from it were then explained. Dolores had attempted to escape through the narrow window, but got stuck in it. Something about her fat posterior, from which depended skinny legs and feet shod in heavy brogues, the toes of which were beating a violent tattoo against the wall, struck him as incredibly funny. He roared with laughter, then with his open hand dealt her a mighty slap on the bottom. Her squawk of indignation came faintly back to him. Controlling his mirth, he took her by the ankles, stood back, and pulled hard upon them. She gave an agonized groan as the sharp tug freed her. Stepping forward he caught her as she fell.
Her eyes blazing hatred, she swivelled in his embrace, raised both her hands and clawed at his face. Instead of throwing his head back in an attempt to avoid her vicious attack, he brought it forward and downward in a swift, strong jerk. His forehead came into hard collision with her fleshy Semitic nose. She let out a scream, her hands flailed helplessly and, as he let go of her, she flopped down on to the lavatory seat.
Indifferent to the suffering of this woman who had helped to cause so much more suffering to others, he gave only a moment to looking down at her now hideous face: the nose flattened and streaming blood, the eyes blinded by tears. Then he said:
'I came to release you only because there is one of your murderous fraternity in the study who is on the point of dying in considerable pain. I have to get back to Barcelona quickly. Otherwise I may find myself with a corpse rolled up in a carpet on my hands; and I prefer that your friend Ferrer should be legally tried and executed. But if you have any morphia, laudanum or even aspirin in the house, give the lot to that misguided young fool who is dying.'
Turning on his heel he left her and hurried back to Ferrer. Heaving the roll of carpet up on to his shoulder, he plodded with it down the garden path and along the road to the triangle of grass on which Veragua had parked the automobile. Panting, he laid the roll in the back, cranked up the engine, then climbed up on to the high driver's seat and set off towards the city.
Twenty-five minutes later he pulled up in front of the Police Headquarters. Two uniformed men carried the roll of carpet in for him and upstairs to Urgoiti's office. As they set it down on the floor, the fat, bald Chief of the Security Bureau gave de Richleau a puzzled look, and said:
1 thought you meant to make an arrest. What's the idea of turning up with that old carpet?'
The Duke waited until the uniformed men had left the room, then knelt down, undid the ties, rolled the carpet back and removed the gag from Ferrer's mouth. Ferrer had recovered consciousness during the journey. He looked grey in the face, and woebegone. Struggling up into a sitting position he gave a violent sneeze. Kneeling behind him de Richleau smiled at Urgoiti, and said:
'I brought him wrapped up like this because I didn't want any trouble with him on the way. But here he is. The celebrated Senor Francisco Ferrer.'
The Police Chief had risen behind his desk. For a moment he stared at the captive, then he said, 'You've got the wrong man. That's not Ferrer.' 'Oh yes it is,' replied the Duke.
'It's not. I often used to see Ferrer taking his aperitif outside the Cafe Ronda. He was one of the best-known figures in Barcelona. He is a much younger man; he has brown hair and a beard.'
'Don't let his appearance deceive you. It's easy to shave off a beard, and his hair is dyed. As for his age, his year in prison wouldn't have made him look any younger.'
The red-headed man had come to his feet. Suddenly he burst into a violent spate of words. T don't know what you are both talking about, but I'll have the law on you for this. My name is Hernando Olozaga and I can bring a hundred people to prove it. This man,' he jabbed a finger towards de Richleau, 'broke into my house with another villain. I live out in the country. No amount of shouting would have brought help, and I was scared; so I hid in a cupboard. While I was there they must have quarrelled. There was a lot of shooting. When I thought they'd gone I peeped out of the cupboard. I saw the other fellow, a young chap with a beard, lying wounded on the floor of my workroom. He was clutching his stomach, and looked to me about all in. Next thing I knew, this man had coshed me and knocked me out.'
Urgoiti frowned at de Richleau. 'Explain, please. Where is Veragua?'
The Duke frowned. 'What our prisoner says about him is correct. He is probably dead by now.'
'Dead!' repeated the Police Chief, his eyes widening. 'Is it really true, then, that you shot him?'
'Yes. I had to; otherwise he would have shot me. It was only a minute before he held me up that I recognized him. By taking him on as a detective you have been nurturing a viper in your bosom. His name was not Veragua but Pineda. I knew him as a young anarchist and a student of Ferrer's when I was in Barcelona three years ago.'
'I cannot believe it.' Urgoiti shook his head. 'It is impossible that the police should have had such a deception practised upon them. And what, may I ask, were you doing in the city at that time?'
'Surely General Quiroga told you about me,' de Richleau said quickly. 'I was hunting anarchists, just as I have been doing these past two days; but then I was working on my own and posing as a Russian refugee.'
'Ha!' exclaimed the red-headed man. 'I recognize him now. He was pointed out to me by a friend of mine as a Russian nihilist, and his name ... his name . . . yes, it is Nicolai Chirikov.'
De Richleau laughed. 'Of course he remembers me. It would be extraordinary if he did not. I got a temporary job in his school for assassins and succeeded in breaking it up.'
Urgoiti gave him a queer look. 'But you are a foreigner, aren't you? Your name is not really Carlos Goma. The other evening, when we first met, Veragua also said he believed you to be a Russian refugee.'
'I am half Russian by birth. But what the devil has that to do with it? General Quiroga personally vouched for me to you, did he not?'
'Yes, yes; but he may have been deceived.'
'Deceived! What nonsense!'
Tt is not nonsense. It is much more likely that he should have been deceived about you, who arrived here only forty-eight hours ago, than that I should have been deceived about Veragua, who has worked for me for months.'
'You are quite wrong about that. General Quiroga has had incontestable proof of my true identity. What is more, I first met him three years ago, soon after this man Ferrer had failed in an attempt to have me murdered.'
'I tell you the man is not Ferrer.'
'I tell you he is,' de Richleau retorted stubbornly. 'I agree that his appearance is greatly changed, but that is mainly because he has dyed his hair. You have only to look at his scalp to see that it is dyed.'
Tt is not a criminal offence to dye one's hair, and he says he can bring plenty of people to swear to it that he is a Senor Olozaga.'
'Plenty of anarchists who are prepared to perjure themselves, no doubt; but there are many ways in which his real identity can be proved.'
'It seems to me that it is your identity that stands in greater need of proving.'
'God give me patience!' exclaimed the Duke angrily. 'I thought you an intelligent man, but tonight you are acting as though your head were made of wood.'
Urgoiti's plump figure stiffened with resentment. 'You will kindly refrain from insulting me.'
'And you will kindly refrain from questioning my integrity,' snapped back the Duke. 'Believe it or not, the man I have brought in is Ferrer. In General Quiroga's name I charge you to hold him for questioning. Should you fail to do so, I promise you it will cost you your job.'
'I'll hold him,' grunted the Police Chief, 'just to be on the safe side. But it looks to me as if he's someone you've got your knife into privately and are trying to frame.'
'Damn your impudence!' roared de Richleau. Tt now exceeds even your stupidity. I've had enough of this. I am going straight back to the Fortress to lodge a complaint about you with the Captain-General.'
'Oh no you're not.' Urgoiti pressed a bell-push on hi
s desk. 'I'm holding you too. This man says you are a Russian nihilist named Chirikov. It wouldn't surprise me if you are, after what's happened to poor young Veragua. It looks to me as if he stumbled on the truth about you, and you shot him to keep him quiet. Anyhow, you admit yourself that you left him dying of wounds that you inflicted on him; so even if you turned out to be a Grandee of Spain, General Quiroga couldn't blame me for detaining you until we find out a bit more about what did happen. You're going to pass the night in a cell.'
That the Police Chief should have hit a bull's eye when making what he obviously thought to be the wildly improbable suggestion that Senor 'Carlos Goma' might turn out to be a Grandee of Spain, almost made the Duke laugh. But to have declared at this stage that he was one would only have made Urgoiti still more sceptical about his bona fides, and the situation that had developed was now no laughing matter. To have triumphed in his mission only to be told that he had arrested the wrong man was bad enough; to have to spend a night in prison because he had succeeded in saving his own life, at the expense of that of a youth who had been on the point of murdering him, seemed positively intolerable. Yet the last word, in this place, definitely lay with Urgoiti.
In vain de Richleau asked to be allowed to speak to General Quiroga on the telephone. Urgoiti, evidently still smarting under his insults, flatly refused. A uniformed man appeared in answer to the Chief's summons, others were sent for and the Duke and the red-headed man were both marched away, the latter loudly protesting that it was an outrage and that his name was Olozaga.
Locked in a solitary cell, the Duke took stock of the situation. When he had calmed down a little he had to admit to himself that he was in part to blame for what had happened. He had made a particular point with Quiroga about not wanting it to become generally known among the police that he was that Count de Quesnoy who had three years before worked against the anarchists and brought about the closing of the Escuela Moderna; but he had assumed that, before his arrival in Barcelona, the General had confided his true identity to the Police Chief. Evidently that was not so and the General could only have told Urgoiti that he was expecting a special investigator that evening to whom he wished him to give his full co-operation.
That being the case, when Urgoiti learned that Senor 'Gonad' had just shot one of his most promising detectives, and a man whom Urgoiti did not believe to be Ferrer declared that he knew 'Gomd' to be a Russian nihilist named Chirikov, the Police Chief had certainly had grounds for holding 'Gom&' until a full investigation into the question of his identity could be made.
About that the Duke felt no concern, for it could be only a matter of waiting until the morning; General Quiroga would be informed about what had happened, he would be released, and Urgoiti made to look a complete fool. But he was worried about Ferrer.
For a few minutes he wondered if he could possibly have been mistaken. The red-headed man certainly had only a vague resemblance to the Ferrer he had known in the past, and Urgoiti had been so positive that he was not. Yet as the Duke went back in his mind over the events of the evening his vague doubts were swiftly dissipated. Teresa had told him that Ferrer was living out at San Cugat under the name of Olozaga with Dolores Mendoza. For Dolores to have been there with a man who resembled Ferrer but was not him was beyond any possible coincidence. Then Ferrer's account of what had occurred had diverged considerably from the truth. He had said that two men had broken in; but that was not so. He said that he had hidden in a cupboard; but in fact he had been down in the cellar and had had to be smoked out. And he had^ made no mention at all of Dolores - obviously because if Urgoiti had sent out to have her picked up she would at once have been identified as one of Ferrer's closest associates and so put the noose round his own neck.
No, there could be no doubt about the red-headed man being Ferrer, but the thing that worried de Richleau was that, before he could get into touch with General Quiroga in the morning, Urgoiti might question Ferrer further, become strengthened in his opinion that the self-styled Olozaga really was an innocent person, and have him released. To have Urgoiti sacked later for his blunder would be little consolation for having lost the chance to bring Ferrer to justice.
The Duke was still speculating with considerable anxiety on such a possibility when, after about an hour, two warders entered his cell and one of them said to him, 'Senor Chirikov, we have orders to search you.'
'Chirikov is not my name,' he replied with a frown. 'Here I am known as Carlos Gomd.'
The warder shrugged. 'Chirikov is the name you're under on the charge sheet and that's good enough for us.'
'Charge,' repeated de Richleau. 'What am I charged with?'
'With the wilful murder of Detective Veragua. His body has just been brought in. Come on, now. No nonsense. Get your clothes off and quick about it.' the surprise of his life
For a moment de Richleau thought of protesting; but he quickly realized that it would be useless. The two men, evidently under the impression that he was a thug who had killed a member of the police force, were scowling at him and would clearly have jumped at the least excuse to give him a beating-up.
As he took off his clothes, garment by garment, they went through them. He had already been relieved of his own automatic, and the one that had belonged to Veragua, before being put into the cell. Now they took his # police card, his wallet and his loose change, then returned his clothes and left him.
He re-dressed with a set face, now gravely alarmed by a new thought that had suddenly come to him. Could it be that Urgoiti had known all the time that the red-headed man was Ferrer, and be one of the police against whom Don Alfonso had warned him - a fanatical Catalan who was secretly doing his utmost to protect the anarchists? Could it possibly be that Urgoiti had twisted the situation to suit his own ends - that he meant to let Ferrer go, and to frame the man who had caught him for the murder of Veragua?
22
The Surprise of His Life
For a few moments de Richleau stood staring at the steel door of his cell. The thought that Urgoiti might be hand in glove with his enemies and that, if so, he had fallen into a trap, was an appalling one.
Then, with a shrug, he relaxed, convinced that he was letting his imagination run away with him. Urgoiti might be a self-opinionated and somewhat thick-headed official, but a man so high up in the service could hardly be a traitor. After all, he, de Richleau, had admitted to shooting Veragua, and now that the detective's death had been confirmed it was no more than normal procedure that he should be charged with it.
But why should he be charged as 'Chirikov' instead of as 'Gomd'? That could only mean that Urgoiti was accepting Ferrer's word rather than his. And it was Urgoiti who had selected Veragua to act as his constant companion during his investigation.
De Richleau sat down on the iron bed with which the cell was furnished. His thoughts were racing. He tried to persuade himself that everything would be all right in the morning. As he had said that he might not be back until very late Quiroga would not be waiting up for his return, but when he did not appear next day it was certain that the General would inquire of Urgpiti what had become of him. At the worst Urgoiti could only be keeping him out of the way until he had made a pretence of questioning Ferrer, then released him and given him a good start to get well clear of the city to a new hiding place. That was it. Then explanations would ensue. Urgoiti would make the most abject apologies; but Ferrer would already be beyond danger of recapture.
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But Urgoiti was not going to get away with it. The Duke meant to see to that. Good tough old Quiroga, the scourge of the Barcelona anarchists, would support him. If need be he would go to the King. By the time de Richleau had done with him Urgoiti would have lost his job and his pension, and be extremely lucky if he did not have to serve a prison sentence into the bargain.
All the same, when the Duke lay down on the truckle bed and tried to get to sleep his mind continued to be harassed by so many unnerving possibilities that it refused to rest. Sever
al times he tried to concentrate his thoughts on Gulia in her big warm bed and the joys they had experienced there, but, try as he would, he could not keep them on her; so during the long hours he did little more than doze, then start awake again with renewed anxiety at the extraordinary situation in which he found himself.
Morning brought nothing to allay his fears. On the contrary. At seven o'clock he was marched out to give himself a wash, and on returning to his cell a breakfast was dished out to him that looked so revolting that he decided not to eat it. For over an hour afterwards he sat gloomily on the edge of his bed, then a young Artillery Lieutenant was shown in to him.
Removing his kepi the young man introduced himself by the name of Navarez and announced that he had been nominated to act as 'Prisoner's Friend'.
De Richleau gave a start. As a soldier he knew well what the term implied. 'What!' he exclaimed. 'Does this mean that I am to be court-martialled?'
The young man nodded. 'Yes, of course. But we are lucky in that we shall not have long to wait this morning.'
'This morning!'
'Since the revolt a court-martial has been convened to sit at ten o'clock every morning. It administers summary justice to all political prisoners that have been brought in during the preceding twenty-four hours. But such cases have been much fewer during the past week, and we are the only one on today's list; so our case should be heard right away.'
De Richleau knew then, beyond all doubt, that Urgoiti did intend to frame him as Veragua's murderer. It was a terrifying thought. He stared aghast at the young officer who evidently disliked the job he had been given but had been made callous to it from having had to perform a similar function several times in the past month. He was going on with hurried unconcern:
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