Vendetta in Spain

by Dennis Wheatley

  In 1904, in collaboration with the atheist War Minister of France, it had launched a great campaign to undermine the strength of the French Army, and de Quesnoy had become a Freemason with the object of exposing this evil combination. Under the name of Vasili Petrovitch, and posing as a Russian political refugee, he had succeeded in doing so; and now, feeling certain that the Spanish Masonic Lodges would be the natural meeting places for anarchists, he had been contemplating on his way to Barcelona an attempt to repeat the process. Unfortunately, however, having exposed the War Minister he had, at the eleventh hour, been exposed himself; and the Freemasons had learned that their betrayer, Vasili Petrovitch, was in fact Colonel the Count de Quesnoy.

  Thus, though remote, there was a slight element of risk in his plan; for although he was using a different Russian name and background, if in a Barcelona Lodge it chanced that he came face to face with a visiting French Mason who had known him in Paris, he would be identified, with results that he did not care to contemplate. In consequence, having had the luck to be made a member of the Somaten, which he felt would serve, his purpose equally well, he decided there and then to abandon his idea of again becoming a member of a Masonic Lodge.

  To stimulate and direct the political activities of its members was only a part of the Club’s function. It was also a social meeting-ground for the officers of merchant ships, customs officers and other minor officials of the great port. Drinks could be had there at a bar and cold snacks at a buffet. Cards and dice could be played. It also had a library and a small gymnasium; so, quite apart from his special reason for cultivating the company who frequented it, de Quesnoy found it a useful place in which to kill time. And after Modesto Pelayo’s returned to duty in his ship on the Monday the Count found time hanging heavily on his hands.

  He dared not appear too curious and could only leave it to time to develop his acquaintance with several regular frequenters of the Club, whom he suspected might be anarchists, until one of them either took him into his confidence or, inadvertently, made some incriminating admission. As the Club did not open until after the siesta hour, he was reduced in the mornings to taking long solitary walks or strolling aimlessly along the Ramblas among the colourful crowd that always thronged this principal shopping street of the old town.

  The old town appealed to him, but it formed only a small part of the great modern city. Of Barcelona the Spaniards, even in other cities, were intensely proud, as it had made almost their only contribution to twentieth-centry architecture and town-planning. There were many fine blocks of offices and apartments in it, with electric light, lifts, telephones and other up-to-date innovations, and it was laid out like an American city, in blocks intersected by scores of parallel streets. But de Quesnoy found their sameness both confusing and dreary, and he would have much preferred it had his quest taken him back to the picturesque alleyways of Cordoba or the tranquil, irregular side-streets of Seville.

  For him to have spent a pleasant hour or two in any of the better hotels or restaurants would have been to risk being seen going in or out by some members of the Somaten and so, probably, ruining his build-up of himself as a Russian schoolmaster of very limited means. In consequence, as the only alternative to walks in the woods and gardens on the slopes of Montjuich, which lay at the end of the street in which his pensión was situated, he again took to sightseeing, but he was always relieved when the hour came for him to resume his rôle as an unsuspected enquiry agent at the club.

  Yet, strange as he afterwards thought it to be, it was not there that he picked up his first real lead to the militant anarchists of Barcelona, but through Doctor Luque.

  5

  The infernal machine

  De Quesnoy had taken the Luques’ having asked him to let them know how he was getting on as no more than a casual politeness, but being by habit good-mannered himself, instead of ignoring it he had, on Tuesday, sent the Doctor a line saying that he had found quite comfortable quarters suitable to his modest means, and hoped they had found all well on their arrival home; but he did not really expect that they had taken sufficient interest in a poor refugee to wish to pursue his acquaintance.

  However, on the Thursday he received a reply asking him to dine with them on the Saturday. It came from the Señora Luque, whom he had judged to be a good-natured motherly woman and, as he rightly guessed, had been inspired by a kind thought for a lonely foreigner in a strange city.

  Their apartment was in one of the new blocks of flats some way to the north of the Plaza de Las Glorias, and on arriving there he found that they had staying with them a Lieutenant Aguilera of the Spanish Navy, who was a nephew of the Doctor.

  The Lieutenant had returned a few days before from a long tour of duty in the Canaries, and only that morning the light cruiser in which he had served had been paid off. After the introductions had been made and the Doctor had provided them with aperitifs, the question of the Lieutenant’s prospects came up, and it transpired that these were very far from rosy.

  The Spanish navy had never fully recovered from the crushing defeat inflicted on it by Nelson at Trafalgar, and from that time, too, the once mighty Spanish Empire had begun to fall to pieces. Chunk after chunk of South America had revolted, thrown off the Spanish yoke and declared itself a Republic, so that by the ‘nineties the only considerable colonies left to Spain, apart from the Canaries, were Cuba, Puerto Rico and the Philippines. This reduction of her Empire militated against any necessity for Spain to attempt again to build up a first class fleet, but with the introduction of iron-clads she had continued to build and maintain a navy of the second rank. By 1898 many of its ships were in poor condition and their guns obsolete, although the navy was still a calling in which many thousands of sailors found a career. But then its death blow fell.

  Cuba, owing to the exactions and tyranny of a sucession of Spanish Governor-Generals, had, for the previous twenty years, been in a state of semi-revolt, and during a good part of that time the great island had been rent by a series of bloody civil wars. In an attempt to suppress the rebels one General, known as ‘Butcher’ Weyler, had even gone to the length of destroying the insurgents’ crops and houses and herding their non-combatant relatives into concentration camps. The United States, becoming alarmed for the big investments her citizens had made in Cuba, sent the battleship Maine to protect their interests. From a cause that still remains a mystery, soon after arriving in Havana harbour she blew up.

  War followed, and the American Pacific Squadron promptly destroyed the Spanish warships based on the Philippines. Although Spain’s main fleet was ill-equipped and ill-munitioned, she at once dispatched it to the Caribbean. It reached Santiago safely but was there blockaded by a much more powerful American fleet. Meanwhile, the Americans had landed troops and were about to attack the city from its landward side. The Spanish Admiral, Cervera, decided that his honour demanded he should leave harbour and fight, although he knew his choice to be suicidal. His fleet was totally destroyed.

  This annihilation of the Spanish navy had occurred only eight years ago. Since then no new ships of any size had been built; so Lieutenant Aguilera had been extremely lucky to get his last posting in one of the few remaining cruisers. And as there were still hundreds of naval officers of experience intriguing to be given further sea service he had good grounds for fearing that he might never get another.

  Over a hearty meal of escudella soup, chicken cooked a la cilindrón and a chocolate cake layered with thick cream, which they washed down with the local Alella wine, the Lieutenant continued futilely to resurrect and inveigh against the brutal greed of past Generals, the criminal stupidity of the statesmen and the unbending pride of the Admiral, which had combined to threaten him at the age of twenty-eight with an abrupt termination to his career.

  De Quesnoy, having had his own career as a soldier cut short, although for very different reasons, sympathised with him; but he became distinctly bored by the conversation as, despite several attempts by Señora Luque and himsel
f, they seemed unable to get away from the subject.

  In Spanish homes it is customary for guests not to linger for long after dinner; so having partaken of a small glass of Anis in the sitting-room, the Count made a move to leave. But the Señora waved him back to his chair and said:

  ‘Don’t go for a little while. You have not yet told us how you like Barcelona.’

  ‘It is a beautiful city,’ he replied politely, ‘and I find the people most courteous and friendly. The old town appeals to me particularly, owing to my interest in history.’

  ‘Have you visited the Cathedral?’ asked the Lieutenant.

  As de Quesnoy shook his head, the young man went on. ‘You should, then. Not for its religious associations, as I gather from a remark you made at dinner you are not that way inclined. But in it is the huge crucifix that Don John of Austria had nailed to the mainmast of his flagship when he defeated the Turkish fleet at the battle of Lepanto.’

  ‘Indeed;’ the Count raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I must certainly see that, for Lepanto was one of the decisive battles of the world.’

  ‘I imagine,’ the Doctor put in with a smile, ‘that our friend has been too busy looking for a job to do much sightseeing.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ de Quesnoy agreed, ‘but so far I have had no luck. As you may recall, I am hoping to find a post as a schoolmaster and that is not easy without the right kind of introductions.’

  The Señora glanced at her husband and remarked. ‘I wonder if Francisco Ferrer could help?’

  De Quesnoy’s face remained impassive, but his heart gave a jump. Ferrer’s name stood at the very top of the mental list he had made of people whose activities he intended to investigate whilst in Barcelona. But he was too experienced a hunter to rush his fences. To have invented some excuse for introducting himself to Ferrer might easily have aroused the anarchist’s suspicions, and he had not intended even to fish for an opening until he had been long enough in the city to have made many other acquaintances who woud vouch for him as an enemy of established authority. Only then, perhaps towards the end of the following week, had he meant to go to the library that Ferrer ran and, by becoming a subscriber, open the way to a possible meeting. But it had been because Ferrer was a schoolmaster that he had elected to pose as a schoolmaster himself, hoping that their apparent community of interests might help him to establish relations with his quarry. Now it looked as if his idea was about to bear fruit. Praying that the Doctor’s reply might be favourable, he held his breath while awaiting it. After a moment the mild-mannered little man said:

  ‘Yes, my love. Ferrer might know of a post that would suit Señor Chirikov. We must arrange for them to meet.’

  While refraining from showing any special enthusiasm, the Count bowed a courteous acknowledgement. ‘For such an introduction I should be most grateful.’

  ‘Most evenings Señor Ferrer takes an aperitif at the Café Ronda,’ the Doctor went on. ‘It lies in the Calle de Ronda about halfway between the Plaza de la Universidad and the Plaza de Cataluña. Would it be agreeable to you to meet me there at about six o’clock on … let us say Tuesday?’

  ‘My time is still my own, so entirely yours.’

  ‘Then I will get in touch with Ferrer and unless I let you know to the contrary we’ll meet on Tuesday evening.’

  With that understanding the Count thanked his hosts and took his departure. On his way home he marvelled that so lucky a break should have come from such an unexpected quarter; but, great as his hopes were of it producing concrete results, during the days that followed he did not neglect the cultivation of his acquaintances at the Somaten club.

  On the Tuesday he arrived at the Café Ronda promptly on time and sat down at one of the tables on the pavement. Some twenty minutes later Doctor Luque arrived and they had hardly exchanged greetings when they were joined by a small dark man in his middle forties, who was wearing a panama hat and gold pince-nez. As he lifted his hat on being introduced to de Quesnoy the Count saw that he had an exceptionally high, narrow forehead. He spoke with the abrupt aggressiveness of a man suffering from an inferiority complex, and his glance from behind the thick-lensed eyeglasses struck de Quesnoy as slightly shifty. But he greeted the Doctor as an old friend, and on being told that the Count was a Russian political refugee shook hands with him warmly.

  When drinks had been ordered ‘Nicolai Chirikov’ was called on to give an account of himself. As he had known Odessa well in his youth it was easy for him to talk of the city, and the imaginary school there in which, according to his story, he had become master. He had too, meticulously worked out the details of his fictitious journey into exile, and from Valencia onwards Luque could vouch for it. His appearance, accent and the attitude of mind he displayed all contributed to the impression that he was a Russian, and from the outset it was clear that Ferrer never for a moment suspected him to be anything but what he made himself out to be.

  After they had been talking for some while Ferrer asked de Quesnoy in what subjects he specialised, to which he replied ‘History and literature and, of course, I could teach Russian.’

  Ferrer pursed his thin-lipped mouth. ‘I take it you mean Russian history.’

  ‘Yes; although I am fairly well up in the history of other countries, particularly in so far as it has affected my own.’

  ‘I thought as much.’ The suggestion of a sneer appeared on Ferrer’s face. ‘It is the same story everywhere. Each country teaches its young little except about its own triumphs, and consistently perverts the truth as the means of justifying the wars started by Kings for their own aggrandisement. My system is very different. In my school we devote a first course to ancient civilisations and the rise of the priestly caste which by spreading superstition became an aristocracy that battened on the people. In the second course we deal with the principal religions of modern times, showing how each has hindered rather than helped the development of mankind, and caused untold misery through its adherents launching wars in an endeavour to force their faith on others. Then the final course deals with the rise of democracy, and the strivings now in progress by the masses in every country to throw off the yoke of tyranny and achieve the individual freedom which is their right.’

  ‘Then it is a fine work you are doing,’ commented de Quesnoy with feigned enthusiasm.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Ferrer, ‘but I think it hardly likely that you have sufficient knowledge of international movements to aid me in it; even if I had a vacancy for a history master, which I have not.’

  ‘How about a master to teach Russian, though?’ Luque suggested.

  Ferrer shook his high, narrow head. ‘I have French and German masters, of course, but Russian is of little use outside Russia; and I could afford neither to employ a Russian teacher nor the time in my schedule for my students to attend lessons in Russian. However, I might be able to send Señor Chirikov a few pupils for private tuition.’

  ‘That would be a great kindness,’ smiled the Count, ‘because I was able to bring only a limited sum out of Russia with me and, although it is sufficient for my present needs, unless I can find some means of supplementing it I shall soon be in difficulties. As a matter of fact I already have cards in two newspaper shops advertising myself as a teacher of Russian, but so far I have had no applicants for lessons.’

  In the latter statement de Quesnoy was telling the truth, since he had decided that to take such a step was necessary to support his cover: although he was hoping that nobody would take advantage of his offer, since to have to waste his time teaching Russian was the last thing he wanted.

  For another half hour they sat over a second round of drinks comparing the progress of workers’ movements in Spain and Russia; then the party broke up. But before they parted Ferrer asked de Quesnoy if he would like to see over his school and, on the Count’s accepting, he said:

  ‘Unlike ordinary schools we have sessions all the year round; so although next week we shall be in August I shall still be as busy as ever. We have evening c
lasses, too, for those who have to earn their living in the daytime; but none on Sundays because the law still kept in force though the influence of the Church does not permit it. So the best time for you to come would be on Sunday morning. Shall we say at about eleven?’

  ‘That would suit me admirably,’ the Count replied; and as he strolled back down the colourful ever-crowded streets to his dreary little pensión he felt well satisfied with the course events were taking.

  On the Sunday he found the Escuela Moderna to be housed in an old mansion in a street just off the Ronda de Antonio, which was not far from the University; and he guessed that Ferrer had chosen its location so that it should be handy for University students with Leftish leanings who elected to take some of his courses in addition to their official curriculum.

  He was admitted by an elderly janitor who took him up to the top floor of the house which, when it had been converted, Ferrer had turned into his own living quarters. Ferrer took him to his study, a room lined with bookshelves on which, as de Quesnoy saw at a glance, in addition to books in several languages, there were many hundreds of pamphlets. They had only just sat down when the door opened again and a buxom young woman carrying a tray with glasses and sherry came in. She had fine eyes and a full, moist mouth, but overwide nostrils in a retroussé nose and a very fleshy jowl robbed her of any claim to be a real beauty.

  Ferrer introduced her as his wife, and as de Quesnoy bowed he studied her with interest. He knew that she had no legal claim to that status and wondered if she was Soledad Villa-franca, who had also been Morral’s mistress, or if she was a new acquisition in Ferrer’s long line of conquests. That such an unprepossessing man should possess the power to attract a succession of women appeared strange; but the Count knew that a man’s features played only a minor part in stimulating female inclinations, and that whatever the major quality was to have for his bedfellow this passionate looking young creature, who must be at least twenty years younger than himself, Ferrer must have it.