Vendetta in Spain

by Dennis Wheatley

  Sanchez untied the Count’s wrists. Pedro held his arms while Scmidt removed the gag from his mouth. Futile as he knew it to be, he began to shout for help with all his remaining strength; but Pedro gave him a sharp jab under the chin. It made his teeth rattle, sent another blinding pain through his head, and temporarily silenced him.

  Next moment the giant foreman picked him up bodily, lifted him over the rail of the catwalk and let him drop. With arms and legs splayed out in all directions, he hurtled head downwards into the deep suffocating bed of flour.

  8

  The ordeal in the mill

  Had de Quesnoy fallen from that height on to a harder substance his neck must have been broken, but the powder-fine flour was not even packed tightly, as would have been the case had it been shovelled from one place to another; it was just as it had floated down from the grinders so almost as aerated as if it had been a vast cushion of feathers.

  Head first, he plunged into it and seconds later was immersed up to the hips, with even his outstretched arms buried a foot or more deep; yet the impact had been sufficient to drive the breath out of his body.

  Instinctively, he gasped for air. As his mouth opened the flour fell into it and more flour trickled down, filling his nostrils. He knew then that he was on the very brink of death. Unless he could free his head in the next few minutes he would suffocate. Already, with little air left in his lungs, there was a terrible constriction in his chest. It felt as though iron bands had been passed round it and were swiftly being screwed tighter.

  Summoning up his will-power he forced himself to remain still for a moment, then with his remaining breath he blew down his nostrils. As it cleared them he made a desperate effort with his hands and forearms to force himself upward. It was only partially successful, but it brought him temporary relief. The pressure he had exerted had forced the flour beneath him into a solid mass and so created what amounted to an air bubble about his head and shoulders. He was able to draw in a breath of air before more flour fell in from above and filled the gap.

  Now, although still half buried, to his unutterable relief it flashed upon him that there was a way in which he could save himself. The whole bed of flour was so highly aerated that he only had to keep pressing it down in front of his face to get more air. Yet he was still not out of the wood. The mouthful of flour that he had gulped in now threatened to choke him. In vain he tried to spit it out. It had formed into a paste cloying all round his teething and such of it as he had tried to swallow had stuck in his gullet.

  In great pain and with failing strength, but no lessening of endeavour, he continued his fight for life. Several more seemingly endless minutes passed while he writhed and struggled in the darkness. At last, his resolution was rewarded. Somehow he had freed his head and shoulders and pulled himself out of the morass of flour. Now, lying spreadeagled on his back, he gradually recovered from his exertions.

  A good twenty minutes passed before he made any attempt to explore his surroundings, then he sat up and looked about him. Already it had dawned on him that although when Pedro had shone his torch downward the flour chamber had appeared to be a pit of utter blackness, it was not so in fact. It was very faintly lit by starlight percolating through two dirt-encrusted windows set high up in opposite walls.

  The chamber itself was about twenty feet square and, judging by the glimpse that de Quesnoy had caught of it from outside, he believed it to be about forty feet high. As the grinding machinery must occupy the upper ten feet, and he was lying some twenty feet below it, it could be assumed that the bed of flour was about ten feet deep. If that were so the doors that Pedro had mentioned, by which the flour was shovelled out as required into sacks, must be well below the surface; so even if he could find them, it would be impossible to force them open.

  Assuming that the flour was ten feet deep, the windows, were a good bit more than half way up the walls so could not be reached, and the walls, being sheer, and without protrusions of any kind, were completely unscaleable. However, it occurred to him that if he could make a solid mound of flour under one of the windows, he might be able to jump up to it.

  Getting to his feet he ploughed his way over towards the nearest. With each step he took his foot sank knee deep into the flour, as though it was the lightest form of snow, and at every movement he made, a bit puff of it rose up filling the air with a little cloud of particles. Standing beneath the window he found that its sill was a good seven feet above the level of the flour and, as his feet were sunk nearly a foot deep in the flour, when he stretched his hands up as far as they would go his finger tips were still some eighteen inches short of the sill.

  Desperately tired and still racked by a blinding headache as he was, he began a laborious attempt to erect a solid platform below the window. He had had a spade he might have accomplished the job by an hour’s steady work, but he had no instrument of any kind, so was reduced to using his hands and feet. Going down on his knees he swept armfuls of flour forward, stood up to trample them flat, then repeated the process.

  It proved a labour of Hercules. All the time he was moving the flour it billowed up in clouds about him, powdering his hair and eyebrows white, and stifling and blinding him so that every few minutes he was compelled to cease until the clouds had settled and he could get back his breath. For over two hours he stuck to this terrible task. By the end of that time he had succeeded in raising a short ramp a little over a foot, but it needed another six or eight inches for him to get a firm grasp on the window sill.

  By then he was utterly exhausted and knew that even though his life depended on it he could do no more. His only hope now was that in the morning a workman to whom he could shout for help would come up on to the catwalk to do something to the machiney, or that by throwing something through the window he might attract attention to himself. Slumping down on the soft flour he fell into a deep sleep.

  When he awoke he knew from the bright light that filled the chamber that it was morning. The horrors of the past night flood back into his mind, and it was only then he realised that someone was shouting at him. Staring up from where he lay he saw the figure of a man leaning over the rail of the catwalk. The mass of machinery filling most of the space in the top of the chamber made it semi-dark up there. Yet, even as a surge of hope that he was about to be rescued ran through him, that hope was killed. He could now make out the form of the man more clearly, and it was the giant Pedro.

  ‘So you’re still alive,’ Pedro shouted down to him. ‘Well, you won’t be for long.’

  Staggering to his feet, de Quesnoy shouted back. ‘Get me out! I’ll pay you anything you ask. I’m rich. The others needn’t know. For God’s sake get me out. What does it matter to you if I live or die? Don’t throw away this chance never to have to work again. Save me and I’ll hand over to you a fortune.’

  But Pedro only gave a bellow of laughter, then walked back along the catwalk. Like the knell of doom for de Quesnoy, the door slammed behind him.

  At the threat that he would not now remain alive for long, the Count recalled what had been said the night before about his being dead from suffocation within ten minutes, but that, should he not be, when they started to grind that would finish him. With renewed fears he stared upward. A moment later there came the sound of turning wheels and clanking machinery. The grinders had been set in motion.

  From them a white mist floated down. It was composed of millions of tiny particles finer than any snow. Hastily de Quesnoy ploughed his way to the nearest corner where, not being directly under the grinder, the mist was slightly less dense. Pulling out his handkerchief, he tied it over his mouth and nose then, tearing off his jacket, he put that over his head and drew its skirts close about his shoulders. But even with such protection he knew that a soft-footed death was about to steal relentlessly upon him.

  Unlike a sand-storm there was no rushing wind and sharp whipping of grains against everything they encountered. The flour descended in an even, semi-transparent cascade and in
utter silence. But like sand raised by a desert whirlwind the particles penetrated every nook and cranny. Within a quarter of an hour at the most the handkerchief across the lower part of his face would become so thickly coated that it would no longer serve as a filter. Then, every breath he was forced to draw would be laden with those death-dealing particles. Another quarter of an hour of mounting agony and his lungs would cease to function. At last complete despair seized him.

  But not for long. Suddenly a thought recurred to him that had crossed his mind the previous evening, when Sanchez had proposed to burn him alive in the furnace. If he could throw himself into a deep trance he might survive. Once he had succeeded in suspending his animation he would no longer need to breathe; so his lungs would remain static and uncloyed by the flour. Here, he had two of the requirements for such an operation—solitude and complete quiet in which to concentrate. The trance, too, need not be so deep as would have been required to render the body impervious to the pain of burning. Time was the third requirement; but if he concentrated to the utmost of his power, allowing no other thought to distract him even for a second, he should be able to get out of his body within ten minutes.

  Lying down, with his coat still wrapped about his head, he tensed all his muscles three times, then relaxed completely. Breathing with the rhythm he had been taught, and not even flickering an eyelid, he remained absolutely still. Gradually his breathing grew fainter and at length it ceased. His spirit was now upon the astral plane and his body only an inanimate figure to which it could still give life by returning, but was for the time being attacked only by a form of spiritual telephone wire known to occultists as the Silver Cord.

  To the step he had taken there was a minor benefit attached in addition to the saving of his life. The body is like a battery that can be recharged with the electricity that gives it vitality only when the spirit is absent from it during a trance or sleep. Denied all sleep indefinitely it runs down and peters out. The deeper the sleep the more beneficial, and a trance being deeper than any sleep it was certain that his physical condition would be greatly improved on his return.

  For several hours he remained scarcely conscious of his body; then he began to feel a growing urge to go back into it. Soon after he had done so he became aware that all his limbs were being pressed down by a quite considerable weight; then he realised that he must have been buried by the falling flour. His handkerchief was still over the lower part of his face and his jacket covering his head. Without removing them, he kicked out with hands and feet until he was sitting up with his head and shoulders well above the new flour level. A moment of listening assured him that the mill machinery was no longer working. Pulling off the jacket and handkerchief he looked around him.

  Judging by the light that came from the windows he thought it to be late afternoon or early evening. He judged, too, that the day’s grinding of flour had raised the level by well over a foot. His heart gave a bound of hope. It looked now as if he should be able to reach the window. Getting to his feet, he began to plough his way towards it.

  As he did so it was borne in on him that, although he felt better in himself and much stronger, he was far from recovered from his injuries. He had been hit on the head by Schmidt, kicked on it by Gérault, kicked on the shin by Zapatro and struck under the jaw by Pedro; in addition to which he had been so roughly handled, particularly by Sanchez, that he had a score of minor cuts and bruises. Although his hours of trance had restored his energy they had done little to ease his afflictions and very soon his head was again throbbing painfully.

  Nevertheless he set to at once to heighten the mound he had made with further layers of firmly pressed-down flour. Again its particles half-stifled him and covered him from head to foot with a coat of white, but after half an hour he had raised the mound sufficiently to get his hands well above the window sill.

  The next thing was to break the window so that he could climb out. It had four panes, each about one foot six wide by two foot six high. Wrapping his fist in his handkerchief he smashed the two lower ones and several large pieces of glass fell outward from each. He then had to prise out the smaller jagged pieces that had been left round their lower edges; those at the top he could not reach.

  Crouching down, he made a spring and caught at the central bar with the object of drawing himself up by it. The wood was old and partly rotten. It could not take his weight, and snapped. He went over backwards to fall half buried in the soft flour behind him. Picking himself up he saw that at least the bar had brought away with it two of the larger remaining triangles of glass, and there was now an opening big enough for him to get through easily.

  On his second jump he grasped the sill, got his elbows on it thrust his head and shoulders through the opening, then wriggled forward until he had the sill under his middle and was half hanging out. But one glance downwards confirmed what he had feared. The still of the window was over twenty feet above the cobbles of the yard outside.

  He had hoped that he might get away without help; so that while Pedro, Ferrer and the rest believed him to be safely dead and buried beneath the flour, he could lodge with the police a charge of attempted murder against them. But that was obviously impossible. A drop of twenty feet on to cobbles was easily enough to kill a man. He might break his neck, or anyhow a leg, and perhaps as a result of such an impact sustain some serious internal injury.

  To call for help might bring Pedro on the scene; but as it was still daylight there must be other people about, so it seemed unlikely that the giant foreman would dare to risk another attempt on his life. Anyhow, he could not hang indefinitely half out of the window with its sill pressing up painfully into his stomach; so the chance must be taken that it would be Pedro who answered his shouts. In any case he would be bound to hear that his intended victim had been rescued, so would warn the others and they would all go into hiding. But that, de Quesnoy decided grimly, was of no great moment as he would spare no pains to have them hunted down.

  At the very moment he had made up his mind to shout, two workmen emerged from the warehouse on the opposite side of the yard. He called to them loudly; they looked up, saw him, and with exclamations of surprise came running towards the window.

  ‘Help me down,’ he cried. ‘Quickly, I beg you. Help me down.’

  They both stared up at him in amazement, then the elder, who was a bearded man, said to his companion, ‘Quick, Antoine. Run and fetch Señor Conesa.’

  As the other turned and started off across the yard, the bearded man called up to de Quesnoy, ‘How the devil did you get there?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ the Count called back. ‘Get a ladder. Help me down.’

  After glancing uncertainly about him, the man said, ‘We’ll need a tall one; bigger than I could carry on my own. But we’ll get one in a minute.’

  The younger fellow had reached the little house beside the office block and was hammering on its door. A minute later it opened and the giant form of Pedro stood framed in it. Only then de Quesnoy remembered that the name Conesa had been mentioned in connection with the mill while Benigno was urging on his companions that their captive should be taken to it. Obviously, it was Pedro’s surname.

  Pedro and the man who had gone to fetch him came hurrying over. The former looked up with a scowl, then turned to the other two and said, ‘Go get a ladder: the tall one out of the warehouse.’

  When they were out of earshot he said angrily to the Count ‘To have lived through today you must have nine lives, like a cat.’

  ‘I have,’ replied de Quesnoy, ‘but you have only one; and if you wish to keep it you would be wise to lose not a moment in going into hiding.’

  But, as the Count feared would be the case, the implied threat failed to stampede Pedro into running off and leaving the others to rescue him. The burly foreman remained standing there, his great arms akimbo, until the other two returned with the ladder.

  Having had them set it up alongside the window, Pedro said to them, ‘The fellow must
be a tramp who broke in for a night’s shelter, then fell off the gallery. He is obviously a down-and-out, and was probably drunk.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ cried de Quesnoy. ‘I’m no tramp. One of you run and fetch the police. Then you shall know how I came to be here.’

  Ignoring him, Pedro went on. ‘The poor chap must have near died of suffocation and it looks as if the terror of it drove him potty. Anyhow he is in a pretty bad way and will need attention. Go and fetch the first aid kit from the office, Luis, and you, Antoine, run across to my house and tell my girl to put water on to boil. I’m quite strong enough to get him down on my own.’

  ‘Stop!’ called the Count. ‘Stop! For God’s sake don’t leave me with him.’ But the two men took no notice of him and ran off to do the jobs they had been given.

  With a grim smile Pedro began to ascend the ladder.

  De Quesnoy broke out into a cold sweat. Pedro could only have sent the other two away in order to make another attempt on his life while no one was watching. But what form would it take? To push him back into the flour chamber would not kill him, and how could his disappearance be explained when the others returned—as they were certain to within a matter of minutes?

  Pedro had now reached the level of the window. The Count felt so certain that his intentions were evil that he decided to drop back into the flour chamber of his own accord. His decision was taken a second too late. As he moved Pedro shot out a huge hand, grabbed him by the wrist and snarled: