Vendetta in Spain

by Dennis Wheatley

  Later in the day de Cordoba discussed the occurrence with de Quesnoy had they speculated on whether the fellow was a local rogue contemplating burglary, or an anarchist who had learned the Count’s whereabouts and had come from Barcelona with the object of endeavouring to put him out of the way.

  Fearing that the latter might be the case, the Conde was in favour of asking for police protection for his guest, but de Quesnoy said that to have police constantly about the place would be unpleasant for everybody, and declared that he was again quite strong enough to take care of himself. But he willingly accepted the loan of de Cordoba’s revolver to keep handy in his bedside cupboard.

  On Monday the 27th the Conde again left for Madrid. That day de Quesnoy motored into San Sebastian with de Vendôme to lunch again with the King, but on this occasion Gulia, not having been included in the command, remained at home. This time the Count found the Queen also present. He had known her as Princess Ena, but it was the first time he had seen her since her wedding, just previous to which, on accepting the Catholic faith, she had taken the name of Victoria Eugenie. He thought that in spite of her youth she looked amazingly regal and, with her mass of golden hair piled high above her milk and roses complexion, indisputably beautiful; so it was no wonder that her husband was in love with her.

  She received him very graciously, condoned with him on his accident and congratulated him on his recovery. Don Alfonso also remarked that with his sun-tanned face he now looked the picture of health, and that his limp was hardly noticeable. The King then took him aside and told him that the trial of the Barcelona anarchists had been fixed to open on Monday, October the 11th.

  After lunch de Vendôme accompanied the King into Biarritz, where they were to play polo that day, but de Quesnoy excused himself from joining their party because had he crossed the frontier into France he would have risked arrest. Instead he spent the afternoon strolling and sitting in the delightful Miramar gardens with other luncheon guests who had not wished to go Biarritz. Later he went down into the town, did some shopping for himself, bought a huge box of chocolates for Gulia, and returned to the de Cordoba villa in a hired carriage.

  Before changing for dinner, when the weather was fine, the family always had drinks out in the garden by the fountain. Gulia and Doña Eulalia were already seated there when he returned. After presenting the chocolates and receiving Gulia’s smiling thanks, he helped himself to a glass of Manzanilla, then gave them an account of the luncheon party. A few minutes later Doña Eulalia tactfully remarked that the light was failing and carried her work and the Moscardo she was drinking off to the back porch of the house, in which a lamp had been lit. De Quesnoy continued to tell Gulia about his afternoon, then for a while they talked of various things.

  It was just before they were due to go in to change that she inquired casually, ‘Do you ever have dreams?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Not very often, but occasionally.’

  With a smile she asked, ‘Have you ever dreamed about me?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have, once,’ he admitted. ‘It was on the night that I was brought here.’

  She arched her eyebrows. ‘Really. I hope it was a nice dream?’

  ‘It was … very.’ He finished his second glass of sherry. ‘I was terribly ill, of course. You appeared at my bedside like a ministering angel from Heaven. After you had gone my fever seemed to abate and I felt much better.’

  Rising from the stone seat, she picked up the big box of chocolates and said, ‘Ah well; perhaps sometime I will make another appearance in your dreams.’

  That night he woke out of a sound sleep. The house was very still and the room was faintly lit by moonlight coming through the French windows. He heard a soft rustle and, fearing an attack, turned swiftly on his other side. She was standing by his bed again.

  11

  Bedroom scene at midnight

  For a moment de Quesnoy remained absolutely still. This, he knew, was no dream, and the full implication of her midnight visit rushed upon him. Yet his words denied it. Sitting up with a jerk, he exclaimed.

  ‘Gulia! What are you doing here?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Need you ask?’

  The moonlight filtering between the pillars of the patio outside and coming through the French window was sufficient for him to see her quite clearly. Her hair, as on the previous occasion, was parted in the centre, Madonna fashion, and fell in long plaits on either side of her pale face. She was wearing a dressing-gown of dark material, the collar and cuffs of which were trimmed with heavy lace. As she spoke she put out her hands to take his.

  ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ignoring her gesture. ‘Yes, I know why you’ve come. But …’

  ‘But what? You love me, Armand. I know you do. And I love you.’

  ‘I … After our long days together, I feared it might be so.’

  ‘You feared it. Why? To love and to be loved. What is there in life more glorious than that? You do love me, don’t you?’

  He drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, Gulia. I confess it. I would not be human if being constantly with you all through the past month had not played the very devil with my emotions.’

  She smiled again. ‘Oh sweet confession. I knew it: but what joy to hear you say it. I will confess, too. I’ve loved you since the first moment I set eyes on you. How I have managed to control my impatience until you were really well again, I cannot think. But now, at last, I am here. To have your arms about me will be no longer a restless dream but a divine reality.’

  ‘No, Gulia; no!’ He gave a violent shake of his head. ‘However much we love one another, we can’t, we mustn’t. There is José.’

  ‘What of him?’ Her dark eyes flashed and a sudden note of anger crept into her voice. ‘I have already told you that he is nothing to me. Nothing!’

  ‘My dear, he is your husband, and …’

  ‘He is no longer so. He lost that right when I found him out. Since then I have looked on my body as my own, to do as I will with.’

  Again he shook his head, but she went on swiftly. ‘As things are between him and me what difference does it make that we are still married? If you and I were deeply religious that would be a different matter. For priest-ridden women who live like nuns for the rest of their lives after their husbands have deserted them, I have only contempt. And you, Armand. I cannot believe that you mean to repel me because you fear to be troubled by remorse at having committed adultery.’

  ‘Adultery, no,’ he gave a grim little laugh. ‘On that score I’ve already plenty to answer for. Yet in such cases as I have made love to married women, it has proved no burden on my conscience. You speak, though, of my repelling you. How can you use such a word when you must know that I’m aching to embrace you?’

  ‘Oh my darling!’ she gave a quick sigh of relief. ‘For a moment you really frightened me. I thought that through some foolish scruple you were about to drive me from you.’

  Again she put out her arms and now stooped her head towards his.

  His pulses were racing and his brain in a turmoil. He was a virile man and had known no woman since Angela’s death, now four months ago. And here was this most lovely creature, whose charm and mind and body all combined to make her so utterly desirable, offering herself to him.

  With a desperate effort he fought down his desire, brushed her outstretched hands aside, rolled over and slipped out of the far side of the bed.

  ‘Armand!’ she cried, her voice sharp with renewed fear that, after all, she was about to lose him.

  ‘No, Gulia! No!’ he gasped, now facing her across the bed. ‘You did not let me finish just now when I said that José was your husband. I was about to add that he is also my friend.’

  ‘Your friend. Yes, of course,’ she replied impatiently. ‘But what of it? You have just admitted that you have several times committed adultery with other women. The husbands of some of them must have been your friends.’

  He shook his head. ‘You are wrong there. Some were acqua
intances, but none my friends. I have never taken the wife of a friend, and never will.’

  ‘Then you shall tonight,’ She spoke softly now, but with quiet determination. ‘You have admitted that you want me.’

  ‘Of course I do. I am half mad for you, but …’

  ‘Then I’ll not let you rob yourself and me of the bliss we could know together.’ As she spoke she undid her dressing-gown and let it fall to the floor. With his heart beating like a sledgehammer he watched her walk round the foot of the bed towards him.

  She was wearing a nightgown of pale blue chiffon. It was goffered under the breasts to accentuate their outline, but otherwise absolutely plain and transparent. When she came round the end of the bed he saw the full perfection of her body, and his breath caught in his throat.

  As she approached he backed a little towards the window, but she took a quick step forward, placed both her hands on his shoulders, and murmured: ‘Armand, I beseech you to be sensible. José will never know. What difference can it make to him?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ he muttered thickly. He was trembling now and made no move to push her hands from his shoulders. ‘Not the point. It is that … that he trusts me. If he did not he would never have allowed us to spend so much time virtually alone together. I … I can’t betray him.’

  ‘Darling, he left us alone because he does not care. He is happy with his dancing girl, and you know yourself that he is not mean-spirited. Naturally he would be furious if I openly disgraced him by taking a lover, or even getting myself talked about. But what the eye does not see the heart does not grieve over. He wouldn’t wish to know that I had been unfaithful to him, but he would not grudge me a little happiness; and less so if it was with a man like yourself whom he respects and admires. It would not surprise me if he half suspects that we have already become lovers. No man who really minds about his wife would have given another the opportunities that he has given you to persuade me to become your mistress.’

  It was a point of view that had not occurred to de Quesnoy. Perhaps, he thought, she is right. José must realise that she is made of flesh and blood, and now, at twenty-three, subject to all the urges of a fully developed woman. Since he neglects her, how could he expect her to remain chaste. And I suppose most men, if left with her day after day, would have had few scruples about doing their best to persuade her to go to bed with them. Perhaps I am making a mountain out of a molehill, and throwing away this wonderful thing for a point of honour that, in the circumstances, José himself would find laughable.

  The heady scent she was wearing came like incense to his nostrils. The nearness of her body set his own on fire. Her eyes fixed on his were moist with desire; her red lips were a little parted showing her teeth gleaming white. She slid her arms over his shoulders and held her flower-like face up for his kiss.

  Yet from somewhere inside him he almost heard a voice say ‘This is forbidden. She is my friend’s wife. He has trusted me with her. I have no right to assume that he would not mind if I took her. That he will never know makes no difference. I shall still have lost my own self-respect.’

  He put up his hands to break her hold and push her from him, determined now that, whatever she might say, he would resist temptation. As he moved, her eyes shifted from his to a point over his left shoulder and she gave a sudden cry.

  Turning his head he looked towards the window. From behind the central pillar of the patio a man had emerged. He was standing now within two feet of the right hand panel of the French window with something that looked like a black box held up to his face.

  Next second there came a blinding flash. Instantly de Quesnoy’s muscles tensed themselves to meet the shock of the explosion. For a moment the room and the portico were as bright as on the brightest day. The light was blinding and for seconds after it went out he could see the outline of the window and the man outside it silhouetted in dead black against a deep orange background. But no explosion followed; the window remained unshattered. No deadly fragments of glass and iron came whizzing through the air to tear the flesh of Gulia and himself to ribbons.

  It was only when the black and orange dissolved into grey, and he could see again the familiar features of that side of the room, that he realised what had happened. It had been no bomb that the man had set off, but a magnesium flare, and the box-like thing he had been holding up before his face had been a camera.

  Thrusting Gulia from him, de Quesnoy cried, ‘Back to your room! Don’t lose an instant! I’m going after him. The flash and the noise may wake someone. You must not be found here.’

  Before he had finished speaking he had the window open. He had not forgotten the revolver in his bedside cupboard, but feared that if he paused to collect it he would lose track of the intruder. Dashing across the little patio, he halted a second to glance right and left. To his right, now thirty yards away, he glimpsed between two groups of palms a dark figure running hard. Launching himself forward he raced down the gravel path. His feet were bare so the stones cut into them but in the emergency of the moment he hardly noticed that.

  As the man ahead crossed the open space by the fountain, the Count had a better sight of him. He was taller and had a longer stride so de Quesnoy’s hopes of overtaking him dwindled. For a second he thought of rousing the household by shouts of ‘Stop thief’; but to do so could not have brought help in time and if Gulia had not at once obeyed him her presence at the end of the house in which his bedroom lay might lead to most unwelcome speculations among the servants.

  When he reached the fountain luck came to his aid. His quarry had taken a short cut across some flower beds to reach a partly open wrought iron gate between two pillars in a tall yew hedge. Failing to see in the semi-darkness that in the centre of one of the beds there lay a shallow lily pool, the leaves of the plants in which almost covered its surface so that no gleam of moonlight showed on the water, he splashed right into it, tripped and fell.

  He scrambled to his feet but had lost a precious minute in which de Quesnoy had thrown all his strength into a spurt. Before the man could jump clear of the pond the Count was on him and they fell in a tangled heap together.

  The pond was one of a pair at that end of the garden. It contained only miniature aquatic plants, so was no more than six feet by four and about eight inches deep. The man’s legs and body were half submerged in it but his head and shoulders were on dry ground. He was on his back with de Quesnoy on top of him, and the pale moonlight now revealed his features. He was Sanchez Ferrer.

  ‘I thought it might be you …’ panted the Count, as he strove to get a grip on Sanchez’ throat. ‘… from the description of the man …’

  He got no further, but gave a sudden grunt. Sanchez had brought up his right leg with a violent jerk and kneed him in the stomach. The breath was driven from his body. Automatically he let go of Sanchez neck, doubled up and rolled over gasping with agony. The strapping young anarchist kick his legs free from the Count’s body, struggled up into a sitting position, and whipped out a knife from a sheath under his cummerbund.

  Staring upward with bulging eyes, de Quesnoy saw his danger. The twisting muscles of his stomach were still paining him fiercely. He was still incapable of fighting back. His heart missed a beat as Sanchez raised the knife to stab downwards with it. By a superhuman effort he threw himself sideways. The knife, aimed to bury itself beneath his ribs, passed under his arm as he flung himself over, and buried itself in a wire basket containing a lily root.

  With a curse, Sanchez jerked upon it to pull it free. At the second tug it came out, but he had had to exert so much strength on it that he went over backwards. In a second he was sitting upright again, but even that brief respite had enabled de Quesnoy to draw a little air down into his tortured lungs. As Sanchez raised the knife to stab with it again, the Count’s hand shot up and grasped his wrist.

  There ensued a tense, silent struggle that lasted a full minute. But de Quesnoy’s slim fingers were as strong as steel. Gradually he twiste
d and forced back his would-be murderer’s wrist. Sanchez let out a blasphemous oath, and the knife tinkled on the stone surround of the lily pool.

  Flexing his knees, Sanchez heaved himself upright. Still clutching his wrist, the Count was dragged up on to his knees after him. But now he made a fatal error. Slung from a long strap over the anarchist’s shoulder there dangled the black leather box that held the camera. It was that, with the damning photograph it must contain, that de Quesnoy felt it all-important to secure. Leaving go of Sanchez’ wrist, he made a grab at the box, but missed it.

  In an instant Sanchez had turned and, with head down, was again racing towards the wrought iron gate. Floundering to his feet de Quesnoy dragged them from the mud of the pool and went pelting after him. Ignoring all obstacles Sanchez plunged into a bed of flowering shrubs. His having to force his way through them enabled de Quesnoy to catch him up. Again, the Count made a snatch at the camera case. He missed it, but his fingers grasped the loose skirt of Sanchez’ light cotton jacket. Halting in his tracks he attempted to pull the anarchist back by it. There came a tearing sound but the piece of material that he had clutched was wrenched from his hand, and Sanchez bounded forward on to the path on the far side of the bed.

  De Quesnoy burst his way through the bushes in pursuit; but it was now his turn to be brought up in mid career by the unexpected. His foot caught on an exposed root. He was flung violently forward and came down flat across the path, his chin striking one of the stones that formed its further edge. Again the breath was driven out of his body, and the blow to his chin temporarily knocked him out.

  It was some minutes before he was sufficiently recovered to pick himself up, and by then he knew that any further attempt to pursue Sanchez would be futile.