Vendetta in Spain

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘Your Majesty must pardon me if I appear to lay undue stress on the importance of my own arm, but in campaigns of this type the value of cavalry cannot be rated too highly. The enemy is not tied to roads and railheads, he does not need great masses of transport, siege trains, field hospitals and so on to be brought up before he can fight a battle. His mobility enables him to strike with maximum force at one point and only a few days later at another a hundred or more miles away from it. Battalions of infantry can rarely move fast enough to get at him; so their use is limited to holding valuable key points such as oases and valleys through the mountains in which advancing troops might otherwise be ambushed. You might, of course, use them with advantage if you built a series of blockhouses, as Lord Kitchener did in South Africa; but short of establishing such a chain of garrisons to split up the tribes so that they can be dealt with piecemeal in each area, only a force of cavalry at least equal in size to the enemy will enable you to take the initiative and engage him at times of your own choosing until he is finally defeated.’

  The Generals, knowing that de Richleau had been appointed a Chief Instructor at St. Cyr following his successes in desert warfare, listened to him with respect, and for over two hours the six men continued to discuss the finer points of the war against the hardy warriors of the Riff.

  Before the party broke up the Duke managed to get a private word with Don Alfonso, and said, ‘I had hoped, Sir, that you had sent for me today to tell me that you were ready to let me off my chain.’

  The King smiled, but shook his head. ‘No, my friend. It will be some weeks yet before I’ll agree to your paying another visit to Barcelona. Please continue to amuse yourself here for a while longer.’ And de Richleau felt that he had no alternative but to say that he would.

  As it was a Saturday, Conde Ruiz was at the Cordoba villa for the weekend, and Gulia had arranged a dinner party for that evening, to which she had invited de Richleau. When he got back to his hotel after the long session at the Palace, he was, therefore, much surprised to find a note from her which ran:

  A matter of deep concern to the family necessitates my cancelling tonight’s dinner party, and for most of tomorrow I expect we shall be discussing measures that may have to be taken with regard to it. So please don’t come out to the villa until bathing time on Monday morning. I look forward to seeing you then.

  The Duke naturally wondered what the cause of this upset could be, and the only thing he could think of was that the Banco de Coralles might be faced with some major financial crisis. That was certainly a possibility as Spain had not yet fully recovered from the drain made on her resources by the Spanish-American war, and the great expense now entailed by the war in Morocco was already forcing down the value of the peseta.

  If that was so, de Richleau thought, it was particularly unfortunate that de Cordoba was in South America and, even if recalled at once, could not be expected to arrive on the scene for at least three weeks; for Ruiz, although an intelligent man, was not a very forceful personality. It was José de Cordoba who really ran the great banking concern and whose brain would be needed to cope successfully with any considerable emergency.

  The words ‘measures to be taken’ in Gulia’s note seemed to imply that her husband had appointed her as one of a family committee of Trustees to handle his affairs while he was abroad and—if a financial crisis was the trouble—they might be considering selling some part of the vast family estates to bolster up the Bank’s credit. The Duke could only hope for all their sakes that his speculations had no foundation, and spent his time on Sunday with other friends.

  When on the Monday morning he arrived at the beach he found Gulia, the Infanta, the two duennas and two young couples who were friends of Gulia’s already there, and he was relieved to see that the whole party seemed to be in good spirits. Conde Ruiz had taken the express back to Madrid that morning.

  It was not until they were in the sea that de Richleau had any chance for a private word with Gulia. Then, as they were swimming side by side, he said, ‘I do hope that this family trouble you mentioned in your note to me was nothing very serious, and that you have succeeded in dealing with it.’

  Turning on her side she blew out a mouthful of water, then replied, ‘I want to tell you about it, but this is no place to do so. Come back after the siesta. There will be no one else here then and we can talk. But I can’t ask you to stay on to dinner.’

  More mystified than ever he returned to the town for lunch, whiled away the afternoon, then went out to the villa again at five o’clock. Much to his surprise, instead of taking him through to the garden the butler showed him into the small library on the right of the hall. Gulia was sitting there doing nothing with her hands folded in her lap. There was no sign of Doña Eulalia.

  As soon as the door had closed behind him, he said, ‘My dear, I’ve been quite worried about you. What is this mystery? Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Her face remained expressionless but her big dark eyes held his as she slowly shook her head. ‘No, Armand. There is nothing that any of us can do. José is dead.’

  19

  When the heart is young

  For a moment de Richleau stared at her, hardly believing that he could have heard her aright, but she nodded and repeated, ‘José is dead. Ruiz brought me the news on Friday night. When I got your message that you were commanded to lunch at the Palace on Saturday, so would bathe from the Casino beach instead of here that morning, I was glad that I didn’t have to see you then. I needed a little time to get over the shock.’

  ‘But … But,’ he stammered, ‘why has no announcement been made? Why this morning’s bathing party when the house should be in mourning? And you! Damn it, Gulia, you are dressed in pale blue!’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell you about it.’

  As he took a chair opposite her, she went on, ‘When José was out one day catching butterflies on the banks of the Amazon he was attacked by a puma and terribly mauled. With him he had only Patricio Lopez, the valet who has looked after him for years, and the Brazilian crew of the river boat he had hired for his expedition. Patricio and the natives did everything for him that they could, but before they could even get him to a township he died from his wounds. For most of the time, though, he remained conscious, and he was terribly worried about the Bank.’

  Gulia paused for a moment and asked for a cigarette. The Duke gave her one and lit it. Then she resumed. ‘He had devoted his life to it, and from being quite a small private concern he made it into a great one. Everyone knew that he really was the Bank—its heart and brain—and when he realised that he was dying he was worried that the news of his death might cause a run on it.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ de Richleau nodded. ‘From your note I got the idea that the Bank was faced with some kind of crisis. But not, of course, the sort that José’s death might bring about.’

  ‘He dictated a letter to Patricio and signed it. The letter was to Ruiz and in it he said that he wished the news of his death to be suppressed for at least two months. During them Ruiz was to call in all doubtful loans and convert all speculative securities into gold. By these means, when the news of his death was eventually made public the reserves of the Bank would be so large that no run on it could possibly affect its solvency. He then swore Patricio to secrecy and gave him the money to pay off the boat’s crew, with three months’ wages in advance if they swore on the Cross that they would not leave their native village for that time. Patricio promised to come home in the first fast ship he could find and he arrived in Madrid on Wednesday.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Duke after a moment. ‘So you are all having to continue to live as though you did not know that José was dead. What an extraordinary situation.’

  ‘It is. But what else can we do? Ruiz says that but for José’s thought for us as he lay dying, in view of the Moroccan crisis that is already rocking the financial stability of the country, the Bank might well have had to c
lose its doors—anyhow temporarily. As it is, if the secret of José’s death can be kept secret for six or eight weeks he feels no doubt about being able to face any demands when it is announced.’

  ‘How many people are in the secret?’

  ‘Only Patricio, Ruiz and myself; and, of course, when Ruiz next comes here you must in no circumstances let him know that I have confided our secret to you. We both promised that we would keep it absolutely to ourselves.’

  ‘I fully understand that. But did Ruiz not even tell his wife?’

  ‘No. Maria Alfonsine would have been safe enough in herself, but she confides everything to Doña Isabella; and she is a born gossip. Besides, it was not necessary. Ruiz had to tell me. After all, I am José’s widow. If he had not obtained my consent to concealing José’s death for the time being, and carrying on, I might have made great trouble for him later.’

  For a moment de Richleau was silent, then he said slowly, ‘Yes, you are José’s widow.’

  She did not smile, but came abruptly to her feet. ‘Yes. I am no longer José’s wife. I am his widow. That makes a difference doesn’t it?’

  At the same moment the Duke stood up. His grey eyes were shining as he exclaimed, ‘By God it does!’ Next second she was weeping in his arms.

  Holding her close, he murmured, ‘Don’t cry, my love, don’t cry. Naturally it has been a great shock to you, but …’

  ‘It’s not that,’ she sobbed. ‘Not his death, although … although I hate the thought that it was … such a horrid one. I … I’m crying from happiness. Oh Armand, you can have no idea how much I love you.’

  ‘And I you.’ Turning up her face to his he kissed her tenderly on the lips. She threw an arm round his neck and pressed her mouth to his, so that the caress became fierce, passionate, long, breathless.

  As their lips at last parted, he whispered, ‘When, darling? When?’

  ‘Tonight,’ she whispered back. ‘Out of respect for José I decided not to see you until this evening; but the past three days have seemed like a week.’

  ‘Oh blessed night! How I wish I could hurry the sun in going down! But wait!’ His glowing face suddenly became clouded by a frown. ‘It is nearly half past five already. To return to my hotel, pack all my things and return here could not be done in less than two hours. For me to arrive out of the blue and move in just before dinner is going to look very strange to Maria Alfonsine. That is, unless you have already told her that you have invited me to stay here, and we think up some plausible excuse for my arriving at such a late hour.’

  Gulia shook her head. ‘I’ve had a lot of time to think about us over the weekend, and I decided that it would be wiser if you did not come to stay. We’re going to be so happy, darling; so happy. We’d never be able to conceal it if we were together all day as well as at night. Remember, no one else here knows that I am a widow and now free to do as I like. And although Maria Alfonsine is so straight-laced, I’d hate to hurt her by giving her grounds to suspect that I was being unfaithful to José in his absence.’

  ‘How shall we manage then? I could take rooms for us under a false name in some small hotel, and come out here about midnight in a carriage to fetch you.’

  ‘No, that would be much too risky. I’m so well known in San Sebastian that any servant at any hotel might recognise me.’

  ‘Could you creep down, then, when everyone is asleep, and let me in?’

  Again she shook her head. ‘That’s no good either. Going to and fro from my room would mean passing that of Maria Alfonsine and I know she sleeps lightly. The boards in the corridor creak and she would be certain to hear us. We might get away with it for one night but not as a regular thing.’

  ‘But, beloved; you said tonight, and …’

  ‘And I mean it,’ she gave a low laugh. ‘As I told you, I’ve had lots of time to think everything out. Kiss me again, then I’ll show you how we’ll manage.’

  After a long embrace she tidied her hair in a mirror, then led him out of the house and round to the back of the stables. Backing on to one corner of them was a large shed. As she opened its door he saw that it housed all the garden implements and on hooks along one wall there was a twelve foot ladder. Pointing to it she said:

  ‘All you have to do is to carry that fifty yards and set it up beneath my window. Do you remember which it is? I leant out of it that night you fought with Sanchez in the lily pool, half-crazy with fear that he had done you some serious injury.’

  He smiled. ‘Shall I ever forget. It’s the big bay window on the left hand side of the porch. And your plan, dearest, could not be better. At what hour am I permitted to enter Paradise?’

  ‘I was going to the Floridablanca’s party, but I’ve sent an excuse, and we have no one dining; so we shall go up to bed at about half past eleven. It would be best to give them an hour to settle down. To be on the safe side, say between a quarter to one and one. In order to catch you alone when you arrived I told the others that I was going indoors to write a letter. But we must join them now and pretend that we are not the happiest people in the world.’

  When they reached the fountain, round which were sitting the three older ladies and two friends of the Infanta’s who had been invited in for drinks, they found it far from easy to conceal their elation; and de Richleau was much relieved when he had been there long enough to take his leave without rudeness, so that he might give an undivided mind to joyful anticipation of the night to come.

  Those joyful imaginings were, if possible, surpassed by the reality. De Richleau was very far from being an habitual lecher, but in everything that gave him pleasure he took pride in perfecting himself, and as an expert in the art of love he found Gulia sufficiently experienced to bring out the best in him. As a woman she was just entering her best years, as a man he had not yet left his best years behind. They were as physically perfect as two thoroughbred racehorses, and they were at last able to give free rein to their pent-up passion for one another.

  At half past five in the morning, after the Duke had climbed down from her window and put away the ladder, he walked the three miles back into San Sebastian as though he were treading on air. Gulia, meanwhile, lay dozing in her big bed, her lips pressed to a handkerchief that she had exchanged with him for one of hers. She drifted off to sleep, the desperate craving she had had so long for him at last blissfully satisfied.

  Right through August and well into September their delight in one another continued unabated.

  Gulia’s bedroom was far enough away from any other that was occupied for there to be no necessity for them to talk in whispers, and they could romp together both there and in her bathroom without any risk of being heard. Of all pastimes, too, making love is best guaranteed to beget good thirsts and hearty appetites; so from their second night together onward de Richleau brought with him bottles of champagne, fruit, caviar or foie gras and a variety of other easily portable delicacies, for which Gulia smuggled up to her room glasses and plates that she concealed during the daytime under her winter underclothes in a drawer. Over these midnight feasts they laughed, joked and teased one another with the zest of happy children until some chance word caused them suddenly to fall silent, exchange a smile of mutual understanding, and stretch out their arms to hold one another close again.

  After their second night together it occurred to de Richleau that it was a stupid waste of time and effort for him to walk out to the villa each night and back from it to his hotel in the dawn; so the next day he went off to a livery stable and hired a horse, arranging for it to be saddled and left ready for him to collect from the night watchman round about midnight. Having ridden out on it he hobbled it in the orchard that lay beyond the garden of the Villa, then returned it to the livery stable in the morning. He did not doubt that the people at the livery stable had a shrewd idea of the reason for his taking these nightlong rides, yet returning his mount still fresh; but they could not know the place to which he went and, as far as he and Gulia could judge, no one living in the
Villa had the least suspicion of their clandestine meetings.

  Yet no affaire ever stands still, and while on neither side was there the least sign of their passion cooling, there soon appeared a subtle change in their relationship to those around them. For the first few days, still having in the forefront of their minds the reason why Gulia had decided against having her lover to live in the house, they maintained an exemplary discretion. But before a week was out they found that it was not enough to spend five or six hours together each night then, perhaps, to see one another only for a morning bathe during the daytime and, if either of them went to an evening party without the other, to have to cut down the time they could give to their secret revels during the hours of darkness.

  In consequence, almost imperceptibly they became indifferent to opinion. Both began to refuse invitations to parties to which the other was not invited. It they were not lunching out at the same place it became accepted that de Richleau should stay on after the morning swim and lunch at the villa. As well as bathing from its beach every morning he came out to swim with Gulia again every evening. They could not see enough of one another; they became almost inseparable.

  From time to time the Duke was troubled by the thought that their being so constantly together must be giving rise to scandal. That the Infanta was showing her disapproval by an increasing coldness towards him he found distressing because he liked de Vendôme’s kindly if somewhat domineering mother; yet he did not greatly mind because he knew that in a few weeks’ time she would learn of de Cordoba’s death, and when told that Gulia had known of it from early in August would realise that she could not be so greatly blamed for permitting such marked attentions from a gallant. But that Gulia should become talked about among her acquaintances he minded very much, and now and then he endeavoured to persuade her that in the daytime they ought not to be seen about together quite so fequently.