Vendetta in Spain

by Dennis Wheatley

  They dined en famille, the Señorita Mercedes making a silent fourth. During the meal the Señora pressed de Richleau to tell her all the latest gossip of San Sebastian, dragging in at every opportunity the names of noble families with whom she was acquainted. The Duke politely obliged, but he felt sorry for the girl, as it was clear to him that her mother would consent to her marrying nothing less than a Marquis; so she had little chance of fulfilling her romance with the handsome Captain Juan Escalante.

  After the ladies had left the table de Richleau did not see them again that night. He and Quiroga sat over their wine for upward of two hours, while the General gave an interesting account of the revolt and they had a long discussion about anarchists.

  In the morning de Richleau dressed himself in a ready-made suit that he had bought on his last afternoon in San Sebastian, then walked across to the General’s office. The tall, bearded Veragua reported there promptly at eight o’clock, and the Duke was somewhat surprised to find that he had arrived in an automobile. In 1906, when de Richleau had learned to drive de Vendôme’s Hispano Suiza, motor cars had still been a wonder for crowds to gape at. On his return to Spain he had noticed that many rich people in San Sebastian now owned them, but for them to be used by the police seemed quite an innovation.

  Veragua told him that the Security Bureau kept a dozen machines at the disposal of its officers and, as he had learned to drive one, he had felt that they might get from place to place at which ‘Señor Gomá’ wished to question people more speedily than by any other means.

  De Richleau was pleased that his tall young assistant should have shown such initiative, and they set off down the hill into the city to Police Headquarters. There, from the bald-headed Comandante, the Duke received his warrant, then they started on a long round of visits.

  As a first bet de Richleau went to the apartment in which the Luques had entertained him to dinner, for it was Doctor Luque who had introduced him to Ferrer. But he learned from the porter of the block that some fifteen months earlier the Luques had left for Cartagena, where they had relatives, and that the Doctor had bought a practice there.

  They then went to the Café Ronda, at which Dr. Luque had introduced de Richleau to Ferrer; but the proprietor said that he had not seen Ferrer since the revolt and had no idea where he had got to. Throughout the morning and, ignoring the siesta hours, all through the afternoon, they drove to one place after another at which the Duke hoped that he might pick up some trace of his quarry. These were shops that de Richleau knew to have supplied Ferrer with books, others that had supplied the Escuela Moderna with food, restaurants at which he and members of his staff had dined, and cafés they had frequented.

  In the majority of cases, in order to avoid its being realised that he was connected with the police, de Richleau left Veragua and the car fifty yards away down the street. Sometimes he announced himself as Señor Carlos Gomá, and old friend of Ferrer’s, and furtively enquired his whereabouts; at others he resumed his identity of Nicolai Chirikov, once a master at the Escuela Moderna, who, after a long absence from Barcelona, wanted to be put in touch again with the Chief whom he had found such an interesting personality. Occasionally, with those whom he suspected knew something but would not talk, he produced his police pass and threatened them with incarceration in the fortress of Montjuich. But his efforts were of no avail.

  Throughout the whole day he drew nothing but blanks and returned a little before eight o’clock in the evening, tired out and cursing the fact that he must again over dinner be subjected to the Señora Quiroga’s insatiable appetite for gossip about the Court.

  Next day he continued his investigation, mainly on scraps of information he had extracted from various sources. He called on Ferrer’s tailor, barber, dentist and a number of his ex-pupils, but neither cajolery nor threats produced any result.

  It was not until after he had given Veragua lunch at a small fish restaurant that he remembered the foreman miller’s daughter. Thinking again of that fateful night on which Sanchez had first wished to slit his throat, then burn him in a furnace, he recalled Dolores Mendoza saying with a sneer that as Ferrer had gone out to the mill for a conference he would certainly not return until morning, as he ‘never missed a chance of a tumble with that hot little piece Teresa Conesa’.

  De Richleau had never had an opportunity to learn exactly where the mill was situated, so he had Veragua drive him out to the hospital to which he had been taken. At his request a secretary in the office there turned up the entry recording the admission of himself and Pedro Conesa and from that he got the address of the mill at which they had received their injuries.

  It was some way inland on the south-west outskirts of the city and they drove to it. Leaving Veragua outside, de Richleau crossed the yard to the foreman’s little house. As he did so he cast a glance at the tall, square stack of the mill building that had such terrifying memories for him; then he rang the bell of the door through which he had been carried rolled up in a carpet.

  It was opened by a buxom woman. Her husband proved to be the third successor to Conesa, but as he had been employed at the mill for the past ten years they had known Pedro and his daughter well. The woman said that for the best part of two years the girl had been married. She was now a Señora Irujo and lived in a village about two miles further out.

  Having obtained a description of her cottage de Richleau walked back to the car and told his eager young assistant that he thought they really might have got on to something at last, as he had succeeded in tracing one of Ferrer’s ex-mistresses, who was much more likely to know what had become of him than any shopkeeper or café proprietor. When they reached the village he followed his usual practice of leaving Veragua with the car about fifty yards short of their destination and proceeded to it on foot.

  He found Teresa at home. She was a sluttish-looking young woman with a heavy jowl and strong hips, but fine eyes and a good figure. At the moment he arrived at the open doorway of her cottage she was busy in the kitchen cooking a conserve of melons. Fearful that it might boil over if neglected, without even enquiring his business she threw open the door of a frowsty sitting-room and asked him to wait.

  Six or seven minutes later she joined him, carrying an infant on her arm; a toddler clutched at her skirt, and a wide-eyed thumb-sucker of about two-and-a-half pattered in after her.

  As she had never seen de Richleau she had no idea that it was he who, by a judo grip, had brought about her father’s death. In case the name of Chirikov might ring a bell with her, he presented himself as Carlos Gomá, an old friend of her father’s who had recently returned from four years in the United States.

  He said that the woman who now lived in the foreman’s house at the mill had told him of Pedro’s death and he had been greatly distressed to hear of it. Then he went on to speak of those exciting days when he had formed one of the group that had planned the bomb throwings, making casual mention of the bald-headed Manuel, young Alvaro Barbestro, the Ferrer brothers, Mateo Morral, Dolores Mendoza and the German, Schmidt.

  At first she regarded him with obvious suspicion, but he talked with such intimate knowledge of her father’s friends that after a little she thawed out. She told him that in the summer of 1906 the group had been betrayed by a French spy, which had resulted in the Escuela Moderna being raided and closed, and that for a year the activities of the group had been brought almost to a standstill through most of them being in prison. She added that Barbestro had been shot for an attempt on General Quiroga and Sanchez Ferrer killed in a brawl in Cadiz.

  He then asked her about the recent revolt. She described some fights that had taken place locally and the brutality with which the soldiers had treated the workers after they had forced the barricades. Several of her friends had been killed or wounded, and her husband had been among the latter, although fortunately the bullet that hit him had only taken off the lobe of his left ear. She added that, what with the fighting and the arrests that had taken place after it, the
ranks of the anarchists had been sadly thinned, and those who had escaped were now all in hiding.

  Having deplored this sad state of things, he remarked what hard luck it was on him that the revolt should have taken place only a few weeks before his return, and so deprived him of the chance to renew his old friendships; then he said in his most winning tone:

  ‘But perhaps you could put me in touch with some of them, or know people who could. How about Benigno Ferrer? I hope he is all right. He was a particular friend of mine.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea where Benigno is; but he wasn’t killed or captured in the revolt. I believe that during it he was somewhere abroad.’

  ‘His father then? I take it Señor Ferrer is still safe. He is so well known that had ill befallen him it’s certain that I should have seen it in the papers, or anyhow have heard about it from someone.’

  ‘No; Francisco’s all right. It was him really who I knew better than any of them. Of course he was much older than me; but as a matter of fact we were great friends.’

  De Richleau gave her a slightly doubting smile and said, ‘I suppose anything is possible for such a good-looking girl as you. But do you really mean to tell me that you succeeded in securing as an admirer such a famous intellectual as Francisco Ferrer?’

  She bridled with pleasure and pointed to the thumb-sucker who was standing in the doorway. ‘If you really want to know, I had little Francisco, there, by him. These other two are Irujo’s; but I only married him really to give my eldest a father.’

  ‘I hope he makes the boy a good one.’

  ‘Might be worse, I suppose.’ She made a grimace. ‘It’s only when he’s had a skinful of wine that he gets jealous and would ill-treat the kid if I didn’t watch out. Otherwise he just ignores him and is glad enough to pocket the money Ferrer sends me for the boy’s keep.’

  ‘Ferrer does the decent thing by you, then. Does he ever come to see you and little Francisco?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ferrer’s fond of children, and after he got his school going again he used to look in fairly regularly. He hasn’t been here since the revolt, though.’

  ‘I hope he sends you your money just the same.’

  ‘Yes. That Mendoza woman you were talking about a while back brings it. He’s living with her now.’

  ‘Since you know where they are I’d be awfully grateful if you’d give me their address, so that I can look them up.’

  De Richleau had made his request sound as casual as he could, and to conceal the intense excitement with which he awaited her answer he glanced away from her towards the baby she was holding. When her reply came it was disappointing. After hesitating a moment, she said:

  ‘No; I couldn’t do that. You see, I don’t really know anything about you, do I? And there’s a big reward for his capture. For all I know you might be trying to earn it, or even be one of the police.’

  He knew that if she would not talk he had only to arrest her and turn her over to Urgoiti. Quiroga had told him that under the fortress of Montjuich there were dungeons that had been handed over to the secret police in which they held and questioned political prisoners. He had a pretty shrewd idea that the methods used were not far short of the tortures inflicted in those same dungeons during the middle ages. Without a doubt they would get out of her the information he was so anxious to obtain; but he thought her a very decent woman and was most loathe to bring such a fate upon her.

  Deciding to try further persuasion, he laughed and said, ‘Oh come, now! You’re talking nonsense. I …’

  At that moment a window pane shattered. He was standing sideways on to it with his back to the open doorway. As the glass tinkled down he glimpsed a black object, about the size of a cricket ball, spinning down into the room. Instantly, he flung himself backwards.

  Next second there came the crash of an explosion. A bright orange flash lit the dingy little room. Teresa gave a piercing scream. Dense black smoke billowed up from the floor swiftly spreading and obscuring the scene.

  De Richleau’s backward plunge had sent little Francisco spinning. The boy burst into howls. Ignoring him the Duke picked himself up and, unhurt except for bruising one elbow, plunged back into the smoke-filled room. Teresa had dropped her baby and collapsed groaning across a small stiff-backed settee. Her skirt was on fire. Snatching up a cushion de Richleau beat out the flames with it, then got his arms beneath her and carried her across the passage to the kitchen. As he did so, through the murk he glimpsed other flames and realised that some of the lighter furniture must have also caught fire from the explosion.

  By that time several women neighbours and Veragua had rushed into the cottage. Still choking from the fumes, the Duke shouted to them to get the children and to him to take charge and put out the fire. Meanwhile he had laid Teresa on the floor and, with the swift practised fingers of one who has tended many wounded on battle fields, was assessing her injuries.

  The bomb must have exploded on her right almost at her feet. On that side only charred and tattered remnants of her skirt and petticoats remained, exposing her legs to the thigh. The right one was hopelessly shattered, the left one was also scorched and bleeding. Grabbing a kitchen knife he slit the leather belt she was wearing, then tore open her corset. As he had feared, several bomb splinters had lodged in her right hip and that side of her stomach. Springing up he seized a towel to staunch the blood that was seeping from the wounds.

  At that moment a wild-eyed woman burst into the kitchen. In her arms she was carrying the limp form of Teresa’s second child. Hysterically she shouted, ‘The poor mite’s dead! She’s dead! And so’s the baby. Oh, Holy Saints defend us!’ Then at the sight of Teresa half naked and bleeding on the floor she uttered another wail, turned, and ran from the room.

  After her first screams Teresa had uttered only a low moaning, then fallen silent. De Richleau thought she had fainted, but at the shouts of her neighbour she opened her eyes. As he again knelt beside her she asked in a hoarse whisper, ‘Francisco. Is he … Is he …?’

  A sweat had broken out on her forehead and the Duke knew that she had not long to live. Kneeling beside her he said gently, ‘He is safe, Teresa. As with myself the angle of the wall saved him from injury. But you, Teresa. You have not long and you must think of his future.’

  He had her head pillowed on his arm and she nodded weakly. ‘Yes … I don’t want to die … I’m afraid to die … But the pain inside me … I … I know I’m finished.’

  ‘You cannot leave the boy to Irujo. Not if Irujo would be unkind to him. Let me take him to Ferrer for you. Ferrer loves him and will see to it that he is given a happy home. But you must tell me where to find Ferrer.’

  The sweat was running down her face and she was breathing fast. ‘San Cugat,’ she panted. ‘He now … calls himself … Olozaga.’

  The Duke nodded, then he said earnestly, ‘Listen, Teresa. Your father was an anarchist. I expect he brought you up as an atheist and it is generally those who have always said that they do not believe in God who fear most to die. But you have nothing to fear. I promise you that. I’m afraid there is not the time to bring a priest to you; but if you simply say, “Please God, for Jesus Christ’s sake, forgive me my sins”, that will be enough.’

  Her eyes brightened a little. She clutched at his free hand and slowly panted out the words after him. A few minutes later a spasm shook her, then her head rolled sideways and she was dead.

  Lowering her head to the floor he put the towel over her face and stood up. According to his own beliefs no deathbed repentance could be of the slightest value. It was not logical that a person who had been mean, cruel and unscrupulous could, by muttering a few words, with or without the assistance of a priest, have the bill receipted for all the suffering they had caused in their lives. Teresa, like everyone else, would have to pay off such ill that she might have done to others, and her untimely, painful death would be only something on account. But, as he washed her blood from his hands at the kitchen sink, he knew tha
t he had at least been right in telling her that she had nothing to fear, and he was glad that he had been able to give her in her last moments the conventional comfort without which a woman of her class might have died in terror.

  He was far less happy about having used the fact that she was dying to extract from her Ferrer’s whereabouts. But on that score he comforted himself with the thought that if there were not men like Ferrer no bomb would have come through the window to destroy her and her two little children.

  As he finished washing, Veragua came in to report that the fire in the sitting-room was out. He was followed by a local policeman, notebook in hand, who had just arrived on the scene and was taking down particulars of the tragedy. De Richleau produced his police-card, made a statement, and said that he intended to take the surviving child away with him. He then collected the still weeping little Francisco, left the policeman in charge, and with Veragua walked along the street to their car.

  On the way Veragua congratulated him in the heartiest manner on his narrow escape, and remarked that it had been good luck for him too, as he would have got into frightful trouble if de Richleau had been injured, since he would have failed in his duty as a bodyguard. Then they speculated on how any anarchist could have been on hand to throw a bomb and so cut short the questioning of Teresa Irujo. As no one could have known of the Duke’s intention to meet her, they decided that the only explanation must be that the enemy had learnt about ‘Señor Gomá’s’ investigation and had been stalking him all day, waiting for a suitable opportunity to throw the bomb, and that only chance had led to the attempt to murder him being made while he was in Teresa’s cottage.

  As they were driving down the hill Veragua asked if the Duke had managed to get anything out of Teresa during his long talk with her. To which he replied: