Vendetta in Spain

by Dennis Wheatley

  That being the case, when Urgoiti learned that Señor ‘Gomá’ had just shot one of his most promising detectives, and a man whom Urgoiti did not believe to be Ferrer declared that he knew ‘Gomá’ to be a Russian nihilist named Chirikov, the Police Chief had certainly had grounds for holding ‘Gomá’ until a full investigation into the question of his identity could be made.

  About that the Duke felt no concern, for it could be only a matter of waiting until the morning; General Quiroga would be informed about what had happened, he would be released, and Urgoiti made to look a complete fool. But he was worried about Ferrer.

  For a few minutes he wondered if he could possibly have been mistaken. The red-headed man certainly had only a vague resemblance to the Ferrer he had known in the past, and Urgoiti had been so positive that he was not. Yet as the Duke went back in his mind over the events of the evening his vague doubts were swiftly dissipated. Teresa had told him that Ferrer was living out at San Cugat under the name of Olozaga with Dolores Mendoza. For Dolores to have been there with a man who resembled Ferrer but was not him was beyond any possible coincidence. Then Ferrer’s account of what had occurred had diverged considerably from the truth. He had said that two men had broken in; but that was not so. He said that he had hidden in the cupboard; but in fact he had been down in the cellar and had had to be smoked out. And he had made no mention at all of Dolores—obviously because if Urgoiti had sent out to have her picked up she would at once have been identified as one of Ferrer’s closest associates and so put the noose round his own neck.

  No, there could be no doubt about the red-headed man being Ferrer, but the thing that worried de Richleau was that, before he could get in touch with General Quiroga in the morning, Urgoiti might question Ferrer further, become strengthened in his opinion that the self-styled Olozaga really was an innocent person, and have him released. To have Urgoiti sacked later for his blunder would be little consolation for having lost the chance to bring Ferrer to justice.

  The Duke was still speculating with considerable anxiety on such a possibility when, after about an hour, two warders entered his cell and one of them said to him, ‘Señor Chirikov, we have orders to search you.’

  ‘Chirikov is not my name,’ he replied with a frown. ‘Here I am known as Carlos Gomá.’

  The warder shrugged. ‘Chirikov is the name you’re under on the charge sheet and that’s good enough for us.’

  ‘Charge,’ repeated de Richleau. ‘What am I charged with?’

  ‘With the wilful murder of Detective Veragua. His body has just been brought in. Come on, now. No nonsense. Get your clothes off and quick about it.’

  For a moment de Richleau thought of protesting; but he quickly realised that it would be useless. The two men, evidently under the impression that he was a thug who had killed a member of the police force, were scowling at him and would clearly have jumped at the least excuse to give him a beating up.

  As he took off his clothes, garment by garment, they went through them. He had already been relieved of his own automatic, and the one that had belonged to Veragua, before being put into the cell. Now they took his police card, his wallet and his loose change, then returned his clothes and left him.

  He redressed with a set face, now gravely alarmed by a new thought that had suddenly come to him. Could it be that Urgoiti had known all the time that the red-headed man was Ferrer, and be one of the police against whom Don Alfonso had warned him—a fanatical Catalan who was secretly doing his utmost to protect the anarchists? Could it possibly be that Urgoiti had twisted the situation to suit his own ends—that he meant to let Ferrer go, and to frame the man who had caught him for the murder of Veragua?

  22

  The surprise of his life

  For a few moments de Richleau stood staring at the steel door of his cell. The thought that Urgoiti might be hand in glove with his enemies and that, if so, he had fallen into a trap, was an appalling one.

  Then, with a shrug, he relaxed, convinced that he was letting his imagination run away with him. Urgoiti might be a self-opinionated and somewhat thick-headed official, but a man so high up in the service could hardly be a traitor. After all, he, de Richleau, had admitted to shooting Veragua, and now that the detective’s death had been confirmed it was no more than normal procedure that he should be charged with it.

  But why should he be charged as ‘Chirikov’ instead of as ‘Gomá’? That could only mean that Urgoiti was accepting Ferrer’s word rather than his. And it was Urgoiti who had selected Veragua to act as his constant companion during his investigation.

  De Richleau sat down on the iron bed with which the cell was furnished. His thoughts were racing. He tried to persuade himself that everything would be all right in the morning. As he had said that he might not be back until very late Quiroga would not be waiting up for his return, but when he did not appear next day it was certain that the General would enquire of Urgoiti what had become of him. At the worst Urgoiti could only be keeping him out of the way until he had made a pretence of questioning Ferrer, then released him and given him a good start to get well clear of the city to a new hiding place. That was it. Then explanations would ensue. Urgoiti would make the most abject apologies; but Ferrer would already be beyond danger of recapture.

  But Urgoiti was not going to get away with it. The Duke meant to see to that. Good tough old Quiroga, the scourge of the Barcelona anarchists, would support him. If need be he would go to the King. By the time de Richleau had done with him Urgoiti would have lost his job and his pension, and be extremely lucky if he did not have to serve a prison sentence into the bargain.

  All the same, when the Duke lay down on the truckle bed and tried to get to sleep his mind continued to be harrassed by so many unnerving possibilities that it refused to rest. Several times he tried to concentrate his thoughts on Gulia in her big warm bed and the joys they had experienced there, but, try as he would, he could not keep them on her; so during the long hours he did little more than doze, then start awake again with renewed anxiety at the extraordinary situation in which he found himself.

  Morning brought nothing to allay his fears. On the contrary. At seven o’clock he was marched out to give himself a wash, and on returning to his cell a breakfast was dished out to him that looked so revolting that he decided not to eat it. For over an hour afterwards he sat gloomily on the edge of his bed, then a young Artillery Lieutenant was shown in to him.

  Removing his kepi the young man introduced himself by the name of Navarez and announced that he had been nominated to act as ‘Prisoner’s Friend’.

  De Richleau gave a start. As a soldier he knew well what the term implied. ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Does this mean that I am to be Courtmartialled?’

  The young man nodded. ‘Yes, of course. But we are lucky in that we shall not have long to wait this morning.’

  ‘This morning!’

  ‘Since the revolt a Courtmartial has been convened to sit at ten o’clock every morning. It administers summary justice to all political prisoners that have been brought in during the preceding twenty-four hours. But such cases have been much fewer during the past week, and we are the only one on today’s list; so our case should be heard right away.’

  De Richleau knew then, beyond all doubt, that Urgoiti did intend to frame him as Veragua’s murderer. It was a terrifying thought. He stared aghast at the young officer who evidently disliked the job he had been given but had been made callous to it from having had to perform a similar function several times in the past month. He was going on with hurried unconcern:

  ‘I understand that you are a Russian nihilist and that last night you killed a detective. If those are the facts I don’t think there is much that I can do for you; but if you have any line of defence let me hear it and I’ll put it to the Court.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Duke. ‘There is only one thing you can do for me. That is to go up to the Fortress at once and tell General Quiroga that …’

  He go
t no further. ‘Take a message from a prisoner to that old tiger,’ interrupted the Lieutenant derisively. ‘Is it likely? He’d have my head off.’

  ‘Very well then, let it be a written message that you can deliver without seeing him.’

  ‘Prisoners awaiting trial are not allowed to send letters to anyone outside the jail.’

  De Richleau drew in a sharp breath. ‘Then I fear there is nothing that you can do for me. I prefer to defend myself.’

  ‘That is not permitted. If all the rebels who have been before the Court during the past month had been allowed to talk their heads off the Court would never have got through. It would still be sitting next Christmas.’

  ‘Do you mean,’ asked the Duke with rising alarm, ‘that I shall not be allowed to say a word in my own defence? That I must leave it to you to put the bare bones of anything I tell you before the Court, and that on that alone my life will hang?’

  Navarez nodded. ‘That’s the usual procedure in these routine cases. And the Court doesn’t take long to reach a verdict. If it does turn out that you didn’t kill this ’tec you’ll be a free man by about half past ten. If not … well.’

  ‘Well what?’

  For the first time the young man looked slightly uncomfortable. Fingering his small moustache, he muttered, ‘You may as well know what to expect. These Courts are convened to administer summary justice. Establishing them was the only way to stop bombs being thrown into the better-class restaurants and officers walking in the streets being shot from windows. They have succeeded in that; but only because it is now known by everybody that any prisoner found guilty is given no second chance. In the yard behind the building in which the Court sits a firing squad is always kept in a state of readiness. If it’s thumbs down you’ll be taken out to it straight away.’

  De Richleau had paled under his tan. He realised now that he was in desperate danger. Urgoiti had known the procedure and counted with well-founded confidence on events taking the course usual in such cases. It might be all over before Quiroga heard a word about it. Afterwards Urgoiti, with his tongue in his cheek, would bow to the storm and accept a reprimand. But he need not fear anything worse as he could plead a belief that it was Quiroga who had been deceived, and all he had done was to send up for trial a Russian nihilist who, to protect himself being exposed in his true colours, had shot a detective.

  ‘Well?’ said Navarez. ‘Time’s getting on. If you have got a plea to make you’d better let me hear it.’

  ‘If I told you the truth you would never believe me,’ replied de Richleau bitterly.

  ‘No harm in trying me,’ remarked the Lieutenant with calm indifference.

  ‘Very well then. My proper style and title is His Excellency Major-General the Duke de Richleau, Count de Quesnoy, Count Königstein, Knight of the Most Exalted Order of the Golden Fleece. I am a British subject and a personal friend of your King, with whom I have sat at table three times during the past month. I arrived in Barcelona …’

  ‘That’s enough!’ snapped Navarez. ‘What sort of a fool do you take me for? But perhaps you’re trying to be funny. If so, let me tell you this is no time for joking.’

  ‘As it is I who look like shortly facing a firing squad, and not you, it is unnecessary to remind me of that.’

  ‘Let’s have the truth then.’

  ‘Apart from sparing you some of my lesser titles and honours I have told it; but I also told you first that you would not believe me. I don’t suppose you will believe either that for the two nights preceding this last one, I was staying up at Montjuich, as General Quiroga’s guest.’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ the young officer’s voice had become impatient. ‘Is it likely that the Captain-General would entertain a nihilist?’

  ‘You have no shadow of proof that I am a nihilist,’ retorted de Richleau angrily. ‘Do I look or speak like one?’

  The Lieutenant shrugged. ‘I am told that some of them are educated men who have become mentally deranged. One of the most famous is a Russian Prince. I forget his name but it begins with K.’

  ‘Kropotkin,’ supplied the Duke. ‘All right. You have me there. But at least I ask you to believe that for most of my life I have been a soldier. You are a soldier, too, so we both know that the quickest way to earn promotion is to display courage.’

  ‘What has this to do with your case?’

  ‘That it gives you a chance to display your courage. Go and see General Quiroga for me, or even telephone to him. He cannot eat you. On the contrary he will think better of you for having bearded him rather than see a man condemned who may be innocent. I swear to you by all I hold sacred …’

  ‘What? That you did not kill this detective?’

  ‘No. I do not deny that I shot him, but …’

  ‘Since you admit your guilt I’ll be damned if I’ll beard the Captain-General on your account.’

  De Richleau sat down on the truckle bed and put his head between his hands. He had been in many tight corners before but in nearly all of them he had at least had the chance to fight his way out. This time there was no such chance. He had been trapped under a false identity and caught up in a swift-moving judicial process designed only as an emergency measure to crush a serious revolt. It really began to look as though, should he fail to get word of his plight to Quiroga, he would find himself facing a firing squad before the morning was out. For a minute or more he racked his brains for a way to persuade or bully Navarez into acting as his messenger. Then a new idea occurred to him. Springing to his feet, he cried:

  ‘I am a British subject. I demand to see the British Consul.’

  ‘You told me you were when you made all those damn fool claims about yourself,’ the Lieutenant replied coldly. ‘Have you any papers to prove it?’

  ‘No. But as a British national I demand to see my Consul.’

  ‘You are in no position to demand anything.’

  ‘All right then. I request, beg if you will, that he should be brought here.’

  Navarez shook his head. ‘We’ve had dozens of foreign nationals through our hands: Frenchmen, Italians, Greeks; mostly seamen from ships in the docks who joined the revolutionaries. With the city under Martial Law they were treated like the rest. In an emergency formalities such as notifying Consuls have to be waived, and the emergency is still on.’

  Again they remained silent for a minute while the Duke strove desperately to think of a way out. Then the Lieutenant said, ‘Your best plan is to cut out the fireworks about your being the King of Siam and plead that you shot this fellow in self-defence.’

  ‘I did. If I hadn’t shot him he would have shot me. But do you think the Court will believe that?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ again the young man fingered his moustache, ‘still, it’s about your only chance.’

  As he was speaking a key grated in the lock, and the door was thrown open. Navarez stepped out into the corridor and two warders entered the cell. One of them snapped a handcuff on to the Duke’s right wrist and snapped the other on to his own left wrist. Then they filed out and up to the ground floor of the building.

  In front of it a prison van was waiting. As the Duke stepped out into the bright morning sunshine, he cast a swift look up and down the street. There were plenty of people in it going about their morning’s business. If he could have cut and run for it he might have got away in the crowd. But as he was handcuffed to the warder such an attempt was out of the question. Filled now with such apprehension that he had broken out into a slight sweat, he allowed himself to be hustled into the van.

  It set off at a trot, then as its pace slowed he knew that the horses were drawing it up the long hill of Montjuich. All the time his brain was working furiously, but it had now become sterile of ideas by which he might attempt to save himself. His one hope lay in the chance that when it reached the fortress some member of the General’s staff who knew him by sight might be about, so that he could shout to them for help. But when the van pulled up and he was pushed out of it
he saw that it had halted on the far side of the fortress from the General’s quarters. Two minutes later his warders had marched him through a door and down a passage into a small bleak waiting room.

  Navarez left them, and for ten minutes de Richleau remained there, still cudgelling his wits without avail. Now that he was alone with the two warders he contemplated the desperate step of attempting to overcome them. Had he been free he might have succeeded, but he was still handcuffed to one of them. He knew that even if he had knocked the man unconscious, he would never be able to get the key and unlock the steel bracelet while the other attacked him, before shouts brought some of the soldiers he had seen at the entrance to the fortress.

  An N.C.O. appeared at the door of the room and beckoned to them. Turning, he led the way down the passage, the Duke and the warders following closely on his heels. They went out through a door and crossed a small courtyard.

  Twelve soldiers and a sergeant were lounging near their stacked rifles. De Richleau needed no telling that they were the firing squad that Navarez had mentioned as always being kept in a state of readiness.

  The north wall of the courtyard was blank, without doors or windows. Half way along it and about four feet from the ground there showed a long, irregular patch where the stonework had been pitted by innumerable bullets. Obviously it was there, with their backs to that stretch of wall, that during the past six weeks hundreds of mob-leaders, anarchists, syndicalists, communists, and probably quite a number of honest but unlucky workers, had met their death. The Duke lowered his eyes and could not prevent a shudder running through him.

  They passed through another door, turned right and entered a largish room furnished only with a number of deal tables, chairs and benches. In the middle of a long table at the far end of the room three officers were seated close together: a Major, a Captain and a Lieutenant. Anxiously the Duke scrutinised their faces in an endeavour to assess the characters of the three men who were about to try him. The Major was elderly, square-headed and somewhat morose-looking. De Richleau judged him to be past further promotion at his age, so probably disappointed in his career and a harsh disciplinarian. The Captain was about twenty-six, a dark, handsome fellow with a fine upturned moustache. The Lieutenant was a vapid-looking youth wearing a monocle.