He had only to go to Spain and present his credentials in the right quarter. No one could dispute his right to the money, he reflected with some satisfaction as he slowly paced the big sitting-room which so admirably set off his personality.
It was not so much the size or decoration which made this room in the Curzon Street flat so memorable for those who had been privileged to visit it, but the unique collection of rare and beautiful objects it contained. A Tibetan Buddha seated on the Lotus, bronze figurines from Ancient Greece, beautifully chased rapiers of Toledo steel and Moorish pistols inlaid with turquoise and gold; ikons from Holy Russia set with semi-precious stones, and curious carved ivories from the East. They were no purchases of an idle dilettante but each had a definite association with some episode in the Duke’s long career as a traveller, conspirator, and soldier of fortune. The walls of the room were lined shoulder-high with books, but above them hung lovely old colour-prints and a number of priceless historical documents and maps.
De Richleau hummed cheerfully to himself as he cleared a table of its jewelled crucifix and signed photograph of King Edward VIII to make space for a big Atlas which he pulled from one of the shelves.
He was much better acquainted with Spanish affairs than he had admitted to Lucretia-José and was aware that ever since the combination of Socialists, Anarchists, Communists and Syndicalists into a ‘Frente Popular’ had given the Left a victory over the larger but divided parties of the Right in the elections of the previous February, a pusillanimous Liberal Government had been powerless to control the extremist elements which had put it in power. From its very inception they had bullied it into doing their will by organizing the most appalling series of strikes that had ever paralysed the business of the country. A bad winter had helped them by filling the cup of bitterness of the peasants in the South to overflowing so that whole villages revolted and attacked the Guardias Civiles who were supposed to keep order. In April, Zamora, or ‘Old Boots’ as they contemptuously termed the non-party idealist elected as President of the Republic on King Alfonso’s departure, had been forced into retirement and the Liberal Socialist Azaña had taken his place. By May the Government no longer had sufficient authority to prevent the peasants seizing the land on many great estates, and in the cities gangs of hooligans openly showed their contempt for a police force muzzled by a cowardly gang of politicians. Now, in July, affairs were in a desperate state. Over 600 buildings had been burnt down in the last four months; mostly churches, convents, clubs and offices of the newspapers which inclined to the Right.
These constant, unchecked, local demonstrations of mob-rule had had their natural reaction; a great growth of militant Fascism. Property-owners, great and small, professional men of every category, and devout Catholics of all classes were flocking to join the civilian armies of Gil Robles, the Catholic leader of the Accion Popular, the largest single party in Spain, the Monarchist Renovacion Española or the Falangists under Primo de Rivera’s son.
It seemed their only resource in a land already gripped by the ‘Terror,’ unless they fled the country as many elderly people with money had been doing for weeks past.
De Richleau corresponded with many well-informed people all over Europe and he had known for a long time that a bloody clash in Spain was becoming inevitable. Highly placed Army officers had actually written to him of their fears that, unless some concerted action was taken they would be arrested on some trumped-up charge, thrown into prison, and replaced by men either incapable or unwilling to lift a hand to save the country from total disruption.
The more the Duke thought over his mission the more it pleased him. It would be good to draw a blade again, if need be, in defence of all the principles which he had always considered stood for a sane and decent world. He would hardly have hesitated for a second before acceding to Lucretia-José’s appeal if he had not realized from the very first that such a trust was too big a weight for one man to bear. He was loath to draw his friends into it without consulting them first, but now the die was cast he was sublimely confident that he could count on their co-operation.
Simon’s subtle brain would be invaluable in such a business and his connection with the great financial houses of Europe would probably prove useful also. De Richleau’s granite features softened for a second as he thought of the brilliant, nervy young Jew whom such a curious chain of circumstances had led him to love almost as a son. And Rex, what a blessing his herculean strength might prove, as it had so often before, if they encountered real trouble. Besides, Rex was one of the finest amateur airmen living; he could fly them out to Spain. How fortunate that he had recovered now from the tragic loss of Tanith. Well, it was nearly three years ago since Rex’s young wife had died in giving birth to her first child—little Robin. How time marches on. De Richleau thought again of how he and his friends had fought the Devil—fought the Devil himself—and won, for Tanith before that wedding. Having triumphed over such mighty odds, how, when they were once reunited, could they fail in this new encounter where only the human forces of evil were arrayed against them?
It was characteristic of the man that, having taken on the business, he had set about his preparations without a moment’s delay. Simon had been out when De Richleau had telephoned his office, but a call to his house had resulted in the information that he would definitely be in at seven o’clock. Rex, however, who was in London for the season, had been in and had asked the Duke to have cocktails with him at six.
Lucretia having spent most of the afternoon explaining her project in detail, it was close on five already but De Richleau knew that he still had ample time to make some notes before setting out and he opened the Atlas at the map of Spain.
As his eye roved over the peninsula, the least cultivated and most mountainous of all the countries in Europe except Switzerland, a thousand memories came flooding back to him. His first visit as a boy of twelve when, outside her great cities, Spain had still been almost unbelievably primitive. Great days out hunting bear in the forests of the Pyrenees. Nights in San Sebastian and Madrid. A mighty coup against the gaming tables in Alegeciras long before the war. The bells of Sevile and the strong sunlight on the old Moorish buildings of Toledo. A little cove on the Basque coast caught his eye. It was over a quarter of a century since he had been there but he could see its deserted golden sands hemmed in by high cliffs as clearly as though it had been yesterday that he had fought a duel there early one summer morning after a night spent in a beautiful woman’s arms.
For a long time he pored over the map; carefully measuring distances and, in the process, recalling to his mind after the lapse of years the main streets of cities, the guttural ch’s of the Spanish language and the long ranges of barren mountains that made so many portions of the country almost inaccessible. Yet, when he closed the Atlas with a sigh he was still thinking of the lovely Spanish lady who had so nearly cost him his life.
At ten to six his great silver Hispano-Suiza was waiting at the street door. The chauffeur and footman were clad in grey liveries and wore tall, wide-topped grey Persian lamb pepenkas at a rakish angle on their heads. Many people often turned to stare with interest or admiration at such an unusual display of personality when the Duke drove about London and some of the nouveau riche among his neighbours who could, if they had wished, have afforded a precisely similar turn-out but lacked the courage to appease their envy, spoke of it as the most vulgar ostentation.
It is quite true that De Richleau possessed a flamboyant taste in such matters, but that anyone should dream of questioning his indulgence of it never even crossed his mind. If he ever thought of the matter at all it was only to reflect upon the sadly degenerate age into which he had been born; an age in which he must content himself with a mere couple of men seated in front of him in a motor-car, whereas many of his ancestors had usually driven through the streets with sixteen outriders preceding them. Completely oblivious of the looks of admiration or envy which were cast at his equipage, he was conveyed smoothly thro
ugh Hyde Park to Knightsbridge, remarking only, in the light of the early July evening, how lovely the flowers were looking in the beds. A few moments later he was duly deposited on the doorstep of Mr. Rex Van Ryn’s little bachelor house in Trevor Square.
As De Richleau was shown up to the first-floor room which ran the whole width of the house, the great, hulking American came forward to meet him beaming all over his ugly, attractive face.
“Well, now, this is just great!” Rex boomed as he towered over the slender Duke. “I haven’t a notion what’s brought this sudden visitation but I’m mighty glad to see you.”
“Thanks, Rex.” The Duke sank into a comfortable chair. “I’m glad to have caught you, as my business is somewhat urgent.”
“Go right ahead while I fix the cocktails. You know my old motto: Make ’em strong and drink ’em quick. It takes a sixth to make an appetite.”
“How I envy you your magnificent thirst,” smiled De Richleau. “Unfortunately I can’t stay long but I’ll join you while I can.”
“Good! Now let’s have the works.”
“I had a young woman to see me to-day and she requires our assistance in a rather delicate matter.”
“Well, she’s welcome if she’s any friend of yours.”
“She’s the daughter of an old friend now dead. I should warn you, by the way, that this affair may possibly lead us into danger.”
With a shrug of his mighty shoulders Rex turned away and rammed home the top of the cocktail shaker. “Oh, shucks! Danger’s never stopped us doing anything we wanted yet. Is Simon in on this?”
“Not yet, but he will be. I’m going to see him directly I leave you.”
“Fine! And who’s the dirty dick we’re going to beat up in the interests of your girl friend?”
“It isn’t a ‘him’ but certain political forces with which we may be drawn into conflict. Like myself, of course, you are a diehard anti-Communist.”
“Sure, but I’m a diehard anti-Nazi too for that matter. The things those skunks have done to the poor wretched Jews in Germany just doesn’t bear thinking about.”
“Thanks.” In one of his elegant, slender hands which, on occasion, could so unexpectedly exert a grip of steel, De Richleau took the froth-topped glass that Rex proffered him. “Naturally we all deplore these senseless excesses against an unfortunate minority, but they are incomparably less terrible than the wholesale slaughter of an entire property-owning class, as has happened in Russia.
“However,” he added with a fatherly twinkle in his eye, “international politics have never been your strong suit, Rex, and I’m confident you value my judgment sufficiently to leave that part of it to me.”
“Sure!” agreed Rex.
“That’s splendid then. And you know me well enough to realize that I should never dream of taking a hand on any side other than the one which stands for the maintenance of law and order.”
“Naturally. Stability is the only thing worth raising a dust for in this crazy world to-day. If we could only give Roosevelt the air at the next election...”
De Richleau shot him a swift sideways glance and cut in quickly, “I know what all you rich Americans feel about Roosevelt; but let’s not talk about that. Our job is to prevent certain funds being used for the possible murder of scores of people like ourselves in a few weeks or months from now.”
“Hi! Just wait a minute,” Rex said quickly. “I thought you wanted me as your strong-arm man in some private feud, but this sounds a different box of tricks altogether. What sort of a call are you making on my time?”
“I need your help certainly for the next few weeks and possibly for several months.”
Rex suddenly began to look anxious and worried. “I say now,” he exclaimed, “that’s just too bad. You know I’d do anything for you—anything. For the next week or so you’ve only got to say the word and I’ll go beat up anything you like to name without even asking a reason. But from the first week in August I’m booked for a trip that simply can’t be side-tracked.”
“But, Rex—surely!” De Richleau paused, utterly aghast. “Surely you wouldn’t put any ordinary engagement before a personal appeal from me when I’m going into danger.”
“Oh, come now, don’t put it that way,” Rex pleaded. “Here, have another cocktail. Let me think a bit. This is a ‘muddle,’ as Simon would say, a god-darned awful muddle, the sort of muddle I’ve never been in before and I don’t like it one little bit.”
“The situation seems quite clear to me,” the Duke remarked with some acidity. “You have already made some plans for August and now I descend on you, unexpectedly it is true, but with the earnest request that whatever they are you should abandon them in favour of participating in an affair which may mean life or death to many people, myself included. The choice lies, of course, entirely with you.”
Rex turned unhappily away. “I’m sorry, old chap—sick as hell. But it isn’t quite like that and, unfortunately, I can’t tell you about it. I feel quite terrible about having to refuse you but I’ve given my word and from August on I’m not my own master.”
“I see,” said De Richleau glumly. “In that case there’s nothing more to be said. It’s a sad blow as I had counted on you. However, if you’re free for the next few days you could, perhaps, fly me out to Spain?”
The big American whipped round as though he had been shot. “Spain?” he repeated, his mouth hanging open. “Good God! Why Spain?”
“Because that’s where the trouble is coming in which I mean to take a hand.” De Richleau leaned forward suddenly. “Is anything the matter. Rex? You’re looking very queer.”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Rex swiftly sank another cocktail. “But I can’t fly you out to Spain. My old kite’s—well— dismantled just now—all in bits, you know.”
“We could hire another,” suggested the Duke.
“Sure, of course we could. Why didn’t I think of that—” Rex floundered awkwardly. “But, well, I just hate Spain— never could bear the sight of a bullfight—cruel lot of devils, Spaniards. Besides, the truth is I’m flying very little these days. I—I’ve lost my nerve a bit, maybe.”
The Duke stood up. “How very unfortunate for you,” he said gently. “I think I will be going now.”
Rex stared at the carpet, a wretched, hang-dog expression on his normally cheerful face. “I just don’t know what to say,” he muttered. “I never dreamed I’d live to see the day I’d have to let you down.”
“Nor I,” replied the Duke coldly. “But there is no need to apologize, my dear Rex. If I come out of this business alive we shall doubtless dine together and revive pleasant memories of the days when your nerves were made of steel.”
Chapter Three – A Most Unexpected Encounter
De Richleau’s anger at Rex’s defection was swiftly drowned in his utter bewilderment that such a thing could possibly occur. He did not believe for one instant that the great-hearted American had really lost his courage, and he puzzled his wits in vain for some explanation of his friend’s extraordinary behaviour as his car bore him smoothly to Simon’s house in St. John’s Wood.
Mr. Simon Aron still lived in his rambling old mansion on the north side of Lord’s Cricket Ground. It lay at the bottom of a cul-de-sac which branched off from a quiet street of private houses standing secluded behind high walls in their own gardens.
As the Hispano neared the passage-way that led only to Simon’s house the Duke saw, to his annoyance, a taxi enter it just ahead of him and that a battered two-seater was already parked at its far end. Evidently Mr. Aron had other visitors.
The taxi disgorged two seedy-looking individuals who entered the garden gate with De Richleau and walked up the short covered way to the house just behind him. All three paused on the doorstep, and as he pressed the bell the Duke heard the other two exchange a few sentences in Russian. Knowing that language he caught the words: “Whatever you do, Cheilakoff, remember that these people will be mostly intellectual dabblers. You will s
care them off at once if you start talking of the executions which are certain to be necessary.”
‘What the devil’s all this?’ thought the Duke, coming out of his depressing rumination about Rex’s extraordinary conduct with a start. He was unable to hear more, however, as at that moment the garden gate slammed again and Simon came quickly up the path.
He was dressed, as usual, with extreme neatness, but even the skill of his expensive tailor could not conceal his narrow shoulders and short-sightedness caused him to walk with his head thrust forward between them when he was in a hurry.
De Richleau reflected with a smile that his friend really was rather like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland, who feared to be late for the Duchess’s party.
Their greetings were rather muddled as Simon obviously did not know his other visitors and the butler opened the door just as he reached the steps.
“I’m afraid I’ve called at an awkward time,” said the Duke, “but I wanted to see you urgently and I was told you would be home for certain at seven.”
“Ner,” Simon answered with his characteristic negative and a little shake of his narrow bird-like head. “Always pleased to see you. Fact is I’ve lent the house for a meeting but it doesn’t start till a quarter past. Come into the library.”
The butler had taken charge of the two foreigners and was showing them into the great blue-and-gold salon as De Richleau followed his host into the room on the right of the front door.
“Well, what’ll you drink?” Simon asked with his friendly, wide-mouthed grin. “Hardly the time of day for a bottle of Y’quem, is it?”
“No,” agreed the Duke a shade regretfully. It was one of the bonds between the gifted young Jew and the elderly French exile that they were both great connoisseurs of fine wines, cigars, and the good things of the table. “Besides, I have been drinking cocktails. Give me a brandy and soda.”
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