The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  THE GOLDEN SPANIARD

  Dennis Wheatley

  Edited by Miranda Vaughan Jones

  For My Golden Stepdaughter

  DIANA YOUNGER

  A dear and joyous companion who

  brings the blessing of much laughter

  to our house.

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter I A Debt of Honour

  Chapter II The Duke Has A Very Strange Experience

  Chapter III A Most Unexpected Encounter

  Chapter IV The Most Dangerous Woman in Europe

  Chapter V The Other Side of the Picture

  Chapter VI The First Round

  Chapter VI The Duke Makes Soup; but not for Supper

  Chapter VIII Don Lluis Turns Burglar

  Chapter IX The Succession of Culs-de-sac

  Chapter X Death in Madrid

  Chapter XI The Price of Secrecy

  Chapter XII The Storm Breaks

  Chapter XIII The Miracle

  Chapter XIV Lady in Distress

  Chapter XV Night of Horror

  Chapter XVI When Greek Meets Greek

  Chapter XVII Escape to Trouble

  Chapter XVIII The Militiaman’s Bride

  Chapter XIX Back into the Maelstrom

  Chapter XX Just Sheer Bad Luck

  Chapter XXI Out of the Frying-pan into the Fire

  Chapter XXII Out of the Fire into the Boiling Oil

  Chapter XXIII The Blood Bath of Madrid

  Chapter XXIV The House of Mental Death

  Chapter XXV The Scarlet Pimpernel of the Spanish Revolution

  Chapter XXVI De Richleau Speaks of Other Things than War

  Chapter XXVII The Cat Jumps Out of the Bag

  Chapter XXVIII The Treasure Hunt Begins

  Chapter XXIX Armistice for Two

  Chapter XXX The Break for Home

  Chapter XXXI Plot and Counter-plot

  Chapter XXXII Dark Stars in the Ascendant

  Chapter XXXIII One Must Die

  Chapter XXXIV Simon Aron Goes to War

  Chapter XXXV Who Goes Home?

  A Note on the Author

  Introduction

  Dennis Wheatley was my grandfather. He only had one child, my father Anthony, from his first marriage to Nancy Robinson. Nancy was the youngest in a large family of ten Robinson children and she had a wonderful zest for life and a gaiety about her that I much admired as a boy brought up in the dull Seventies. Thinking about it now, I suspect that I was drawn to a young Ginny Hewett, a similarly bubbly character, and now my wife of 27 years, because she resembled Nancy in many ways.

  As grandparents, Dennis and Nancy were very different. Nancy’s visits would fill the house with laughter and mischievous gossip, while Dennis and his second wife Joan would descend like minor royalty, all children expected to behave. Each held court in their own way but Dennis was the famous one with the famous friends and the famous stories.

  There is something of the fantasist in every storyteller, and most novelists writing thrillers see themselves in their heroes. However, only a handful can claim to have been involved in actual daring-do. Dennis saw action both at the Front, in the First World War, and behind a desk in the Second. His involvement informed his writing and his stories, even those based on historical events, held a notable veracity that only the life-experienced novelist can obtain. I think it was this element that added the important plausibility to his writing. This appealed to his legions of readers who were in that middle ground of fiction, not looking for pure fantasy nor dry fact, but something exciting, extraordinary, possible and even probable.

  There were three key characters that Dennis created over the years: The Duc de Richleau, Gregory Sallust and Roger Brook. The first de Richleau stories were set in the years between the wars, when Dennis had started writing. Many of the Sallust stories were written in the early days of the Second World War, shortly before Dennis joined the Joint Planning Staff in Whitehall, and Brook was cast in the time of the French Revolution, a period that particularly fascinated him.

  He is probably always going to be associated with Black Magic first and foremost, and it’s true that he plugged it hard because sales were always good for those books. However, it’s important to remember that he only wrote eleven Black Magic novels out of more than sixty bestsellers, and readers were just as keen on his other stories. In fact, invariably when I meet people who ask if there is any connection, they tell me that they read ‘all his books’.

  Dennis had a full and eventful life, even by the standards of the era he grew up in. He was expelled from Dulwich College and sent to a floating navel run school, HMS Worcester. The conditions on this extraordinary ship were Dickensian. He survived it, and briefly enjoyed London at the pinnacle of the Empire before war was declared and the fun ended. That sort of fun would never be seen again.

  He went into business after the First World War, succeeded and failed, and stumbled into writing. It proved to be his calling. Immediate success opened up the opportunity to read and travel, fueling yet more stories and thrilling his growing band of followers.

  He had an extraordinary World War II, being one of the first people to be recruited into the select team which dreamed up the deception plans to cover some of the major events of the war such as Operation Torch, Operation Mincemeat and the D-Day landings. Here he became familiar with not only the people at the very top of the war effort, but also a young Commander Ian Fleming, who was later to write the James Bond novels. There are indeed those who have suggested that Gregory Sallust was one of James Bond’s precursors.

  The aftermath of the war saw Dennis grow in stature and fame. He settled in his beautiful Georgian house in Lymington surrounded by beautiful things. He knew how to live well, perhaps without regard for his health. He hated exercise, smoked, drank and wrote. Today he would have been bullied by wife and children and friends into giving up these habits and changing his lifestyle, but I’m not sure he would have given in. Maybe like me, he would simply find a quiet place.

  Dominic Wheatley, 2013

  Chapter I

  A Debt of Honour

  The Duc de Richleau exhaled the first cloud of fragrant smoke from one of the Hoyo de Monterreys, which were his especial pride, and dismissed his servant with a nod. “You may go, Max, On no account are we to be disturbed.”

  The girl, who was the only other occupant of the beautifully appointed little dining-room in the Duke’s Mayfair flat, raised one tapering eyebrow in humorous interrogation.

  De Richleau smiled and shook his head. “A charming compliment, Condesa, but I am old enough to be your grandfather—almost.”

  She knew his statement to be true yet marvelled that a man of his years should retain such a splendidly virile appearance. His age showed only in the lines that time had etched on his lean, handsome features and the grey hair which swept back from his magnificent forehead. Many a young man would have envied him his wiry figure and the grey eyes which regarded her with such piercing brilliance from beneath slanting, ‘devil’s’ eyebrows.

  He waved the lighted end of the long cigar with a graceful sweep beneath his aquiline nose so that he might savour its aroma and went on softly. “When an attractive young woman rings up an elderly man she has not seen since childhood, accepts a luncheon invitation, but suggests that her host shall entertain her at home—and alone—it’s obvious that she wishes to discuss something highly private. Tell me, Lucretia-José de Cordoba y Coralles, in what way can I be of service to the daughter of my old friend?”

  “You have been in Spain recently, Duke?”

  “Not since King Alfonso left it.”

  “That’s over five years ago. Much has happened in the interval. S.M. el R
ey withdrew, as you must know, not from any weakness but in the spirit of the highest self-sacrifice. He hoped that by doing so he would save his country from being deluged in the blood of a civil war.”

  De Richleau’s eyes narrowed a little. “Certain shrewd observers appear to think that his going only postponed the evil day until—well—any time now.’

  The whole being of the girl opposite him seemed to change. She was, perhaps, twenty-five and only remarkable at the first glance in that her golden hair combined with markedly Spanish features gave her a most unusual type of beauty. Throughout lunch she had made the usual small-talk of her class, and no one would have suspected that she had a thought in her head outside clothes, social engagements, and her latest love-affair. Now, her whole figure tensed. Her fine grey eyes went blank but her jutting chin and the set line of her red mouth gave her an expression of extraordinary strength and determination. De Richleau suddenly realised that his dead friend’s daughter had grown into a fascinating and extremely dangerous woman.

  His old heart warmed within him as she asked, “Just how much do you know?”

  “Nothing,” he lied amiably. “Only the gossip of the clubs, which leads one to believe that all is not well with Spain.”

  “You do know something then. That makes things ever so much easier. I take it I can speak freely to you as one who’ll be with us when the clash occurs?”

  De Richleau smiled. “Need you ask, Condesa? Don Alfonso has honoured me with his friendship for thirty years and I have similar ties with many of your leading families. However, as a naturalised Englishman, apart from my sympathy for my personal friends, the affairs of Spain are no concern of mine.”

  “That is untrue. If the classes must fight it will be the concern of every man and woman who believes in justice and freedom and decency that the right side should win. If the Reds get the upper hand in Spain this summer they’ll get it in France next and the rest of the world—even your self-satisfied England—will follow.’

  “There may be something in what you say but perhaps you would care to tell me a little about how things stand at the moment.”

  For a good five minutes Lucretia-José spoke clearly and rapidly of the complicated political situation in Spain. Suddenly she rapped the table with her clenched fist. “I speak of what I know! The Extremists have been smuggling in arms for months. They intend to seize power by force knowing that the present Government hasn’t the strength to resist them. Every property-owner, every officer, every devout Catholic in Spain will be massacred this summer unless measures are taken to prevent it.”

  “These measures, of course, are already being taken?” the Duke suggested smoothly.

  “Yes. Our only chance is to act before they do.”

  “In whose name, the King’s?”

  “No. I wish from my heart that it could be so but at the moment such a move would not be practical. The Army chiefs have agreed to suppress all opposition and appoint Calvo Sotelo as Dictator.”

  “An admirable choice,’ agreed De Richleau thoughtfully. “As a civilian he’ll secure much greater backing from the man in the street than any General could hope for. However, interested as I am and greatly as I value your confidences, Condesa, I do not yet see your object in making them to me.”

  Lucretia-José smiled enigmatically. “As you probably know, my father was the principal shareholder in the Banco Coralles of Madrid. It has always been a family affair like the old Coutts or Martins over here. Since his death last year I have inherited his holdings.”

  “Then you are fortunate indeed.”

  “Most people would think so, but my father was a great Royalist. From the time S.M. el Rey went into exile our palace in Madrid and our many other properties have remained closed. As I was educated in England I have not entered any of them since I was a child.”

  De Richleau’s firm, slightly cynical mouth softened a little as he said gently, “I too have known what it is to be an exile.”

  She shrugged. “Fortunately I have my work. Father was always convinced that, in time, there would be a restoration. As he had no son he added his own name of José to mine when my mother died and looked to me, as the last of the Corboda y Coralles, to do my share in bringing it about.”

  “It’s to be hoped that these—er—measures that you speak of will soon enable you to take your rightful place in Spain again.”

  “Thank you, Duke. But in the meantime I have to provide adequate protection for the 82,000,000 pesetas gold reserve which I have lying in bullion in the vaults of my bank in Madrid.”

  “Eighty-two million?” repeated the Duke. “That really is a tidy little sum.”

  “It is enough to pay the entire army of Spain, officers and men, for six months, or to purchase an Armada of aeroplanes from a neutral country, in the event of civil war.”

  “I see, and you wish to use it for some such purpose?”

  “I hope that won’t be necessary. If the risings planned to take place in every garrison town are properly synchronised the affair should be over quickly and there will be very little bloodshed. The danger is that certain Generals may delay to see how their bolder colleagues get on before taking action. If that occurred in Madrid and the tables were turned on them, the Reds’ first action would be to confiscate all the gold in the banks. My fortune might then be used to purchase the means of destroying my hopes and my dearest friends.”

  “And how do you propose to guard against this unpleasant contingency?”

  “Quite simply,” Lucretia-José smiled, and when she smiled she was very beautiful indeed. “I intend to make over my entire holding to someone I can trust and that person is going to be an Englishman. No Government, pink, red or purple will dare to risk falling foul of Great Britain by seizing eighty-two million pesetas which is the property of a British subject.”

  De Richleau sat bolt upright in his chair. “My dear Condesa, I hope—er—” he floundered suddenly, for once in his life caught napping; “I sincerely trust you have no thought of doing me this honour.”

  Lucretia laughed outright at his consternation and nodded firmly.

  “Of course. That’s just what I mean to do. I’ve brought all the documents with me already signed and witnessed. I’m afraid it’ll mean your paying a visit to Madrid and remaining there until the trouble is over. You must be on the spot to protest against any attempt at confiscation. But I know you will do me this great service in memory of my father.”

  “No, no!” the Duke protested. “I beg you not to ask it of me. I know little of finance. I should be certain to fall foul of the Jacks-in-office. If there is a revolution I should probably start shooting Bolsheviks and get hanged to a lamp-post for my pains. I am too old for such excitements; much too old. And why, in Heaven’s name, should your choice fall on me—when we hardly know each other?”

  Lucretia’s grey eyes grew grave again. “For two excellent reasons. In the first place, my father has often told me that you are utterly fearless, as cunning as a serpent, as ruthless as Fate and to be trusted without limit.”

  “I’ve never been trusted with millions in pennies, let alone millions in pounds, before,” grunted the Duke with a glint of humour in his eye, “Go on, young woman, let’s hear your other reason.”

  “That this is not a one-man job. Failing all else they might attempt to make away with you hoping that on your death the bullion would revert to me. You must sign blank transfers to another Englishman you can trust implicitly, and it would be better still if there were a third at hand who could take over from him if it became necessary.”

  “Ha, ha!” exclaimed de Richleau, “I see it all. Some time or other your father must have spun you some silly fairy-tale based on a little trouble I and some of my friends got ourselves into a few years ago in Soviet Russia.”

  “Exactly! But it was no fairy-tale. It was the story of three heroic men who ventured into the very heart of the Forbidden Territory to save a fourth who was their friend; of how they rescued him
and, with all the vast resources of the Kremlin pitted against them, fought their way back until they crossed a friendly frontier. It was you who led them and it is to you that I appeal—”

  “No!” the Duke thrust back his chair and stood up. “No, I flatly refuse to involve my friends in this dangerous business.”

  Lucretia jumped to her feet and slipping round the table seized his hands. “But, Duke, I beg you to! Find them! Find them! Take them with you to Madrid. This gold may mean the very life or death of Spain. Please! Please call those wonderful men to your side once more. They won’t refuse you when they know how much there is at stake.”

  De Richleau shook his head violently. “It is impossible. Richard Eaton’s staying with me here, but he’s married now which puts him right out of it. Simon always was a man of peace. Rex might come, but why the devil should I ask him to risk his neck?—and, God knows, I’ve had my fill of fighting. No, my dear, you must find someone else to do this for you.”

  “It’s not for me,” her voice was low, imploring. “It’s for the thousands of decent people who can’t help themselves but have got to be protected somehow from mass shootings and every sort of horror. The Coralles fortune may prove much more than a pawn in the game. In the name of my father who used to say he loved you as a brother, I ask you to keep it out of evil hands.”

  The Duke thrust her away from him and in an endeavour to combat the sentiment of her appeal spoke with sharp formality. “Condesa, I have never allowed my emotion to get the better of my common sense. I regret, but it is impossible for me to serve you in this matter.”

  “So!” she stepped back and, snatching up a balloon brandy glass, flung it down on the table where it shattered into a thousand fragments. “All right then! I must remind you that you owe your life to my father’s good will. As his heir I now claim that life in so far as you may risk it in going to Spain on my behalf. If you have any pretence to being a man of honour you will fulfill your obligation.”

  For a moment there was utter silence in the quiet room, the passion had died out of Lucretia’s eyes, which were now cast down. She stared with faint but growing embarrassment at some scattered fragments of the goblet she had smashed. Suddenly she heard a faint chuckle and, looking up, saw with amazement that de Richleau was laughing at her.