The Golden Spaniard

by Dennis Wheatley

  A moment earlier they had just been standing there resigned or whimpering. Now a sudden flame of hope blazed up in their dazed minds. With one accord they threw themselves into the melée. One secured Juan’s rifle, another Manuel’s, another leapt into the bath and tore the dead leader’s pistol from his body. Two more flung themselves on the abandoned machine-gun, swivelled it on to the Terrorists who were charging along the left side of the bath, and opened fire.

  The whole long chamber rang, cracked and whined with bullets. Hell was let loose there in this deadly unpremeditated encounter. The prisoners were madmen, driven insane by the sudden hope of escape when their very moments of life had been numbered. With desperate courage they flung themselves on the Marxists; even those who were still bound using their feet to kick and trip their appointed executioners.

  The Duke was shot through the arm and dropped his pistol. A squint-eyed man rushed forward to club him with a rifle. Richard shot him through the head at point-blank range. Next second Richard was shot through the leg.

  Rex was already on the steps waving his own automatic and bawling, “Come on! Come on!”

  In the subterranean room the explosions were so deafening that even his bellowing could only be heard at split-second intervals, but de Richleau turned and saw him. Regaining his pistol with his left hand he made a supreme effort to pull Richard’s sleeve with his right over which the blood was streaming. They both turned and staggered up the steps to Rex’s side with two other prisoners close on their heels.

  With bullets zipping after them they gained the top of the steps and, now out of range, paused a second for a breather. Richard had felt the bullet hit him as though a hot iron had seared him in the fleshy part of his right leg above the knee. The place stung now a little but he was not conscious of any serious pain in the excitement of the moment.

  Another prisoner joined them and their group numbered six as they darted round the corner. Rex was leading. He ran slap into two more Militiamen leading a man and a fair-haired boy down to execution.

  The machine-gun was still banging ceaselessly below and the other shooting merged into its clatter. Apparently the two Militiamen assumed the fusillade to be caused only by the squads busy on their bloody work of exterminating Rebel sympathisers. Their faces expressed blank surprise as Rex and the rest charged into the passage.

  Rex outed one by a violent jab to the chin, de Richleau struck the other on the temple with the butt of his pistol. As they went down groaning the others trampled over them; the man and boy turned and came racing after their rescuers.

  Half-way along the corridor one of the escaped prisoners shouted, “Not that way! Not that way!” and barged through a swing baize door flush in the right-hand wall. The rest stopped in their tracks, swung round and followed him.

  The baize door opened on to the Club kitchens. “All have been shot if we’d gone upstairs!” panted the new leader, “May get out—tradesman’s entrance.”

  There was no one in the service quarters. Pots, pans and cleaning utensils were lying about just as they had been left when the Club was raided nearly six weeks before. The man who knew the premises pounded into a big scullery with long sinks, out of another door and down a passage. A moment later they were tumbling after him up a narrow, twisting flight of stone steps. At the top was a small lobby and a double swing door with a fanlight above giving on to the street. It was locked.

  “Stand back!” yelled Rex, and taking a running kick he brought the flat of his great foot crashing against the lock. It gave with a snap and one half of the door swung open.

  “Wait!” cried the Duke. “Wait. For God’s sake, walk!’ But the Spaniards either did not understand or heed his warning. All four men rushed out.

  The boy was about to follow when Rex grabbed him by the arm. “You stay with me, kid,” he said quickly.

  The main entrance of the Club was on a corner formed by the broad Calle de Alcala and a narrower street. Opposite it was a triangular open space where the Alcala and the equally broad Gran Via joined. On the right they merged into one thoroughfare; on the left they were separated by two blocks each tapering to a hairpin bend, the nearer being occupied by the Gas Company’s show-rooms and the farther by the Café Molinero. Both buildings faced on to the open triangle and were divided by another street, the Caballero de Gracia.

  In the open space several lorries still full of prisoners and guards were drawn up. As the four Spaniards dashed out into the street the Militiamen in the lorries saw them and, immediately suspicious, called on them to halt. The men raced on unheeding up the broad Alcala. Rifles cracked and de Richleau, who was peering out, saw one man fall. A dozen guards lounging about the main entrance of the Club came swiftly into action and gave chase.

  “We can’t stay here,” gasped Richard. “Some of them will be up these stairs in a moment.”

  “We’ll make for the Aquarium—half-left—just behind the Gas Company’s office there!” said Rex. “It’s got another entrance in the next street.”

  “One minute!” De Richleau pulled to the door. There came a sound of hobnailed boots ringing on the pavement and further firing as the Militiamen streamed by in pursuit of the three surviving Spaniards.

  “I’ll lead,” muttered Rex pushing past the Duke. “I know the way.” As the sound of thudding feet died in the distance he flung open the door and, lugging the boy by the arm, plunged into the street.

  All four of them were half-way across the Alcala before a fresh shout went up. Luckily a tram screened them from the lorries for a moment but as they reached the opposite kerb a fresh burst of rifle fire spattered the pavement with bullets. The Duke was hit again, this time in the hand.

  The Aquarium could only give them temporary shelter as they had been seen to enter it. Knocking over a man who tried to stop them they dashed through its arcade and out into the Caballero de Gracia, Turning half-left again they crossed it at the run and dived into the Previsores del Porvenier, a bank which lay a few doors from Molinero’s in the second hairpin block. When they came out of its farther entrance into the Gran Via they were walking.

  Their only chance now lay in mingling with the crowd. If they attempted to run farther it was certain the sight of them would give rise to another hue and cry. Fortunately the Spaniards had drawn off most of the Militiamen who were not engaged in guarding prisoners.

  De Richleau had his blood-soaked right hand in his pocket and his wounded right arm was protected from jostling by Rex walking on that side of him. Richard’s wound was paining him now. A large patch of blood stained his trouser leg and he limped a little but Rex made the boy they had brought with them walk in front to hide Richard’s state as much as possible.

  A hundred yards farther up they crossed the Gran Via and hurried down a side-street. At last they relaxed a trifle, feeling that they had achieved at least a temporary safety.

  “Oh, thank you Señors—thank you!” the boy cried suddenly, bursting into tears. He was only a little chap of about twelve.

  “We’re not out of the wood yet, I’m afraid, but we’ll do all we can to save you,” the Duke told him in Spanish. “Where are you taking us, Rex?” he added in English.

  “Only place I can think of—the Tunnel. If we can make it we’ll be safe there until tonight or maybe longer.”

  After walking some way through less crowded streets they turned east towards the Plaza de Colon. Just before they reached it they came to an empty, boarded-up lot between two great blocks of office buildings.

  “Here’s one of the entrances,” said Rex. “You’d best all keep a look-out while I try and gate-crash.”

  They formed a sheltering group about him while he examined the padlock on the board door of the hoarding. Richard lit cigarettes for himself and the Duke. They appeared to be chatting casually while actually scanning the streets with anxious eyes. Normally it was a busy part of the city but there were not many people about as it was now after twelve o’clock and the siesta hours had started.r />
  “Go ahead,” said Richard suddenly. Rex already had two of his fingers under the loop of iron which held the padlock. He screwed up his face and wrenched, there was a splintering sound, and the screws that held the loop were torn out of the wood. Another anxious vigil followed until one by one they could slip inside unobserved.

  Behind the hoarding was a mass of turned-up earth, a big crane and a large quantity of rusting iron material. To the left, under the hook of the crane, appeared a wide, gaping hole. Peering into it they could see its bottom only about twenty feet below the street level. Rex picked up an abandoned ladder, adjusted it at the side of the hole and they all descended into it.

  At the bottom of the hole they saw on two sides big arches supported by curved iron girders. The arches led away into impenetrable blackness. In the entrance of one there were some large stone blocks. While Rex drew the ladder down after them the others collapsed wearily upon the stones.

  The first necessity was to tend the wounded. De Richleau gave instructions while Rex did the bandaging. Richard took off his trousers and declared that although his wound hurt him it was not now bleeding very much. The Duke had lost a lot of blood and was still bleeding badly. He helped Rex to adjust a tourniquet round his upper arm and they bandaged his lower arm and his palm, a piece of the side of which had been torn away, with the tail of his shirt. All their injuries were flesh wounds but Richard’s thigh muscle had received a nasty tear. It looked as if both men would be hors-de-combat for some time.

  “What is this place?” Richard asked when the bandaging was done.

  “A Metro they started to build between La Cibeles and the Hippodrome,” Rex told him. “They couldn’t complete it on account of some tributary of the Manzanares which runs under it and caused a whole section of it to cave in.”

  “Indalecio Prieto started it when he was in the Cabinet,” added the Duke.

  Richard frowned. “I thought he was one of the Red leaders.”

  “He is. Prieto’s the U.G.T. chief in the Asturias. Oviedo is his headquarters. But he was Minister of Labour for a time. Some people think he’s not quite as Red as he’s painted and about the only man in Spain who might agree to a compromise with the Fascists, which would lead to a type of modified National-Socialism. He’s an able fellow and, if you remember, Cristoval Ventura, who was one of his lieutenants, spoke most highly of him that night we were at Botin’s.”

  “So you know Cristoval?” Rex remarked.

  De Richleau nodded. “Yes. Simon’s aware of that already but we don’t mind telling you any of our secrets now. It’s wonderful to have you with us again.”

  “Hi, wait a bit. Let’s get this straight. Because I put on an act way back in those baths I hope you haven’t got any funny ideas about my turning anti-Government.”

  “My dear chap,” Richard laughed, “how can you be anything else after having just helped kill about a dozen Government supporters?”

  “That’s one thing,” said Rex seriously. “I had to get you out, hadn’t I? Simon would have done the same if he’d been there. That was only a little personal affair, though, and nothing to do with politics. You’d better keep any State secrets you’ve got right under your hats unless you want them passed on to the right quarter.”

  “But you must see that they’ll be after your blood now. We’re not suggesting you should help us assassinate Largo Caballero, or anything, but you’re in it with us up to the neck as far as this escape is concerned.”

  “Is there anything about me makes you think I’ve gone nuts? Sure I’m in this with you till I’ve seen you safe some place. Then I guess I’ll have to lie low for a bit until Simon can fix things for me by rendering due apologies about the killings.”

  “But, Rex,” de Richleau pleaded, “surely you can’t approve of the ghastly work those butchers in the baths were doing?”

  “Lord, no! That side of it makes me feel just awful. But the people up top know what they’re doing and they say it’s necessary. The country’s just got to be saved somehow from falling into the clutches of reactionaries like you. If it’s not, France, Britain, even the States will follow and we’ll all be licking the boots of Dictators.”

  “No necessity or cause can possibly be made to justify the shooting of scores of innocent people in cold blood. Think of that child we brought with us.” De Richleau paused and peered round in the half-light. “Where the devil’s he got to?”

  With the extraordinary facility for only living in the moment possessed by so many children, the boy had apparently already forgotten his terror and gone off to explore the entrance of the opposite tunnel. When Rex brought him back, fearing that he might fall down some pit in the semi-darkness, he asked de Richleau eagerly if he thought the caves they were in had ever been used by smugglers.

  The Duke said it might well be so and that in any case he knew some fine smuggling stories. He then asked the boy about himself.

  The little chap’s name was Alonso. His mother was a ballet-dancer; not a very good one, he admitted with youthful candour. They had an apartment in the Calle Serrano. Uncle Paulo often came to see them there. He wasn’t really an uncle but he liked to be called that. Uncle Paulo was very rich. He was always bringing them presents; lovely surprises of all sorts for Mummy and stunning toys for Alonso. On his twelfth birthday, last May, Uncle Paulo had given him a marvellous train. It could be run off the electric light and had three engines.

  De Richleau questioned him gently as to how he had come to be in prison.

  It seemed that one Sunday morning five or six weeks ago, Alonso could not remember which but it was the Sunday there had been shooting in the streets, Uncle Paulo had come to the apartment all pale and shaking. They had hidden him in Mummy’s clothes closet and he had remained there till Tuesday. But then the men with guns had come. They had beaten poor Uncle Paulo’s head in and dragged Mummy and Alonso off to prison. He had been pushed into a cell with a couple of men and he hadn’t seen Mummy since. At this point Alonso began to cry again.

  They cheered him up ‘as well as they could and Rex found some toffees in his pocket which eased the situation. It was then discovered that the Duke had actually been a smuggler himself. Rex was descended on one side from a real Red Indian Chief and knew all about tomahawks and squaws, while Richard had once driven a real railway engine for a week during a general strike and could fly an aeroplane.

  Instead of lying a nameless body among the heap of corpses in the swimming-baths of the Circulo de Bellas Artes, little Alonso spent an entrancing afternoon with these exciting new friends. Although he bore the marks of strain and fear from his weeks of imprisonment, he was a jolly little chap and it eased their tired nerves to get away from the thought of the death and suffering which was occurring all around them by telling him fantastic stories of adventure.

  Towards the latter part of the afternoon the Duke’s and Richard’s wounds began to ache and pain them badly so the job of entertaining Alonso fell mainly to Rex. He had taken a great fancy to the boy because in a vague way he resembled a larger edition of Robin, Rex’s own little boy of three. Curiously enough, Rex’s poor Spanish did not prove as big a stumbling-block as might have been expected; providing he had plenty of time to think out simple sentences he could get on quite well with the limited vocabulary he had picked up during his stay in Spain.

  When darkness began to fall they set about discussing the immediate, and extremely precarious, future. Rex having missed his breakfast and none having been served in the prison that morning, all four of them were ravenously hungry. It was obvious that they could not make the tunnel their permanent hiding-place. Richard and de Richleau were in urgent need of a doctor and, although their wounds had been bound up, there was a possibility that they might go septic unless they had proper attention. The Duke was running a high temperature but it was he who decided the matter quite early in the debate by reminding Richard of the Spaniard at the Finnish Legation who took refugees in for a cash payment.

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bsp; Rex said he had not heard of the cash part of it but he knew that the Finnish as well as many of the South American Legations were chock-full of people who had no legal right to be there.

  They all agreed that they should try to reach the Calle de Fernando el Santo, and start at once; because they would be less likely to be challenged by the patrols while the streets were fairly full than if they left their attempt until late at night.

  It was quite certain that their descriptions would have been circulated but so many politicals were ‘wanted’ in Madrid these days that the police could not possibly remember the descriptions of them all. The great trouble was lack of papers which they could show on demand. Rex’s were all in order but if the police did not recognise him from his description they might well recall his name as that of the Americano who had loosed hell in the Circulo de Bellas Artes that day; while Richard and de Richleau had only the passports which had already been registered by the authorities at the Model Prison.

  Rex cheered the others to some extent by telling them that war fever had gripped a great section of the Militiamen who had previously roamed the streets and that in the last month many thousands of them had been despatched to the various fronts; also that in the same period most of the bands of hooligans and zealous patriots who had previously made themselves such a nuisance by questioning passers-by had either been suppressed or got tired of their self-appointed task. The police were the only people they really had to fear and as the lights of the city were now dimmed against air raids they should be able to slip along from one patch of shadow to another without encountering trouble.

  Richard’s leg had gone stiff and he suffered agonies as they helped him up the ladder out of the pit. He was very lame now and could only get along by leaning heavily on Rex.

  One by one they slipped out of the board door after having made a careful reconnaissance of the street through the chinks of the hoarding. Alonso had been told that he was to think of their journey as a game in which they were smugglers trying to run diamonds past the police. If he was questioned he was to pretend that he was very ill and did not understand, but if they were arrested he was to take to his heels and run.