De Quesnoy needed no telling that, for him, the silence was pregnant with menace. The men about him were declared enemies of society. He had every reason to believe them either actively concerned in carrying out assassinations or, at least, helping to plan them. Since they felt no scruples during attempts to murder their chosen victims, about innocent people often being killed or maimed, it was certain that, should they be convinced he was a spy, they would show no mercy to him.
Taken completely off his guard, during those seconds of explosive quiet, he stared at the weedy little Frenchman who had denounced him. Then, rallying his wits in an attempt to save himself, his face suddenly took on an expression of angry amazement. His 'devil's eyebrows' shot up into his forehead and in a voice sharp with indignation, he cried:
'Monsieur! How dare you make such an accusation. You are entirely mistaken.'
'Nothing of the kind!' Gerault snapped back. 'You were the leader of the conspiracy to put the Due de Vendome on the throne, and later you passed yourself off under the name of Vasili Petrovitch. It was you who bribed that absinthe-besotted traitor, Bidegain, to steal the fiches from the files of the Grand Lodge, and letters from the War Minister to our Secretary-General, Vadecard. I would know you again anywhere.'
'I haven't an idea what you are talking about,' stormed the Count. 'I've never seen you before in my life.'
As he made the latter statement he would have been prepared to swear to it. The lined face, beady brown eyes and thin drooping moustache of the Frenchman were entirely strange to him; but during the months he had lived in a Montparnasse boarding-house
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as Petrovitch he had been introduced to scores of Freemasons and attended a dozen or more Lodge meetings, so he could not have remembered the faces of a tenth of those he had met or rubbed shoulders with.
On the other hand, as the wrecker of their attempt to sabotage the French Army, they had ample cause to remember him; and not just vaguely as a man they had seen a few times, for his description had been circulated by the police and photographs of him had appeared in all the papers. Ten months earlier his participation in the abortive conspiracy to place de Vendome on the throne had brought him nation-wide publicity, so the Press had seized on his reappearance in Paris as front-page news, and his features had temporarily become as well known as those of the atheist War Minister whom he had succeeded in hounding out of office.
It was that which made his return to France, even temporarily and under another name, still almost certain to lead to his arrest; but as he was in Spain and it was getting on for two years since such notoriety had been thrust upon him, he had considered negligible the chances of his being recognized by one of the class of people with whom he intended to mix in Barcelona. He had even regarded the risk as so remote that he had contemplated joining a Masonic Lodge there; so he felt that fate had played him a really scurvy trick in confronting him with an enemy who could swear to his identity.
Hiding his apprehension that he might fail in his attempt to bluff matters out, he gave a swift glance round at the other occupants of the room. Dolores and Jovellenos had come to their feet. The tall, stoop-shouldered mathematics master was peering through his spectacles at Gerault; but Dolores's pale-blue eyes now seemed to be protruding slightly and were fixed on him with evident suspicion. Zapatro and Herr Schmidt he could not see, as both of them were standing a little behind him; but Sanchez's low brow was furrowed and his mouth grim, while Benigno was regarding him with a puzzled frown.
Meanwhile Gerault had returned to the attack. Wrinkling up his nose he retorted with a vicious sneer, 'So you have never seen me in your life, eh? No doubt the noble Count considered me too insignificant a person to register in his aristocratic memory. But I have seen him, with Lazare, with Forain and with others whom he deceived with his glib tongue so that he might lie his way into our Brotherhood. I tell you, comrades, he is a traitor; a spy. If we had caught him in Paris we'd have had him garrotted by apaches and paid them handsomely for their trouble.'
De Quesnoy was well aware that there were plenty of dock-rats in Barcelona who, with no questions asked, would prove ready enough to play a similar part for a few hundred pesetas. Whether these people of Ferrer's were militant anarchists or only abettors, unless he could convince them that Gerault was mistaken, he thought it more than probable that they would decide to arrange matters so that next morning his corpse would be found floating in the harbour. His heart was beating quickly now but he realized that his best hope lay in maintaining a calm appearance. He said more quietly:
'Really, this is fantastic. All of you here have known me for quite a while. Have you ever heard me say anything which might lead you to suppose that I am this French Count of whom Monsieur Gerault speaks?'
'If you are, you would not be such a fool as to do so,' said Benigno in a non-committal voice.
'But I am not a Frenchman, and I have never been to France,' lied the Count.
'Yet I am told you speak French like a native, although you say you are a Russian,' Gerault put in. 'Colonel de Quesnoy also spoke French fluently, while pretending to be a Russian refugee.'
'Perhaps, but what of it? There are thousands of Russians who have fled from Tzarist persecution and are now scattered over western Europe. French is the second language of all educated Russians, and unless they spoke it fairly well few people outside Russia would understand them.'
'Yes, yes; but that is only a minor point. I recognize you. Those eyes of yours are unmistakable. Your face and figure too all tally with those of the man who called himself Petrovitch. If we were in Paris I could easily turn up a photograph . . .'
'This is absurd,' the Count broke in. 'A mere resemblance. How can you possibly be certain when it is close on two years since you saw this man Petrovitch?'
The words were no sooner out of de Quesnoy's mouth than he knew that he had blundered. Drawing back his lips in a snarl Gerault spat at him, 'So you are aware how long ago it is since Petrovitch - or to give him his real name, the Comte de Quesnoy -escaped from France? Yet when I spoke of him a minute ago you asserted that you had no idea what I was talking about.'
'That's true!' exclaimed Sanchez, his dark eyes narrowing still further.
'He is a spy all right,' Dolores cried with sudden venom. 'I suspected that he might not be quite what he seemed when he took me out to dinner and tried to pump me. This makes it certain.'
Zapatro spoke from behind de Quesnoy's left shoulder. 'If he is, although we have been cautious at times when he has been with us, he could have picked up quite a lot from our conversation; so we must look on him as dangerous.'
In an effort to restore the situation the Count rounded on him and said sharply, 'All this is no more than speculation, and most unjust to me. The very first day I came to this house, on entering the laboratory I found Sanchez and Benigno busy putting together an infernal machine. If I had come here as a spy that would have been evidence enough for me to have had the place raided and them arrested. But I did nothing of the kind. Instead I suggested a method by which they could make the bomb more efficient.'
'That is certainly the truth,' Benigno agreed. 'But I think I may be able to provide an indisputable answer to this riddle. For years past Father has taken the best illustrated papers of France, England and Germany; and he keeps the back numbers up in his study. I feel sure I remember reading an article about the Vendome conspiracy and it is bound to have had photographs of the principal participants.' Turning to Gerault, he added, 'Tell me the dates to look for; then I'll go upstairs and see if I can find the article.'
'He was last hunted by the police in Paris in November, 1904,' replied the Frenchman quickly. 'But the conspiracy was unmasked in December, 1903. Round about either time you should find articles about him.'
As Benigno hurried from the room, slamming the door behind him, de Quesnoy found himself faced with a dilemma that might spell life or death for him. As Petrovitch, he had worn a beard and shaved off the upper points of hi
s 'devil's' eyebrows. But no photographs had ever been taken of him like that. All those used by the Press had been of him as a Chief Instructor at St. Cyr and, except that he had then had a cavalry moustache, they differed very little from his appearance as it was at present. Therefore if Benigno found an illustrated article it would prove conclusive evidence against him.
But Benigno might fail to find any proof of his identity. If so, de Quesnoy wondered, what then? It would be his word against Gerault's. In that case they could hardly do otherwise than let him go. But either way this meant an end to 'Nicolai Chirikov's' activities in Barcelona. It was certain that having come under such grave suspicion Ferrer and Co. would not trust him an inch further. They would, too, send out a warning about him to all their associates. To clinch matters Gerault would, no doubt, go hurrying off to the City Library and there turn up illustrated articles about the
Vendome conspiracy to prove himself right. After, or even before, that happened, the Count now realized, the sooner he was out of Barcelona the better for his health.
With a jerk his mind came back to the present, and the disturbing knowledge that he had first to get out of that room alive.
As had been his custom since arriving in Barcelona he had on him a small pearl-handled revolver. He carried it thrust into his trouser top just above his left hip. It was scarcely more than a toy affair, for had he carried a larger weapon the bulge under his coat would have been noticeable; but its bullets were big enough to kill a man if fired at close range.
All the same, he felt distinctly dubious about the prospects of his suddenly whipping out such a miniature firearm and with it terrifying the group about him into allowing him to walk unmolested out of the house. Even with Benigno absent he would still be up against five men and Dolores; and, unless he made use of the weapon immediately, three of the men were near enough to snatch it from him.
Swiftly he decided that he had only one chance of getting clear away. That was to shoot Gerault, who was standing right in front of him. And not merely to wound him in the arm or leg, but shoot him in the face so that he at once collapsed, then spring over his body to the door while the others were still too paralysed by shock to intervene.
Yet such a move could have most disastrous consequences. At the best of times it was difficult to take accurate aim with a very small revolver, and in this case there would be no time to take proper aim at all. The bullet might pierce one of Gerault's eyes and enter his brain, or pass through his mouth and sever his spinal cord.
The Count had killed too many North African tribesmen, fighting gallantly for what they believed to be their rights, to feel any qualms about taking life; and since Gerault had evidently been chosen by Ferrer as a master at the Escuela Moderna because he was an anarchist, de Quesnoy would have felt no compunction at all about shooting him down as the price of his own liberty. But if he did, how long would he keep that liberty?
Even if it could be proved that Gerault had taken part in militant anarchist activities, which was doubtful, to have killed him in such circumstances would, under the criminal law of Spain, be murder just the same. The Ferrer brothers would start a hue and cry and at once inform the police. Once that happened, de Quesnoy knew the odds were that he would be arrested before morning. Had he had an official status he might have got away with it on a plea of self-defence; but he had not, and honour demanded that he should not disclose that Don Alfonso had sent him on this mission while deliberately concealing it from his own police.
Gerault's death would be regarded as the result of a private quarrel between two of Ferrer's associates, and the Government authorities in Barcelona would welcome the opportunity of ridding themselves of another of his group; so it was certain that they would demand the death penalty for Nicolai Chirikov. Don Alfonso would, of course, hear of the affair and it would cause him the gravest possible embarrassment. To save the Count's life he might privately disclose to his Minister of Justice that de Quesnoy had been acting for him, but it was too much to expect that he would court the resentment of his whole police force by admitting publicly that he had gone behind their backs. So de Quesnoy would still have to stand his trial for murder, and the best he could hope for was a backstairs instruction to the judge that he should be let off with a term of imprisonment.
These thoughts rushed pell-mell through the Count's brain, and decided him that the long-term risks of shooting his way out considerably outweighed his present danger. There was still a chance that Benigno might fail to find an article with his photograph, and that with the case against him unproven he might be allowed to go.
Even supposing he was definitely identified, that might not mean the worst. That they would set upon and kill him themselves seemed unlikely, or that they would send for some thug to play the part of executioner there and then. It was more probable that he would escape for the moment with a beating-up and then being thrown out.
Later that night, no doubt, they would offer the leader of some criminal gang a handsome sum to make away with him. Gerault would certainly urge them to do that. But given even an hour's grace he should be able to save himself. He had nothing at his lodgings that he valued, so he need not risk returning to it. Providing that he was not seriously injured in the beating they might give him before they let him go, he could go to earth for the night in one of the suburbs of the city, or be in a train well away from it long before any gang could get on his track.
Slightly easier in his mind owing to these latest speculations, but still highly apprehensive, he waited anxiously for Benigno's return. He had been gone no more than five minutes, yet it seemed far longer; and the others, as keyed up as the Count, were openly showing their impatience. None of them spoke, yet the silence was not complete. Even as they listened with tense expectancy to catch Benigno's footfalls as he clattered down the back stairs, one or other of them made some restless movement, easing their position or giving a little nervous cough.
At last the sound of the expected footfalls reached them. Next moment Benigno threw open the door. Two swift paces brought him into the room. In his hand he held a glossy magazine. Waving it he exclaimed excitedly:
'It's him! It's him without a doubt!'
Dolores ran forward crying 'Let me see' and almost snatched the magazine from him. Jovellenos followed her. Sanchez closed in on Benigno from the other side. Zapatro, also anxious to get a look, brushed past the Count, and even Gerault turned his head in Benigno's direction.
It was de Quesnoy's opportunity. They were all crowded round Benigno with, for the moment, one thought only in their minds - to see what this notorious conspirator, monarchist and spy looked like in the photograph. The group were between the Count and the door, but that could not be helped. Between it and the wall there were a few feet of space and by swerving round them in a violent dash he might get through the door before they realized that he was making a dash for it. Whether he would be able to reach the front door, get it open and leap out into the street before they were upon him lay in the lap of the gods. Such a chance to get clean away was most unlikely to occur again. He took it.
In one bound he reached Jovellenos, between whose back and the wall he meant to pass. But as he landed he felt a violent tug upon his armpits and shoulders. It jerked him upright and almost pulled him over backwards. At the same moment there came a tearing sound. He had forgotten that Herr Schmidt was still standing behind him. The German had seen him tense his muscles for his spring and, as he made it, grabbed the skirt of his jacket with both hands.
Instantly the group about Benigno fell apart and turned upon the escaping imposter. Schmidt was left holding a long strip of the Count's cheap cotton jacket that had torn away, but the pull on it had halted him in his tracks. As Jovellenos swung round and tried to grab him he struck the tall maths master under the chin and sent him reeling back against Dolores. But Zapatro, a middle-aged but bull-like little man, threw himself forward. De Quesnoy sidestepped the anarchist's rush to find himself facing Gerault. Wit
h savage pleasure he smashed his fist into the Frenchman's face. The blow broke his nose, it spurted blood, and with a wail of agony he flopped to his knees.
His collapse brought down Benigno too, as in the act of springing into the fray Gerault's falling body knocked him off balance. For a moment their forms, writhing on the floor, left a clear space in front of the Count. He used it to pull out his little revolver. As Zapatro charged him again he fired. The bullet hit the architect in the left shoulder. Halting, he gave a cry and clapped his right hand to the wounded place.
De Quesnoy swivelled round and aimed again, this time at Sanchez, who at the moment the fight started had jumped sideways to block the doorway. Feet spread wide apart, hands on hips, head thrust forward, he stood there now a bulky human barrier, seemingly impassable. Yet a shot could move him.
It was never fired. Flinging herself forward Dolores grasped de Quesnoy's arm with both her hands. Throwing her whole weight upon it, she bore it down. In vain he strove to shake her off. Next moment Schmidt had collared him round the neck and dragged him backwards. Stooping his head he bit into the German's wrist. With a yelp and an oath Schmidt let go.
Dolores had transferred her hold to the Count's hand and was clawing at it in an attempt to get the revolver from him. Suddenly it went off. She screamed; the bullet had lodged in the calf of her right leg. Momentarily free once more, de Quesnoy again jerked up the little weapon and turned towards the door. Sanchez still stood framed in it, and now he had a long thin knife in his hand. As the Count swung round to face him he threw it.
De Quesnoy had never been nearer death. Thrown with practised skill the glittering blade should have pierced his throat just below his Adam's apple. But at the very instant it was thrown Schmidt struck him a violent blow on the back of the head with a thick, round, eighteen-inch-long ebony ruler. His head was knocked forward and slightly sideways. The knife streaked over his shoulder, nicked the German's left ear and sped on to bury its point in a wooden cupboard.
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