Vendetta in Spain ddr-2

by Dennis Wheatley

  At half past nine, still speculating, not altogether pessimistically, on his chances of settling accounts with Sanchez that night, he walked out of the Hotel Atlantico. He had left La Torcera up in the sitting-room immersed in a new batch of picture papers. Now that she had done the job that he had required of her and he had paid her off, it was his intention the following morning to put her safely on a train back to Granada. The one thing he did not expect was that he would never see her again.

  The Red-headed Harlot

  Having been indoors most of the day de Quesnoy had intended to walk to the Silver Galleon, but it was something over a mile away and within a few minutes of leaving the Atlantico there was a distant rumble of thunder, then it came on to rain; so he picked up a carriage. It set him down opposite the flamboyant monument commemorating the Cortes held in Cadiz in 1812, that had given Spain her famous Liberal Constitution, then he walked through the park in the direction La Torcero had told him that the Silver Galleon lay.

  He found the inn without difficulty. It stood on a corner and was a rambling old seventeenth-century two-storied building with tiled roofs that buckled here and there, gable windows and an archway in its front that faced on to the park and port. After inspecting its two visible sides, the Count walked through the archway to find, as he expected, that it led to a yard that had stabling for three or four vehicles and about a dozen horses. A covered wagon stood in its centre but no one was about.

  On either side of the archway, near its street end, there was a door. From under one only a faint light showed; from the other came a much brighter light and the sound of voices. This door obviously led to the bar. The short, sharp shower was over but de Quesnoy still had the collar of his jacket turned up and now, pulling the peak of his cap well down, he went in.

  At a glance he saw it to be a comfortable room furnished with old but solid pieces. In one corner four men were playing dice, farther along two others were seated drinking, a seventh was leaning on the bar and, beyond him, two women were sitting in an inglenook with a table in front of them. Behind the bar stood a broad-shouldered, square-faced man of about fifty with greyish grizzled hair, whom de Quesnoy rightly guessed to be the landlord.

  Touching his cap with a murmured Buenas tardes to the company, he walked over to the bar and ordered himself a brandy and ginger-ale. It was not a mixture that he particularly liked, but he had found that while the best Spanish brandy, although not comparable with fine French cognac, was quite palatable, the worst could be horrible; so in a place like this it was safer not to take it neat.

  The landlord had been chatting with the other men at the bar. As he served the Count, he remarked that it was getting late in the year for a thunderstorm, but it didn't look like coming to much. De Quesnoy replied that it had already stopped raining, which was a pity as it was oppressive and a bit more would have freshened things up. Then the landlord just nodded and moved along to resume his conversation with his earlier customer.

  The Count took a drink and lit a cigarette. Both the women behind him were wearing mantillas made from small fluffy black bobbles sewn on to net, but under this head-dress the hair of one of them had certainly been lightish, and as nine out of ten women in Spain were brunettes he felt fairly certain she would prove to be Inez Giudice. It looked, too, as though he had timed his entry well, as he had not wanted to have to linger about there and perhaps be drawn into conversation with other people before she turned up, or, on the other hand, leave his arrival so late that she might have already been picked up by some other man.

  When he had smoked a third of his cigarette he glanced round and remained looking at the two girls for a moment as though he had noticed them for the first time. Now, he had no doubt that the fair one was Inez. Her head had been in shadow when he had glanced at her before, but now the rays of a lamp on the bar brought out its vivid red lights. As their eyes met she smiled and closed one of hers in a wink.

  Returning her smile, he carried his glass over to their table, asked permission to join them, and then if he might buy them a drink. The red-head asked for a Calisay and the darker woman for an Anis. Having collected the two liqueurs from the bar, the Count told them his name was Jaime. His lead confirmed his belief that the red-head was Inez and the dark one said her name was Beatriz.

  Now that de Quesnoy had a chance to look at them closely he saw that Beatriz was by a good bit the older of the two. Her face was very ordinary, with a heavy jowl and a rather bovine but not unpleasant expression. Inez, on the other hand, he decided, would prove distinctly attractive to anyone who liked the gamine type. She had a small freckled face with a retrousse nose, a wide mouth and merry grey eyes. What he could see of her figure was also good and, barely concealed by the fichu of her bodice, two small plump breasts, pushed up by her stays, pouted invitingly. Even so, experience told him that with such small features she might be more amusing but would not be as passionate as her companion, and would certainly prove more hard-boiled.

  For a few minutes they talked platitudes about the weather -how oppressive it was and what a pity that the rain had stopped - then Inez said to him, 'You are not Spanish, are you?'

  'No,' he replied, 'I am British, and in my own country I am called James.'

  'Are you the master of a ship?' Beatriz inquired.

  He shook his head. 'No, only the representative of a Shipping Company. I am out here to make some new arrangements with our agents in Cadiz.'

  They asked him how long he had been in the city, whether he had been to Spain before, if he liked the country, and so on; to all of which questions he made suitable replies. But in every case he addressed his replies to Inez, hardly giving her companion a glance.

  After ten minutes Beatriz took the hint. Finishing her Anis, she said to Inez with good-natured resignation, 'Well, dear, two's company and three's none, as they say; and you're the lucky one again. Maybe I'll see you later if the gentleman doesn't keep you too long. Have a good time, both of you, and thanks for the drink.'

  De Quesnoy did not seek to detain her; but as with a rustle of skirts she stood up to leave them, he said, 'At least permit me to buy you another Anis to drink while you are waiting for a happy encounter with some old or new friend who may arrive to entertain you.'

  It was a gracious gesture and both girls smiled their appreciation. When she had settled herself in another corner of the room he took the Anis over to her, then he collected from the bar another Calisay for Inez and another brandy and ginger-ale for himself.

  As he sat down again she smiled at him, pouted her mouth, and said the one word, 'Well?'

  'Well?' he repeated, returning her smile. 'Do you live far from here?'

  'No.' She winked one of her bright grey eyes, then nodded in the direction of the big man behind the bar. 'I live in the house, and Senor Anzana makes no objection to my taking gentlemen friends up to my room. Would you like to see it?'

  'Indeed I would,' he told her quickly.

  'All right then.' Her grey eyes narrowed a trifle. 'But you understand I want a nice present.'

  'Of course,' he nodded, 'that's only fair. But how much? I'm not a rich man, and the money I brought from England has got to last me out.'

  'Thirty pesetas,' she suggested.

  Knowing her price to be much less, he shook his head. 'No, I can't afford more than twenty.'

  She considered for a moment, then nodded. 'Very well then. I wouldn't, if it weren't that I like you. You're different, somehow, to most of the men who come here.'

  'I like you too,' he returned the compliment. 'You, too, are different from the sort of girls one expects to find in a place like this.' It was on the tip of his tongue to add, 'I don't wonder that licentious young devil, Sanchez, ran off with you!' but he checked himself in time.

  Standing up, she said, 'Let's go upstairs, then.' Simultaneously he rose and walked the length of the bar with her. A few of the men looked up then hid a smile, but most of them took no notice.

  They crossed under t
he archway, entered the door on its far side, and Inez led the way up a flight of stairs. At their top she walked down a corridor in which a dim light was burning. Opening the last door but one on the right she turned, smiled at de Quesnoy, and said, 'Here we are.'

  He followed her in and she lit an oil lamp. On taking a quick look round he was conscious of sharp disappointment. It was a small slip-room, hardly more than a cubby-hole and furnished only with a narrow single bed. It seemed that after all she did not live at the Silver Galleon as La Torcero had supposed, but had only professional accommodation there; and even if she used it at times to sleep in, it was quite clear that Sanchez did not share it with her.

  Turning away from the lamp, she put her arms round his neck, gave him a swift kiss, and asked, 'Would you like me to undress?'

  'I certainly would,' he told her, as his object now was to play for time during which he hoped to get some useful information out of her.

  'It will cost you five pesetas more,' she warned him.

  'All right,' he agreed. 'You're pretty enough to be worth it.'

  At that moment there came a loud crash of thunder and heavy drops of rain began to patter on the roof above.

  'Wait a minute,' she said. 'I must shut the window of the other room.'

  Picking up the lamp, she stepped over to a door that evidently connected the little room with the last one on that side of the corridor. Opening it, she went through and, by the light of the lamp she had taken with her, de Quesnoy had a fair sight of the room beyond. It was considerably larger than the slip-room in which he stood, with a double bed, chairs, a dressing-table and a wardrobe beside which stood a pair of man's boots.

  At her first mention of another room the Count's pulses had quickened, and when his glance lit on the boots he felt a thrill of elation. She was living at the Silver Galleon after all, and a man was living with her. He might not be Sanchez but there was a fifty-fifty chance that he was.

  The rain was now streaming down. She had closed the window and picked up the lamp. De Quesnoy's best hope of learning more before resorting to a direct .question lay in making her talk as much as possible. As she came back towards him, he asked:

  'Why shouldn't we use that room? It looks much more comfortable.'

  She gave a quick shake of her small red head. 'No. That is where I sleep. I share it with my man. For business I always use this room.'

  Frowning, he feigned uneasiness. 'D'you mean that your husband might come up to that room at any time? If he did he would hear and surprise us.'

  'You've no need to worry, dear,' she gave an easy laugh. 'He stays out half the night drinking and arguing with others of his kind at a political club to which he belongs. Even if he did return while I had someone here he knows his own interests better than to make a scene about it.'

  Giving no sign of his satisfaction at this strong indication that her man was Sanchez, de Quesnoy continued to frown, and went on:

  'I think you have been very unlucky, Inez, in marrying a man who makes use of you like this.'

  With a quick shrug, she said, 'He's not really my husband; but he's got all those qualities that attract a woman. I may be a fool, but I'm mad about him.'

  The Count threw out a mild sneer. 'He can't be much of a man if he lets others have you.'

  It worked. She bridled at once and threw back, 'Speak only of what you know. If he were in work of course he would keep me. But he is a political and wanted by the police on account of some trouble he got into in Barcelona; so he dare not take a job. As things are, it is only right that I should support him.'

  That, de Quesnoy felt, clinched the matter. Tonight, at last, his luck was really in. There would now be no need for him even to mention Sanchez to Inez, let alone go through another such performance as he had with La Torcera in order to get another lead to Sanchez's whereabouts. All he had to do was render Inez temporarily helpless and silent to ensure himself a free field. He could then search the bedroom for that damning negative and any prints of it there might be. If he failed to find them he would await Sanchez's return, hold him up at the point of the revolver and force him to reveal their hiding-place. Whether he found them first or had to wait until Sanchez came back, once he had secured them he meant to march Sanchez off to the police station for speedy dispatch to Barcelona so that he could be tried in the coming week with his father and brother.

  'Well!' Inez chided him, breaking in on his thoughts. 'Don't look so serious. Just put my little present on that shelf over there, and I'll show you that a Spanish girl can give you a better time than an English one.'

  'I doubt it,' he replied with a laugh. 'But get your things off and we'll see.'

  As he spoke he produced some money, counted out the agreed amount of pesetas and laid them on the shelf. With a nod of acknowledgement she plucked with both hands at the ruching of her long full skirt and pulled it inside out over her head. For a second he contemplated seizing her and using its folds to muffle her cries; but he decided that his original plan for dealing with the sort of situation that had arisen would save a struggle and prove more satisfactory.

  Unbuttoning his square jacket, he took it off. She had rid herself of her petticoat and was standing in bloomers and a cotton bodice. With a well-practised gesture she pushed the bloomers down, gave them a swift kick with her right foot lifting a shapely leg high into the air and, as the bloomers left her toe, caught them in her right hand.

  As he unknotted his muffler he laughed his appreciation of her little trick, while thinking that many a sailor home from the seas might travel farther and fare worse than with this lively little red-head.

  She then sat down on the edge of the bed to undo the suspender clips that attached her stockings to her long whale-boned stays. It was for her to sit down that he had been waiting. Moving round behind her, ostensibly to hang his coat on a peg in the door to the other room, he pulled from his left hand pocket a silk sock tied at the top and having in it a big fistful of sand. As he swung the sock the sand formed a ball in its toe. With a swish, he brought it down hard on the back of her head.

  Stunned by the impact, without even a moan, she heeled over sideways and slipped off the bed. Picking her up, he laid her back on it at full length. From a pocket in his coat he took some lengths of tape with which he tied her wrists and ankles, then he picked up from the floor a handkerchief she had dropped, and stuffed it into her mouth. As the handkerchief was quite small it did not make a very efficient gag, but had he used a larger one there would have been a possibility that she might suffocate while unconscious, and he felt confident that the little ball of linen between her tongue and palate would be quite sufficient to prevent her, when she did come to, from making a noise loud enough to attract attention. Finally, he used another length of the tape to make a loop round her neck, then tied its end to the iron bed-rail above her head, so that, with her ankles and wrists bound, she could not get off the bed without choking herself.

  As he looked down at his handiwork he thought, 'Poor little devil, I expect that by this time next week she will be working for some other blackguard; but with luck tonight I'll rid her of a murderer.' Then, to console her for the blow on the head, he took some more money from his pocket and made the amount on the shelf up to a hundred pesetas.

  Readjusting his muffler, he put on his jacket and, while doing so, he saw that the door on which he had hung it had, at about chest level, an oblong slit like a letter-box in it. He had not noticed it before, because on the far side of the door it was masked by a strip of material the same colour as the paintwork. For a moment he wondered what purpose it served, then decided that it was probably used as a spy-hole so that anyone in the big bedroom could lift the flap, peep through and see what was going on in the smaller. But, having more important things to think about, he quickly dismissed it from his mind.

  Picking up the lamp he carried it into the larger room and set it down on a small table. At his first swift glance round his eye lit on a camera hanging by a strap
from a hook on the door giving on to the corridor. From what he had seen of Sanchez's as they had struggled together in the moonlight it looked the same. A moment later he had verified that it was because the leather was stained from its having been partly submerged in the lily pool. Opening it up he removed the spool, unrolled the film and held it up to the light to find that it was a new one, no part of which had been used.

  There was no desk or bureau in the room so he decided that the chest of drawers was the best place to start his hunt for the negative. Its contents were almost entirely clothes belonging to

  Inez. Quickly he turned them over and thrust his hands into the corners of the drawers, one after another, but they yielded nothing of interest. Next he tried the wardrobe. One hanging space held Inez's dresses, the other garments belonging to Sanchez. He went through the latter most carefully but the pockets had in them only a few old bills, lottery tickets and betting vouchers. The shelves and drawers of the central compartment were evidently shared, and contained scarves, mantillas, socks and shirts. Less hopefully he went to the dressing-table; its two shallow drawers had in them only Inez's manicure and make-up things.

  Anxiously now, he stared round for likely hiding places then, stooping, looked under the bed. Beneath it there were three corded wooden boxes. Pulling one of them out he got the cord undone and with the aid of a long steel buttonhook prised the case open. Its contents revealed that Inez was a born hoarder. The box held the oddest collection of junk, valueless except to its owner. He prised open the second box and, to save time, upended it so that its contents spilled out over the floor. Among the pile of old handbags, bull-fight programmes, small gaudily painted figures of saints, garter rosettes, a pack of for tune-telling cards and some fancy scent bottles, were two albums. One was half-filled with picture postcards, mostly of a low comic variety or of holiday resorts; the other held photographs, but they were only faded snaps of Inez at various ages and, presumably, her family and friends. The third box held another medley of souvenirs from her perhaps more innocent past.