Vendetta in Spain

by Dennis Wheatley

  As he scrambled painfully to his feet his eye fell upon a nearly square white object lying in the middle of the path. On touching it he realised that it was a piece of cardboard. It was almost four inches long by three wide. Turning it over, he saw it to be a portrait, and the moonlight was just sufficient for him to make out that it was of a woman. Evidently when he had seized Sanchez’ coat and dragged upon it, the tear had also ripped the inside pocket and the photograph had fallen out of it.

  Carefully now, a lump rising on his chin, his knees grazed and the soles of his bare feet on the sharp ground causing him to wince with every step he took, he made his way back towards his bedroom.

  As he approached the house he saw Gulia leaning out of an upstairs window. She called softly down to him, ‘Armand; what happened? I pray God you’re not hurt.’

  ‘No,’ he called back. ‘I’m all right; but he got away. It was Sanchez Ferrer. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.’

  Going inside, he looked at the portrait under the light. It was of a gipsy dancer, and had been taken by a photographer in Granada. Getting out fresh night clothes he changed out of his mud-covered ones into them, then went along to the cloak-room off the hall to wash himself and bathe his hurts. Back in his room he lowered himself into the armchair and considered for a while what was best to be done.

  As it was impossible to guess even in which direction Sanchez had made off it was pointless to telephone the police. Moreover, the police were the last people that de Quesnoy now wished to bring into the matter. He knew little about photography, but was inclined to suppose that it was by no means easy to take good pictures by artificial light; so that taken by Sanchez might not come out. On the other hand it was unlikely that he would have taken it if he had not thought there was a good chance that it would. And if it did it could lead to most appalling trouble.

  Gulia, in her transparent nightgown, had been as near naked as made no matter, and she had been facing the window. At the angle from which the picture had been taken his body would probably have shielded one side of her, but as she was nearly as tall as he was her face must have appeared in it over his shoulder, and she had had her arms round his neck. It compromised both of them beyond all possible argument, and for it to fall into the hands of the police would be nearly as bad as if it were shown straight away to José. Therefore, by hook or by crook he must get the negative back.

  On re-examining the photograph that Sanchez had dropped he saw that on the back there were scrawled a number of letters and numbers, in most cases having dashes between them. But he could think of no clue to these hieroglyphics.

  Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, he saw that it was now a quarter past two; so if he woke at six he could still get in the best part of four hours’ sleep. Getting into bed he put out the light.

  Gulia’s visit had not allowed her to persuade him to make love to her; and Sanchez’ appearance on the scene had now given him an excuse to escape further situations in which her beauty might lead him to succumb to temptation. He felt no righteous glow in having rejected her advances. On the contrary he was inclined to think that in refusing so lovely a gift of the gods he might, at times, look back with regret on this lost opportunity to take as his mistress a woman so gifted in so many ways; but at least he was able to go to sleep without any twinge of conscience.

  As a soldier, he had long since trained himself to wake at any hour, and within a few minutes of six he opened his eyes. A slight ache in his chin recalled to him at once the events that had taken place during the night and for a short while he lay turning them over in his mind. Then he got out of bed, put on his dressing-gown and walked along to the library. There, he wrote two letters. Both were to Gulia. The first ran:

  Dear Doña Gulia,

  The intruder who was seen in the garden two nights ago was here again last night. He made an attempt to get into my room, but fortunately the noise he made trying to force the lock of the window woke me. I jumped out of bed, chased him through the garden and caught, but failed to hold, him. (I fear that as a result of our encounter one of your lily pools has suffered sadly). However, the light was good enough for me to identify him as Sanchez Ferrer.

  He will naturally expect me to report the occurrence to the police, as a result of which the San Sebastian district would become too hot to hold him; so the odds are that he will go into hiding again further afield. Last time he was in danger of arrest the police had reason to believe that he went to earth in Granada, and during our struggle last night he dropped a photograph taken in Granada, which makes it as good as certain that he did. But he cannot know that the police suspect that he has a hide-out there so I think it highly probable that he will return to it.

  Having considered turning the matter over to the police I have decided against that. There would certainly be delays while statements are taken and passed on to Granada, and it is most unlikely that any of the Granada police could identify Sanchez on sight. Therefore, with the aid of the photograph he dropped, if I act promptly I consider that I stand a better chance of laying him by the heels myself.

  Please forgive me for not delaying to make my formal adieux to you, but I am loath to disturb you so early in the morning and must leave the house soon after eight if I am to catch the nine-five for Madrid. (There is just a chance, too, that Sanchez may be on it.)

  One more thing. As a knife will be found in or near the lily pool it would be foolish of me to conceal from you that Sanchez attempted to kill me. In consequence, if my idea is correct and I run him to earth in Granada, there is always the possibility that in another attempt he might prove more successful, or that I might be laid up there for a while with another wound.

  Therefore, just in case anything prevents my returning to San Sebastian, I would like to express how deep is my gratitude to you, to José and to François for the wonderful care you have taken of me since I was brought to you as a shattered wreck. That I am whole and strong again so soon it due entirely to the unceasing thought that you have so generously given to my nursing and well being. It is a debt that I shall never be able to repay. But I have every hope of returning safely from Granada and later expressing the above sentiments to you in person.

  My affectionate regards to you, to José and to François.

  Your most devoted and grateful friend,

  Armand de Quesnoy.

  P.S. There seems nothing to be gained by my going secretly to Granada; so please tell José that if he wishes to get in touch with me I shall be staying at the new Alhambra Palace Hotel under my own name.

  His second letter ran:—

  My very dear Gulia,

  It is imperative that the police should not be brought into this. Sanchez got away with his camera and if it is humanly possible I must get hold of it myself before anyone else sets eyes on the film that it contains.

  Why he should have taken a photograph instead of trying to shoot me puzzled me a lot; but I think I have found the answer. To shoot anyone through a thick pane of glass is a chancy business, as the odds are very high on the bullet being deflected and failing to hit its intended victim. Moreover, a shot would have aroused the house and he might have been caught. In any case the whole police force of San Sebastian would have been alerted and on the look out for him before he could get away from the district.

  The probability is that he has been snooping about the place for a fortnight or more. If so he must have seen us many times virtually alone together on the beach and in the garden, and come to the conclusion that we were having an affaire. The idea of blackmail would then automatically have come to to his mind, because he told me himself, when he believed me to be an anarchist sympathiser, that for some months past he had been successfully blackmailing an unfortunate Marquésa in Barcelona. His next step would then have been to conceal himself for a number of nights in succession outside the patio which gives on to my bedroom hoping that a chance would arise for him to get a compromising photograph of us.

  The obv
ious assumption is that, if he succeeded, he would use it to demand money. But I do not think that in this case that was his intention or, if so, only as a secondary object of his plan. I have good grounds to believe that the Ferrer family are most strongly united. In any case, the two brothers are devoted to one another, and I feel convinced that Sanchez’ mind at the present time is dominated by the wish to save his brother and father.

  It may be that he thinks that with this photograph he will be able to blackmail me into refusing to give evidence against them at their forthcoming trial. But to make sure of that, even if I promised not to, would be difficult because it is quite certain that I shall be subpoenaed. My guess is, therefore, that he intends to use the photograph as bait—to lure me into a situation where he, probably aided by several of his anarchist associates, can kill me without risk of being caught.

  If I am right, in the course of the next day or two a letter will arrive here for me enclosing a copy of the photograph with a demand for money in exchange for the negative, and directions where I am either to meet him or leave the money.

  It is of the utmost importance that you should secure this letter on its arrival so as to guard against any possible chance of its being opened by anyone in error. Destroy the photograph and send the letter on to me at the Alhambra Palace. But with a little luck, aided by the clue to finding him that he dropped during our struggle, by then I shall have located him, taken him by surprise and dealt with him.

  And now, my very dear Gulia, what can I say to you other than that I was moved to the depths of my being by all you said to me last night, and that I count your honour as dear to me as my own. Be sure that I will stick at nothing to secure this accursed photograph that now menaces it.

  I kiss your hands,

  Armand.

  Having read the two letters through, he felt that they should serve their respective purposes adequately and that the last paragraph of the more personal one would cause her to feel less badly about his having left without saying goodbye to her. That he had a good excuse to do so was a great relief to him; for, their scene during the night having ended without his either definitely refusing or agreeing to become her lover, he felt sure that had they met again that morning, even for a few moments, she would have done her utmost to extract from him a promise about the future.

  To make it would, he knew, have been a hideous temptation. Moreover, realising from his feelings for her what she must feel about him, he doubted if he could have brought himself to be so brutal as to leave her without hope. Yet, now that fate had temporarily intervened, his instinct was to take it as a sign that he should stick to his resolution not to betray his friend; and, once away from San Sebastian he felt sure that it would strengthen. However much he might now long for her, he could protect himself from weakening by finding some excuse not to come back.

  Having put the personal letter inside the one he intended her to show her husband, he tucked them both into an envelope, sealed it carefully, and addressed it to her. Then on his way back through the hall he propped it up on the table there against the mail-box.

  By this time the servants were about. Having found Ricardo he told him that he had overnight received a message that his presence was required urgently in Madrid, so he meant to catch the nine-five train. He then asked Ricardo to order a carriage to take him into the city, and to bring him his breakfast in half an hour. It arrived soon after he had bathed and dressed. When he had eaten it, refusing Ricardo’s offer to pack for him, he selected the things he was most like no need, including the revolver that de Cordoba had lent him, and packed them into two portmanteaux. At eight o’clock Ricardo came to collect his luggage and he followed him along to the hall.

  As he picked up his overcoat and hat, then turned to follow the footman out to the waiting carriage, a low call came to him. ‘Monsieur le Comte!’

  He knew it instantly to be Gulia’s voice and, swinging round, saw her standing half concealed behind the partially open door to the library. Putting down his things he walked over to it and entered the room. He had never seen her on horseback, but she was dressed in riding habit, and he guessed that she had put it on because the servants who saw her in it would think that she meant to go for a before-breakfast ride, thus being provided with a reason for her being downstairs so unusually early.

  Stepping back behind the door she said quickly, ‘Armand. As that flash went off I saw that the man was holding up a camera. I was staring straight into it. I had to know if you got the camera from him or, if not, what we should decide to do. I dressed like this and came down meaning to send Ricardo to suggest that you should come for a ride with me. Then I found your letter.’

  ‘You’ve read it? ’he asked.

  ‘Yes; and I think your interpretation of the way that Sanchez’ mind has worked is most probably right. What ghastly luck for us that this should have occurred; still worse that you should now have to go into danger again.’

  He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Be of good heart. This time it is I who will be able to choose my moment to attack. With a little luck I’ll catch him napping.’

  ‘Oh, do be careful!’ she begged, suddenly putting up her hands and grasping the lapels of his coat. ‘I think I’d die if anything happened to you.’

  He placed his hands over hers, but did not seek to loosen her hold on him. ‘At least I’ll promise not to take any unnecessary risks; but by hook or by crook I must destroy that negative.’

  ‘I know. How long do you think this wretched business will take?’

  ‘It is impossible to say. My guess that he will go back to Granada may be wrong. But anyway I think I’ll get a lead to him from there. If not I’ll have to wait until you send on to me the letter that I feel pretty certain he will send here. Then it will be up to me to counter any trap he may set for me with a better one of my own.’

  ‘And when you do get back … what of the future?’

  He shook his head. ‘We can’t possibly discuss that now. We haven’t the time. If I don’t go soon, I’ll miss my train.’

  ‘But you must have formed some idea what you mean to do when the Barcelona trial is over.’

  ‘Oh that!’ He tried to prevent his voice from showing his relief that her question appeared to be impersonal. ‘I haven’t really decided anything, but I expect I’ll take up soldiering again. I’ve always wanted to command a cavalry division, and I might be given one if I went out to one of the South American Republics.’

  ‘Armand.’ She hesitated a second. ‘About last night. I do understand how you feel about José. It is just like you to consider yourself bound by the code of chivalry. But it was the thought of deceiving him that really distressed you, wasn’t it? I mean … Well, you would feel differently if we … if we took the bull by the horns and were open with him.’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘That would be quite a different matter. But think of the implications.’

  ‘I did, for most of the night. I love you, Armand. I would go anywhere with you; and I’d like to go to South America.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’d love to take you there. But I couldn’t, Gulia. It’s out of the question. You are a Roman Catholic; so you can’t get a divorce. How could I expose a woman like you to social ostracism when it leaked out that we were not married?’

  ‘I don’t see why it should become known out there if we planned things carefully.’

  ‘Such things always do. But, Gulia, we really mustn’t attempt to settle anything without giving the whole matter most careful thought. And I must go now, or I’ll miss my train.’

  ‘Very well, then. Kiss me before you go.’

  As he took her in his arms she put hers round his neck and drew his face towards hers. Their mouths met in a long, rich kiss. For a full minute they held one another in a firm embrace, then she released him and murmured. ‘Go now, dear love. May God protect you and bring you safely back to me.’

  Half dazed by the heady emotion her kiss had aroused in him, he gave her a
lingering smile, then turned and walked quickly from the room.

  Looking after him, she put her hand upon her wildly palpitating heart, while saying to herself, ‘I’ve put my seal upon him. He doesn’t realise it yet, but he is now mine.’

  12

  In the gipsy’s cave

  De Quesnoy had intended to arrive at the station half an hour before the train was due to leave. Gulia’s having waylaid him had cut down that margin a little but he still had plenty of leeway. After buying his ticket he sent a porter ahead with his bags and to keep him a first class corner seat as near the rear of the train as possible; then he took up a position behind a newspaper kiosk from which he could watch, without making himself conspicuous, the passengers going through the barrier to the Madrid express. It was not until the barrier was about to be closed that he darted through it, ran down the platform, threw a tip to his porter and jumped up into the train.

  He had satisfied himself that during his twenty minutes’ vigil no one remotely resembling Sanchez had passed the barrier; but there was still the possibility that the anarchist had reached the station before him. As it was an express to the capital from Spain’s most fashionable summer resort, the train had no third class carriages and the firsts and seconds were the newly-introduced corridor coaches. Having taken his seat and given the passengers and attendants time to settle down, he made two slow progresses, first up to the front of the train, then to the guard’s van, and back. It took him nearly half an hour, as he paused at every compartment to scan its occupants; but when he had finished his inspection he felt certain that Sanchez was not travelling on the express.

  That did not surprise him, for he knew that although the younger Ferrer brother had no great brain he was well endowed with peasant cunning; so he had probably walked or driven during the night to some small town ten or fifteen miles from San Sebastian and would begin his journey south by catching an early-morning local train from there.