Dennis Wheatley - Vendetta in Spain

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. With 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.

With stars and circles flashing in blackness before his eyes de Quesnoy reeled forward. Dropping his revolver, he crashed into Zapatro. They fell to the floor together. Although the small bullet had penetrated the architect's shoulder it had done him no serious injury. Next moment he had both his hands round the Count's throat. De Quesnoy was half stunned but instinctively brought up his right knee. Zapatro gave a gasp as it caught him in the stomach. He released his grasp; but now the Count was down, Schmidt, Jovellenos and Benigno all flung themselves upon him. In vain he kicked and twisted, they grabbed his arms, forced him over on his face and pulled them behind him. Jovellenos quickly took off a stringy black tie he was wearing and with it they tied his wrists.

Schmidt then hauled him to his feet and Zapatro struck him in the face. He staggered back, tottered, and collapsed with a crash into one of the hardwood elbow-chairs.