Dennis Wheatley - Vendetta in Spain

The landlord took charge and shouted loudly for silence; then when their voices fell to a mutter, he said to Inez:

'Now tell us, girl. What happened? How did this start?'

'He's a thief!' she cried. 'The dirty low-down blackguard. We'd only been up here a few minutes when he came round behind me and gave me a wallop on the head. It knocked me right out for about ten minutes. When I came round he had tied me hand and foot and to the bed; and he was in here rummaging through our things to see what he could pilfer. A long time later Sanchez came in and took him by surprise. Then they fought, and I wriggled off the bed to try to get help.'

As she ceased speaking her glance fell on Sanchez. It seemed that in the general excitement it was not until that moment that she realized that he was really dead. With a heartrending wail she cast herself upon his body. Beatriz pushed through the crowd, put her arms about her shoulders and sought to comfort her. Inez's wails continued and it was only after some minutes, during which everyone burst into speech again, that they were reduced to a passionate sobbing.

Her outburst of grief had given de Quesnoy time to recover a little from the rough handling he had received. A glance round the room was enough to show him that his position was desperate. He had killed an inmate of the house, injured two other men and inflicted nasty burns on several more. His best hope lay in the fact that most of the frequenters of the Silver Galleon, although a little rough, looked fairly respectable; so there was a fair hope that they might hand him over to the police. If they did, he felt that he had nothing worse to fear than a few nights in the cells, for he could counter a charge of murder by stating that Sanchez had been a wanted criminal and he had killed him in self-defence while endeavouring to secure him so that justice might take its course; and de Cordoba's influence would then get him a quick release. But, as he glanced round the crowded room he saw that everyone who was looking in his direction was glaring at him, and he realized that it needed only a spark to their anger for the whole lot of them to set about lynching him.

Again the landlord called for silence, then swung round on de Quesnoy and snarled at him, 'She's given us the truth, hasn't she? You can't deny it.'

'I do,' retorted the Count hotly. Having had a few minutes to think up a line of defence, he went on in a firm voice. 'The senorita is lying to cover up for her dead fancy-man. I was with her in the little room and I heard movements in here, so I came through. I found him about to take a photograph of us through a big slit in the door. I saw at once that blackmail was his game, and went for him. We fought, he went over backwards, hit his head on the chest of drawers and broke his neck. You can't blame me for that. Meanwhile she had followed me in and was about to rouse the house. Seeing what had happened I knew that if I was caught here I'd be for the lockup, and perhaps held there for months while the police went into the question of the fellow's death. Who would want that, if there was a chance of avoiding it, eh? I stopped the hussy's cries and tied her up. But my luck was out. She broke free and her yells brought some of you on the scene before I could get away. That's the truth.'

It was a good story, but Inez raised her tousled red head from

Beatriz's shoulder and screamed. 'He's lying! He's lying! He's a thief and a murderer. By the Holy Virgin I swear he's lying.'

'It's the truth, you bitch,' cried the Count, using this term as suitable to the occasion, and the indignation he was feigning as his best hope of convincing his audience so that he might get out of the place alive.

At the foot of the bed lay the leather satchel with the negatives and prints he had taken from it in a little pile near by. Pointing at them, he went on indignantly. 'There's the proof of what I've told you. Just look at them. That's the sort of photograph her pimp was about to take of her and me when I caught him at it.'

Taking a quick step forward the landlord swept the pile into the satchel, tucked it under his arm and said gruffly, 'I'll take charge of those. They're just a lot of old snaps and I've seen them before.'

At his action de Quesnoy's hopes sank. It was a clear indication that the landlord knew about the blackmail racket that Sanchez and Inez had been running, and had been taking a cut from the results of their activities. It swept from beneath his feet the ground of his best line of defence.

Meanwhile Inez had begun to shout again. 'He murdered Sanchez! He murdered him after he'd tied me up. He came here as a thief, I tell you. Look at all my things scattered over the floor.'

Her cry distracted the others from the landlord, preventing any of them looking at the photographs; and she had made a point for which the Count could offer no explanation.

As they glanced round at the junk on the floor and two still open drawers, a tall man with a grey moustache said, 'He's a thief all right. You can see that from the way the room's been searched. He killed her fellow, too. No doubt about that. We must get the police.'

'All right,' de Quesnoy volunteered. 'I'm sticking to my story and quite prepared to tell it to them.'

'No you won't,' the landlord cut in quickly. 'I'm not having the police here.' Glancing round, he added truculently, 'You can't be such a lot of fools as to want the police called in. Those of you who are off ships won't be allowed to sail in them. You'll be held as witnesses. We'd all land ourselves in for weeks of trouble.'

'He's right. That's sense.' 'Yes, we must keep the police out of this,' murmured several of the others.

The Scandinavian stopped massaging his jaw, looked up and said in broken Spanish. 'Then what will we do with him? He has killed a man, hasn't he? That he should go free is wrong.'

'Kill him !' shouted Inez. 'Stick a knife in his belly.'

Her shout was ignored, so she went on. 'Go to it, one of you. A life for a life. That's fair, isn't it? We don't need the police to settle his account. We can do it ourselves.'

Still they ignored her; so she cried, 'You lousy lot of cowards! Give me a knife, one of you, and I'll do it myself.'

The Spaniard whose face had been so badly cut about by the mirror sat up on the bed. With feverish eyes he stared at de Quesnoy, then his features broke into a cruel grin, and he rasped, 'You may spare yourself, senorita. The privilege shall be mine.'

'Shut your trap, Filipo,' snapped the landlord. 'There's been one murder here tonight. I'll not have another done before my eyes.'

A chorus of voices supported him. 'No!' 'Not that! Not that!'

'No! The police might trace him.' 'No, no; we'd all be held responsible.'

'But what will we do with him?' the square-head persisted. 'He has killed a man. That he should be let go free is not just.'

A tubby little man wearing a good reefer jacket and a brand new peaked cap, who had been one of the last to arrive on the scene, replied contemptuously, 'What is there so frightful about a killing? We all know that they happen from time to time in fo'c'sle fights; and in port, like this, when there is trouble over a woman.'

The landlord nodded. 'True enough, Captain Robles. But it's not right that we should let him get away with it altogether. What do you suggest?'

With new hope surging in his breast de Quesnoy stared at the Captain. He had lank black hair, tiny little eyes and an enormously developed jaw. After a moment he said, 'My ship is sailing for Rio in two hours' time. He looks like a seafaring type. I'm short of hands and could do with an extra man in the fo'c'sle. If he doesn't behave we'll soon teach him manners. Slug him under the jaw, one of you, and we'll escort him aboard as though he were a drunk.'