Vendetta in Spain

At that moment La Torcera was facing the table at which they sat. Taking a flower from behind her ear she threw it between them. No one could say that it had not been intended for her admirer from Alicante; but it was de Quesnoy who caught it and blew her a kiss.

The merchant had gone red in the face and burst out, 'You may be a Prince, but I'll see you damned before I'll give way to you. My money is as good as yours, and . . .'

'Forgive me,' the Count interrupted. 'You have, no doubt, made certain disbursements to the Maestro, and also perhaps to the lady. I should have mentioned that I will willingly refund them to you.'

'That's not the point,' the other thrust out his chin aggressively. 'You've no right to . . .'

'No; there is only one point,' de Quesnoy's voice was silky as he came quickly to his feet and moved round the table. 'It is whether you are prepared quietly to vacate the chair upon which you are sitting, or whether I must forcibly remove you from it.'

The merchant was a strongly-built, broad-shouldered man of about forty. Turning his face up with a sneer, he muttered, 'You dare to lay a hand on me and I'll break every bone in your body.'

'I would regret to have to soil my fingers,' retorted the Count, his grey eyes now hard and brilliant. Next second he had hooked his foot under the nearest back leg of the chair and given a violent jerk upon it. Had it stood the strain and lifted the merchant must have slid off its far side. As it was, the leg being of flimsy wood, it snapped and he was precipitated sideways towards de Quesnoy. The Count took a quick pace back and the unfortunate man hit the ground at his feet with a heavy thud.

Up to that moment no one else in the cave had noticed their quarrel, because attention had been concentrated on the dancers.

But, at that moment, after a final spin by La Torcera with her skirts flaired out about her like a cartwheel, the dance ended. There came a burst of clapping and Oles! but they quickly subsided and all eyes were turned on her table, on the far side of which, now screaming curses, the merchant had just staggered to his feet.

De Quesnoy was not quarrelsome by nature, but in North Africa and elsewhere he had been involved in enough similar scenes to know that the art of getting onlookers on one's side was to make one's adversary look ridiculous. His arm shot out from beneath his cloak like a piston. With his forefinger and thumb he seized upon the merchant's fleshy nose and proceeded to wring it.

The wretched man clawed frantically at the Count's hand but could not break the grip. Suffering acute pain, blinded by tears and giving vent to a low wailing, he staggered from side to side with his head held down to the level of de Quesnoy's chest, while the ring of spectators who had formed about them gave way to peals of laughter.

When at length the Count did let go, his victim staggered back, his hands to his bleeding nose and, turning, blundered away towards the entrance to the cave.

As the laughter subsided de Quesnoy bowed the smiling La Torcera to her chair, beckoned up the hunchback to give them wine, and called to him to fill the mugs of the whole company. This evoked a chorus of clapping and loud Oles! in appreciation of his generosity then the occupants of the cave who, since his arrival, had increased to about forty, settled down again.

For a while the Count kept his conversation with La Torcera to compliments and urbanities. He said that having heard a great deal about her he had been most eager to meet her, and that as he was staying only one night in Granada he had seen no other course but to take the steps that he had to become acquainted with her. She said how flattered she was by his attentions and congratulated him on the way in which he had so skilfully relieved her of the merchant's company without resorting to an unseemly brawl. He paid her compliments on the finished artistry of her dancing. She replied that for anyone born with the gift it was then only a matter of hard training, and that with anyone as handsome as himself showing special interest in her performance, that had naturally encouraged her to put her heart into it.

He then declared that he was abysmally ignorant about Flamenco and asked her to enlighten him on some of the finer points of its technique. She willingly obliged and was still discoursing on the subject when another party of dancers arranged themselves. Now the whole troupe, except for herself and the girl who had danced at the same time, took the floor. The haunting music began and the four couples started to stamp their feet and gyrate.

For a few minutes de Quesnoy watched them, then he said, 'I find it terribly hot in here. Let's go outside and get a breath of air.'

'But you will miss the dancing,' she declared. 'And you are wearing a heavy cloak. No wonder you are hot. Take it off.'

He shook his head. 'No; I prefer to keep my cloak on. And it is not that which makes me hot. It is the smoke and the closeness of the atmosphere. As for the dancing, I can watch it again later.' Standing up, he took her gently by the arm and added, 'Come! I pray you, humour me. Let us go outside for a while and look at the stars.'

Assuming that he wanted to get over the first fences of making love to her, she gave him a roguish smile and let him lead her from the cave. Outside it was broad moonlight, and he saw with relief that no one was about. Still holding her arm he guided her over to one side where a great hump of rock threw a deep shadow. Halting there he turned, faced her, and said:

'Senorita, I have greatly enjoyed meeting you; but I must now tell you the real purpose of my visit. I have come here to discuss an urgent matter with Sanchez Ferrer.'

For a moment she did not reply; then she asked, 'Are you then a friend of his?'

De Quesnoy nodded, and lied, 'Yes; a most intimate friend. Please take me to him without delay.'

By way of answer she drew back her head, then like a striking cobra spat straight into his face.

13

A Strange Partnership

La torcera's spittle had barely landed on de Quesnoy's chin when both his hands shot out. They seized her wrists and brought them together with a smack in front of her. A second later he had put into practice a trick that he had taught his troops in North Africa for use when alone with a prisoner whom they suspected had a knife concealed in his robes. With a swift move of his right hand, before she had a chance to pull her wrists apart, he had grasped them both, then with his left hand he imprisoned both her thumbs.

Too late she made a violent effort to pull away from him. She was now as much his prisoner as if with his left hand he had a firm grip on a chain by which she was handcuffed to him; and his right hand was free. His grey eyes were blazing. Lifting his hand, he snarled:

'You bitch! Had you been a man I would have half-killed you for that.' Then he slapped her hard three times across the face.

At the sting of his slaps the black pupils of her eyes expanded, narrowing the surround of yellowish white, and tears sprang to them. She choked, gasped and gulped in a breath to shout for help. But again he was too quick for her. Pulling his revolver from under his cloak he jabbed it into her stomach, half-winding her. As she gave another gasp and almost doubled up, he drew it back, held it in front of her face, and snapped:

'This is loaded. Give one cry and you will never dance again.'

Panting, and with the tears now streaming down her coffee-coloured cheeks, she straightened herself. For a moment they stared at one another in silence, then he said:

'I came here to speak with Sanchez. Had you not behaved like a fool I would have paid you well for taking me to him. As things are you'll get no reward but will take me to him just the same.'

'I can't,' she muttered thickly.

He gave a cynical little laugh. 'D'you expect me to believe that?'

'Believe it or not, I cannot. He is no longer here.'

'That we shall see. If he is here, no doubt while strangers are about he will be skulking in your sleeping quarters. You will walk ahead of me and lead me to them. But I warn you, I am a crack shot. Should you attempt to run for it, shout a warning to him as we approach, or play me any other trick, I'll put a bullet through your ankle.' With a contemptuous gesture, as he released his hold on her thumbs, he flung her hands away from him.

Without a word she turned and, with her head now held high, set off along the cliff-face. As he followed her, he considered the possibility that she might be telling the truth. If so, he would have had all his trouble for nothing. He had all along been conscious that the evidence for his belief that he would find Sanchez in Granada was very slender. It was based only on the police report that he had taken a ticket to go there when he had fled from Barcelona, and the photograph of La Torcera that he had dropped. She had just admitted that he had been there,