The Car of Destiny
adventures awaited me there? What was to be the next pass in this queer
duel with Carmona?
But I need not have searched for comparisons. As we rushed into Madrid
without threading through any suburbs,—since suburbs the city has none,—I
discovered that it bore no resemblance to any other place.
We flashed from open country to a shady park, set about with buvettes and
beer gardens; ran through a massive gateway, and were in the heart of
Madrid. Electric trams whizzed confusingly round us, and far above the
hubbub of such traffic loomed proudly a hill crowned with an enormous
palace. There was no need to ask if it were the royal palace, for it was
essentially Royal, a house worthy of a king.
My father had fought to put Don Carlos there—Don Carlos, far away now in
Venice; but with all my admiration for his brave son Don Jaime, my
sympathies flowed loyally towards the young dweller on those heights.
We swept under and round the palace hill, as Colonel O’Donnel directed. In
spite of his instructions, however, Dick lost the way twice, plunging into
wrong turnings; but the second time he did this it seemed that San
Cristóbal—whose medal now adorned our Gloria and shaped our destinies—must
have twisted the steering-wheel. There, before the door of an official
building guarded by sentries, panted the grey car of Carmona; and among
its passengers Carmona alone was absent.
“That’s the Ministry of War,” said the Cherub, and with a quick thought I
asked Dick to slow down. Taking advantage of her son’s late cordiality, I
spoke to the Duchess.
“We thought we had lost you,” said I airily. “I hope nothing’s wrong, that
you stop here?”
“Not in the least, thank you,” coldly replied the Duchess.
But Monica spoke up bravely. “The Duke didn’t tell us why he wanted to go
in. He only said he wouldn’t keep us many minutes. Señorita O’Donnel,
shall you be in Madrid long?”
“Only a few days,” said Pilar. “And you?”
“We shall be here again at the time of the wedding,” Monica answered
quickly; “so I believe the Duke and Duchess will—”
“It is undecided,” Lady Vale-Avon cut in before the girl could make us a
present of Carmona’s plans. “We may take some excursions. As there’s a
fine road to Barcelona, we may go there and to Montserrat; and the Duke
has said something about Bilbao—”
“But, Mother, surely we’re going to Seville for Holy Week!” cried Monica.
“There’s no reason why we should arrive before Maundy Thursday,” replied
Lady Vale-Avon, hiding annoyance. “But isn’t that the Duke coming out? I
hope he won’t be long. It’s windy here, and you have a cold coming on, my
dear Duchess.”
We were dismissed; and raising our hats again we drove on, Pilar waving a
small, encouraging hand to Monica. “They won’t do any of those things,”
said the Spanish girl. “Something tells me they mean to start for Seville
as soon as they can.”
“Something tells me so too,” said I. “And something tells me that
Carmona’s errand at the Ministry of War is to find out whether Lieutenant
Cristóbal O’Donnel y Alvarez is really away from Burgos on leave.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” murmured the Cherub. “But the thought will
not bring a grey hair. Cristóbal _is_ on leave; and he told his brother
officers that he expected to go with his family to Seville. It was at the
last minute that his plans were changed. No one was taken into his
confidence; and it will be very negligent of San Cristóbal to let him meet
in Biarritz any common acquaintance of his and Carmona’s.”
“I’m putting my faith in San Cristóbal,” said I. “But as he has a good
deal to attend to, the less I show myself in Madrid, where my adopted
brother must be known, the better.”
“He hasn’t been as often here as Pilar and I,” said the Cherub, “so he
knows few people. Still, Cristóbal’s uniform should now be put away, and
Cristóbal should wear civilian clothes.”
“He certainly will,” I answered, laughing. And Colonel O’Donnel gave
himself up to directing Dick which way to go, as we were in the most
crowded centre now, close to the Puerta del Sol.
This big, open space, shaped like a parallelogram, walled by hotels,
Government buildings, and shops, struck me as a Spanish combination of
Piccadilly Circus and the Mansion House, thrown into one. Ten busy streets
poured their traffic into the place; intricate lines of tramways converged
there. The pavements were crowded with loungers who had the air of never
doing anything but lounge, and wait for excitements. There was much coming
and going of leisurely pedestrians, talking and laughing, all classes
mingling together; men in silk hats on the way to their clubs chatting
with men in _capas_ and grey sombreros, who belonged to very different
clubs; smart officers in uniform shoulder to shoulder with bull-fighters
whose little twisted pigtails of black hair appeared under their tilted
hats; ragged but handsome beggars thinking themselves as good, if not as
fortunate, as their brothers in broadcloth; merry boys shouting the
evening papers, black-eyed women and men selling cheap but colourful
jewelry, post-cards, toys, and marvellous sweets. It was as gay a scene as
could be found in any capital, and it seemed to me that this absolute
democracy was after all the true note of modern Spain. Whatever else we
may be, we never have been, never will be a nation of snobs, we Spaniards
whose favourite saint is the peasant Isidro.
Steering cautiously through the throng which scarcely troubled itself to
move before us, we took one of the main arteries leading out from the
Puerta del Sol (where no sign of a gate was to be seen), and turned into
the deep blue shadows of the Calle Echegaray to our hotel.
Already I had discovered that it is not the habit of Spanish landlords to
descend from the important first floor to the unimportant ground floor and
welcome their guests. They are glad to have you come if you choose, but
they do not care if you stop away, for there are plenty of others; and
whether you are cousin to the King of England or an American millionaire,
or a Spanish commercial traveller, very timid and just starting in
business, you will be given the same reception, unless you put on “proud
airs,” when you will be shown that you had better go elsewhere. But with
an old friend, all is different; everyone welcomed the Cherub and the
señorita; for their sakes everyone welcomed Dick and me. I was vaguely
introduced as a relative—no name given; no name, in the flurry of
greeting, asked; for Spain is not like France or Germany, where the first
thing to do is to write down all particulars about yourself on a piece of
paper.
Ropes drove the car off to a garage, and we were shown to rooms which made
us realize that we had left the provinces behind and come into the
capital.
“Thank goodness I shall have a pillow to sleep on to-night,” said Dick,
“instead of doing the carved-knight-on-a-marble-tomb act. I looked
particularly at the two neat, rounded blocks those chaps in Burgos
Cathedral had to rest their heads on, and the alleged pillows on my bed
were an exact copy, hardness and all.”
“I like them hard,” said I.
“That’s right! Stand up for Spanish institutions.”
“There’s one anyhow I don’t think you’d run down,” I remarked.
“Which one?”
“Spanish girls.”
We dined in great spirits that evening, in the big scarlet and gold
restaurant; and in rich, red Marqués de Riscal Dick drank confusion to the
Duque de Carmona. The Cherub had told us where Carmona’s flat was
situated, saying that his car would perhaps be kept under the same roof
with his carriage and the state coach.
The company was interesting to watch. Leoncavallo had as a guest the
famous ex-bull-fighter Mazzantini; a Russian prince entertained several
beauties of the Opera; and there were two or three politicians greatly in
the public eye. We were hungry; the dinner was good; there was much to
talk over; and all seemed to be going well.
But about half-past ten, when Pilar had gone, and the Cherub was having a
“yarn” and a cigar in the sitting-room of our suite; Ropes appeared,
looking serious.
“Something bad has happened, sir; and I blame myself,” said he.
“Something wrong with the car,” I asked quickly.
“Something _out_ of the car, sir,” he amended. “The main shaft of the
change-speed gear.”
“Impossible!” said I. “A car can’t go along dropping her gearing, as a
woman drops her purse!”
“No, sir. But she can, so to speak, have her pocket picked. After all
that’s come and gone, I ought to have kept my eyes open.”
“Out with it, my good chap,” said I; “don’t try to break it to us.”
“It’s the car that’s broken into, sir. I found the garage all right, left
her safe and sound, came back here, but after dinner thought I’d go round
again to tinker a bit at the car in case of an early start to-morrow. When
I got to the place there were three new fellows on duty, and they seemed
astonished when they saw I intended to work on the Gloria. The chauffeur
who looked after that car had been in, they said; and you can believe,
sir, I pricked up my ears. He’d been working like a demon, said they,
opening the gear-box and dismounting the main shaft. Then he went off with
it over his shoulder, after telling the foreman his master wouldn’t
believe the pinions were so worn there ought to be a new set, and he was
going to show it to him. They were surprised, I can tell you, sir, when I
said we’d been robbed, and that the thief wasn’t your chauffeur. But just
then one of the old lot came in, and bore witness that I was the right
man. It did seem like a bad dream, but a peep at the gear-box showed me it
was real enough. I was a fool not to give somebody warning, or pay a man
to stay by the car.”
“I can’t see that you had reason to be suspicious,” said I, “although it’s
a rascally outrage, and makes me feel murderous. Did they describe the
supposed chauffeur?”
“They did sir; and I expected to recognize the description. But I didn’t;
they’re too smart for that.”
“You think we know him?”
“Sure of it, sir. Nothing easier than a bit of disguise.”
“It might be a common motor-car thief, who wanted a main shaft for a
Gloria car.”
“And then again, sir, it mightn’t.”
“Anyhow,” said I, “the thing to do would be to apply to the police, have
the ruffian run to earth and arrested, no matter what his position. The
worst of it is, though, I’m not anxious to have the eye of the Spanish
police turned upon me, and there are those who count on that fact.”
“Wouldn’t I like to smash their heads for this! Wouldn’t I like to smash
their car!” growled Dick.
“No. That would be playing it too low down,” said I.
Ropes coloured under his sunburnt skin, and began to search for
non-existent dust on the leather cap in his hand.
“You’re right, sir, no doubt,” he said, in a meek voice.
I was half sorry that he, or anyone, should agree with me. It seemed
somehow as if my chauffeur were taking this monstrous thing too coolly.
“Well, the fact remains that we’re done,” I said, with suppressed fury.
“If the Duke of Carmona has had a hand in this act, it’s a sign that he
means to get off while we’re held up waiting for a new shaft and pinions
to arrive—probably all the way from Paris. He can go to-morrow—”
“Beg pardon, sir; he can’t, not in his own car,” said Ropes. “If _we_
can’t leave, no more can’t he.”
“Why, what have you done?” I tried to speak sternly.
“Oh, next to nothing, sir. A bit of a touch on his magneto ignition, and a
tickling of his coil, just enough to keep him in hospital till he’s
doctored up.”
Rope’s expression was so childlike that Dick and I burst out laughing.
“You demon!” I said. “How did you get at the car?”
“Much the same as they did at ours, though I don’t pretend to be as clever