De Quesnoy was well aware that there were plenty of dock-rats in Barcelona who, with no questions asked, would prove ready enough to play a similar part for a few hundred pesetas. Whether these people of Ferrer's were militant anarchists or only abettors, unless he could convince them that Gerault was mistaken, he thought it more than probable that they would decide to arrange matters so that next morning his corpse would be found floating in the harbour. His heart was beating quickly now but he realized that his best hope lay in maintaining a calm appearance. He said more quietly:
'Really, this is fantastic. All of you here have known me for quite a while. Have you ever heard me say anything which might lead you to suppose that I am this French Count of whom Monsieur Gerault speaks?'
'If you are, you would not be such a fool as to do so,' said Benigno in a non-committal voice.
'But I am not a Frenchman, and I have never been to France,' lied the Count.
'Yet I am told you speak French like a native, although you say you are a Russian,' Gerault put in. 'Colonel de Quesnoy also spoke French fluently, while pretending to be a Russian refugee.'
'Perhaps, but what of it? There are thousands of Russians who have fled from Tzarist persecution and are now scattered over western Europe. French is the second language of all educated Russians, and unless they spoke it fairly well few people outside Russia would understand them.'
'Yes, yes; but that is only a minor point. I recognize you. Those eyes of yours are unmistakable. Your face and figure too all tally with those of the man who called himself Petrovitch. If we were in Paris I could easily turn up a photograph . . .'
'This is absurd,' the Count broke in. 'A mere resemblance. How can you possibly be certain when it is close on two years since you saw this man Petrovitch?'
The words were no sooner out of de Quesnoy's mouth than he knew that he had blundered. Drawing back his lips in a snarl Gerault spat at him, 'So you are aware how long ago it is since Petrovitch - or to give him his real name, the Comte de Quesnoy -escaped from France? Yet when I spoke of him a minute ago you asserted that you had no idea what I was talking about.'
'That's true!' exclaimed Sanchez, his dark eyes narrowing still further.
'He is a spy all right,' Dolores cried with sudden venom. 'I suspected that he might not be quite what he seemed when he took me out to dinner and tried to pump me. This makes it certain.'
Zapatro spoke from behind de Quesnoy's left shoulder. 'If he is, although we have been cautious at times when he has been with us, he could have picked up quite a lot from our conversation; so we must look on him as dangerous.'
In an effort to restore the situation the Count rounded on him and said sharply, 'All this is no more than speculation, and most unjust to me. The very first day I came to this house, on entering the laboratory I found Sanchez and Benigno busy putting together an infernal machine. If I had come here as a spy that would have been evidence enough for me to have had the place raided and them arrested. But I did nothing of the kind. Instead I suggested a method by which they could make the bomb more efficient.'
'That is certainly the truth,' Benigno agreed. 'But I think I may be able to provide an indisputable answer to this riddle. For years past Father has taken the best illustrated papers of France, England and Germany; and he keeps the back numbers up in his study. I feel sure I remember reading an article about the Vendome conspiracy and it is bound to have had photographs of the principal participants.' Turning to Gerault, he added, 'Tell me the dates to look for; then I'll go upstairs and see if I can find the article.'
'He was last hunted by the police in Paris in November, 1904,' replied the Frenchman quickly. 'But the conspiracy was unmasked in December, 1903. Round about either time you should find articles about him.'
As Benigno hurried from the room, slamming the door behind him, de Quesnoy found himself faced with a dilemma that might spell life or death for him. As Petrovitch, he had worn a beard and shaved off the upper points of his 'devil's' eyebrows. But no photographs had ever been taken of him like that. All those used by the Press had been of him as a Chief Instructor at St. Cyr and, except that he had then had a cavalry moustache, they differed very little from his appearance as it was at present. Therefore if Benigno found an illustrated article it would prove conclusive evidence against him.
But Benigno might fail to find any proof of his identity. If so, de Quesnoy wondered, what then? It would be his word against Gerault's. In that case they could hardly do otherwise than let him go. But either way this meant an end to 'Nicolai Chirikov's' activities in Barcelona. It was certain that having come under such grave suspicion Ferrer and Co. would not trust him an inch further. They would, too, send out a warning about him to all their associates. To clinch matters Gerault would, no doubt, go hurrying off to the City Library and there turn up illustrated articles about the
Vendome conspiracy to prove himself right. After, or even before, that happened, the Count now realized, the sooner he was out of Barcelona the better for his health.
With a jerk his mind came back to the present, and the disturbing knowledge that he had first to get out of that room alive.
As had been his custom since arriving in Barcelona he had on him a small pearl-handled revolver. He carried it thrust into his trouser top just above his left hip. It was scarcely more than a toy affair, for had he carried a larger weapon the bulge under his coat would have been noticeable; but its bullets were big enough to kill a man if fired at close range.
All the same, he felt distinctly dubious about the prospects of his suddenly whipping out such a miniature firearm and with it terrifying the group about him into allowing him to walk unmolested out of the house. Even with Benigno absent he would still be up against five men and Dolores; and, unless he made use of the weapon immediately, three of the men were near enough to snatch it from him.
Swiftly he decided that he had only one chance of getting clear away. That was to shoot Gerault, who was standing right in front of him. And not merely to wound him in the arm or leg, but shoot him in the face so that he at once collapsed, then spring over his body to the door while the others were still too paralysed by shock to intervene.
Yet such a move could have most disastrous consequences. At the best of times it was difficult to take accurate aim with a very small revolver, and in this case there would be no time to take proper aim at all. The bullet might pierce one of Gerault's eyes and enter his brain, or pass through his mouth and sever his spinal cord.
The Count had killed too many North African tribesmen, fighting gallantly for what they believed to be their rights, to feel any qualms about taking life; and since Gerault had evidently been chosen by Ferrer as a master at the Escuela Moderna because he was an anarchist, de Quesnoy would have felt no compunction at all about shooting him down as the price of his own liberty. But if he did, how long would he keep that liberty?
Even if it could be proved that Gerault had taken part in militant anarchist activities, which was doubtful, to have killed him in such circumstances would, under the criminal law of Spain, be murder just the same. The Ferrer brothers would start a hue and cry and at once inform the police. Once that happened, de Quesnoy knew the odds were that he would be arrested before morning. Had he had an official status he might have got away with it on a plea of self-defence; but he had not, and honour demanded that he should not disclose that Don Alfonso had sent him on this mission while deliberately concealing it from his own police.
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.