“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 as some. I said to myself, as this car of the Duke’s is new, and he doesn’t drive it himself, chances are he’s never had a motor before, and wouldn’t have a garage in Madrid, though he does live here part of the year and must have fine stables. I inquired what was the best garage besides ours, and strolled round, thinking the chauffeur would have gone straight to the Duke with his news. I found the place, and all the chaps were standing outside open doors, watching a couple of dogs having a fight. I walked in, without a word to anyone, though I’d have said I came from the Duke if I’d had to. There was the car; and before one of those blessed dogs had chewed the other’s nose off, I’d polished up my little job. Then I came to you, feeling a bit better than a few minutes before.”
“You ought to be crushed with remorse,” said I; but I’m afraid I grinned; and Dick remarked that if he were King of England he’d give Ropes a knighthood.