Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

They fell silent, each pondering on the. threat to the old civilization of Western Europe, that was gaining force in this blind, monstrous power, growing beneath their eyes.

The car left the smooth asphalt of the more frequented streets, jolting and bumping its way down narrow turnings into the suburbs of the city. Eventually they stopped before a house in a mean street. Faint sounds of music came from within, and these, together with the chinks of light that shone through the heavily curtained windows, were the only signs of life.

They got out, and their driver knocked loudly upon the door; after a little it was opened, and they went in, bidding the driver return in an hour. It was snowing heavily in the street, and as they began to remove their wraps they were astonished at the quantity of snow that had gathered upon them during the short wait on the threshold. They took a small table near the great china stove, blowing into their hands to warm their chilled fingers. A slatternly woman shuffled up to them, and after a short conversation with the Duke, set two small glasses of spirit before them; it proved to be some kind of plum brandy, similar to Sleigowitz.

In the low room were about twenty tables, some dozen of which were occupied. Men of all classes were present — several low-browed, stupid, or sullen-looking workers, in the usual Kaftan, here and there a better type, who from his dress seemed to be some minor official; one or two faces suggested the cultured European who has “gone native”, and known much suffering — one elderly man, with a fine domed head, sat staring with wide blue eyes into vacancy. The only woman there had a hard unpleasant face with the pink eyes of an albino, and patchy hair, alternate tufts of white and yellow.

There was little talking, and few groups of any size; most of the denizens of this dubious haunt seemed tired and listless, content to sit idle, listening to a monotonous repetition of gipsy music from the travesty of a Tzigane band.

The Duke and Simon sat for a long time studying the people, bored, but anxious not to miss any movement or word which might give them the opportunity to get in touch with the frequenters of this poor hostelry; but nothing changed, nor did anyone molest them. Even so, Simon was happy to be able to press the hard bulk of the big automatic between his upper arm and his ribs. He was aware that they were being covertly watched from a number of tables, and if many of the faces were tired, some of them were far from being free of evil.

Now and again a newcomer entered, heralded by a gust of icy wind and snow — occasionally a man pulled his extra long layers of frowzy clothing about him, and went out into the night. Beneath the low rafters the room grew thick with the haze of cheap tobacco smoke, the monotonous band droned on.

After a long time, as it seemed, three workmen arrived, bringing with them quite a drift of falling snow; they were a little drunk, and two of them began to clap, and call for “Jakko”. The face of the third seemed vaguely familiar to Simon, who caught him slyly glancing in the direction of their table. He noticed, with a feeling of aversion, that the man had a cast in one eye, and quietly, almost unconsciously, forked his fingers under the table.

The cry of “Jakko” was taken up by several others; the band of three struck up a livelier tune, and through a door at the back of the room appeared a dancer.

He was clad in a fantastic costume of ribbons and dried grasses, not unlike the traditional Hawaiian dress. As he pirouetted, his skirts flared out about him; he carried an enormous tambourine, and upon his head he wore a conical hat of reeds, reminiscent of Robinson Crusoe in the pantomime. Leaping into the clear space in the centre of the room, he began a wild and noisy czardas , in time to the monotonous clapping of the audience.

De Richleau looked at him for a moment, and then away with a slight shrug. “This fellow will keep going for hours,” he said, impatiently. “He is, or would pretend to be, a Shamman from the Alti — that is, a sort of witch-doctor from the desolate Russian lands north of Mongolia, where the Tartar tribes still worship the spirits of their ancestors. I think we had better go — there is nothing for us here.”

But Simon was not listening; his shrewd eyes were riveted on the gyrating dancer. He was careful not to look at the Duke, not even to appear to speak to him, but he nudged him slightly, and, placing his hand casually before his mouth, whispered:

“Don’t you see? This is Jack Straw!!!”

“You are right, my friend, you are right!” the Duke breathed back. “I am thankful you are with me; I should have missed this altogether!”

For a long time they sat in silence while the dancer leaped and spun, crashing his tambourine, and making his grass skirts swirl around him. They could not see his features, since he wore a hideous mask. He was a big, powerful man, but even so the terrific exertion caused little rivulets of perspiration to run down his neck and arms, and such parts of his body as were naked soon glistened with sweat.

Meanwhile the stale smoke collected and hung in stratus clouds beneath the rough-hewn beams of the low ceiling. No breath of air was allowed to penetrate from outside, and the atmosphere of the overheated room became almost unbearable.

At last, with a final leap and a crash of the tambourine, the dance was over; De Richleau threw some kopecks on the floor, and, catching the fellow’s eye, beckoned. The dancer picked up the money and came over to the table. The Duke said five words only, in Russian: “You will drink — sit down.”

It was not only the words he chose, but the accent which he put upon them, which made the man regard him with a sudden narrowing of the eyes; but De Richleau knew what he was about. He had purposely chosen the words and tone which a Russian aristocrat would have used in addressing an artiste who had pleased him in the days before the revolution; not the cordial invitation from one worker to another, in a state where all men are equal.

The grotesque figure, still wearing the mask of a Shamman, pulled out a chair and plumped down on it. Without speaking he crossed his muscular legs and, producing a tobacco pouch and papers, began to roll himself a cigarette.

De Richleau called the slatternly woman, and a fresh round of the spirit resembling Sleigowitz was put before them.

With his brilliant grey eyes the Duke studied the dancer. He felt certain now that they were on the right track; had the fellow churlishly refused, or been abusive of that invitation issued almost in the form of a command, he would have felt that probably they were mistaken, and that the man was no more than an ordinary moujik. Since the man accepted in seeming serenity, the inference was that he realized their visit to be no casual one, and was himself no casual peasant dancer.

“We are visitors here in Moscow for a few days,” the Duke began, in a low voice. “Americans. Do you get many Americans here?”

“Könen sie Deutsch sprechen?” the dancer inquired, softly.

“Jawohl,” De Richleau answered under his breath.

Simon pricked up his ears, for he had a fair knowledge of German.

“That is good,” the peasant went on in the same language, still looking the other way; the hideous mask hid the movement of his lips. “I also am American, so also are all the people in this room — every one, just as much American as yourself, old one. Now tell me the truth.”

A glint of humour showed in De Richleau’s piercing eyes. “I ask your pardon,” he said briefly, “but it is an American that I seek, and I thought that Jack Straw might give me news of him!”