Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“So?” The dancer seemed to consider. “How do I know that you are not the police?”

“That you must judge for yourself,” the Duke replied lightly. “If I showed you my passport, you would say that it is forged, perhaps.”

“You are not of the police,” said the other, decisively. “No spy of the Ogpu could call an artiste to his table as you call me. Yet it was a risk you ran — such is no longer the manner used in Moscow!”

De Richleau smiled, pleased that his subtlety had been appreciated. “I must run risks if I wish to find my friend,” he said, simply. “A tall, young American — he came here one night early in December — Tsarderynski, or Rex Van Ryn, which you choose, that is his name.”

“I know him,” the other nodded laconically, and spat on the floor.

“Did you know that he was in prison?” the Duke inquired, guardedly.

“No, but I suspected that, else he would have returned by now; but it is better not to talk of this here!”

“Where can we meet?” De Richleau asked at once.

“Where is your guide?” the dancer countered, quickly.

“We are supposed to be at Meyerhold’s Theatre tonight, but we came here instead.”

“Good. It must be some place where he will not accompany you.”

“The Zoological Gardens?” suggested the Duke.

“That will do. In the Krassnaja Pressnja, inside the eagles’ house,” he laughed softly; “that is appropriate, eh? Eleven o’clock tomorrow, then.”

“Eleven o’clock,” De Richleau repeated.

The dancer pressed his mask more closely against his face, and swallowed his drink through the slit of the mouth, then he stood up quickly and, without another word, he left the table.

He had hardly disappeared through the back of the restaurant when the street door was flung violently open, five men pushed in — three appeared to be ordinary working men, the other two were the guides.

“Now we’re in a muddle!” Simon laughed his jerky little laugh, but the Duke was equal to the situation, and even before the guides had had time to look round the dimly lit room, he had called a boisterous greeting to them. The three workmen sat down near the door, while the guides came over to the table near the stove at once.

“Hello, my friends, come and sit down, come and drink with us!” The Duke thumped the table, and called loudly for the woman who served the drinks, seeming suddenly to have become a little drunk himself.

Simon took up the cue immediately, and tipped his chair back from the table at an almost dangerous angle, while he allowed a fatuous smile to spread over his face.

“We believe gentlemen were at Meyerhold Theatre —” began one of the guides, seriously.

“The theatre! Bah!” De Richleau shrugged. “I lost the tickets, so we came here instead — it is better!”

“But, if gentlemen had asked for us we would have got other tickets,” the man persisted.

“What does it matter?” laughed the apparently tipsy Duke. “Come, let us drink!”

“But please to understand, the situation is such — it is not good that gentlemen come to such a place alone, it is not of good reputation. The police do what they can, but there is bad quarter in every city, it is not safe for gentlemen.”

“We have come to no harm.” De Richleau lifted his glass, as the woman set more drinks upon the table. “Good harvests — and prosperity to all!” he cried loudly in Russian.

The guides bowed solemnly, and drank. It is a toast that no Russian ever refuses; the great mass of the people — whether under Tsar or Soviet — are too near the eternal struggle with the soil.

“We are only anxious for safety of gentlemen,” the guide who acted as spokesman protested. “When we learn that gentlemen were not at theatre, we worry much; the situation is such because we are responsible.”

“Good feller!” Simon let his chair come forward with a crash, and patted the man on the back affectionately.

“Let’s have another drink; you shall see us all safe home!”

The two guides exchanged a swift glance — they seemed relieved. It was evident that their charges were harmless people, out on the spree and mildly drunk; they accepted a further ration of the fiery spirit.

After that things became easier — they drank: To the Russian People — To the British Socialist Party — To Kommissar Stalin — To Ramsay Macdonald — To each other — To the President of the Spanish Republic — To the King of England — and, finally, for no shadow of reason — To the ex-Emperor of Germany!

By that time the two guides were singing sadly together, and Simon and the Duke had had as much as they could comfortably carry, yet both had still their wits very much about them.

At last one of the guides rose unsteadily to his feet. He made his way to the street door and had to cling on for support as he opened it. The wind had risen, and after he had ascertained that the hired car was outside, assistance had to be given him before he could close the door again. At his suggestion the whole party left the “Tavern of the Howling Wolf”. The driver was fast asleep in the body of the car under a pile of rugs; they roused him up, and soon the party were bumping their way back through the white and silent streets to the hotel.

In the lounge dancing was still in progress; they had a final drink together, and parted for the night with many expressions of mutual esteem and goodwill.

The following morning neither De Richleau nor Aron felt inclined for breakfast, but neither of them had forgotten the importance of their appointment, and as soon as they were out in the fresh, crisp air, their spirits revived.

They had had no difficulty in dispensing with the attendance of the guides when they had declared their intention of visiting the Zoo; but they waited till they actually arrived in the Krassnaja Presnja before they opened serious conversation.

“I’m worried,” said Simon, looking round to make certain that no one was within earshot.

“Why should you be?” asked the Duke, blandly. “I thought our little adventure of last night passed off most fortunately. We have run Jack Straw to earth, and are, I trust, about to hear his story. I think, too, that our excellent guides are entirely without suspicion; it might have been a very different matter if they had arrived on the scene earlier, when we were talking to Jack Straw!”

“It’s not that,” Simon shook his head quickly. “Did you — er — notice the three workmen who came in before the dance?”

“Yes; what of them?”

“Well, I don’t know, of course, but I’ll tell you — I believe one of them was the chap who asked you for a light in the Park yesterday.”

“Indeed!” De Richleau raised his slanting eyebrows. “What makes you think that, my friend?”

“He had a cast in one eye; nasty-looking little chap. Mind you, I may be mistaken.”

“Would you know him again?”

“Um,” Simon nodded, “I think so.”

“In that case we must keep a sharp look-out. It is by no means unusual, in countries where there is a large organization of secret police, for one agent to be set to watch another. This man may be acting quite independently of our official guides, and unknown to them. We must be careful!”

They had entered the Zoo while they were talking, and found the eagles’ house without difficulty, but they looked in vain for Jack Straw. A keeper stood near the door at one end; the only other occupant of the big aviary was an elderly gentleman with fine, flowing white moustaches. He looked as if he had seen better days.

As they walked slowly along the cages they drew near to the old man, who was advancing in the opposite direction. Pausing now and again to admire the birds, they came together before a cage of vultures near the centre of the house.