Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

They dined better in the restaurant car than they had in the hotel, and Simon, at least, was grateful for an early bed.

When they awoke next day they had left Bui far behind and were crossing a seemingly interminable plain. Simon started to get up, but the Duke forbade him.

“You are ill, my friend,” he said, quickly.

“Ner,” said Simon.

“But yes,” said the Duke. “You are feverish!”

“Never felt better in my life,” said Simon.

‘That is a pity, since I’m afraid you’ve got to pass the day in bed!”

Simon grinned understandingly. He knew De Richleau to be a wily man, and felt certain that this was a part of some scheme which the Duke had hatched in the night to get them safely off the train at Sverlovsk.

When the train steward arrived with the news that breakfast was ready, De Richleau held a long conversation with him in Russian. He was a fat, jolly man, and seemed much concerned. Simon groaned and made himself look as ill as possible, but later he supplemented the weak tea and toast which the sympathetic steward brought him, with several rolls that the Duke had smuggled out of the restaurant car.

All that morning they rolled through the unending plain, until at a little after half past one they came to a halt at Viatka, where the Duke got out to stretch his legs. Simon, of course, had to remain in bed, and his luncheon was perforce meagre.

The scenery in the afternoon was more varied; they ran for many miles through the valley of the Chepsa River, but the early winter’s dusk had blotted out the landscape by four in the afternoon. It was quite late at night when the train snorted into Perm, but another consultation had been held by De Richleau and the jolly steward earlier in the evening, and certain drugs were procured during the halt, so the drowsy Simon found himself compelled to sit up and pretend to swallow capsules as the train steamed out. The Duke also took his temperature with great gravity in front of the now solemn and anxious steward.

This second night the train laboured and puffed its way through the Urals, but in the black darkness they could see nothing of the scenery. At a little after six the Duke woke Simon and said, with his grey eyes twinkling: “My poor friend — you are very, very ill I fear — dying almost, I think.”

Simon groaned, in truth this time, but De Richleau put on his dressing-gown and fetched the steward. “My friend,” he cried in Russian. “He will die — he is almost already dead!”

“What can we do,” said the fat steward, sympathetically shrugging his broad shoulders.

“We must get off at Sverdlovsk,” said the Duke.

“You cannot,” said the man. “Your tickets are marked for Irkutsk!”

“What does that matter,” protested the Duke, “the only hope for him is hospital.”

The man shook his head. “The station authorities — they will not permit.”

“It is three more days to Irkutsk,” said De Richleau, almost weeping. “You cannot let him die on the train!”

“No, no, he cannot die on the train!” agreed the steward, obviously frightened and superstitious. “It might mean an accident!”

“Then we must get off at Sverdlovsk!”

“You must see the officials, then — it is the only way.”

“Bah! the Tchinovinks!” De Richleau cried. “The officials, what use are they? All your life you have lived under the Tchinovinks , and what have they done for you? Tsarist or Bolshevist — they are all the same — delay, delay, delay, and in the meantime my poor friend dies. It must not be!”

“No, it must not be —” echoed the steward, fired by the Duke’s harangue. “The Tchinovinks are either rogues or fools. I have it! Always before we arrive at Sverdlovsk we draw into the goods-yard. You shall descend there!”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed the Duke.

“But yes, it shall be done!”

“My brother!” cried De Richleau, flinging his arms round the fat man’s neck!

“Little father!” exclaimed the steward, using in his emotion an expression that must have been foreign to his lips for many years.

“Come, let us dress him,” said the Duke, and without warning Simon found himself seized; he played up gallantly, letting his head loll helplessly from side to side, and groaning a little. It was a longish job, but at last they had him dressed and propped up in a corner.

De Richleau packed for both of them — gathering their few belongings together in the two suitcases the steward had left them.

They jogged on for a while through the grey light of the coming dawn, and at last, after a series of shrill whistles, the train came to a standstill; the steward returned, and with breathless mutterings in Russian, helped the Duke to get the apparently comatose Simon out of the compartment and along the corridor, then down the steps at the end of the carriage. He pushed their bags out after them, and, recognizing in the half light the high value of the banknote which De Richleau thrust into his hand, broke into voluble protestations of gratitude.

The Duke looked quickly about him; the dark masses of buildings seen indistinctly, and the glimmer of lights a few hundred yards ahead, was evidently the main station. They stood in the snow. About them were timber stacks, coal dumps, and immediately in their rear some rough sheds. With a snort the train moved slowly on — the steward still leaning from the window. As it gathered speed and disappeared into the gloom, De Richleau ceased to pretend that he was supporting Simon.

“Come,” he said. “This way — quickly!” and seizing one of the bags he headed for the cover of the sheds. Simon gripped the other and followed. They were not more than half way across the yard when Simon’s quick ear caught a crunching sound, as of someone stumbling suddenly over cinders. He whipped round, just in time to see in the semi-darkness a figure that had evidently leapt off the last coach of the train, scuttle behind one of the stacks of timber.

“We’re spotted,” he gasped.

“No matter. Leave this to me,” said the Duke, as he darted behind the shed. “Here, take this,” and he thrust the other suitcase into Simon’s free hand.

Simon stood, helpless and gaping, the two heavy bags, one in each hand, weighing him down. De Richleau flattened himself against the side of the shed — they waited breathlessly.

A soft, padding sound came to their ears, as of someone running on the thick carpet of snow, a second later a small man came round the corner full upon them. He made a rapid motion of recoil, but it was too late, the Duke’s left hand shot out and caught him by the throat. The small man did not utter a sound — he stared with terrified, bulging eyes over De Richleau’s shoulder, full at Simon, who saw at once that in his left eye there was a cast!

Then there happened a thing which shocked and horrified the mild, peace-loving soul of Simon Aron, for he had never witnessed such a thing before. With almost incredible swiftness the Duke’s right hand left the pocket of his greatcoat — it flew back to the utmost stretch of his shoulder, holding a long, thin, glittering blade — and then, with a dull thud, it hit the little man in the side, just under the heart. His eyes seemed for a second to start out of their sockets at Simon — then his head fell forward, and he dropped limp and soundless at De Richleau’s feet.

“Good God!” said Simon, in a breathless whisper, utterly aghast. “You’ve killed him.”

The Duke gave a grim laugh as he spurned the body with his foot. “What else was there to do, my friend — it was either him or us. We are in Soviet Russia, and when we stepped off that train, we placed ourselves beyond the pale!”