Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

They mounted to the last terrace, with its broken stone balustrade, and flashed their torches on the walls. A long line of french windows, opening on to the terrace, stretched on either hand. De Richleau tried the nearest, but it was securely locked. The glass was gone, but it had been stoutly boarded over. They walked along to the left, inspecting each window as they went. All were the same, and each had loop-holes bored in the planking shoulder-high.

“Evidently the bandits Marie Lou spoke of fortified the place,” said the Duke, impatiently. “Let us try the other end.”

They turned, and in the other direction, at a short distance from where they had started, found a window that actually stood a few inches open. The silence was eerie, and Simon started nervously as the Duke swore softly. “What’s up,” he asked.

“I forgot to put my pistol back in my pocket after I’d cleaned it. It must be still in the cottage.”

“I lent mine to Rex,” whispered Simon. “In case anyone turned up while we were away!”

“No matter,” whispered back the Duke. “There is nothing to be frightened of here; that is,” he added, with a laugh under his breath, “unless the ghost of Prince Shulimoff has come back to do us the honours of his house.”

He pulled the window open as he spoke, and it yielded with a loud creak.

Simon had never felt such a strong desire to run away from something unseen and menacing; his ears felt as if they would burst with the intensity of listening; the house seemed to him an evil place, full of danger; he told himself that he was a fool. The Duke seemed quite unaffected, so he summoned up all his courage and followed him through the window.

It was utterly dark inside; not a vestige of light penetrated the inky blackness. De Richleau’s torch shot out a beam of light, it rested for a moment on the ceiling and travelled quickly along the cornice. The room was long and lofty — traces of a handsome moulding still remained, but the plaster hung in strips, and in places had altogether disappeared.

With a jerk the Duke lowered the beam to the skirting, and ran it round the edge of the wall. It had not moved more than two yards when it disclosed a large pair of field boots — instantly the light went out.

Simon felt the Duke push him violently in the direction of the window, but it was too late — a dozen torches flashed into their dazzled eyes — they were surrounded.

A group of silent men, each holding an automatic, stood before them.

“Good evening, Mr. Aron,” said a quiet, sneering voice. “Welcome to Romanovsk. We have been expecting you and your friend for some little time!”

In the glare of the torches Simon saw the big red head and white, evil face of Kommissar Leshkin.

Leshkin rapped out an order in Russian; Simon and the Duke were gripped by the arms and led out of the room, across the echoing flagstones of a great central hall — roofless and open to the night sky. In the faint starlight they could see the broken balustrade of the grand staircase leading up to — nothing. At the far side of the hall they were led into the pitch darkness of a narrow passage and into a small room at the end.

Two lanterns were lit, and they saw it was furnished only with a trestle table and a few soap-boxes. Leshkin sat down heavily at the far side of the table and gave another brief order. The guards ran their hands over the prisoners, but the only weapon they found was the long, slender stiletto with which De Richleau had killed the spy at Sverdlovsk.

Leshkin motioned to the guards and they left the room, with the exception of one huge Mongolian, who leant against the wall behind the prisoners. Simon caught a glimpse of his face in the lamplight, he had the stupid, bestial features of a cretin — a hare-lip showed his broken, yellow teeth.

The Kommissar placed his automatic on the table before him, his little, red-rimmed eyes screwed up into a malicious smile as he looked from one to the other of his prisoners; he addressed Simon.

“We have met in London — we have met in Moskawa — and now we meet in Romanovsk — is it not, Mr. Aron?”

Simon nodded.

“I am very happy to see you in Romanovsk, Mr. Aron — it gives me opportunity to entertain you in my own fashion. I have been wanting to do that for a long time.” There was a world of unpleasant meaning in Lishkin’s voice.

“That’s very nice of you,” said Simon, suspiciously.

Leshkin ran his finger-nails with a rasping sound through his short, stubbly red beard. “Do not mention it,” he said, with mock politeness. “I owe you a very special debt for the way in which you have entertained Valeria Petrovna when you were in Moskawa. That debt shall be paid in the true Russian manner.”

“Thought Russia gave up paying her debts at the time of the Revolution,” murmured Simon.

“Silence,” snapped the Kommissar, with a sudden change of manner. “Now, you,” he addressed the Duke. “You call yourself Richwater?”

“That is so,” replied De Richleau. “You will see that from my passport.”

“The passport lies; it is not so that you are known in London — in Curzon Street, or at the Mausoleum Club for instance?”

The Duke smiled. “You are well informed. I do not always use my title, and if I choose to translate my name at times, it is my own affair. Doubtless if you knew so much you are aware that I am the Duke De Richleau.”

“A bourgeois,” Leshkin sneered.

De Richleau raised his grey eyebrows, and his smile deepened. “A bourgeois? Indeed you are enchanting, Monsieur le Kommissar. My friends and my enemies have called me many things, but never before have I been called a bourgeois!”

“You are an hereditary enemy of the workers — it is enough.” Leshkin lit a cigarette and leaned back, regarding them in silence for a few moments. Suddenly he said:

“What have you done with your friend — the American, why is he not with you?”

Simon and the Duke both looked blank.

“Come, do not pretend that you do not know who I mean.” The Russian’s voice was quiet and cold. “You made inquiries about this man in Moskawa. I, myself, supplied the information to you through Valeria Petrovna that he was in prison in Tobolsk. He escaped only yesterday — and with you, in a sleigh. Where is he?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Simon, slowly. He realized that if the Kommissar knew so much of their movements it would do none of them any good to deny all knowledge of Rex. “Van Ryn wanted to strike back to the railway, and we were for going farther north, so we separated — that’s why he’s not here.”

“When was this?”

“Early this morning, after we — er — lost our sleigh, you know!”

“Lost!” Leshkin sneered. “That is good — and you say that your friend, the American, after coming six thousand miles to spend one hour in Romanovsk, decided to run away when he was only a little twelve miles from his destination?”

“Well, if he hadn’t he’d be here with us,” Simon parried.

“So — then he has passed the secret on to you — is it not?”

“Secret? What secret?” said Simon, vaguely.

“Mr. Aron, you make me laugh.” Leshkin sat back and slapped his stomach with his fat hands. His laughter was not good to hear. “What do you take me for — a fool?”

“Oh, no,” Simon assured him, earnestly. “I wouldn’t do that!”

“Does it not occur to you as strange that I should be waiting for you here?”

“I was never so surprised in my life.”

Leshkin nodded heavily. “I have followed your movements since you left Moskawa with great interest, Mr. Aron. Last night I was informed that Van Ryn had escaped from Tobolsk. Of your stealing the sleigh in Turinsk I already knew; it was not unreasonable to suppose that by this evening you would be here. I left Moskawa by aeroplane in time to meet you — that is all! Come now — you have the secret, let us not waste time.”