Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

Simon produced his torch, covering the bulb with his fingers, so that the light should not shine under the door. He pressed the button. “Might as well see where we are,” he suggested. “Try and help ourselves if there’s no one else to help us!”

The faint glow, coming pink through his fingers, was insufficient to light the room; only the Duke’s face showed faintly, heavy with shadows. Simon turned his back to the door and took his fingers off the bulb.

A quick glance showed them that the room was empty. It seemed to be some portion of the servants’ quarters — stone-flagged, and with a big, round copper built into the wall at one corner. Simon turned the light up to the roof. It was lath and plaster, supported by small beams at intervals. In one corner there was a rent, only about six inches wide — but enough, when they stood directly below it, to see three or four stars shining brightly.

“If we could widen that!” Simon suggested.

“Ah, if we could,” the Duke agreed. “But it is too high for us, my friend.”

As he spoke a single shot broke the silence of the night. It was followed by a burst of firing.

“Rex!” exclaimed Simon. “Hope they haven’t got him.” He clicked out his torch as the door of their prison swung open. Outside, with a lamp in one hand, stood the big Mongolian with the hare-lip. In the other hand he held a deadly-looking automatic, which he levelled at them.

The Duke and Simon were at least ten feet away. There was no possible chance that they might rush the man. It was evident that he meant to shoot on sight if they made the least move. Wisely they put their hands above their heads.

Then came the sound of another single shot — then another burst of firing from the other end of the Château. The Mongolian looked quickly down the passage in that direction, but only for a second; his dark eyes returned to them almost immediately, and he held them covered all the time.

The sound of shouting came to them from the garden — there were running footsteps which seemed to be crossing the big hall — a perfect fusillade of shots, and the whine of a ricochet. A man screamed — there were three more single shots, a murmur of angry voices — then silence once more.

The Mongolian swung the door shut, and shot the bolt. They were alone again in the darkness.

Both had been holding their breath while they listened to the fight outside; sharply now they released it Was Rex dead, or had he escaped? Someone had been hit — that was certain, but there had been shots after that — the Bolsheviks, perhaps, taking a last shot as Rex ran off into the night, or finishing him off as he lay, wounded, on the ground. Which? Such were the thoughts teeming through their minds.

“Do not fear,” said De Richleau, trying to comfort both himself and Simon. “He will have got away, he is a splendid shot, and he would have the advantage of the darkness — the others would be in the light.”

“Unless they surprised him in the house,” Simon argued, pessimistically, “then they’d use their torches on him and he’d be dazzled by the light, just as we were.”

“We must hope for the best, but let us look again at the hole in the roof.”

Simon flashed his torch on it. “I think I could reach it if you could bear my weight”

“Let us try.” De Richleau stooped, and Simon put his legs round the Duke’s neck, sitting on his shoulders. It was a difficult and unsteady proceeding in the dark, but once Simon managed to catch hold of a beam it was easier. He inspected the hole from a closer range with his torch.

“There is nothing above us,” he said in a whisper; “this must have been a sort of outbuilding — fire couldn’t have reached this wing either — the roof’s tarred felt.” He shifted the torch to the hand with which he was steadying himself, and began to work swiftly.

It was a slow process. He dared not make the least sound or the Mongolian would come in at once to see what was happening. He pulled away little bits of plaster and pushed them out through the hole, leaving for the moment the broken framework of the lath. That part was comparatively easy, but tearing away pieces of the thick tarred felt was another matter. They had to take frequent rests, for De Richleau could not bear his weight for very long at a time. When he had worked for an hour the hole was no more than a foot in diameter.

“We shall never do it,” said Simon, despondently; “it will have to be three times that size for us to get through.”

“Not a bit,” the Duke encouraged him in a quick whisper. “Where a man’s shoulders can pass, there his body can pass too; we shall be a little scratched, but what matter? Make your hole broader at each side now; another three inches will do it.”

Simon grunted; it did not look to him as if a cat could get through in comfort. He had torn his nails, and his finger-tips ached excruciatingly, but he continued to work away.

When they next rested De Richleau encouraged him again. “It is early yet, it cannot be more than ten o’clock; another hour and we shall be out of this. Listen! What was that?”

With straining ears they stood in the darkness; the noise did not come from the passage, but from above. Something heavy was moving on the roof. As they watched, a black form blotted out the stars that had, a moment before, been shining through Simon’s hole; something moved in the opening, and suddenly a bright light blinded them. It went out instantly, and they heard the welcome sound of Rex’s voice:

“Holy smoke! I’m glad it’s you!”

“Thank the Lord you’re safe,” whispered Simon; “there’s a guard outside the door, but if you can make the hole a bit bigger we’ll soon be out.” He mounted on the Duke’s shoulders again, and in feverish haste they worked away at the roofing.

“Did you hear the dust-up?” Rex whispered. “Two of those birds’ll never see Manhattan Island any more. I ran right in on ’em — thought they were you!”

“How did you find us?” Simon whispered back.

“The Snow Queen kid got rattled when you didn’t get back in the hour, so I came up to have a look-see. Ever since the dust-up I’ve been snooping round, mostly on the roof — or what’s left of it. Good thing I had that practice in the Rockies last fall. Then I spotted your light, and a hand throwing bits of roof out. Reckon you can get through now?”

Simon slid to the ground and they surveyed the hole with their torches. Rex’s big hands had made a lot of difference; De Richleau nodded. “That will do; up you go, Simon.”

“No, go on,” said Simon, “you first.”

The Duke’s answer was to pick his young friend up by the knees and hold him aloft. “You waste time,” he said, tersely.

Simon wasted no more, but thrust up his hands. “Don’t grip the roof, it may give,” whispered Rex. He gripped Simon’s wrists and hauled him up. There was a slithering noise, a slight scrape, and he was through.

The Duke looked apprehensively towards the door — surely the guard had heard. Two laths had cracked with a dry snap. He lost no time, but mounted the stone copper — Rex could not have reached him on the floor; by leaning forward his hands would be within a few inches of the hole.

“Make it snappy,” whispered Rex, thrusting his arms down from above. The Duke leaned forward and grasped them firmly, then he swung off the copper. As he did so there was a crash of falling masonry — the cement that held the top row of bricks round the copper had long perished — De Richleau’s boot had brought them rumbling to the floor.

Instantly the door swung open. Lantern in one hand, pistol in the other, the Mongolian rushed in. The Duke found himself hanging, suspended, looking right into that cruel, hare-lipped face. The man dived for him. The Duke kicked out, his boot took the soldier on the upper part of his right arm; the man staggered back, dropping his gun.