Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“How long have you been in bed?” asked the member of the Ogpu.

“I have not been to bed,” she replied, promptly.

“You keep late hours,” he said, suspiciously, “here in the country — later than we do in Moscow.”

“If I am to teach, I must learn,” said Marie Lou. “I read late if I cannot sleep.”

“Till one o’clock in the morning?” said the man. He was tall and thin and menacing. “Come, these men were with you earlier tonight?”

She shook her head.

“You,” said the man, sharply, to Rakov. “This woman wished to buy horses of you tonight — is that not so?”

Rakov bowed obsequiously — his straggly beard almost touched the level of his hands, which were hidden, Chinese-fashion, in the sleeves of his kaften. “Yes, master, horses and a sleigh.”

“There are no masters now,” snapped the thin man, irritably. He turned on the girl. “What have you to say, Comrade?”

“He lies, the greedy kulak — he lies in hope of reward. He would kill his mother for an egg,” Marie Lou said hotly.

“Oh — ou — ou.” Rakov laughed a greasy laugh, his thin lips drew back and his long narrow nose almost met his chin. “To say that I lie — Rakov lies! It is well known that I give all that I have to the Soviets. I am an upright man!”

“You are a thief, and a hider of corn,” Marie Lou went on, accusingly. De Richleau, with his ear to a crack in the floor overhead, smiled as he heard her attack.

“Let us not trouble about that now,” said the civilian. “It is known that these politicals seek horses to escape — it is strange that Rakov should report you as having tried to buy them. Explain that, please.”

“Rakov has heard the rumour that these people seek horses. Rakov smells money like a ferret blood. He is a man who would steal his father’s horses and say that the father had sold them if he could make ten kopecks!”

The peasant stepped forward, angrily — an ugly look on his mean face. He raised his fist to strike her.

“Enough,” cried the man from the Ogpu, thrusting him back. “I am not satisfied.” He turned again to Marie Lou.

“Where were you when we came here earlier — two hours ago?”

“In the village,” she lied, glibly.

“What — at eleven at night?”

“It could not have been so late.”

“After ten, at least. Where did you go?”

“I was with friends.”

“She went to these others for horses,” sneered Rakov, “before she came to me.”

“I know nothing of horses or politicals,” she protested. “Go away — I wish to sleep.”

“Not yet,” said the agent of the Ogpu. “First we will search for traces of the men.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom and looked at the two local men. They disappeared into the inner room. He himself began to pull out drawers and open cupboards, while Rakov remained, a malicious grin on his face, by the door.

The policemen reappeared, “Nitchivo,” the elder reported. “Nothing at all — the bed has not been slept in.”

The agent indicated the ceiling with his thumb. “What is above, Comrade?”

“Nothing,” she said, firmly. “The roof only.”

“Let us see it then.”

“There is no way up — if it leaks we patch it from the outside.”

“Where do you hang your onions in the autumn?”

“I grow no onions — when I need them I buy them from Rakov — he is cheaper than the Co-Op.”

“Good little Marie Lou,” whispered the Duke, who lay beside Rex on the floor above.

“She’s a kid in a million,” Rex breathed back. He had picked up just enough Russian in prison to grasp the gist of the conversation.

The long-nosed peasant suddenly went pale — it was a terrible accusation to make in front of a member of the Ogpu. “It is not true,” he protested, fearfully. “I buy myself from the Co-Op.”

The tall man regarded him coldly. “You shall have an opportunity of answering this charge at another time. It is sabotage to sell below the prices of the Co-Op.”

“It is not true,” the peasant wailed; he rubbed his hands together, nervously. “My family eat a great deal — they are always eating — but all that they do not eat I give to the Soviet.”

“I am not satisfied about this roof, Comrade.” The agent regarded Marie Lou with his hard grey eyes. “I will see it even if I have to pierce the ceiling. These men may have rested there.”

“Search then,” she cried loudly, in French, so that those above might be prepared, and reverting quickly to Russian she went on passionately: “Do what you will — pull the house down if you wish — I do not care. I shall go to bed.” With a shrug she moved towards the inner room.

The agent caught her by the arm. “Not so fast, Comrade.” He signed to the police. “Search that room again, there must be some way we can reach the rafters.”

They obeyed, but returned as before. “Nitchivo, Comrade,” they said.

“Look behind the stove. There is a way and I will find it. What is hidden by that hanging curtain there?”

The younger policeman moved the curtain and disclosed the cupboard door.

“Ha, let us see,” exclaimed the agent, picking up the lamp, as he moved forward. He rummaged in the cupboard behind the clothes, found the shelves, and gave a cry of triumph. “Here is fresh candle-grease, and a trapdoor above — had we broken in two hours ago we should have caught them while they rested.” He set down the lamp and began to climb. His shoulders disappeared from view, then his body, and finally his legs.

No sound came from above. Marie Lou stood tense and silent — ever moment she expected to hear the crash of shots. The elder policeman stood in the bottom of the cupboard, peering up. “Are you all right, Comrade?” he called out at length.

“Come up,” said a muffled voice, in Russian. “Come up.”

The policeman followed his superior — again there was silence.

“I confess,” suddenly wailed Marie Lou. “I confess! It is my hidden store of grain that he has found — I meant no harm. Now they will send me to prison.”

“Little fool,” said the younger policeman. “I also will see this secret store.” He, in his turn, disappeared into the cupboard. The trapdoor slammed behind him and once more there was silence.

Marie Lou looked thoughtfully at the ceiling — nothing stirred. She looked at Rakov — he also was staring thoughtfully at the beams above his head.

“Rakov,” she said, sweetly. “Would you not also like to see my secret store of grain?”

Rakov shifted his gaze to Marie Lou. His close-set, cunning eyes, divided only the knife-like bridge of his nose, had suddenly become full of fear. He shook his head, quickly, and backed towards the door.

“I meant no harm,” he protested, “and even if it is, true about the onions, neighbours should not tell upon neighbours. About the horses — I was questioned — what could I say?”

Not the faintest sound came from overhead. Rakov looked up again, apprehensively. Secret stores of grain were not the only things that could be hidden in an attic — Rakov knew that! White officers, Red soldiers, politicals of all sorts had hidden in the roofs of cottages before now. Rakov felt that this was no place for an honest man who tried to wrest a living from the soil. His hand was on the latch, but as he lowered his eyes he found himself looking into the barrel of Marie Lou’s little toy revolver — above it were her very steady blue eyes.

“No, Rakov, you filthy swine,” she spat at him, suddenly. “Not so fast — away from that door, please, and into the bedroom — quickly!”

He backed before her, waving her feebly from him with ineffectual motions of his thin, knotted hands.