Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“It is for the same purpose, Monsieur.” Marie Lou held it up. A solid square frame with wires stretched across — on each wire a set of gaily coloured beads.

“Every Russian merchant uses one to do his sums,” supplemented the Duke. “They use them as a kind of ready-reckoner. But, surely, Mademoiselle, it is not necessary to take it with us?”

“It belonged to my mother, Monsieur,” she said, simply, as she placed it in the bundle. “She painted it for me.”

“As you wish, Mademoiselle,” agreed De Richleau, impatiently. “But let us go.”

“One minute,” she said, as Rex was about to pick up Simon in his arms. “Why should we not carry him on my bed — it is a framework of wire springs only.”

“Now that’s certainly an idea. Let’s take a look at that bed of yours.” Rex went into the inner room.

“It is not as the Russian beds,” Marie Lou added. “It is part of the loot which came from the Château. See, the framework lifts off.”

“That’s fine,” Rex nodded. “Wait a minute, though. I’d forgotten the Duke’s arm. He couldn’t hump the other end with his shoulder all messed up.”

A muffled groan came from under the bed. “Rakov,” she suggested quickly. “He shall take the other end. He shall carry other things as well. We will shoot him if he tries to escape.”

“Keep him prisoner until we escape ourselves?”

“It is the only thing to do. He’ll give information if we let him go before.”

“Sure thing, and his help in carrying that bed will be mighty useful. I’ve been scared stiff of this jaunt. If Simon loses any more blood he’ll peg out.”

A few minutes later the little procession set out into the night, Marie Lou leading, the stretcher-bearers next, Rex at its head, and Rakov at the feet. Lastly De Richleau, automatic in hand, with which he occasionally prodded Rakov in the back. All were loaded down with heavy burdens; it was a slow and painful journey. Three times before they reached the gates of the gardens they had to rest. In spite of his magnificent physique Rex was almost dropping with exhaustion. His head was aching for want of sleep, and for all his care to avoid jolting Simon, he was so tired that his feet stumbled in the snow — he found his head sinking forward on his chest as he walked — black spots came and went before his eyes.

De Richleau was in a slightly better state, but he was weary and haggard. Centuries seemed to have passed since they had left their comfortable compartment on the Trans-Siberian. With grim humour he suddenly realized that the same train had only that afternoon steamed into Irkutsk. He was brought back to the present by seeing the stretcher-bearers set down their burden, and Rex stumble forward in a heap.

“If Mademoiselle will keep a watchful eye on our friend,” he suggested, indicating Rakov, “I will attend to the boy.”

He shook Rex roughly by the shoulder. “What the hell!” exclaimed Rex, crossly, as he hunched his back against a tree.

“Stand up, man!” said the Duke, sternly. “You cannot sleep yet. Come, Rex,” he added, earnestly. “Another half-hour, no more. I will make a reconnaissance, and if all is well we can bed down in some corner for the night. If you sleep now I shall never be able to wake you on my return, and you are too big to carry! Keep moving, my friend, I beg.”

Rex struggled to his feet. “O.K.” he said, wearily. “My head’s aching fit to burst, but I’ll be all right.”

After a short consultation with the girl, the Duke crept forward through the gates. He made a great circuit this time, approaching the house from the front; no sound came from the gaunt pile of masonry.

The moon had risen, but it was a night of scurrying clouds; the light was fitful and uncertain; big flakes of snow began to fall. De Richleau blessed their luck, for it would hide their tracks from the cottage. He lingered for a little in the trees, examining first one part of the Château, then another, as the light gave occasion. He could make out no sign of movement.

The greatest caution he mounted the steps to the great roofless entrance hall; it was still and deserted. The room in which Leshkin had examined them must surely be the danger-spot if the place were still occupied. The Duke edged down the passage, holding his pistol ready. The door stood open and the room was empty. He re-crossed the hall to the big salon , here, too, the silent man who had stood waiting in the darkness had disappeared — the window to the terrace stood open just as he had left it.

The Duke breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He was a man of immense determination; in his chequered career he had faced many desperate situations. That he was in the depths of Siberia, fifteen hundred miles from the European frontier, that their enemies had wireless, aeroplanes, and machine-guns, did not matter. One thing, and one thing only, was essential — they must have rest.

Given the strength of Rex, rested and refreshed — given Simon, able to travel again and use his subtle brain — given his own experience and courage renewed after he had slept — they would get through. How — he did not attempt to think — but somehow. Thank God the Château was unoccupied, and they could get that blessed rest.

Without hesitation he walked quickly down the terraces and rejoined the group by the gate.

“All’s well,” he said. “You know the Château, Mademoiselle. What part do you think would afford us the greatest security?”

“The foundry, Monsieur. It is at the far end, on the right. Monsieur le Prince carried out his lock-making there in the old days. The place is like a fort — with narrow windows and sheet-iron on the walls.”

“Lead on, then. Come, Rex — one last effort, then you shall sleep.”

They made their way up the terraces once more, and into the small building to which Marie Lou led them. There were windows on one side only, and one door which opened on a roofless corridor connecting the foundry with the main block.

The Duke flashed his torch round the place. In one corner was a rusty furnace with a great funnel chimney. Along one wall a tangled mass of wheels and piping, broken and rusted. For the rest, the place was empty.

Simon was set down in the corner farthest from the windows, blankets were piled on him, and he was given another dose of morphia. For a moment Rex toyed with the rusty machinery, thinking of the jewels, but fatigue overpowered him. The Duke had to lash the whining Rakov to the furnace and gag him. He took a last look round before switching out his torch. Simon and Rex were sleeping, Marie Lou sitting cross-legged on her coverings. He drew his blankets about him. “We shall beat them yet, never fear,” he said, softly. “We must do without a sentry tonight, but you shall take tea in Paris before a month is out!” Next moment he, too, was asleep.

The girl rose softly to her feet, and dragged her bedding to the doorway; she had her little pistol in her hand, the Duke’s automatic lay heavy on her knees. Wide-eyed, alert, but motionless she sat, guarding the sleepers and weaving the fairy-story of the Princess Marie Lou, until the coming of the Siberian dawn.

For six days they lived in the foundry of the Château. In all that time they only saw one human being — a peasant walking with a load of firewood across the bottom of the garden.

The first day the three friends slept until the sun was high. It was difficult to wake Rex, even then, and almost immediately he went to sleep again. Simon’s wound was re-dressed, and he was given a further dose of morphia.

The Duke watched during the afternoon while Marie Lou curled up like a kitten in her rugs, and slept well into the evening.