Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“Idiot,” said Richard. He looked quickly away from Marie Lou and felt himself grow quite hot in the darkness.

“’Fraid I can’t offer to put you up,” Bruce went on as they climbed into a taxi. “I occupy a palatial suite of two whole rooms and sleep in the bath most of the time myself.”

“That’s all right, tell him to go to the Kurplatz,” said Richard, sleepily. “Anywhere for a bed.”

“Righto, my Croesus — it’s a guinea a minute, but as you’re on your honeymoon, I suppose it’s excusable.”

“If I were not so tired I’d knock your head off,” Richard yawned. “As it is I’ll poison you at lunch tomorrow, if you’ll come, then we’ll try and sort out this mess.”

“Does the poor but honest Briton, earning his living in a distant land, refuse the invitation of his rich compatriot? No, Sirr! as our American cousins say. I’ll be there, and tell ’em to get in an extra supply of caviare!”

At the Kurplatz Bruce left them. Richard threw off his clothes and tumbled into bed — within a minute he was fast asleep. But not so, Marie Lou; the luxurious bedroom was a revelation to her, she drew her fingers softly down the thick silk curtains, examined the embossed writing-paper on the desk and the telephones beside the bed. Then she explored the tiled bath-room, she tried the taps, the water gushed into the low porcelain bath. Slowly she drew off her worn garments, and stepped into the clear water. She lay down, and steeped her tired limbs in its warm comfort, kicking her pink legs delightedly. Afterwards she wrapped herself in the big towel, and when she was dry, crept between the soft sheets with a little sigh of contentment. For a few moments before she switched out the light she lay, weaving a new chapter in the fairy story of the Princess Marie Lou. As the light went out the first rays of another day were creeping through the blinds, but Marie Lou was fast asleep.

It was after midday when she awoke to the shrilling of the telephone. She looked round her — bewildered — then she took off the receiver.

Richard’s voice came to her over the wire. “Hallo! How are you this morning?”

She snuggled down in the bed, the receiver held tightly to her ear. “I am very well, and how is my husband?”

There was an embarrassed pause, while Marie Lou smiled wickedly to herself, then Richard’s voice came again. “I’m splendid, thanks. I only woke up ten minutes ago, but I’ve been busy since.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Listen.” He smiled into the mouthpiece of his telephone. “Gerry Bruce will be here at half past one, and you can’t very well lunch in the restaurant as you are.”

“Oh no, not as I am! That would never do!” she agreed, with an amused smile at her reflection in the mirror.

“Are you in bed?” he asked, suddenly.

“Of course — are you?”

“Yes — but I mean — er — you must have other clothes.” Richard smiled again. “I’ve told the people in the hotel to send out to the shops and bring you some things to see. Just choose what you want. Shoes, stockings, and a frock, sort of thing — just for today, you’ll have lots of time to get other things, later.”

“I think you are very kind, Mr. Eaton.”

“Oh, not a bit — but I say, you might call me Richard, will you?”

Marie Lou smiled again. “Well then, Richard, I think that you are one of the very nicest people that I have ever met!” She quickly hung up the receiver, and hopped out of bed.

When Richard called for her, a little after half past one, he was genuinely astonished at the transformation. She had chosen a simple blue frock and hat, but wore them with all the inherited chic that had made De Richleau hail her at once as a Parisienne born. She was admiring herself with childish delight in the long mirror, and swung round quickly as he came in.

“Do you like me?” she asked, gaily.

He smiled. “You look perfectly lovely.” Then he shook his head with mock seriousness, and added: “But I’m afraid you won’t do like that!”

“I will not do?” she said, a little note of anxiety creeping into her voice.

“There’s something missing,” he declared.

“But what?” She looked at herself in the mirror again.

“Why these.” Richard produced from behind his back a large bunch of Parma violets.

“Oh, but how lovely, Richard — give them to me quickly.” She took the violets and held them to her face, smiling at him over the tight mass; he thought her eyes were an even more lovely colour than the flowers over which they peeped.

“Come along,” he said, cheerfully, “or Gerry will have drunk all the cocktails!”

“Cocktails?” she asked, puzzled. “What is that?”

“Sort of drink we have in these nice old capitalist countries,” he laughed. “Rex can tell you more about them than I can.” As they walked down the corridor he thought to himself what a lot of delightful things this child of the backwoods had yet to learn; he didn’t suppose she’d ever been to a dance or play, or even seen a sea warm enough to bathe in. What fun it would be to show her all those things. The sight of Gerry Bruce’s lean face, as he sat waiting for them in the lounge, reminded him sharply that there was some very urgent business to be done before he could show anybody anything!

“Well, Dickybird!” Bruce greeted him, cheerfully. “Ordered in the caviare for your impecunious friend?”

“Lots of it,” said Richard. “Brought half a dozen sturgeon with me in the ’plane last night!”

Marie Lou was introduced to the mystery of cocktails, and shortly after they were seated at a little round table in the restaurant, consuming an excellent lunch.

Richard began at once to tell the story of Rex, Simon, and the Duke; when he had finished Bruce looked very grave.

“Don’t like it, Dicky, my boy. I don’t want to be depressing, but those poor chappies have probably gone through the hoop by now.”

“I don’t think so,” Richard disagreed. “Valeria Petrovna will be in Kiev by now. She will have saved Simon’s apple-cart, and he’s not the man to forget his pals.”

For the first time Marie Lou heard Valeria Petrovna’s views on Simon’s future, and her intention of abandoning Rex and the Duke to their fate.

“What does the noble Richard intend to do now?” asked Bruce.

Richard smiled. “Gerry, my boy, you don’t seriously think that I asked you to lunch because of your good looks, do you? Only useful, practising diplomats are allowed to devour a pound’s worth of caviare at a sitting. It’s up to you!”

Bruce shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know that there’s much we can do. I’ll have a few words with the old man when I get back to the Embassy. We can demand their release or public trial. Trouble is, ten to one the Bolshies will say they’ve never heard of them. I don’t see what else we can do.”

“Well, I shall go to Kiev,” said Richard.

“My honourable and ancient auk, you’re potty!” Bruce declared. “What could you do?”

“Oh, punt round a bit. I suppose we’ve got a consulate there. I can stir them up. Have a return match with Valeria Petrovna perhaps, and if she’s got Simon out I might be able to see him and hear the latest about the other two.”

“Much more likely to land your silly self in jug.”

“Not a bit of it,” Richard protested. “They’ve got nothing against me — probably don’t even know of my existence, certainly not of my connection with the others. My passport’s in order. I shall go with all the power and prestige of old England at my back. If you can’t do anything but exchange polite notes with these rotten swine, I’m hanged if I’m going to sit twiddling my thumbs!”