Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

He turned to where he knew Rex to be standing. Monseigneur le Duc de Richleau had never yet lost his head, and he knew that now, if ever, his life depended upon his keeping it, so he spoke quietly.

“Have you the string, Rex?”

“Yes, but why don’t you show a light?”

“It seems to be broken.”

“Pass it over, I’ll see if I can fix it. I’m better acquainted with those things than you.”

De Richleau groped in the gloom till he found Rex’s hand. “Here,” he said, “but whatever you do, don’t let go of that string.”

Rex fumbled with the torch, unscrewing the battery and testing the bulb. “That’s about torn it,” he said. “Bulb’s gone.”

Not a gleam of light showed from any direction as they stood together; the heat seemed to have grown more oppressive than ever in the heavy night-like stillness. A dree, eerie feeling emanated from the knowledge of those rows of corpses standing on either hand.

“Have you no matches?” asked the Duke.

“No, those thieving Bolshies stripped me of every blame’ thing I had. How in heck are we going to get out of here?”

“I wish I knew,” replied De Richleau, anxiously. “Let us try groping our way round the big chamber — we may be able to find the altar by touch.”

“O.K. You go to the left, I’ll go to the right.”

“No, no, once we are separated we should have endless trouble to come together again; you have no idea how deceptive voices are in a place like this. Here, take hold of my belt — and remember, our lives may hang on your keeping firm hold on that piece of string.”

“Just as you say,” Rex agreed.

They moved carefully to the left; De Richleau stretched out his hand and it came in contact with one of the monk’s coarse robes; he knew that they must still be in the entrance to the passage — he moved on and then felt another — then bare wall. That must be the chamber. He followed the wall until it ended, touching another figure on the corner — that must be the entrance to the next passage. He stepped forward boldly, praying that there were no pits. His hand touched silky human hair — a beard. He withdrew it sharply, moving quickly to the right; once more the wall.

“Gosh, it’s hot down here,” Rex gasped.

“Frightful, isn’t it?” De Richleau was feeling up and down the wall for any trace of ledge that might mean an altar. There was nothing... he passed on. A few paces farther he encountered another mummy, and stepped out into the open again; this time he had judged the width of the passage more accurately and touched the wall again. Once more he searched for the altar, but failed to find it. He moved on — the wall seemed to continue ever so much farther this time.

“We’ve gone off the track,” said Rex, suddenly.

“No, we haven’t passed another corner.”

“My sense of direction’s pretty good; believe me, we’ve passed out of the big hall.”

The Duke was troubled, but he walked on. “I think you’re wrong, my friend. There are no mummies here, so we cannot be in a passage.”

“All right — go ahead, but I’ll lay I’m right.”

They proceeded, the black gloom engulfing them on every side. Rex spoke again:

“Honest, you’re going all wrong — air’s closer here than ever, and the floor’s sloping a bit on the down grade. What little I saw of that crypt place showed it flat.”

De Richleau swore softly in the darkness; he had to admit that Rex seemed to be right. “We’d better go back to the last mummy,” he said, “and start all over again.”

With Rex leading this time, they retraced their footsteps, winding in the twine as they went. From time to time he felt along the wall.

“Ugh,” he exclaimed, with a sudden shudder. There was a loud plop, and something moved in the darkness at their feet.

“This place gives me the creeps.”

“What was it?” asked the Duke.

“A man’s head,” said Rex briefly.

“Never mind, we’ve found the last mummy that we passed. Let us start again from here — take my belt.”

The Duke stepped out in a different direction this time, walking slowly forward with arms outstretched like a blind man. They must have covered fifty yards when he came to a sudden halt.

“Found anything?” said Rex.

“More of these filthy monks,” muttered De Richleau furiously. “May they rot in hell. I don’t know if we’re in the chamber or in a passage now.”

“Can that,” snapped Rex, “‘tisn’t good to speak ill of the dead.... I’m sorry,” he added, in a different tone, “I didn’t mean just that, but this graveyard’s getting my nerves all upset.”

“We will try the other way,” the Duke suggested, quietly. In a few paces he had walked into a blank wall. “I think we will rest for a little,” he said, wearily. “I confess I haven’t the faintest idea where we are.”

They sat down with their backs to the wall; despair was creeping over both of them.

Rex loosened his clothing at the neck. “If only we could get a breath of air,” he sighed; “we’ll asphyxiate before we’re done.”

His head was splitting. For a little time they sat in silence. Then he asked: “How long d’you reckon we’ve been fumbling round since we lost the light?”

“Three-quarters of an hour; an hour, perhaps. It seems longer, but I don’t think it can be more.”

“And there’s Simon waiting with the car — he’ll reckon the escape’s proved a wash-out and clear off soon if we can’t find a way out of this damn’ place.”

“If he was ever there,” added the Duke. “I have not counted on that car from the beginning; you will remember what Leshkin said — Simon has been under arrest for some hours, I fear.”

Rex got to his feet. “Come on,” he said, “let’s take the first passage we come to and walk straight ahead — we must come some place some time.”

“No,” De Richleau protested, “that would be madness; we should get hopelessly lost. We cannot be far from the central cave. You shall act as a pivot, holding the string, and I will walk in direct directions from you, counting my paces each time as I go. That will at least give us the position and shape of the chamber.”

He took the end of the string and started off into the thick darkness once more. He reached the mummies and said: “Six. Now I will try another way.” Suddenly his voice came in a sharp whisper.

“Rex — quickly, follow me along the string.”

Rex followed and saw at once what De Richleau had already seen: a faint blur of light showed clearly the entrance to a passage a few feet away. They were standing near the side of the great hall. Momentarily the light grew brighter — the sound of footsteps could be heard — the steady glow showed that whoever was approaching carried a torch and not a candle.

“Thank God,” breathed the Duke. “Tackle him as he gets to the opening. You hit him on the head — I’ll snatch the torch.”

Rex nodded; swiftly they moved to opposite sides of the archway, and stood peering round the corners. A bright light could be seen now advancing between two rows of mummies. Weird shadows flickered on the walls and ceiling — behind the light all was darkness.

As the man emerged from the passage they sprang upon him simultaneously. Rex delivered a swift blow with his marlinspike, De Richleau snatched the light — the man dropped in a heap without a sound.

The Duke gave a great sigh of relief. “Light,” he exclaimed; “golden, glorious, life-giving light!”

“What shall I do with this bird?” asked Rex, pushing the body with his foot.

“Leave him,” said De Richleau briefly. “Poor devil, we cannot bother with him now.” Then, as the beam of the torch fell for a second upon the white blood-stained face of the crumpled figure at their feet, he stooped suddenly: