Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

V

The Duke de Richleau put down his interesting book on murder and picked up the shrilling telephone at his side.

“Thank you,” he said, “I am much obliged.” He replaced the receiver and took up his book again, reading quietly till the end of the chapter. He carefully inserted a marker, and laid the book beside the bed. Then he examined the automatic which the waiter had brought him in the restaurant, also a small bottle, taken from among those on his washstand. He put the bottle and the weapon in his pocket, and lighting a fresh cigar, he left the room. As he came out into the corridor he glanced swiftly to right and left; it was in semi-darkness and no sound disturbed the silence. Outside the door to the left of his room a neat pair of black shoes reposed — Simon’s. Opposite lay a pair of large brogues, Rex’s. Outside Marie Lou’s door were a tiny pair of buckled court shoes, and beside them — “Strange,” thought the observant Duke — a pair of man’s patent evening shoes.

“Very strange,” the Duke thought again; then a gurgle of delighted laughter came faintly from beyond the door. De Richleau raised one slanting eyebrow meditatively. Sly dog, that Richard; what a thing it was to be young and in Vienna, city of dreams. How fond he was of them all, and how fortunate he was — that, at his age, all these young people seemed to take such pleasure in his company. Life was a pleasant thing indeed. He drew thoughtfully on his cigar, and quietly strolled down the corridor.

His walk had all the assurance that marked his every movement with distinction; nevertheless, his footsteps were almost noiseless. He came to a baize door, and passed through it to the service staircase beyond. He mounted slowly in the darkness, his bright eyes gleaming like those of some great cat. From a long acquaintance with continental hotels he knew that spare pass-keys were always to be found in the floor-waiter’s pantry. Two floors above his own he found the room he sought, with its nails and brushes. The light was on, a tired chamber-maid was sleeping in a chair, a paper-covered novel on her knees. With infinite precaution De Richleau took the key he needed from its hook above her head. He was easier in his mind now — the possession of that key was the one thing that troubled him. Soft-footed he walked down the passage, seeking Leshkin’s room. He found it and inserted the key in the lock. He turned it gently and the door opened without a sound. He slipped inside.

Kommissar Leshkin was late in going to bed. He stood in his stockinged feet and shirt-sleeves, removing his tie and collar. He had some little difficulty, as his fat fingers still bore the angry weals where Valeria Petrovra’s whip had caught them. He took a pot of ointment from the dressing-table and was just about to apply it to the cuts on his face; in the looking-glass he caught the reflection of a white shirt-front. He dropped the pot and spun round.

It was the Duke, grey-haired, immaculate in evening dress. In his right hand he held an automatic, in his left a long, evenly burning cigar. For a moment the Kommissar did not recognize him; he looked so different from the ragged prisoner of the Pecher-Lavra Prison.

“So we meet once more, and for the last time, Kommissar Leshkin,” the Duke said softly.

Leshkin backed quickly towards the bedside.

“Stay where you are,” De Richleau spoke sharply now; “put your hands above your head.”

For a moment it seemed as if the Kommissar was going to charge him; his great head was lowered and his bull neck swelled above the collar of his shirt — but he thought better of it and slowly raised his hands above his head.

De Richleau nodded. “That is better,” he said, evenly. “Now we will talk a little; but first I will relieve you of the temptation to secure the weapon by your bed.”

He put his cigar in the ashtray on the table and moved swiftly to the bedside, keeping his eyes fixed on the Kommissar’s face.

Having secured Leshkin’s weapon, he slipped his own pistol in his pocket and again picked up his cigar.

“I understand,” he addressed Leshkin evenly, “that your presence in Vienna is due to an application for the extradition of myself and my friends?”

Leshkin’s uneven teeth showed in an ugly grin. “That is so, Mr. Richwater, and if you think to steal my papers, it will do you little good. Duplicates can be forwarded from Moscow, and I shall follow you to England, if necessary.”

“I fear you misunderstand the purpose of my visit. I do not come to steal anything. I come to place it beyond your power to enforce the extradition once and for all.”

“You mean to murder me?” Leshkin gave him a quick look. “If you shoot you will rouse the hotel. The police here know already the purpose for which I have come — you will be arrested immediately.”

De Richleau smiled. “Yes, I have already thought of that.” He moved softly to the big french windows and opened them wide. “It is a lovely night, is it not?” he murmured. “These rooms in summer must be quite charming, the view is superb.”

Leshkin shivered slightly as the March air penetrated the warm room. “What do you mean to do?” he asked.

“You are not interested in the sleeping city?” De Richleau moved away from the window. “But of course one would not expect that from you, who seek to destroy all the beauty of life — you have your eyes so much on the gutters that you have forgotten the existence of the stars.”

“What do you mean to do?” repeated Leshkin thickly. There was something terrifying about this quiet, sinister man with his slow measured movements.

“I will tell you.” De Richleau put down his cigar again and picked up a toothglass from the washstand. He took the small bottle from his pocket, uncorked it carefully, and poured the contents into the glass.

“Ha! you mean to poison me,” Leshkin exclaimed. “I will not drink — I refuse.”

The Duke shook his head. “You wrong me, my dear Leshkin — that is not my idea. It seems that in this question of extradition it is necessary to prove identity. You are the only person who can identify Mr. Simon Aron, Mr. Rex Van Ryn, and myself as the men concerned in the shooting that night at Romanovsk.” He carefully picked up the tumbler in his left hand. “If you were to become blind, Leshkin, you could not identify us, could you?”

“What are you going to do?” Fear had come into the Kommissar’s eyes.

De Richleau held up the glass once more. “This,” he said, softly, “is vitriol. I purpose to throw it in your face. You will be blinded beyond any hope of recovery. After that you may go back to Russia if you will.”

“No — no —” Leshkin cringed away, an awful horror dawned on his coarse features.

The Duke stepped round the little table, fixing the Kommissar with his brilliant eyes. Leshkin backed again quickly towards the window; he held his hands in terror before his face. “No, no, I will go back — I will destroy the extradition — ”

“I fear it is too late.” De Richleau took another step forward; Leshkin made a sudden movement, as if to rush him, but as the glass was raised he gave back quickly. Now he was standing between the open windows.

“Are you ready?”

A grim smile played round the corners of the Duke’s firm mouth.

“Shoot me,” said Leshkin. “Shoot me!”

De Richleau waved the Kommissar’s automatic gently up and down. “You would prefer to die?” he asked evenly.

“No... no... I am not ready to die... give me time.”

“So —” the Duke mocked him. “You still think that God will help you when man will not? I am surprised that a man like you should believe in these effete superstitions. What is death, after all, but a cessation of activity?”