The Forbidden Territory

by Dennis Wheatley

  They got out, and their driver knocked loudly upon the door; after a little it was opened, and they went in, bidding the driver to return in an hour. It was snowing heavily in the street, and as they began to remove their wraps they were astonished at the quantity of snow that had gathered upon them during the short wait on the threshold. They took a small table near the great china stove, blowing into their hands to warm their chilled fingers. A slatternly woman shuffled up to them, and after a short conversation with the Duke, set two small glasses of spirit before them; it proved to be some kind of plum brandy, similar to Sleigowitz.

  In the low room were about twenty tables, some dozen of which were occupied. Men of all classes were present—several low-browed, stupid, or sullen-looking workers, in the usual Kaftan, here and there a better type, who from his dress seemed to be some minor official; one or two faces suggested the cultured European who has “gone native”, and known much suffering—one elderly man, with a fine domed head, sat staring with wide blue eyes into vacancy. The only woman there had a hard unpleasant face with the pink eyes of an albino, and patchy hair, alternate tufts of white and yellow.

  There was little talking, and few groups of any size; most of the denizens of this dubious haunt seemed tired and listless, content to sit idle, listening to a monotonous repetition of gipsy music from the travesty of a Tzigane band.

  The Duke and Simon sat for a long time studying the people, bored, but anxious not to miss any movement or word which might give them the opportunity to get in touch with the frequenters of this poor hostelry; but nothing changed, nor did anyone molest them. Even so, Simon was happy to be able to press the hard bulk of the big automatic between his upper arm and his ribs. He was aware that they were being covertly watched from a number of tables, and if many of the faces were tired, some of them were far from being free of evil.

  Now and again a newcomer entered, heralded by a gust of icy wind and snow—occasionally a man pulled his extra long layers of frowzy clothing about him, and went out into the night. Beneath the low rafters the room grew thick with the haze of cheap tobacco smoke, the monotonous band droned on.

  After a long time, as it seemed, three workmen arrived, bringing with them quite a drift of falling snow; they were a little drunk, and two of them began to clap, and call for “Jakko”. The face of the third seemed vaguely familiar to Simon, who caught him slyly glancing in the direction of their table. He noticed, with a feeling of aversion, that the man had a cast in one eye, and quietly, almost unconsciously, forked his fingers under the table.

  The cry of “Jakko” was taken up by several others; the band of three struck up a livelier tune, and through a door at the back of the room appeared a dancer.

  He was clad in a fantastic costume of ribbons and dried grasses, not unlike the traditional Hawaiian dress. As he pirouetted, his skirts flared out about him; he carried an enormous tambourine, and upon his head he wore a conical hat of reeds, reminiscent of Robinson Crusoe in the pantomime. Leaping into the clear space in the centre of the room, he began a wild and noisy czardas, in time to the steady clapping of the audience.

  De Richleau looked at him for a moment, and then away with a slight shrug. “This fellow will keep going for hours,” he said, impatiently. “He is, or would pretend to be, a Shamman from the Alti—that is, a sort of witch-doctor from the desolate Russian lands north of Mongolia, where the Tartar tribes still worship the spirits of their ancestors. I think we had better go—there is nothing for us here.”

  But Simon was not listening; his shrewd eyes were riveted on the gyrating dancer. He was careful not to look at the Duke, not even to appear to speak to him, but he nudged him slightly, and, placing his hand casually before his mouth, whispered:

  “Don’t you see? This is Jack Straw!”

  Chapter VI

  The Secret of The Mine

  “You are right, my friend, you are right!” the Duke breathed back. “I am thankful you are with me; I should have missed this altogether!”

  For a long time they sat in silence while the dancer leaped and spun, crashing his tambourine, and making his grass skirts swirl around him. They could not see his features, since he wore a hideous mask. He was a big, powerful man, but even so the terrific exertion caused little rivulets of perspiration to run down his neck and arms, and such parts of his body as were naked soon glistened with sweat.

  Meanwhile the stale smoke collected and hung in stratus clouds beneath the rough-hewn beams of the low ceiling. No breath of air was allowed to penetrate from outside, and the atmosphere of the overheated room became almost unbearable.

  At last, with a final leap and a crash of the tambourine, the dance was over; De Richleau threw some kopecks on the floor and, catching the fellow’s eye, beckoned. The dancer picked up the money and came over to the table. The Duke said five words only, in Russian: “You will drink—sit down.”

  It was not only the words he chose, but the accent which he put upon them, which made the man regard him with a sudden narrowing of the eyes; but De Richleau knew what he was about. He had purposely chosen the words and tone which a Russian aristocrat would have used in addressing an artiste who had pleased him in the days before the revolution; not the cordial invitation from one worker to another, in a state where all men are equal.

  The grotesque figure, still wearing the mask of a Shamman, pulled out a chair and plumped down on it. Without speaking he crossed his muscular legs and, producing a tobacco pouch and papers, began to roll himself a cigarette.

  De Richleau called the slatternly woman, and a fresh round of the spirit resembling Sleigowitz was put before them.

  With his brilliant grey eyes the Duke studied the dancer. He felt certain now that they were on the right track; had the fellow churlishly refused, or been abusive of that invitation issued almost in the form of a command, he would have felt that probably they were mistaken, and that the man was no more than an ordinary moujik. Since the man accepted in seeming serenity, the inference was that he realised their visit to be no casual one, and was himself no casual peasant dancer.

  “We are visitors here in Moscow for a few days,” the Duke began, in a low voice. “Americans. Do you get many Americans here?”

  “Könen sie Deutsch sprechen?” the dancer inquired, softly.

  “Jawohl,” De Richleau answered under his breath.

  Simon pricked up his ears, for he had a fair knowledge of German.

  “That is good,” the peasant went on in the same language, still looking the other way; the hideous mask hid the movement of his lips. “I also am American, so also are all the people in this room—every one, just as much American as yourself, old one. Now tell me the truth.”

  A glint of humour showed in De Richleau’s piercing eyes. “I ask your pardon,” he said briefly, “but it is an American that I seek, and I thought that Jack Straw might give me news of him!”

  “So?” The dancer seemed to consider. “How do I know that you are not the police?”

  “That you must judge for yourself,” the Duke replied, lightly. “If I showed you my passport, you would say that it is forged, perhaps.”

  “You are not of the police,” said the other, decisively. “No spy of the Ogpu could call an artiste to his table as you called me. Yet it was a risk you ran—such is no longer the manner used in Moscow!”

  De Richleau smiled, pleased that his subtlety had been appreciated. “I must run risks if I wish to find my friend,” he said, simply. “A tall, young American—he came here one night early in December—Tsarderynski, or Rex Van Ryn, which you choose, that is his name.”

  “I know him,” the other nodded laconically, and spat on the floor.

  “Did you know that he was in prison?” the Duke inquired, guardedly.

  “No, but I suspected that, else he would have returned by now; but it is better not to talk of this here!”

  “Where can we meet?” De Richleau asked at once.

  “Where is your guide?” the dancer coun
tered, quickly.

  “We are supposed to be at Meyerhold’s Theatre tonight, but we came here instead.”

  “Good. It must be some place where he will not accompany you.”

  “The Zoological Gardens?” suggested the Duke.

  “That will do. In the Krassnaja Pressnja, inside the eagles’ house,” he laughed softly; “that is appropriate, eh? Eleven o’clock tomorrow, then.”

  “Eleven o’clock,” De Richleau repeated.

  The dancer pressed his mask more closely against his face, and swallowed his drink through the slit of the mouth, then he stood up quickly and, without another word, he left the table.

  He had hardly disappeared through the back of the restaurant when the street door was flung violently open, five men pushed in—three appeared to be ordinary working men, the other two were the guides.

  “Now we’re in a muddle!” Simon laughed, but the Duke was equal to the situation, and even before the guides had had time to look round the dimly lit room, he had called a boisterous greeting to them. The three workmen sat down near the door, while the guides came over to the table near the stove at once.

  “Hello, my friends, come and sit down, come and drink with us!” The Duke thumped the table, and called loudly for the woman who served the drinks, seeming suddenly to have become a little drunk himself.

  Simon took up the cue immediately, and tipped his chair back from the table at an almost dangerous angle, while he allowed a fatuous smile to spread over his face.

  “We believe gentlemen were at Meyerhold Theatre—” began one of the guides, seriously.

  “The theatre! Bah!” De Richleau shrugged. “I lost the tickets, so we came here instead—it is better!”

  “But, if gentlemen had asked for us we would have got other tickets,” the man persisted.

  “What does it matter?” laughed the apparently tipsy Duke. “Come, let us drink!”

  “But please to understand, the situation is such—it is not good that gentlemen come to such a place alone, it is not of good reputation. The police do what they can, but there is bad quarter in every city, it is not safe for gentlemen.”

  “We have come to no harm.” De Richleau lifted his glass, as the woman set more drinks upon the table. “Good harvests—and prosperity to all!” he cried loudly in Russian.

  The guides bowed solemnly, and drank. It is a toast that no Russian ever refuses; the great mass of the people—whether under Tsar or Soviet—are too near the eternal struggle with the soil.

  “We are only anxious for safety of gentlemen,” the guide who acted as spokesman protested. “When we learn that gentlemen were not at theatre, we worry much; the situation is such because we are responsible.”

  “Good feller!” Simon let his chair come forward with a crash, and patted the man on the back affectionately. “Let’s have another drink; you shall see us all safe-home!”

  The two guides exchanged a swift glance—they seemed relieved. It was evident that their charges were harmless people, out on the spree and mildly drunk; they accepted a further ration of the fiery spirit.

  After that things became easier—they drank: To the Russian People—To the British Socialist Party—To each other—and, finally, for no shadow of reason—To the ex-Emperor of Germany!

  By that time the two guides were singing sadly together, and Simon and the Duke had had as much as they could comfortably carry, yet both had still their wits very much about them.

  At last one of the guides rose unsteadily to his feet. He made his way to the street door and had to cling on for support as he opened it. The wind had risen, and after he had ascertained that the hired car was outside, assistance had to be given him before he could close the door again. At his suggestion the whole party left the “Tavern of the Howling Wolf”. The driver was fast asleep in the body of the car under a pile of rugs; they roused him up, and soon the party were bumping their way back through the white and silent streets to the hotel.

  In the lounge dancing was still in progress; they had a final drink together, and parted for the night with many expressions of mutual esteem and goodwill.

  The following morning neither De Richleau nor Aron felt inclined for breakfast, but neither of them had forgotten the importance of their appointment, and as soon as they were out in the fresh, crisp air, their spirits revived.

  They had had no difficulty in dispensing with the attendance of the guides when they had declared their intention of visiting the Zoo; but they waited till they actually arrived in the Krassnaja Pressnja before they opened serious conversation.

  “I’m worried,” said Simon, looking round to make certain that no one was within earshot.

  “Why should you be?” asked the Duke, blandly. “I thought our little adventure of last night passed off most fortunately. We have run Jack Straw to earth, and are, I trust, about to hear his story. I think, too, that our excellent guides are entirely without suspicion; it might have been a very different matter if they had arrived on the scene earlier, when we were talking to Jack Straw!”

  “It’s not that,” Simon shook his head quickly. “Did you—er—notice the three workmen who came in before the dance?”

  “Yes; what of them?”

  “Well, I don’t know, of course, but I’ll tell you—I believe one of them was the chap who asked you for a light in the Park yesterday.”

  “Indeed!” De Richleau raised his slanting eyebrows. “What makes you think that, my friend?”

  “He had a cast in one eye; nasty-looking little chap. Mind you, I may be mistaken.”

  “Would you know him again?”

  “Um,” Simon nodded, “I think so.”

  “In that case we must keep a sharp look-out. It is by no means unusual, in countries where there is a large organisation of secret police, for one agent to be set to watch another. This man may be acting quite independently of our official guides, and unknown to them. We must be careful!”

  They had entered the Zoo while they were talking, and found the eagles’ house without difficulty, but they looked in vain for Jack Straw. A keeper stood near the door at one end; the only other occupant of the big aviary was an elderly gentleman with fine, flowing white moustaches. He looked as if he had seen better days.

  As they walked slowly along the cages they drew near to the old man, who was advancing in the opposite direction. Pausing now and again to admire the birds, they came together before a cage of vultures near the centre of the house.

  “Filthy brutes!” said the old man, suddenly, in a surprisingly youthful voice, as he pointed with his stick.

  “They are as Soviet Kommissars to the Royal Eagles who are Tsars,” the Duke answered, softly.

  “You fooled your guides well last night,” the other went on, in perfect English, “but you must be careful—there are certain to be others watching you.”

  “Thank you. Can you give us news of Van Ryn?”

  “No, don’t know what’s happened to him, but I know why he came to Russia!”

  “Good, that may be helpful.’

  “He was after the Shulimoff treasure; the old Prince buried it himself before he cleared out in ’seventeen; there’s said to be millions of roubles’ worth of gold and jewels—God knows where it is, the Bolshies have been hunting for it for years—but that’s what Rex is after.”

  The effect of hearing this youthful English voice proceeding from the grey-moustached lips of the elderly Russian was so unusual that Simon had difficulty in restraining his mirth. They walked slowly down the line of cages towards the door at the opposite end from that at which the keeper stood

  “Stout feller, Rex,” their elderly companion went on. “Knew him when he came over to play polo for the Yanks in nineteen twenty-nine. I hope he’s all right.”

  “I received a letter asking for assistance a fortnight ago,” said the Duke. “It was posted in Helsingfors. He was in prison somewhere—but where, I have no idea, unfortunately; he must have run up against the authorities in som
e way.”

  “Probably found wandering in forbidden territory; they’re pretty strict about that. Large areas are closed altogether to foreigners.”

  “Where—er—was Prince Shulimoff’s estate?” inquired Simon. “That might give us a line,”

  “That’s just the trouble; the old boy was fabulously rich. He had a dozen places; one outside Moscow, another near Leningrad; a villa at Yalta—that’s the Russian Riviera, you know. Then he had an enormous territory near Tobolsk’, in Siberia, and places in Pskov, and Yaroslavl, and the Caucasus as well; and being such a wily old bird, he may not have buried the treasure in any of them; the old scout may have thought it safer to stow the goods in one of the monasteries, or the cellars of a friend!”

  “Looks as if we’d have to make a tour of Russia!” remarked Simon, with a chuckle.

  “I say,” said the young-old man, suddenly, “you might do a job of work for me, will you? When you get back to London—that is, if you do,” he added, smiling under his moustache—“just drop into the Thatched House Club and ask for Colonel Marsden; give him this message from Jack Straw: ‘Stravinsky’s got twelve, and six, and four’. Will you? He’ll know what that means—think you can remember?”

  “Colonel Marsden—Stravinsky’s got twelve, and six, and four,” repeated the Duke. “Yes, I shall remember.”

  “Splendid. I’ll probably get that bit through another way as well, but one can’t have too many lines. I’ll tell you another thing. If you do make a round trip of the Shulimoff estates, and get anywhere near Tobolsk, keep your eyes skinned—there’s a great deal of activity going on up there just now, and we’d like to know what it’s all about, if it’s just another commercial stunt connected with the Five Year Plan, or something military. Give Marsden anything you pick up; it’s all the odd bits of information pieced together that make a whole, you know.”