The Forbidden Territory

by Dennis Wheatley

  “It was a lovely place,” she admitted. “Even now it is imposing in the moonlight—but the moon will not be up for some time.”

  “No matter,” said the Duke. “I would like to see it if we may trespass on your kindness so far.”

  “Come then.” She turned to Rex. “And you, Monsieur—you will stay here?”

  “Sure thing,” he laughed. “How long do you reckon you’ll be?”

  “An hour—an hour and a half perhaps.”

  “Then I’ll be sleeping like a log. If I don’t wake, bang me on the head with the frying-pan!”

  “No,” she laughed back, as he settled himself on the divan. “I will fill your big mouth with a handful of snow. Au revoir, Monsieur.”

  He waved one large hand, but he was already half asleep. De Richleau and Simon had put on their furs and left the cottage with the girl.

  She led them along a narrow path through the woods and across the high-road, then by a cart-track through thicker woods to a place where two great stone pillars showed faintly in the starlight. To one a big wrought-iron gate still clung, rusted and broken, half overgrown with brambles. Here she paused.

  “This is the entrance to the grounds,” she said, in a low voice. “It is too dark to see from here, but the house is straight ahead from where we stand. Are you certain that you can find your way back to the cottage?”

  “Certain, Mademoiselle,” De Richleau replied, softly.

  The night was utterly still and they were quite alone, but instinctively they spoke with lowered voices. “We shall hope to return within an hour, but this is a strange country—may we know your name? We have to thank you for such very great kindness.”

  “My name is Marie Louise, but my mother’s name for me when we were alone was the Princess Marie Lou. It is pretty, that, do you not think?”

  “Enchanting.” The Duke raised her little hand to his lips: “Princess, I am the very humblest of your servants.”

  With Simon she shook hands, as he murmured his gratitude.

  “Au revoir, Messieurs, et bonne fortune,” she laughed, gaily. “I will take care of your big friend!” A moment later her little figure disappeared in the shadows.

  The garden had become a wilderness. The Duke and Simon followed the path as well as they could through a tangle of briars until they came at last to a big open space which must once have been one of the lawns.

  It was freezing hard, and so still that the only sound was that of their own footsteps on the crisp snow. They mounted one terrace and then another. Suddenly the great, black bulk of the house loomed up before them in the faint starlight. As they came nearer they could see its gaunt outlines; through the blank upper windows patches of sky showed, where the roof should have been. The great façade was reminiscent of a miniature Versailles—the pile was splendid, even its in decay.

  They mounted to the last terrace, with its broken stone balustrade, and flashed their torches on the walls. A long line of french windows, opening on to the terrace, stretched on either hand. De Richleau tried the nearest, but it was securely locked. The glass was gone, but it had been stoutly boarded over. They walked along to the left, inspecting each window as they went. All were the same, and each had loop-holes bored in the planking shoulder-high.

  “Evidently the bandits Marie Lou spoke of fortified the place,” said the Duke, impatiently. “Let us try the other end.”

  They turned, and in the other direction, at a short distance from where they had started, found a window that actually stood a few inches open. The silence was eerie, and Simon started nervously as the Duke swore softly. “What’s up,” he asked.

  “I forgot to put my pistol back in my pocket after I’d cleaned it. It must be still in the cottage.”

  “I lent mine to Rex,” whispered Simon. “In case anyone turned up while we were away!”

  “No matter,” whispered back the Duke. “There is nothing to be frightened of here; that is,” he added, with a laugh under his breath, “unless the ghost of Prince Shulimoff has come back to do us the honours of his house.”

  He pulled the window open as he spoke, and it yielded with a loud creak.

  Simon had never felt such a strong desire to run away from something unseen and menacing; his ears felt as if they would burst with the intensity of listening; the house seemed to him an evil place, full of danger; he told himself that he was a fool. The Duke seemed quite unaffected, so he summoned up all his courage and followed him through the window.

  It was utterly dark inside; not a vestige of light penetrated the inky blackness. De Richleau’s torch shot out a beam of light, it rested for a moment on the ceiling and travelled quickly along the cornice. The room was long and lofty—traces of a handsome moulding still remained, but the plaster hung in strips, and in places had altogether disappeared.

  With a jerk the Duke lowered the beam to the skirting, and ran it round the edge of the wall. It had not moved more than two yards when it disclosed a large pair of field boots—instantly the light went out.

  Simon felt the Duke push him violently in the direction of the window, but it was too late—a dozen torches flashed into their dazzled eyes—they were surrounded.

  A group of silent men, each holding an automatic, stood before them.

  “Good evening, Mr. Aron,” said a quiet, sneering voice. “Welcome to Romanovsk. We have been expecting you and your friend for some little time!”

  In the glare of the torches Simon saw the big red head and white, evil face of Kommissar Leshkin.

  Chapter XVI

  The Dark Château

  Leshkin rapped out an order in Russian; Simon and the Duke were gripped by the arms and led out of the room, across the echoing flagstones of a great central hall—roofless and open to the night sky. In the faint starlight they could see the broken balustrade of the grand staircase leading up to—nothing. At the far side of the hall they were led into the pitch darkness of a narrow passage and into a small room at the end.

  Two lanterns were lit, and they saw it was furnished only with a trestle table and a few soap-boxes. Leshkin sat down heavily at the far side of the table and gave another brief order. The guards ran their hands over the prisoners, but the only weapon they found was the long, slender stiletto with which De Richleau had killed the spy at Sverdlovsk.

  Leshkin motioned to the guards and they left the room, with the exception of one huge Mongolian, who leant against the wall behind the prisoners. Simon caught a glimpse of his face in the lamplight, he had the stupid, bestial features of a cretin—a hare-lip showed his broken, yellow teeth.

  The Kommissar placed his automatic on the table before him, his little, red-rimmed eyes screwed up into a malicious smile as he looked from one to the other of his prisoners; he addressed Simon.

  “We have met in London—we have met in Moskawa—and now we meet in Romanovsk—is it not, Mr. Aron?”

  Simon nodded.

  “I am very happy to see you in Romanovsk, Mr. Aron—it gives me opportunity to entertain you in my own fashion. I have been wanting to do that for a long time.” There was a world of unpleasant meaning in Leshkin’s Voice.

  “That’s very nice of you,” said Simon, suspiciously.

  Leshkin ran his finger-nails with a rasping sound through his short, stubbly red beard. “Do not mention it,” he said, with mock politeness. “I owe you a very special debt for the way in which you have entertained Valeria Petrovna when you were in Moskawa. That debt shall be paid in the true Russian manner.”

  “Thought Russia gave up paying her debts at the time of the Revolution,” murmured Simon.

  “Silence,” snapped the Kommissar, with a sudden change of manner. “Now, you,” he addressed the Duke. “You call yourself Richwater?”

  “That is so,” replied De Richleau. “You will see that from my passport.”

  “The passport lies; it is not so that you are known in London—in Curzon Street, or at the Mausoleum Club for instance?”

  The Duke smiled.
“You are well informed. I do not always use my title, and if I choose to translate my name at times, it is my own affair. Doubtless if you knew so much you would be aware that I am the Duke De Richleau.”

  “A bourgeois,” Leshkin sneered.

  De Richleau raised his grey eyebrows, and his smile deepened. “A bourgeois? Indeed you are enchanting, Monsieur le Kommissar. My friends and my enemies have called me many things, but never before have I been called a bourgeois!”

  “You are an hereditary enemy of the workers—it is enough.” Leshkin lit a cigarette and leaned back, regarding them in silence for a few moments. Suddenly he said:

  “What have you done with your friend—the American, why is he not with you?”

  Simon and the Duke both looked blank.

  “Come, do not pretend that you do not know who I mean.” The Russian’s voice was quiet and cold. “You made inquiries about this man in Moskawa. I, myself, supplied the information to you through Valeria Petrovna that he was in prison in Tobolsk. He escaped only yesterday—and with you, in a sleigh. Where is he?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” said Simon, slowly. He realised that if the Kommissar knew so much of their movements it would do none of them any good to deny all knowledge of Rex. “Van Ryn wanted to strike back to the railway, and we were for going farther north, so we separated—that’s why he’s not here.”

  “When was this?”

  “Early this morning, after we—er—lost our sleigh, you know!”

  “Lost!” Leshkin sneered. “That is good—and you say that your friend, the American, after coming six thousand miles to spend one hour in Romanovsk, decided to run away when he was only a little twelve miles from his destination?”

  “Well, if he hadn’t he’d be here with us,” Simon parried.

  “So—then he has passed the secret on to you—is it not?”

  “Secret? What secret?” said Simon, vaguely.

  “Mr. Aron, you make me laugh.” Leshkin sat back and slapped his stomach with his fat hands. His laughter was not good to hear. “What do you take me for—a fool?”

  “Oh, no,” Simon assured him, earnestly. “I wouldn’t do that!”

  “Does it not occur to you as strange that I should be waiting for you here?”

  “I was never so surprised in my life.”

  Leshkin nodded heavily. “I have followed your movements since you left Moskawa with great interest, Mr. Aron. Last night I was informed that Van Ryn had escaped from Tobolsk. Of your stealing the sleigh in Turinsk I already knew; it was not unreasonable to suppose that by this evening you would be here. I left Moskawa by aeroplane in time to meet you—that is all! Come now—you have the secret, let us not waste time.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Simon shook his head.

  “Listen.” The Kommissar leant forward and tapped the table with a fat white forefinger. “The American comes to Moskawa, two—three months ago, is it not. He disappears—all right, we find him again—on our train, attempting to enter the forbidden territory. Is he a fool—is he a spy? We do not know, all right—put him in prison—that is that. Then you come to Moskawa. All night—all day, you inquire for the American. One day our agent hears you talk with a man in the Zoo—the name ‘Shulimoff’ is spoken. All Russia knows of the buried treasure of the Shulimoffs. We know now that Romanovsk was the American’s destination. It was for these jewels he came to Russia. I have only to supply to you, through Valeria Petrovna, the information that he is in prison at Tobolsk; you will go there to procure his release—then you, or he, or all of you, will come on here to find the treasure. All I have to do is to make my plans to meet you here. Where are the jewels? Let us waste no more time!”

  “Elementary, my dear Watson,” murmured the Duke into Simon’s ear.

  Simon chuckled suddenly into his hand.

  “What you say?” snapped Leshkin.

  De Richleau bowed. “Merely a little joke we have in England about people with red hair!”

  As Leshkin glowered at the Duke, Simon added: “Sorry we can’t help you.”

  An unpleasant light came into the Kommissar’s small, red-rimmed eyes. “You do not think so now, perhaps, but I shall find ways to persuade you.”

  De Richleau intervened. “You will excuse me,” he said, politely. “Aron has already told you that we have parted from the American. Both of us have heard about the jewels, but neither of us know where they are.”

  The Russian gave him a shrewd look. “There may be something in what you say. Fortunately the American cannot get away—we shall catch him by tomorrow night. However, if you know nothing, you are of no use to me—again, why should we waste time? I will have you shot!”

  And why should you do that?” asked De Richleau, quietly.

  “You have helped a prisoner to escape—you are in the forbidden territory where, perhaps, you have seen too much. In any case, you are an hereditary oppressor of the workers, and therefore an enemy of the party—it is enough—be thankful that I have you shot! For Aron I have a very different programme.”

  The Duke smiled. He appeared to be perfectly calm as he said, slowly: “You have asked Aron if he takes you for a fool! I most certainly do not, but you will be, if you have me shot.”

  “Why so?” asked Leshkin, quickly.

  “Because dead, I may be very dangerous to you—alive, I may be of some service.”

  “So!” Leshkin shrugged. “This is but talk, you can serve me not at all.”

  De Richleau leaned over the table and fixed his grey eyes with their strange, piercing brilliance on the Kommissar. “If you are so sure,” he said, softly, “tell me the name of the third man who sat with Aron and me in the Tavern of the Howling Wolf on our second night in Moscow.”

  “I do not know—also I do not care.”

  The Duke nodded, then he smiled slowly and turned away.

  “No,” he said, lightly. “Stalin does not tell everybody everything—why should he?”

  At the name of Stalin—the Iron Man—Kommissar of Kommissars, who rules Russia more autocratically than any Tsar, Leshkin stiffened where he sat. There was a brief, pregnant silence in the little room, nothing stirred—save the faint flicker of shadows on the ceiling.

  “Stalin?” echoed Leshkin very softly; there was a note of reverence in his voice—a shade too of fear.

  De Richleau followed up his advantage. “Have me shot then. I am an old man. I have faced death many times. I am not afraid, but remember that you shall answer for it to … Stalin.”

  “If this is true, you have papers.” Leshkin held out his hand. “Show me the passes of the Ogpu.”

  “I have no papers.” De Richleau made a disdainful gesture. “There are forces outside the Ogpu—forces outside the Soviet Union; Stalin uses many strange weapons for the good of The Party.”

  “I do not believe this,” Leshkin murmured, sullenly.

  “Do you know anything of my history?” De Richleau went on. “If you do, you know that I am a political exile from my own country; driven out as a young man, nearly forty years ago, by a capitalist government. Do you know why Aron was received by Madame Karkoff immediately on his arrival in Moscow? On instructions. Between them there was no thought but of the secret work that must be done for The Party. We made pretence of seeking information in order that even the Ogpu should not suspect our true intentions. Do you know who the American is? He is the son of Channock Van Ryn, one of the richest men in America. It was for us to gain his confidence—far greater issues hang upon this American than a simple attempt to recover these jewels—they are an old-wives’ tale. I doubt if they are here at all!” He paused impressively, holding the Russian with his eyes.

  Leshkin sat silent for a little—again he clawed his sparse red beard. He knew that Stalin employed secret spies outside the Ogpu—was it possible that these were members of the inner circle? Then his eyes took on a cunning look, and he said, sullenly:

  “Why, then, did you let the American go
south alone? No—” he hit the table with his big, white fist. “I do not believe it—you are intriguing foreigners—I will have you shot.”

  “So be it.” De Richleau gave the suggestion of a bow. “The choice is yours. I have only one regret—I shall be unable to be present when you are called upon to face our master. That will be a bad half-hour for you, Comrade.”

  The Kommissar stood up. At his call the guards came back into the room. He gave short instructions and the Duke and Simon were led out. They were taken down the passage again, across the great, echoing hall, and through a second passage, into another wing. Here a door was opened and they were thrust into the darkness. The door slammed behind them and they heard a heavy bold shot home.

  “Phew!” Simon let out a short whistle as he drew his hand across his forehead. “I don’t like that man.”

  De Richleau placed a steadying hand on his shoulder in the dark. “Neither do I, my friend, but you were magnificent, so calm—you showed a splendid courage.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you,” Simon confessed,” I didn’t feel it. Do you think he’ll have us shot?” They both spoke in whispers.

  “Not for the present—he half believes my little story about Stalin; none of these people trust each other. It is quite likely that we might be Stalin’s secret agents; he will do nothing till he has communicated with Moscow.”

  “Um. I thought it was wonderful, the way you put that over. Of course he’ll send a wireless from the airpark. When the reply comes we shall be in a real muddle!” As Simon used his favourite expression for any sort of trouble, instinctively he laughed his nervous little laugh.

  “That’s better,” said the Duke. “To hear you laugh so is good. Much may happen before they receive that reply. I’m angry with myself though, that I should have brought you into such danger. I wish now that I had never shown you the letter from Rex.”

  Simon laughed again. “I’d never have forgiven you if you hadn’t—but, talking of Rex, I suppose there’s just a chance that he may get us out of this?”

  In the dark De Richleau shook his head. “I fear he cannot help us—there must be at least a dozen secret police with Leshkin. Rex does not even know of our plight. I only trust he does not come to look for us and blunder into their clutches.”