Simon produced his torch, covering the bulb with his fingers, so that the light should not shine under the door. He pressed the button. “Might as well see where we are,” he suggested. “Try and help ourselves if there’s no one else to help us!”
The faint glow, coming pink through his fingers, was insufficient to light the room; only the Duke’s face showed faintly, heavy with shadows. Simon turned his back to the door and took his fingers off the bulb.
A quick glance showed them that the room was empty. It seemed to be some portion of the servants’ quarters—stone-flagged, and with a big, round copper built into the wall at one corner. Simon turned the light up to the roof. It was lath and plaster, supported by small beams at intervals. In one corner there was a rent, only about six inches wide—but enough, when they stood directly below it, to see three or four stars shining brightly.
“If we could widen that!” Simon suggested.
“Ah, if we could,” the Duke agreed. “But it is too high for us, my friend.”
As he spoke a single shot broke the silence of the night. It was followed by a burst of firing.
“Rex!” exclaimed Simon. “Hope they haven’t got him.” He clicked out his torch as the door of their prison swung open. Outside, with a lamp in one hand, stood the big Mongolian with the hare-lip. In the other hand he held a deadly-looking automatic, which he levelled at them.
The Duke and Simon were at least ten feet away. There was no possible chance that they might rush the man. It was evident that he meant to shoot on sight if they made the least move. Wisely they put their hands above their heads.
Then came the sound of another single shot—then another burst of firing from the other end of the Chateau. The Mongolian looked quickly down the passage in that direction, but only for a second; his dark eyes returned to them almost immediately, and he held them covered all the time.
The sound of shouting came to them from the garden—there were running footsteps which seemed to be crossing the big hall—a perfect fusillade of shots, and the whine of a ricochet. A man screamed—there were three more single shots, a murmur of angry voices—then silence once more.
The Mongolian swung the door shut, and shot the bolt. They were alone again in the darkness.
Both had been holding their breath while they listened to the fight outside; sharply now they released it. Was Rex dead, or had he escaped? Someone had been hit—that was certain, but there had been shots after that—the Bolsheviks, perhaps, taking a last shot as Rex ran off into the night, or finishing him off as he lay, wounded, on the ground. Which? Such were the thoughts teeming through their minds.
“Do not fear,” said De Richleau, trying to comfort both himself and Simon. “He will have got away, he is a splendid shot, and he would have the advantage of the darkness—the others would be in the light.”
“Unless they surprised him in the house,” Simon argued, pessimistically, “then they’d use their torches on him and he’d be dazzled by the light, just as we were.”
“We must hope for the best, but let us look again at the hole in the roof”
Simon flashed his torch on it. “I think I could reach it if you could bear my weight.”
“Let us try.” De Richleau stooped, and Simon put his legs round the Duke’s neck, sitting on his shoulders. It was a difficult and unsteady proceeding in the dark, but once Simon managed to catch hold of a beam it was easier. He inspected the hole from a closer range with his torch.
“There is nothing above us,” he said in a whisper; “this must have been a sort of outbuilding—fire couldn’t have reached this wing either—the roof’s tarred felt.” He shifted the torch to the hand with which he was steadying himself, and began to work swiftly.
It was a slow process. He dared not make the least sound or the Mongolian would come in at once to see what was happening. He pulled away little bits of plaster and pushed them out through the hole, leaving for the moment the broken framework of the lath. That part was comparatively easy, but tearing away pieces of the thick tarred felt was another matter. They had to take frequent rests, for De Richleau could not bear his weight for very long at a time. When he had worked for an hour the hole was no more than a foot in diameter.
“We shall never do it,” said Simon, despondently; “it will have to be three times that size for us to get through.”
“Not a bit,” the Duke encouraged him in a quick whisper. “Where a man’s shoulders can pass, there his body can pass too; we shall be a little scratched, but what matter? Make your hole broader at each side now; another three inches will do it.”
Simon grunted; it did not look to him as if a cat could get through in comfort. He had torn his nails, and his finger-tips ached excruciatingly, but he continued to work away.
When they next rested De Richleau encouraged him again. “It is early yet, it cannot be more than ten o’clock; another hour and we shall be out of this. Listen! What was that?”
With straining ears they stood in the darkness; the noise did not come from the passage, but from above. Something heavy was moving on the roof. As they watched, a black form blotted out the stars that had, a moment before, been shining through Simon’s hole; something moved in the opening, and suddenly a bright light blinded them. It went out instantly, and they heard the welcome sound of Rex’s voice:
“Holy smoke! I’m glad it’s you!”
“Thank the Lord you’re safe,” whispered Simon; “there’s a guard outside the door, but if you can make the hole a bit bigger we’ll soon be out.” He mounted on the Duke’s shoulders again, and in feverish haste they worked away at the roofing.
“Did you hear the dust-up?” Rex whispered. “Two of those birds’ll never see Manhattan Island any more. I ran right in on ’em—thought they were you!”
“How did you find us?” Simon whispered back.
“The Snow Queen kid got rattled when you didn’t get back in the hour, so I came up to have a look-see. Ever since the dust-up I’ve been snooping round, mostly on the roof—or what’s left of it. Good thing I had that practice in the Rockies last fall. Then I spotted your light, and a hand throwing bits of roof out. Reckon you can get through now?”
Simon slid to the ground and they surveyed the hole with their torches. Rex’s big hands had made a lot of difference; De Richleau nodded. “That will do; up you go, Simon.”
“No, go on,” said Simon, “you first.”
The Duke’s answer was to pick his young friend up by the knees and hold him aloft. “You waste time,” he said, tersely.
Simon wasted no more, but thrust up his hands. “Don’t grip the roof, it may give,” whispered Rex. He gripped Simon’s wrists and hauled him up. There was a slithering noise, a slight scrape, and he was through.
The Duke looked apprehensively towards the door—surely the guard had heard. Two laths had cracked with a dry snap. He lost no time, but mounted the stone copper—Rex could not have reached him on the floor; by leaning forward his hands would be within a few inches of the hole.
“Make it snappy,” whispered Rex, thrusting his arms down from above. The Duke leaned forward and grasped them firmly, then he swung off the copper. As he did so there was a crash of falling masonry—the cement that held the top row of bricks round the copper had long perished—De Richleau’s boot had brought them rumbling to the floor.
Instantly the door swung open. Lantern in one hand, pistol in the other, the Mongolian rushed in. The Duke found himself hanging, suspended, looking right into that cruel, hare-lipped face. The man dived for him. The Duke kicked out, his boot took the soldier on the upper part of his right arm; the man staggered back, dropping his gun.
“Pull, Rex, pull!” shouted the Duke, but to his horror he found that Rex had let go one of his hands. He dangled by one arm, revolving slowly.
The Mongolian did not stop to find his pistol; he flung himself on the Duke. De Richleau found himself being dragged down, the bestial face was within an inch of his own.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash, and a terrific report within an inch of his ear that almost shattered the drum; the man sagged and slipped backwards with a horrible choking sound. Rex had shot him at close range through the upper mouth.
The next thing the Duke knew was that he was out in the cold air of the roof; Rex and Simon were on each side of him, dragging him from one level to another. There was the sound of running feet, and lanterns could be seen below. A sudden shout—a shot, a bullet whistled past his head, and then the shooting began in earnest.
Chapter XVII
The Fight on the Roof-Tops
A Hail of bullets spattered the brickwork against which they had been standing a moment before.
“Don’t shoot,” whispered Rex hoarsely, as they moved crouching along the gutter under the protection of a low wall. “The flash will show them where we are.”
“I have nothing to shoot with,” said the Duke, bitterly. “I deserve to be shot myself, at my age, for leaving my weapon behind.”
“Good Lord, I forgot.” Rex thrust the other pistol into his hand. “I found it after you’d gone. Look out!”
They had come to the end of the low wall on the front of the house. A series of roofs at different levels lay before them. They were those of the outhouses that had survived the fire.
“What do we do now?” asked Simon in a whisper.
“Back the way we came,” Rex answered promptly. “More cover in the ruin, and they’ll be round here directly.”
Even as he spoke they could hear voices below them; quick jerky questions and answers. A light flashed on to the roof of one of the outhouses. They crept stealthily back to the far end of their cover, Simon leading.
As he rounded the corner he ran full tilt into a crouching form. Luckily the man had no time to use his gun. Simon felt a hand clutch at his throat; they crashed to the roof together.
Simon kicked and struggled; each moment he thought they would roll over the edge and break their necks in the garden, twenty feet below. He struck blindly at the man’s face, but the fellow dodged his blows. The grip on his throat tightened, the darkness seemed to grow blacker before his eyes, there was a buzzing in his ears. Through it Rex’s voice came faintly to him. “Stick it, Simon, good boy; give him top place, and I’ll crack his skull!”
With a last effort Simon flopped forward and rolled over; the Russian, thinking he had overcome his adversary, gave a guttural laugh and sprang on his chest—the laugh ended in a moan as Rex smashed his head in with a blow from the butt end of his pistol. The awful grip on Simon’s throat relaxed, and he crawled out from beneath the body.
The men below had lost no time in hurrying back when they heard the sounds of the struggle. De Richleau stood calmly above the prostrate Simon; he fired four times rapidly into their midst. There was a sharp cry; at least one of his shots had found a mark. The group scattered quickly; the Duke ducked down behind the wall as the return fire spattered about them.
“Give me a hand,” muttered Rex, and Simon helped to prop his late enemy in position against the wall. The appearance of the Russian’s head and shoulders drew a further volley from the bushes below; a bullet thudded into the man’s chest.
“Get his gun, Simon.” The Duke kicked the pistol that lay at the man’s feet. Simon picked it up quickly.
“See that window?” Rex whispered, pointing to the main block. “It’s level with these leads. Think we can make it?”
“Ner,” said Simon briefly, “it’s twenty yards away.”
“This cursed snow,” the Duke agreed; “they’ll see our every movement once we leave this wall.”
“Got to take a chance,” protested Rex. “If they storm the roof both ends of the wall we’re done. Once in that room we’ll hold ’em till daylight—or, better still, maybe we’ll be able to make a break from the window round the corner, across the garden.”
“Yes, I agree, we cannot stay here.” De Richleau peered round the wall. “I can see one fellow from here; I’ll kill him in a minute.”
Rex tapped him on the arm. “Wait—I’ll creep to the other end—see if I can spot another. When you hear me fire, give your bird the works and beat it. You, too, Simon, don’t wait for the Duke; go like smoke. Good luck, both of you!”
Before they could answer he had moved off down the gutter.
“No time to argue, Simon,” said the Duke, in a low tone, as he covered his man from where he crouched. “Don’t lose a second when I fire. If you’re not through that window when I get there, it may cost me my life.”
It seemed an eternity, waiting there in the intense cold; it numbed their fingers round the butts of the automatics. There was a sudden crash of shots from the garden, all directed to Rex’s end of the wall. Simon, whose nerves were at the highest pitch, leapt forward into the open. De Richleau’s pistol cracked behind him; in a second almost he was clambering through the empty window frame, the Duke hard behind him A single bullet hissed through the snow on to the leads; another moment and De Richleau stood panting at his side.
“The fool!” he gasped; “did you see?”
“Ner—what happened?”
“He deliberately stood up to draw their fire.”
“Hope they didn’t get him.”
De Richleau put his head out of the window. A vicious “phut” sounded in the woodwork near his head. He drew it in again sharply; Simon flashed his torch quickly round the empty room.
In addition to the window through which they had come there was another overlooking the terraces and gardens at the back of the house. “Lucky that wasn’t under the window.” As he spoke Simon shone his torch on a great jagged rent in the floor several feet in width.
“Put out that light!” whispered the Duke angrily.
Simon obeyed; carefully avoiding the hole, he made his way round to the doorway. There was no door, it had been wrenched off.
“Think they’ll come this way?” he asked.
“Too dangerous!” said the Duke, who was still peering out of the window as far as he dared. “They know we are armed—who would be brave enough to be first man round that doorway ?”
A single shot rang out; a volley came from the bushes below in answer. De Richleau gave a sudden laugh. “Rex is all right,” he said; “at least, not dead; he may be wounded. How many shots have you in that pistol?”
Simon unclipped the magazine. “Five,” he said, after some hesitation.
“Good,” the Duke’s voice came back. “It is our turn to make a demonstration now. Stay where you are.”
Simon heard him shuffling round the room. Next moment De Richleau’s hand was on his arm.
“Is there a staircase leading below?” he asked. “One flash of your torch—no more; and hold it sideways, at arm’s length from your body.”
The little ray of light pierced the thick darkness, showing a landing outside the doorway and a narrow wooden staircase. Simon switched out the light and edged out of the room. For another brief moment he flashed it on; nothing was stirring.
“Let us go down.” said the Duke. “Keep as quiet as possible.”
Simon followed him; the wooden stairs creaked abominably. On the floor below, the faint light from a broken window made the landing just perceptible.
“We are in luck,” De Richleau murmured. In the dark, Simon could sense from his tone that he was smiling. It came to him suddenly that the Duke was actually enjoying this nightmare. Once free, and with a weapon in his hands, it seemed that he had none of Simon’s desire to slip away, to run, to be safe again; to do anything, short of deserting his friends, in order to get out of range of these smashing, tearing bullets, that made men gulp, or scream with pain.
“See,” the Duke went on, “this window will serve us admirably; from here we can survey the front. I shall fire one shot into those bushes there. You take the right-hand flash as they reply; aim for it and fire three rounds, then duck. I shall fire as I choose, but the right-hand flash is yours; you understand? And no more than three
shots. Are you ready?”
“Um,” said Simon, nodding in the dark. “Go ahead.”
De Richleau fired; a burst of shooting answered him at once; eight men at least must have been lurking in the shadows below. One was almost directly beneath the window, less than ten feet away. Simon let fly at him, leaning out to do so. There was a scream of pain at his second shot—then the Duke wrenched him back by the neck, so that his third shot went into the air.
“Are you mad,” De Richleau shouted, “to lean out so?”
“Sorry,” said Simon humbly; “I got him, though!”
“You did,” said the Duke dryly; “it is only by the providence of Heaven that he did not get you. Have you never been in a fight before?”
“Ner,” said Simon nervously. “Ner—never.”
A sudden thud sounded in the room above, accompanied by a fresh burst of firing from the garden. “Rex,” said De Richleau quickly; “let us go up.”
The stairs creaked and groaned as they reascended; the Duke paused on the upper landing.
“You all right, Rex?” asked Simon, stepping forward.
The Duke jerked him back.
“I’m fine,” came a reassuring voice from the lesser darkness by the window. “Thank God,” said the Duke, releasing his grip on Simon’s arm. “For a moment I feared it might be one of them. Mind that infernal hole.”
“Great stuff you gave ’em just now,” Rex went on. “I got across without so much as a farewell wave.”
“Listen,” said the Duke. “I propose that we should try the garden at the back—the stairs are free.”
“That’s O.K. But where’ll we make for when we get there?”
“To Marie Lou. Did she get horses? Are they at her cottage?”
“She did not. Her hick farmer friends had been given the wire about us; they wouldn’t sell.”
A sudden spurt of bullets on the ceiling made Rex duck his head.
The Forbidden Territory Page 15