The Forbidden Territory

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Ah, no—but when I was unable to get the horses I woke Monsieur the American, and he begged that I would conduct him to the Château. I should also have been in the trouble if he had not persuaded me to turn back at the gate where I left you. He had a feeling, I think, that all was not well. I like your big friend; he is so gentle.”

  De Richleau nodded sadly. ‘He’s a fine fellow, but it is the little one I am troubled for. He was more gentle still.”

  “You were very fond of him?”

  “He had become almost like a son to me in my old age.”

  “Monsieur Van Ryn will rescue him, perhaps—he is so strong. He could make mincemeat of half a dozen of these little Red soldiers.”

  “Perhaps—he has rescued us once already this evening—but I fear poor Simon is lying dead in the snow among the bushes at the bottom of the garden. Tell me more about yourself, Mademoiselle, to take my thoughts off this terrible business.”

  “What shall I say?” She shrugged her shoulders. “Life here has been supportable—the people are not unkind. They do not understand me one little bit; that I choose to live alone and will not marry or seek a man—that is strange to them. But in a way it is part of my protection. Many husbands look at me, but I always turn away my head, therefore the wives have nothing to fear from my good looks.”

  “Have you never thought of going back to France?”

  “Often, Monsieur, I have thought of it, that beautiful France that I know so well from books, and from my mother’s stories. But how? I have no money even if the authorities would let me make the journey.”

  “Have you no relatives to whom you could have written?”

  “None, Monsieur. As I have told you, my mother knew Prince Shulimoff since many years—long before I was born. She was cut off by her own people for that, you will understand?”

  “I think so,” said the Duke, gently. “You are the Prince’s daughter.”

  “Yes, Monsieur, I am his daughter, and legally so, for my mother was his wife, but he would never acknowledge that. It was a secret marriage made in Paris. I did not know of it myself until my mother told me when she lay dying. It seems that afterwards he made a great marriage here, in Russia, but later, when his wife died, he returned to my mother. She was in great poverty at that time, and he persuaded her to come and live at Romanovsk, but only as the companion of his niece. That proved to be our good fortune afterwards; they would surely have murdered us if they had known the truth.”

  “You are, then, the Princess Shulimoff?”

  She laughed gaily in the darkness. “Yes, Monsieur, a poor Princess who teaches in a school. It is like a fairy story, is it not, but where is the pumpkin that turned into a coach, and the little silver slippers, and the handsome Prince? One day I think I must write that story. We will call it The Fairy Story of The Princess Marie Lou.”

  “What became of your cousin—the Princess Sophie?”

  “Ah, that was terrible—” she broke off suddenly as three loud raps sounded on the cottage door.

  Marie Lou unbarred it at once, and Rex staggered in, bearing Simon slung like a sheep across his broad shoulders.

  The Duke gave a cry of delight, then asked anxiously in the next breath: “Is he badly wounded?”

  “Don’t know—pretty bad, I guess.” Rex gently lowered his burden to the floor. He waved back the girl. “Have a care, he’s bleeding as if he’d been hit in twenty places.”

  The Duke was already kneeling at Simon’s side. “Where did you find him?” he murmured, as he helped Rex to pull off Simon’s blood-soaked clothes.

  “Way outside the garden gate. I allow he crawled that far after he’d been shot.”

  “He fainted, I expect, from loss of blood,” De Richleau replied, as with his long, slender fingers he carefully drew the shirt away from the wound. “It is this one place only, I think,” he added.

  “Well, that doesn’t look any too good.” Rex bent over, and examined the ugly hole in Simon’s thigh, from which blood was welling.

  Marie Lou joined them with a bowl of water. “Poor boy,” she sighed. “He is so white and still—almost one would think him dead.”

  “I fear he will be very much alive in a moment,” said the Duke, taking out his penknife, and holding it in the flame of the lamp.

  “What are you about to do?” asked Marie Lou, who had started to bathe the wound gently.

  “Probe for the bullet—remove it if I can. The pain will bring him round, I’m afraid, but it must be done. He will thank me for it if we ever get out of this country alive. Rex, take this cloth—hold it over his mouth to stifle his cries. Mademoiselle, perhaps you would prefer to turn your back on this rough surgery?”

  She shrugged. “It is not pleasant, but it is necessary. What can I do to help?”

  “My rucksack is in the loft—in it there is a little bottle of iodine—if you could fetch me that.” The Duke knelt down again as he spoke.

  Rex leant on Simon’s chest, and pressed the cloth over his mouth. “You fit?” he asked.

  “Yes.” De Richleau straddled Simon’s legs. “Now,” he said. “Hold him tight.”

  For a moment nothing happened, then Simon gave a sudden squeal—his eyes opened, and he wriggled his head wildly as he glared at Rex.

  “Take a pull, Simon—all over in a minute,” Rex tried to soothe him.

  “I’ve got it,” gasped the Duke, in triumph. “You can let him go.” Rex released his grasp on the unfortunate Simon.

  “There,” said De Richleau, holding out the round lead, bullet, much as a dentist might a first tooth that he had removed from a frightened child. “Look, you would have had all sorts of trouble from that later!”

  Simon looked—and then looked away, groaning, the wound had begun to well blood rapidly again.

  Marie Lou began to try and staunch it. “What have you done?” she cried, angrily. “The poor little one—see how you have made him bleed!”

  “No matter, it will heal all the better now we have the bullet,” smiled the Duke, taking the iodine from her.

  “Now, Simon, my son, this is going to hurt.”

  “Like hell it is,” agreed Rex, feelingly.

  “Listen,” the Duke went on. “The soldiers are perhaps searching for us in the woods at this very moment. If you cry out you may bring them upon us. Can you bear it, do you think, or shall Rex gag you again?”

  Simon groaned, and looked from side to side. “Give me the cloth,” he said, in a faint whisper.

  They passed it to him, and he took it between his teeth, then nodded feebly. Marie Lou held one of his hands tightly in hers.

  De Richleau applied the antiseptic—Simon gave a shudder and lay still.

  “He’s done another faint,” said Rex.

  “All the better,” murmured the Duke. “I can make a more thorough job of it.”

  When Simon came to again his thigh was neatly bandaged.

  “You’ll feel fine now.” Rex patted him on the shoulder. “We are going to pop you right between the blankets.”

  Simon nodded, feebly.

  “I killed him,” he said. “That’s two I killed, isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” Rex laughed. “Al Capone won’t have anything on you when you come to see me in the States next fall!”

  “We must get him up to the loft—can you manage, Rex?” De Richleau asked. “I’m almost useless with this shoulder of mine. It has begun to bleed again already.”

  “I’ll make it—don’t worry,” Rex assured him. “I’ll go up backwards. You steady his game leg.” Very gently he took Simon under the armpits, and lifted him off the ground. He held him dangling in front of him as though he were a little child.

  To negotiate the ladder of shelves was no easy task, but it was accomplished, and above Marie Lou had prepared a bed of rugs and skins. De Richleau delved to his knapsack again and produced a bottle of morphine tablets.

  “It is fortunate,” he said, “that this is not my first campaign—I never travel
without iodine and morphia.”

  Simon was made as comfortable as possible, and given a couple of the tablets. The others went below to clear up the mess.

  “How long do you figure it’ll be before he can be moved?” Rex asked.

  “If he were in London I should say a fortnight at least,” the Duke replied. “Although it is only a flesh wound; here we must move when and how we can. After tonight’s affair the chances are, I suppose, about a thousand to one against our getting away from here alive.”

  “I wish to God I’d never met old Shulimoff,” sighed Rex.

  De Richleau smiled. “I fear we shall never see those famous jewels.”

  “No, we’ll never sit round fingering those pretties now!”

  Marie Lou had just finished ramming the last of the bloodstained cloths into the stove. “Did you say, Monsieur, that you had met Prince Shulimoff?” she asked.

  At that moment there came a heavy knocking on the door.

  Chapter XIX

  Hidden Corn

  De Richleau signalled Rex towards the cupboard with a wave of his hand. The American, with a lightness surprising in so large a man, tiptoed across the room.

  The knocking came again, more persistently this time

  “What is it?” called Marie Lou, in an angry voice.

  “Open!” cried a voice, in Russian. “Open in the name of the Soviets!”

  De Richleau saw the iodine bottle, with its London label. He snatched it up quickly, and thrust it in his pocket.

  “I am coming,” cried Marie Lou. “One moment, I must get some clothes. She began to undo the scarf at her neck, and at the same time held out her booted foot to the Duke. He understood, and quickly pulled off first one boot then the other.

  “Open!” cried the voice again. “Do not delay.”

  The Duke smiled at Marie Lou reassuringly, and held up his big automatic for her to see, then, like a shadow, he disappeared into the cupboard.

  She arranged the curtain carefully, took a last look round, and ran to the door.

  Two police officers, a civilian, and the kulak, Rakov, stood on the threshold. “What do you want?” she asked, angrily.

  The civilian pushed her aside and walked into the cottage. One of the policemen answered her.

  “We search, Comrade, for three politicals—foreigners. It is believed that you gave them shelter here, in your cottage.”

  “Here?” she exclaimed, her blue eyes wide with astonishment. “I have seen no one.”

  The civilian had been examining the inner room, which was her bedroom. He turned to her. “I am of the Ogpu, Comrade, what is your work?”

  “She is a teacher in the school,” the policeman answered for her—he was a local man and knew her well.

  “How long have you been in bed?” asked the member of the Ogpu.

  “I have not been to bed,” she replied, promptly.

  “You keep late hours,” he said, suspiciously, “here in the country—later than we do in Moscow.”

  “If I am to teach, I must learn,” said Marie Lou. “I read late if I cannot sleep.”

  “Till one o’clock in the morning?” said the man. He was tall and thin and menacing. “Come, these men were with you earlier tonight?”

  She shook her head.

  “You,” said the man, sharply, to Rakov. “This woman wished to buy horses of you tonight—is that not so?”

  Rakov bowed obsequiously—his straggly beard almost touched the level of his hands, which were hidden, Chinese-fashion, in the sleeves of his kaften. “Yes, master, horses and a sleigh.”

  “There are no masters now,” snapped the thin man, irritably. He turned on the girl. “What have you to say, Comrade?”

  “He lies, the greedy kulak—he lies in hope of reward. He would kill his mother for an egg,” Marie Lou said hotly.

  “Oh—ou—ou.” Rakov laughed a greasy laugh, his thin lips drew back and his long narrow nose almost met his chin. “To say that I lie—Rakov lies! It is well known that I give all that I have to the Soviets. I am an upright man!”

  “You are a thief, and a hider of corn,” Marie Lou went on, accusingly. De Richleau, with his ear to a crack in the floor overhead, smiled as he heard her attack.

  “Let us not trouble about that now,” said the civilian. “It is known that these politicals seek horses to escape—it is strange that Rakov should report you as having tried to buy them. Explain that, please.”

  “Rakov has heard the rumour that these people seek horses. Rakov smells money like a ferret blood!”

  The peasant stepped forward, angrily—an ugly look on his mean face. He raised his fist to strike her.

  “Enough,” cried the man from the Ogpu, thrusting him back. “I am not satisfied.” He turned again to Marie Lou.

  “Where were you when we came here earlier—two hours ago?”

  “In the village,” she lied, glibly.

  “What—at eleven at night?”

  “It could not have been so late.”

  “After ten, at least. Where did you go?”

  “I was with friends.”

  “She went to these others for horses,” sneered Rakov, “before she came to me.”

  “I know nothing of horses or politicals,” she protested. “Go away—I wish to sleep.”

  “Not yet,” said the agent of the Ogpu. “First we will search for traces of the men.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom and looked at the two local men. They disappeared into the inner room. He himself began to pull out drawers and open cupboards, while Rakov remained, a malicious grin on his face, by the door.

  The policemen reappeared. “Nitchivo,” the elder reported. “Nothing at all—the bed has not been slept in.”

  The agent indicated the ceiling with his thumb. “What is above, Comrade?”

  “Nothing,” she said, firmly. “The roof only.”

  “Let us see it then.”

  “There is no way up—if it leaks we patch it from the outside.”

  “Where do you hang your onions in the autumn?”

  “I grow no onions—when I need them I buy them from Rakov—he is cheaper than the Co-Op.”

  “Good little Marie Lou,” whispered the Duke, who lay beside Rex on the floor above.

  “She’s a kid in a million,” Rex breathed back. He had picked up just enough Russian in prison to grasp the gist of the conversation.

  The long-nosed peasant suddenly went pale—it was a terrible accusation to make in front of a member of the Ogpu. “It is not true,” he protested, fearfully. “I buy myself from the Co-Op.”

  The tall man regarded him coldly. “You shall have an opportunity of answering this charge at another time. It is sabotage to sell below the prices of the Co-Op.”

  “It is not true,” the peasant wailed; he rubbed his hands together, nervously. “My family eat a great deal—they are always eating—but all that they do not eat I give to the Soviet.”

  “I am not satisfied about this roof, Comrade.” The agent regarded Marie Lou with his hard grey eyes. “I will see it even if I have to pierce the ceiling. These men may have rested there.”

  “Search then,” she cried loudly, in French, so that those above might be prepared, and reverting quickly to Russian she went on passionately: “Do what you will—pull the house down if you wish—I do not care. I shall go to bed.” With a shrug she moved towards the inner room.

  The agent caught her by the arm. “Not so fast, Comrade.” He signed to the police. “Search that room again, there must be some way we can reach the rafters.”

  They obeyed, but returned as before. “Nitchivo, Comrade,” they said.

  “Look behind the stove. There is a way and I will find it. What is hidden by that hanging curtain there?”

  The younger policeman moved the curtain and disclosed the cupboard door.

  “Ha, let us see,” exclaimed the agent, picking up the lamp, as he moved forward. He rummaged in the cupboard behind the clothes, found the shelve
s, and gave a cry of triumph. “Here is fresh candle-grease, and a trapdoor above—had we broken in two hours ago we should have caught them while they rested.” He set down the lamp and began to climb. His shoulders disappeared from view, then his body, and finally his legs.

  No sound came from above. Marie Lou stood tense and silent—every moment she expected to hear the crash of shots. The elder policeman stood in the bottom of the cupboard, peering up. “Are you all right, Comrade?” he called out at length.

  “Come up,” said a muffled voice, in Russian. “Come up.”

  The policeman followed his superior—again there was silence.

  “I confess,” suddenly wailed Marie Lou. “I confess! It is my hidden store of grain that he has found—I meant no harm. Now they will send me to prison.”

  “Little fool,” said the younger policeman. “I also will see this secret store.” He, in his turn, disappeared into the cupboard. The trapdoor slammed behind him and once more there was silence.

  Marie Lou looked thoughtfully at the ceiling—nothing stirred. She looked at Rakov—he also was staring thoughtfully at the beams above his head.

  “Rakov,” she said, sweetly. “Would you not also like to see my secret store of grain?”

  Rakov shifted his gaze to Marie Lou. His close-set, cunning eyes, divided only by the knife-like bridge of his nose, had suddenly become full of fear. He shook his head, quickly, and backed towards the door.

  “I meant no harm,” he protested, “and even if it is true about the onions, neighbours should not tell upon neighbours. About the horses—I was questioned—what could I say?”

  Not the faintest sound came from overhead. Rakov looked up again, apprehensively. Secret stores of grain were not the only things that could be hidden in an attic—Rakov knew that! White officers, Red soldiers, politicals of all sorts had hidden in the roofs of cottages before now. Rakov felt that this was no place for an honest man who tried to wrest a living from the soil. His hand was on the latch, but as he lowered his eyes he found himself looking into the barrel of Marie Lou’s little toy revolver—above it were her very steady blue eyes.

  “No, Rakov, you filthy swine,” she spat at him, suddenly. “Not so fast—away from that door, please, and into the bedroom—quickly!”