“Would it not be possible for me to take over for a little? You seem to sit there doing nothing!”
“Just what I was thinking,” Rex nodded. “A kid can fly an aeroplane these days once it’s off the ground. I’ll take her up another couple of thousand; then, if you do slip a thousand there’s no harm done.” He began to climb sharply.
The Duke settled himself comfortably at the second set of controls. “I was watching you last night,” he said. “I think I understand the principle of the thing.”
Rex laughed. “I wouldn’t have let you handle her over mountains; there’s air-pockets and every kind of snag, due to the uneven ground—but you’ll not get that here. Looks as though this plain goes on for ever—it should be dead easy.”
When they were well over five thousand feet Rex took his hand off the controls. “All you’ve got to do,” he shouted, “is to keep her steady, keep your eye on the indicator, and look at the compass needle now and again.”
For some minutes he sat watching the Duke’s first efforts as a pilot. They bumped a little owing to De Richleau’s eagerness to correct their altitude too quickly, but his long sensitive fingers soon found the right touch.
“You’ll do,” said Rex, yawning again. “If the ground gets broken, wake me; if anything goes wrong, you’re not the sort of man I’d insult by telling not to panic—but for God’s sake take your hands off the controls. Just give me one kick and drop ’em. Don’t attempt to right her; leave that to me. I’ll have her under control again long before we could crash at this height, even if she’s in a falling spin.” Next moment he was asleep.
The distant plain stretched out interminably. With practice the Duke soon grew more proficient. He would have liked to have tried a few experiments, but would not allow himself to be tempted into taking any risks.
The morning wore on, the ground below changed to long rolling slopes of grassland, the seemingly endless steppes of Russia. At a little after eleven they passed another great river, which De Richleau thought to be the Don. He woke Rex in order to make certain.
Rex, still yawning, but much fresher, took over the controls again, and the Duke consulted his map. Yes, it was the Don—their progress had been wonderful. They were now about three hundred miles south of Moscow, another four hundred and fifty miles would bring them to the frontier of Roumania, it really seemed that they might get through in this one tremendous headlong flight. All of them, except Marie Lou, felt in urgent need of food—the lockers in the cabin had been searched and found to contain nothing edible.
Just after midday they left a city that the Duke declared to be Kursk on their right. Their hopes rose more strongly than ever, for far below them lay the frontier of the Ukraine; at least, they were out of Russia proper.
The ’plane bored on to the west through the sharp, crisp air. With perfect rhythm the engines droned on over their heads. Rex was enchanted with the machine. For some time he had been puzzling about the mechanism of the helicopter. It was unlike any that he had ever seen, having two blades only instead of four. At last he solved the problem to his satisfaction and turned to the Duke.
“Cute dodge, that helicopter. When it’s not in action it forms another ’plane above our heads, both blades in alignment with the wings. They answer, too, at the same time to the controls. If you’re going to use it on its own, the right-hand blade turns completely over, so that the thin edge of both spins in the same direction when it revolves. Guess I’ll patent that when I get home!”
De Richleau looked up—it was true. Instead of four blades at an angle impeding the flying speed, and useless except for going up or coming down, the helicopter formed a small but perfect extra ’plane which helped to carry the weight of the machine. As he looked, the Duke’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth set in a grim line. He had seen something in addition to the helicopter. Above, and to the right, hovered six ’planes flying in formation. He nudged Rex and pointed.
“Holy Mike,” Rex groaned. “D’you reckon those birds are after us?”
“I fear so. Every air-park in the country must have been warned of our exploit at Romanovsk.”
Rex had already banked, and was heading away from the enemy flight towards the south when Simon touched him on the shoulder. He had crawled through the cabin. “Not that way, man,” he shouted. “Look below to the left—head north, Rex.”
Rex looked and swore—five hundred feet below him another flight were sailing. He tilted the ’plane sharply, to gain additional height, hoping to pass over them. That they were spotted was evident—the northern flight had wheeled swiftly and was climbing too.
“Hell’s luck,” Rex exclaimed. “Another couple of hundred miles and we’d have been safe home.”
“Do you think you can get through?” asked the Duke.
Rex shook his head. “You bet we’ll try, but there’s not a scrap of cloud to get lost in. Aw, hell! there’s another lot.”
Even as he spoke the Duke had seen them, too; a third formation, only specks in the distance, but in front, and flying high.
“They’ve been sent up on purpose to intercept us,” he shouted. “We shall never get through this!”
Rat—tat—tat came the sudden warning note of a machine-gun in their rear.
Simon was at their side again. “No ammunition in the guns behind,” he said. “Got any in front?”
De Richleau shook his head. “None—I looked just after we started—but it would be useless in any case, we could not hope to fight a dozen ’planes, and there are more ahead. Rex, we must come down before we are shot down,” he added, as there came another burst of machine-gun fire.
Rex nodded. “Cursed luck; still, ‘while there’s life’. Let’s get out of the way of the rude man with the squirt.” The machine dived suddenly, and it was none too soon; the quick stutter had started again, and the first three bullets pinged through the wing.
Marie Lou was sitting in the cabin where Simon had pulled her when he had first sighted the enemy ’planes. He spoke to her now, quickly, urgently: “Look here, nobody knows you’re with us—it’s us they’re after, not you. When we land you must run for it.”
“Where can I go?” she protested. “It is terrible, this—that we should all be caught at last.”
“Anywhere’s better than prison,” Simon insisted, “and I want you to go to Moscow, as fast as you can that is, if you get away. Here, take this.” While he was talking he had unbuttoned his coat and torn the ikon that Valeria Petrovna had given him from his neck. He thrust it into her hand and struggled along to the front of the cabin again. “Where shall we be near when we land?” he asked the Duke.
“Kiev,” said De Richleau, promptly. “I can see the spires in the distance and the two great rivers.”
“Right—give me your money, quick.”
“Why?” asked the astonished Duke.
“Give it to me; they’d take it off us, anyhow.” As he spoke Simon peered out. The tiny squares of the fields below them were increasing in size every moment—the earth seemed to be rushing up to meet them. He shouted in Rex’s ear: “Land near that village to the right—near the trees, if you can.”
Rex shook his head. “Bad landing; the fields’ll suit us best.”
“Do as I say,” cried Simon sharply, taking the Duke’s wallet. He handed both that and his own to Marie Lou. “Here’s money,” he said, breathlessly. “Get to Moscow, if you can; see Valeria Petrovna Karkoff, she’s the famous actress—anyone will tell you where she lives. Give her this locket and tell her we’re prisoners in Kiev—understand?”
Marie Lou nodded. “Valeria Petrovna,” she repeated. Yes.”
The ‘plane began to wheel in great circles at a steep angle. Simon peered out again. He leant over Rex’s shoulder.
“Think you can make the orchard?” he cried.
“I guess you’re nuts,” said Rex, not understanding what was going on. “There’s a couple of police cars following us on the road—they’re in touch with the ’plane
s by wireless, you bet—we haven’t a hope in hell of running for it. Still, I’ll do as you say.”
The roofs of the village seemed to be dashing towards them at a terrific speed. They skimmed the thatch of a big barn, and a moment later were bumping along a meadow at fifty miles an hour. With a sudden turn Rex ran the ’plane through a wooden paling, and they brought up with a mild crash against the first trees of an orchard.
“Splendid,” cried Simon, as the engine ceased to throb after its seventeen-hour journey. “Couldn’t have been better.” He was already helping Marie Lou to climb out at the back. “Run,” he shouted, as she dropped to earth.
“My bundle,” she cried; “throw me my bundle.”
“Never mind that,” yelled Simon. “Run!”
She shook her head. “Please—give it to me—I must have it.”
Angrily he spent a couple of precious minutes searching underneath the cabin table. At last he found it and flung it to her. “Quick,” he cried; “Valeria Petrovna; and if you ever get to London, go and see Richard Eaton—National Club—tell him what happened to us all.”
Rex had descended from the front. The Duke followed him more slowly. First he had secured a long flat tin from the cabin. It contained the last of the Hoyo de Monterreys. He lit one himself and offered the tin to Rex. “Thanks,” said Rex, as he walked round the wing and called up: “Simon, where are you?”
“Coming,” sang out Simon. He had just seen Marie Lou disappear among the trees.
Rex helped him down. De Richleau proffered him the last cigar. Simon took it with a grin. “Didn’t know you’d got any left,” he said, as he lit up.
“These are the last,” smiled the Duke. “I kept them for an occasion!”
“Where’s Marie Lou?” asked Rex, anxiously.
“She—er—stayed behind at Romanovsk,” said Simon. “Didn’t you know?” He drew the first puff from the long cigar. “Magnificent stuff, these Hoyos.”
The aeroplanes droned and circled overhead. The siren of a high-powered car shrieked a warning, a moment later the men of the Ogpu, with levelled pistols, came running from the near-by road.
Chapter XXII
“He who Fights and Runs Away—”
“Valeria Petrovna was seated on the divan in her beautiful apartment, her hands were so tightly clasped that the knuckles showed white under the taut skin.
“And then?” she insisted, “and then—”
“Madame, I do not know—how should I?” Marie Lou shook her head sadly.
“Ah,” Valeria Petrovna stood up with a quick gesture of annoyance, “ ’ow should you? You could ’ave stayed among the trees to watch. Now, ’ow do I know if ’e ees alive or dead?” She began to pace rapidly up and down, the draperies of her négligé swirling round her.
“But yes, Madame,” Marie Lou protested. “I heard no shots. Surely they will be prisoners, and not dead?”
She was miserably unhappy; these last days had been a nightmare to her. Having spent all her life except her remote childhood in a sleepy Siberian town, with its stupid half-peasant population, shut off from the world by miles of forest and almost arctic snows, living a simple, monotonous existence and nearly always alone except when teaching children, she was amazed and terrified by her experiences in the big cities that she had so longed to see. And now this strange, beautiful woman, who scolded her because she had run away from the ’plane as quickly as she could, just as Simon had told her to.
“ ’Ow long ago was this?” demanded Valeria Petrovna, suddenly.
“Three days, Madame.”
“Three days, child? Where ’ave you been all the time?” Tall and dark and lovely, Valeria Petrovna towered accusingly above the unfortunate Marie Lou. “Why ’ave you not come to me at once?”
Marie Lou did not resent the manner in which the other woman addressed her, although actually there could not have been more than a couple of years difference in their ages. She tried patiently to explain.
“Madame, I hid for a long time in a cowshed, it would not have been safe for me to venture out. When night came I started to walk to Kiev; it was a long way—six, seven versts, perhaps; then in the town I did not know the way. I was afraid to ask. I thought every policeman would know about us. I wandered about looking for the railway station. Then there were some men; they were drunk, I think—it was terrible!” A shudder ran through her slight frame at the recollection.
Valeria Petrovna shrugged. “Do you think that the ’ole police of Russia ’ave nothing to do but ’unt for you?”
“I didn’t know, Madame. I was tired, you see, and half out of my mind with fear. Had it not been for the big sailor, I do not know what would have happened. He was kind; he got back my bundle and took me to the station. I slept on the floor of the waiting-room that night and the next night also.”
“Then you ’ave waste a ’ole day!” Valeria Petrovna waved her hands angrily again. “Why ’ave you not come by the first train? You knew it was a matter of ’is life.”
Marie Lou shook her head. “I had very little Russian money. All, nearly, that Monsieur Simon gave me was in foreign notes. I did not dare to change them; I had to wait for a place in the slow train. Last night I slept again upon the Moskawa station. All that I could do to reach you quickly, Madame, I have done.”
With a sudden change of mood, Valeria Petrovna sank down beside Marie Lou and took her hands. “Forgive me, little one. I ’ave been rude, unkind, when I should thank you from the bottom of my ’eart; it is a terrible time that you ’ave ’ad, terrible; but I am upset—distraught—you see,” she ended, simply, “I love ’im.”
Admiration struggled with fear in Marie Lou as she looked at the woman kneeling beside her; never, she thought, had she seen anything quite so beautiful. Valeria Petrovna, with her rich silks and laces, her faint delicious perfume, and exotic cultured loveliness, was like a creature from another world. Marie Lou had never seen anyone remotely resembling her before.
The weekly cinemas held in the dance hall of the inn at Romanovsk showed none of the productions of Hollywood or Elstree, only the propaganda films, in which the heroine was a strapping peasant wench or factory girl. Marie Lou could only compare her to those fantastic, unreal creatures that she had read of in her books.
Suddenly Valeria Petrovna burst into tears. “What shall I do?” she sobbed. “What shall I do?”
All Marie Lou’s fear of this imperious beauty left her. She was, after all, but a woman like herself. “Have courage, Madame,” she whispered. “Never did I think to get away from Romanovsk. Never did I think to survive that terrible night in Kiev—but I have done so, I am here in Moskawa. Everything now depends on your courage to help those we love.”
Valeria Petrovna ceased weeping as suddenly as she had begun. “Love?” she said, in her husky voice. “Which of these men is it that you love?”
Marie Lou smiled. “All of them, Madame. It may seem strange to you, but I am of the same world as they. For many years I have been isolated, shut off from life. Their coming was to me like being at home again after a long journey.”
“ ’Ave you then known any of them before?” Valeria Petrovna frowned, puzzled.
“No—no. It is difficult to explain, but in the little time since they have come to Romanovsk we have all grown very close together. I know them better than any of the people who were my neighbours for many years. Those three have filled for me an empty world, they are all so kind, so brave, so splendid. Can you wonder that I love them? My freedom when I get out of Russia, instead of being a joy, will be a bitter thing if they are not also free.”
Valeria Petrovna drew away sharply. “You would ’ave joy to leave Russia? To live with our enemies in the capitalist countries—’ow can you say such things?”
“Madame, my mother, to whom I owe all that I am, was French—therefore France is my natural country—if I wish to leave Russia, it is no more than if you wished to leave France, had you spent much of your life there against your will.”
“It is yourself you accuse,” said Valeria Petrovna bitterly. “Russia ’as fed and cloth’ you, yet you would stab ’er in the back. You are a bourgeoise—in sympathy with the capitalists—a Saboteure!”
Marie Lou shook her head. “Please let us not talk of this. Can we not think of some way to help our friends?”
Valeria Petarovna’s maid entered at that moment. She addressed her mistress: “There is an Englishman outside, he wishes to see you.” As the woman spoke she looked askance at Marie Lou, an incongruous figure in that lovely room, travel-stained and dishevelled in her rough patched clothes.
“Some fool ’oo ’as seen me at the theatre,” exclaimed Valeria Petrovna. “Send ’im away.”
“He is insistent,” said the maid, conscious of a twenty-rouble note tucked away in her stocking-top. She forced a visiting-card on her mistress.
“Send ’im away,” repeated Valeria Petrovna angrily. “Richard Eaton,” she read from the card. “I do not know ’im.”
“Madame, one moment,” said Marie Lou, quickly. “Richard Eaton, did you say? That is a friend of Monsieur Simon.”
“ ’Ow?” Valeria Petrovna turned sharply. “A friend of Simon—’ow you know this?”
“He told me himself. His last words to me were: ’if ever you get to London, go and see Richard Eaton at the National Club; tell him what has happened to us’.”
“Let ’im come in, then—’e may ’ave news.”
The maid, who had been lingering by the door, smiled and beckoned to Richard, who was in the hall.
As he came in he looked at Valeria Petrovna with interest. He thought her more lovely in her déshabillé than when he had seen her in London. At the dusty figure of Marie Lou he hardly glanced, noticing only the intense blue of her eyes in her pale drawn face.
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