The Forbidden Territory

by Dennis Wheatley

  For some time they walked parallel to the fence, which ran roughly north and south. After they had covered nearly half a mile Rex halted suddenly; Simon stopped too, having, at the same moment, caught sight of a grey figure among the trees. De Richleau instinctively followed their movement as they flung themselves on the ground. He looked at them questioningly.

  “Sentry,” whispered Simon, pointing. And there, between the trees, on the other side of the wire, they could make out the form of a Red Guard. He was standing quite still, with his back to them, as he leant on his rifle. He was a little man, and his overcoat was too big for him; his hat was thrust on the back of his head, and his attitude bespoke dejection. He was a pitiful, rather than a frightening, figure—nevertheless they had no desire to be seen, and crept stealthily back until they were well out of view.

  “God-forsaken job,” said Simon, as they proceeded on their way again. “Standing in the snow all day—guarding an air-park a thousand miles from anywhere, that no one knows exists!”

  “That’s just why it’s so important,” remarked the Duke. “Nobody knows it exists!” Even as he spoke they came out of the belt of trees, the ground sloped sharply away to their left front—a wonderful panorama was spread in front of them.

  The electric fence came out of the wood and ran down the hill a quarter of a mile to their left; beyond it stretched a great open amphitheatre of at least three miles across in each direction, the whole surrounded by the dark ring of forest.

  Line upon line of aeroplane hangars lay spread below them—squadron after squadron of ’planes: bombers, fighters, scouts, looking like toys in the distance, their wings flashing silver in the afternoon sun. Row upon row of hutments and barracks, offices, and repair sheds. All the time little flights of ’planes rose and descended with perfect precision on the numerous landing grounds. In every part of the park some sort of activity was going forward—tractors were pulling ’planes in and out of hangars, little groups of soldiers were drilling or being marched from place to place; for many minutes the friends stood silent, watching this amazing spectacle.

  “The Forbidden Territory.” Simon laughed, suddenly.

  De Richleau nodded. “Yes, this is the secret they are so anxious to preserve—it must have been in order to create this gigantic air-camp that they finished the railway to Tobolsk, and put the road we came on last night in such good repair.”

  “I reckon Jack Straw would like to give this place the once-over,” said Rex.

  “He’s given us the name of Colonel Marsden, at the Thatched House Club, in London. If we get through we must let him know of this,” De Richleau replied, thoughtfully. “How many ’planes do you think there are, Rex?”

  “All of a hundred and fifty squadrons—two hundred, maybe, just take a look at those hangars—it’s impossible to count.”

  “Well, now, I’ll tell you,” said Simon, quietly. “I never did believe what they say in Moscow about being frightened of a combined attack by the capitalist countries—they’re out to conquer us—that’s a certainty; I wonder how they feed this lot—the road was empty, and we’ve never been more than a mile from the local railway—yet we haven’t heard a single train go by!”

  “Can’t you see?” Rex extended a long arm. “On the far side there, they’ve rail-trucks and engines—that little one-eyed decavil that runs by the river couldn’t supply five per cent of this outfit—they’ve scrapped it, and built a new one direct from Tobolsk through the forest. I’ll say it—”

  They were so interested that they had not noticed the approach of soft footsteps, deadened by the snow. Suddenly a voice behind them said, quietly:

  “A dangerous secret for foreigners to know.”

  Chapter XV

  Enter the Princess Marie Lou

  The three men swung round; the challenge was so unexpected that De Richleau’s hand jumped to the butt of his automatic—in spite of the fact that the voice was that of a woman; when he saw that she was alone, he relaxed his hold.

  She was laughing quietly at their comical air of consternation. Eyes of the deepest blue, an adorable retroussé nose, and a red mouth, which curved deliciously in laughter. Under a sheepskin hat, set at a rakish angle, peeped tight little curls of chestnut-brown. She wore a short coat of squirrel, now almost hairless in places, but in spite of her worn clothes she had a chic and neatness altogether astonishing. She stood no higher than the Duke’s shoulder, but her tiny figure was perfectly proportioned.

  Her blue eyes suddenly became grave. “It is not a good place for Englishmen, this,” she said.

  De Richleau removed his papenka and bowed with a gesture which would not have ill become him had it been made to a lady of his acquaintance at Ascot or Auteuil. “We are fortunate,” he said, “in being discovered by Mademoiselle—that we should have seen this”—he motioned, with a smile, towards the giant air-park. “It is, by the way, our one wish to be back in England as soon as possible.”

  “England, eh! That is a long way,” she said, seriously.

  “Unfortunately,” the Duke added, quietly, “we have had some slight difference of opinion with the authorities, therefore we may not take the train; also our horses and sleigh were stolen from us by a rascally driver this morning. All today we have been wandering in the woods, hoping to find a farm where we may hire a conveyance.”

  “Monsieur is very trusting to tell me this!”

  De Richleau bowed again. “No one with the eyes of Mademoiselle could be unkind or indiscreet,” he smiled.

  “You know that I am not a Russian, eh?”

  “Mademoiselle at this moment should be taking her tea at the ‘Marquis de Sévigne’.”

  “‘The Marquis de Sévigne’?” She frowned, puzzled. “What is that?”

  “Surely, I cannot be mistaken? Mademoiselle is French, and ‘Sévigné’ the most fashionable tea-shop in Paris. It is there that you belong.”

  She smiled a little sadly. “I do not remember Paris, but I am French. How did you know?”

  The Duke spread out his elegant hands. “The carriage of Mademoiselle proclaims it from the house-tops—the way Mademoiselle wears that little hat is in the manner born of the Parisienne.”

  “My mother was French,” she admitted.

  De Richleau spoke earnestly. “Mademoiselle, as a foreigner here you are no doubt regarded with some suspicion, the last thing that we wish is that you should incur danger on our behalf, but, if without doing so you could inform us where we should be likely to obtain horses, we shall owe you a great debt of gratitude.”

  “Come with me.” She turned abruptly on her heel. “For the present you shall remain in my cottage, later—we will see.”

  “That’s real kind,” said Rex, smiling. “But I’m afraid we can’t accept your hospitality. It would mean big trouble for you if we were found in your place.”

  She shrugged, impatiently. “I am the teacher of languages there, in the school. I am not a foreigner to them—they have known me since I was a child—come, then!”

  They followed her through the darkening woods—the shadows of the trees grew rapidly longer, and it was almost dark when they reached a small cottage, carefully fenced about. No other houses were in sight.

  The interior of the tiny place was like the girl herself, neat and cheerful; the furniture was clumsy and old-fashioned, but the covers and curtains were of bright woven stuffs. A long shelf of well-thumbed books had been carefully recovered in sprigged linen that suggested a bygone bedspread; each bore a little hand-printed label.

  The Duke and Simon had not been inside a comfortable room since they had left Moscow; Van Ryn had known the rigours of a Bolshevik prison for the last two months. They all sank into Mademoiselle’s comfortable chairs with relief, and praised Heaven that she had found them.

  “Permit us, Mademoiselle, to introduce ourselves. My friends are Mr. Rex Van Ryn of New York, and Mr. Simon Aron of London. I am the Duke de Richleau.”

  She smiled at each in turn and to
the Duke she said: “So you also are a Frenchman?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but unfortunately, like yourself, I am an exile.”

  “Ah, that is sad.” The smile died from her face. “Myself, I left France when I was five. I do not remember it, but always I long to return. But what am I thinking of—you must be hungry after your long journey!”

  They hardly had the courage to protest, only Simon, thinking of the difficulties which he knew existed about rationing, began half-heartedly to unpack the cold food from the rucksacks.

  She waved it impatiently aside. “I leave you for quarter of an hour, perhaps,” she shrugged, with a typically French gesture, as she resumed her worn furs. “No one will come here—you will be as safe as can be.” Before they could protest she was gone with a smile and a wave of the hand, closing the door softly behind her.

  De Richleau stretched his tired legs. “We are in luck,” he said to Simon. “It is certain that we have one guardian angel left between us.’

  A slight snore drew their attention. Rex was sound asleep on the sofa. It was the first sleep he had had since he had risen from his bunk in the prison at Tobolsk, little knowing that his friends were near, thirty-six hours before.

  “Hope she doesn’t get in a muddle through helping us,” said Simon, thoughtfully.

  The Duke took out his automatic, and removing the magazine, began to clean it carefully from the fouling of the morning.

  In a very short time the girl returned, bringing with her a basket of eggs. She took down her largest frying-pan, and started to break the eggs into a basin.

  Simon questioned her, while Rex snored loudly in the corner. How had she managed to evade the rationing laws?

  She threw back her head, and gave a delicious ripple of laughter. That rationing—what nonsense! It was gone long ago, in the country towns at least. It had failed miserably; the greedy peasants lied and cheated, always withholding secret stores. In the end it had been thought better to let them do as they would, although there were still heavy penalties in force against anyone who was discovered hoarding. The only redress that the Communists had was to charge them higher prices for the goods, which they could obtain only from the Cooperative Stores. For her it was simple—her little pupils liked her—the peasants, their parents, were her friends—she had but to ask and for her there was always plenty and to spare.

  As she talked she was frying a great yellow omelette. Rex was roused from his short slumber, and soon they were all seated round the table enjoying this unexpected treat. De Richleau declared that it could not have been better cooked by Mère Poulard of the Mont St. Michael herself.

  “Ah, Monsieur,” she answered, “the making of an omelette is one of the many things that I learnt from my poor mother.”

  “Your mother is dead then, Mademoiselle?”

  “Alas, yes—in the year of the great famine. It was terrible, that. I do not know how any of us survived.”

  “May one ask why your mother came to settle in this wild place, so far from home?”

  “It was Le Prince Shulimoff, Monsieur. My mother had known him many years—before even I was born. She was of gentle people but very poor, you understand. When I was five he offered her a position as companion to his niece. Never would he permit this niece to live in St. Petersburg or Moscow—here only, in the solitude of the great Château among the woods, and so we came to live in the Château, also. That was a year or so before the War.”

  De Richleau nodded. “It is remarkable that you should have escaped in the years of revolution, Mademoiselle.”

  She shrugged. “My mother was much respected in the town; all her interests were with the poor and sick, She was the Châtelaine—none but her and the little Princess Sophie and myself lived in the Château. And Monsieur le Prince, he was a strange man. On his occasional visits to us he would sneer at her charities one day, and give her great sums of what he called ’sin money’ the next, to spend as she would. When the troubles came there were many to protect my mother. She had, too, the great courage, she feared to go nowhere, and she organised the hospital—nursing Reds and Whites alike.”

  “Would the Château be any great way from here,” asked Rex, who had been listening intently.

  “No, Monsieur, not more than half a verst on the far side of the highway. One could walk there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Would there be any folk living there now?”

  “Ah, no. A great part of it was burnt. It is said that Monsieur le Prince himself set it on fire when the Bolsheviks came. I remember it well, that night; it was the day after my tenth birthday. I cried and cried because all my presents were destroyed. I was not old enough to be frightened for my mother or Monsieur le Prince. I thought nothing about all the beautiful and valuable things which were burning up in great columns of red flame. We stood there, on the lawn, watching the peasants throw the furniture out of the windows, saving what they could. That was until they thought of the cellars. Then, when they began to loot the sweet wine and brandy, we had to go away.”

  “So what was left of it has stood empty ever since?” said Simon.

  “In the bad times the brigands used it as a headquarters; they terrorised the countryside. Sometimes there were as many as two hundred there at one time, but in the end they were massacred by the Whites. After that it was empty for a long time until the Stieko-mens came to live there.”

  “The Stiekomens?” Simon looked puzzled.

  “A religious, and his disciples. He was a leader of one of the mystic religious brotherhoods which are always springing up in Russia. They were a harmless people, wanderers in the forest before they settled here. They lived a simple, communistic life in the great ruin for perhaps a year, then, one day, a detachment of real communists—the Red Guards—marched through the village. For a reason that no one knew they butchered the poor Stiekomens against the Château wall. Since then there has been no one.”

  “They are evil times that you have lived in, Mademoiselle—it is marvellous that you should have come through unscathed,” said De Richleau, regarding her thoughtfully. With her pointed chin, incredibly blue eyes, well-marked eyebrows and close-cropped curls, she reminded him of a prize Persian kitten as she sat, curled up, with her legs tucked under her on a corner of the divan, but his shrewd glance showed him that the blue eyes were very direct, the pointed chin very firm, and the red mouth could take on a determined curve as well as the slight wistful smile which was habitual to it.

  She smiled. “There is one good thing about Communism, Monsieur. If you give your labour to the State no one can harm you or compel you in marriage. I earn my living by teaching in the school. I am free to come and go. That is better, surely, than to be married off as a young girl to some man whom you have hardly seen, as in the old days. That must have been horrible!”

  “Perhaps,” the Duke agreed. “But I imagine that for a long time there was no safety for anyone.”

  “There were difficulties,” she said, simply. “Much of the time my mother kept me hidden in the roof—often for days together. Once I was caught by some soldiers in the woods, but I shot the ear from one with the little pistol that I carry. See, here it is.” As she spoke she produced a tiny, old-fashioned revolver with an inlaid mother-of-pearl handle. “The others thought it so funny to see their comrade running up and down, howling with pain, that they stood in a ring and jeered at him, while I ran away. It was lucky for him that I did not fire quite straight!”

  “Good for you!” laughed Rex. “What a poor boob that bird must have felt, getting his ear shot off by a girl!”

  “Mademoiselle,” said the Duke, seriously. “If we were to be found here, I fear it would mean trouble for you. Will you add to your great kindness by telling me if there is any chance of our procuring horses, in order to proceed on our way?”

  She frowned. “But I do not want you to go—this is, what you say, a red letter day for me—to talk with people who are of my mother’s world. I have a thousand things I want to
ask; tell me about Paris—I can remember nothing but the busy streets, and the caraway seeds on the little rolls of white bread, of which I was so fond. Stay here for tonight, and I will see if I can arrange for horses tomorrow.”

  All three shook their heads, and Rex put their thoughts into words. “It’s this way,” he said, slowly. “It’s just great of you to offer, but I’ve just broken prison, and there’s other matters too. We couldn’t have them find us here, with you, so if there’s no chance of horses we’ll just have to walk.”

  She jumped to her feet with a little grimace. “Oh, you are pig-headed. It is sad that you should go so soon, but if it must be, I know a kulak who has horses. His daughters are friends of mine, they are to be trusted—but have you money? If you are fugitives he takes the risk of an inquiry afterwards. His price will be high!”

  De Richleau took out his pocket-book and handed a roll of notes to the girl as he asked: “Do you wish us to accompany you, Mademoiselle, or shall we remain here?”

  “It is best that I should go alone, Monsieur.”

  “What about the Château?” Simon suggested. “Think that it is—er—worth having a look at while Mademoiselle is gone?”

  “Why not?” agreed De Richleau. “We have our torches, if Mademoiselle would be so kind as to guide us there.”

  Rex stretched his arms and yawned. His half-hour’s nap before their meal had only served to make him more drowsy. “Not for this child,” he declared, wearily. “I guess I’ll wait till we’ve got horses—it’ll not run away, and I’ve just got to have another shut-eye before we start.”

  “All right, Simon and I will go,” said the Duke. “We can spare an hour for our inspection while you sleep, and perhaps save another visit.”

  “You wish to go to the Château?” said the girl, with a puzzled look. “But why?”

  “If it is not troubling you too much, Mademoiselle. I have heard so much of the Prince Shulimoff, that I would like to see his Château even in a state of ruin. We could find our own way back.”