Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 01

by The Forbidden Territory

  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 Petrovna’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.

  “I must apologize for troubling you like this,” he began, addressing Valeria Petrovna. “I did meet you in London, but I don’t suppose you’d remember that. I think you will remember a great friend of mine, though.”

  “I ’ave remember’ you, Mistaire Eaton,” she smiled, graciously. “Not the name, but your face, at once—it is of Simon Aron that you speak, is it not?”

  “Yes, and I don’t know if you can help me, but Simon came over to Moscow just after you left England, and I thought—er—well, I thought that it was just on the cards that he might have come to see you when he got here.”

  “You are right, Mistaire Eaton; your frien’ came to me, not once, but many times.”

  Richard gave a sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord for that. I’ve been quite worried about him—you’ll be able to tell me, then, where I can find him?”

  “Please to sit down, Mistaire Eaton. I know, I think, where your frien’ is, but ’e is in bad trouble—the poor Simon—’ave you knowledge of what ’e came to Russia for?”

  An anxious look came into Richard Eaton’s eyes. “Yes,” he said, slowly; “yes, I know about Van Ryn.”

  “It was I, then, ’oo obtain for ’im the information that ’is frien’ is in the prison at Tobolsk—fool that I was!— after, ’e go there with ’is other frien’, then there comes trouble—of all that this child can tell you better than I.” She waved her hand in the direction of Marie Lou.

  For the first time Richard really looked at the younger of the two women. With a little shock he realized that she was one of the loveliest people that he had ever seen. Even the heavy boots, the woollen hose and the coarse garments could not conceal her small, perfectly proportioned limbs, or the stains of travel and the tousled hair disguise her flower-like face.

  As Richard looked at her the ravages of sickness, sleeplessness and anxiety seemed to drop away. There remained the laughing blue eyes, the delicate skin, and the adorable little pointed chin.

  She began to speak slowly in a musical voice, with just the faintest suspicion of a delicious accent; telling of her meeting with the three friends in the forest, of their adventures on the way to Romanovsk, as they had been told to her, then of the anxious days they had lived through since, and of their forced descent at Kiev.

  “And you mean to say that you have come all the way from Kiev alone?” Richard asked her.

  “Yes, Monsieur, not without difficulty; but to reach Madame Karkoff was the only hope of getting assistance for our friends.”

  “I think you’ve been wonderful,” said Richard frankly. “It must have been frightful for you not knowing Kiev or Moscow, and hunted by the police.”

  Marie Lou felt a little glow of warmth run through her. Valeria Petrovna had almost made her wonder if she had not been cowardly in running away so quickly instead of waiting to see what happened when the agents of the Ogpu appeared on the scene.

  Valeria Petrovna rose impatiently to her feet. “I ’ad ’oped, Mistaire Eaton, that you would ’ave ’ad fresh news; ’ow long are you in Moskawa?”

  “I only arrived this morning. I slept at Smolensk last night.”

  She frowned. “Slept at Smolensk? Why ’ave you done that?”

  “I came in my own ’plane,” Richard explained. “If I had arrived last night it would have been too late to do anything, so I preferred to take the last two hundred miles this morning.”

  “So—and what plan ’ave you to ’elp your frien’s?”

  “I can go to the British Embassy,” he suggested, doubtfully. “I set inquiries on foot in London before I came away.”

  Valeria Petrovna waved the suggestion aside. “Useless,” she exclaimed. “Nevaire will the Kommissars admit that they ’ave them prisoners—they ’ave been in the forbidden territory—it will be said that they died there in the snows.”

  She began walking rapidly up and down, smoking cigarette after cigarette in a long thin holder. Marie Lou was about to offer a suggestion, but Valeria Petrovna stopped her with an impatient gesture. “Be silent—let me think.”

  Her quick brain was working at top speed as she paced up and down; the Englishman was useless, she decided—a nice young man, but stupid—his presence would only increase her difficulties. As for the girl, she must be got rid of. “Love them all indeed!” What woman could love three men at one time? She also was in love with the clever, attractive Simon, that was clear; good-looking little fool—did she think to deceive Valeria Petrovna by not admitting it? Did the minx fancy that she, Valeria Petrovna, would be willing to pick the chestnuts out of the fire for another woman? What a mistake to think that! She should be handed over to the police—was she not a bourgeoise?—but wait—what of the Englishman? He could not be got rid of so easily, and just the stupid sort of fool to create trouble about the girl. Look at him now, gazing at her like a moonstruck calf. No, it must be some other way—and what of Simon, in prison there at Kiev? She must see Stalin. Stalin should give him up to her—he had a sense of humour, that one! There would be conditions, but they might be turned to her advantage. If he refused, she would threaten never to act again; he had trouble enough to keep the people to the work he demanded of them—they would make more trouble if she left the stage because he refused to pardon her lover. A sudden idea came to her as to how to deal with Marie Lou. She stopped in her quick pacing and faced the girl. “Leave us, little one, for a minute, I wish to ’ave a word with Mistaire Eaton.” She pointed to the doorway of an inner room.

  Marie Lou obediently left them. As the door closed behind her Valeria Petrovna drew a chair close to Richard and sat down.

  “Listen,” she said, quickly. “I can save your frien’. Stalin, ’e will listen to what I ’ave to say; you can do nothing ’ere, also this girl. Now that she ’as brought my locket
, she can do no more. You must leave Russia and take ’er with you in your airplane.”

  “She may not want to go,” Richard protested. “Besides, I would rather stay here and see this thing through myself.”

  Valeria Petrovna smiled sweetly. “I ’ave understanding, Mistaire Eaton. You are brave, but what good can you do? And this girl—she is in danger, she is ’unted by the police. Please to do as I say and take ’er out of Russia.”

  “We’ll ask her and see what she says?” Richard suggested.

  “No.” Valeria Petrovna placed a hand on his arm. “Mistaire Eaton, I will make to you a confession—I love your frien’ Simon, and only I can save ’im. Give me a free ’and, then, and take the girl away.”

  Richard Eaton was no fool. Valeria Petrovna had made it abundantly clear that whatever her reasons might be she wished to get rid of Marie Lou. He felt that in any case the sooner the girl was out of Russia the better. He dreaded to think what might happen to her if she was caught by the Ogpu after having concealed and assisted his friends. Personally he would much have preferred to go down to Kiev, but Valeria Petrovna said that she could secure the release of the prisoners, so she was obviously the person to be considered at the moment.

  “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll clear out and take her with me—that is, if you’re quite certain that you can get Stalin to give my friends their freedom?”

  “’ave no fear.” She rose, smiling. “That is settle’, then. I will call ’er.”

  The situation was explained to Marie Lou; Valeria Petrovna was now all solicitude for the girl. Richard himself urged upon her how little either of them could do, and how much wiser it would be for her to leave Russia at the earliest possible moment.

  She looked from one to the other with her big serious eyes. She had no argument to oppose theirs, but somehow she did not trust this beautiful Madame Karkoff. It never occurred to her that she could be regarded as a rival. She did not understand in the least the passionate temperament that was responsible for these sudden changes for imperious anger to honeyed sweetness, and then to suspicious distrust. Had it not been for Richard she would have refused to go, but he was so obviously sincere that she accepted the decision, contenting herself with reminding them that there might be difficulties at the airport, as she had no permit to leave Russia.

  “I will arrange,” declared Valeria Petrovna quickly. “The commander of the airport, ’e is a frien’ of mine. We shall say that you are my little cousin, Xenia Kirrolovna from Niji. You travel to your mother, ’oo is ill in Berlin. Your bag ’as been stolen—all your papers are gone—it is urgent, for the mother dies. The Englishman ’as offer’ to take you in ’is ’plane. They will make no difficulty eef I come with you.”

  Richard nodded. “That sounds all right, if you can arrange it. When do we leave, tomorrow morning?”

  “No, no, at once—this afternoon. You shall eat ’ere. In the meantime I get my clothes.” She clapped her hands loudly and the maid appeared.

  “Quickly, Fenya,” she ordered. “Bring food, and tell Vasily to bring the car to the door. After, come to me in my room.”

  Marie Lou and Richard made a scratch lunch of ham, cheese and tea. By the time they had finished Valeria Petrovna joined them again, dressed in a smart travelling suit.

  “Let us go,” she said at once. “Mistaire Eaton, we will call on the way at the ’otel for your bags. You, little one, ’ave no luggage.”

  As they stood at the door of the apartment she turned to the maid. “I go to the airport, Fenya, after to the Kremlin, then I return ’ere in one ’our, perhaps two. Pack at once, that all may be ready—on my return we leave for Kiev immediately.”

  At the aerodrome there was surprisingly little difficulty. Eaton’s passport was all in order. A tall effeminate officer danced attendance on Madame Karkoff. He made no trouble about the little cousin who had lost her papers and was so anxious about her mother. He could not do enough for Valeria Petrovna—bowing, saluting, and twisting his little fair moustache. He even provided extra rugs, which Richard was to return on the Warsaw ’plane.

  Marie Lou had been tucked into the passenger’s seat, and Richard was about to climb into the cockpit. He turned to ask a last assurance from Valeria Petrovna.

  “You are quite certain that you will succeed with Stalin?”

  “Do not worry, Mistaire Eaton. I ’ave a way to make ’im do as I say.”

  He nodded. “Where shall I wait for Simon? Warsaw would be best, I think?”

  She smiled above her furs. “I would not do that, Mistake Eaton. You would ’ave to wait a very long time.”

  “Why?” Richard frowned.

  “Simon cannot leave Russia—’e ’as been to the forbidden territory—’e knows perhaps too much. Stalin would not ’ave that.”

  “But he can’t stay here for ever!” Richard gasped. “There’s his business in London—all sorts of things!”

  She shrugged her beautiful shoulders and smiled again. “Why should ’e not?—’is business is not everything. Many people ’ere in Russia ’ave learned to do without their businesses these last years.”

  “But he’d be miserable,” Richard protested.

  Valeria Petrovna laughed softly. “You are not very complimentary, Mistaire Eaton—’ave I not told you that I love ’im—also ’e loves me. All right, I shall register with ’im.”

  “Register? What do you mean?”

  “Marry ’im—as all things are, Stalin would nevaire release ’im—if ’e is to remain in Russia and become my ’usband, that is different—Stalin will not refuse.”

  From comparative serenity Richard was thrown into a state of acute anxiety. How would Simon view this extraordinary plan? To give up his life entirely, everything to which he was attached, his active career, with its multitude of interests, and become the lapdog husband of this famous actress; to start life anew in this extraordinary country as a suspect, with principles utterly opposed to those of the State. Of course, Richard reflected, as he caught a glimpse of her beautiful smiling dark eyes, if he loved this woman enough, anything was possible. Besides, Simon was a Jew, and Jews could make a home in any country; exile was never quite so terrible for them. Perhaps Simon would go native, become a Kommissar. With these thoughts whirling through his brain Richard looked once more at the tall dark woman by his side—the problem was too much for him! “Well, you know best,” he said; “but what about De Richleau and Van Ryn? You can’t marry them as well!”

  “What of them?” she shrugged again. “They are saboteurs both—I ’ave no interest in what ’appens to them —it is for Simon only that I worry.”

  “But you promised,” he protested, quickly.

  “I promised nothing.” She gave him a sharp look. “Only for Simon—’e is your frien’. Why should you trouble for these others?”

  “Look here,” said Richard firmly, “they are all my friends. I don’t know what you meant when you spoke about it in your flat, but I understood that you were going to get them all out of this. If you’re not I won’t go —I’ll stay and do what I can myself.”

  “So...” She raised her well-marked eyebrows. “Think again, my frien’—I ’ave but to speak a word to the officer ’ere—to say I tell the untruth about my little cousin—’e will ’ave ’er arrested quick—’ow will that please you?”

  Richard shot a sharp glance in the direction of Marie Lou. The girl was sitting in the ’plane, all unconscious of the subject of the conversation. He knew that he’d been tricked, and he was furious. Yet how could he stand by and see that poor girl hauled off to prison.

  “It is time for you to go, Mistaire Eaton,” came the husky voice at his side, “the officer ’e waits that you should depart, or shall I confess to ’im that I ’ave told a lie?” She laughed softly.

  There was no alternative, but as Richard stepped towards the ’plane he turned and looked Valeria Petrovna squarely in the eyes. “Perhaps you are right, Madame Karkoff,” he said, with a little smile,
“but I wonder if you have ever heard of the old English proverb: ‘He who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day’.”

  XXIII - A Passport Has Been Arranged

  In a long graceful curve the ’plane left the Moscow airport. It was just before three o’clock, a lovely clear afternoon in early spring. The spires and domes of the ancient Muscovite city spread out below them, the winding river and the open spaces of the parks diminished in size; soon they were left far behind. For the time being Richard put anxiety for his friends out of his mind, and gave himself up to the joy of flight.

  About half past seven they came down at Minsk to stretch their legs and eat a snack at the aerodrome buffet. Marie Lou had enjoyed the flight; it had been Rex’s antics to avoid the searchlights at Romanovsk which had made her airsick on her first aeroplane journey. She also had ceased for the time being to worry about the prisoners at Kiev; after the strain of the last few days it was an enormous relief for her to be in comparative safety—she was content to leave all decisions to Richard Eaton.

  Richard had taken the precaution to secure a note from Valeria Petrovna’s effeminate friend for the airpark officials at Minsk, so no difficulty was made about their proceeding on their journey. From Minsk it was only some twenty odd miles to the Polish frontier. In the evening light they started on the long stretch over the plain of Grodno, arriving at Warsaw a little before midnight.

  They were led at once to the passport office, and it was here that the trouble began. Richard’s passport was all in order, but what of Marie Lou? They were taken before an official in a resplendent uniform with a plethora of gold lace. It seemed that had they come from anywhere but Russia the matter might have been arranged. The Poles, however, live in perpetual terror of their Soviet neighbours, and the strictest precautions are in force to prevent spies and agitators from entering the country. Richard told the story of the dying mother in Berlin, and the stolen baggage, but in vain. In no circumstances could Marie Lou be allowed to remain in Poland.