Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 01

by The Forbidden Territory

  Richard asked the decorative gentleman where he thought they were going to sleep?

  The man shrugged. “You wish to go to Berlin? Very good, go to Berlin. It is three hundred miles only. You can rest here for an hour and then proceed.”

  Richard did not in the least want to go to Berlin! “Perhaps they will make the same sort of trouble there?” he suggested.

  The official thought that undoubtedly they would. People could not go entering countries like this, just as they chose, without proper papers.

  “But we can’t just go on flying from place to place,” Richard protested. “We must stop somewhere!”

  “Undoubtedly,” the man agreed, stroking his carefully curled beard. “One would get tired. The best plan is that you return to Minsk. They will give you there a proper passport for the lady. You can still be in Berlin by tomorrow. One thing is certain—the lady cannot remain here!” He began to gather his papers together.

  Richard wished to return to Minsk even less than he wished to go on to Berlin.

  “How far is it to Vienna?” he asked at length.

  “Three hundred and fifty miles—about, but there, also, it is doubtful if they would let you enter.”

  “I’ve got friends there,” Richard replied. “Can I send a telegram or wireless?”

  “Certainly, if you wish. Here are forms.”

  “Thanks.” Richard addressed a brief wire to: The Honourable G. B. Bruce, Secretary, British Embassy, Vienna, in which he requested that gentleman most urgently to leave his comfortable bed and meet him at the Vienna air-park between four and five in the morning.

  The wire was sent, they had some hot drinks and sandwiches at the buffet, and an hour later set off once more.

  “It is a misfortune, this,” said Marie Lou. “We shall not now be able to meet our friends when they arrive in Warsaw.”

  “That’s true,” Richard agreed, but he said no more. He had not told Marie Lou that there was no prospect of their meeting their friends anywhere in the immediate future.

  Richard was dog tired. It was by far the longest flight he had ever made in one day, but his new ’plane was going splendidly. He thanked the Lord that he had run her in before he left England, and settled down gamely to the last lap. Marie Lou slept most of the way, and had to be awakened when they arrived at last at Vienna.

  “Hullo, Dickybird? You’re a fine fellow, keeping a lad from his hard-earned rest till this hour in the morning,” came a voice from the darkness as Richard was helping Marie Lou to alight.

  “Hallo, Gerry.” Richard heaved a sigh of relief at finding that his friend was there to meet them. “I’m glad they didn’t pull you out of bed,” he added, as he noticed that Bruce was still in evening dress.

  “No, I’ve been to a party, my ancient auk—didn’t get your wire till I got in. What’s the trouble?”

  Richard explained as briefly as possible.

  The tall, gaunt diplomat loomed over him in the darkness.

  “My giddy aunt—you are a lad. Can’t you find enough trouble among the young women in London without picking up bits in Bolsheville?”

  “Shut up,” said Richard, in a savage whisper. “She speaks English.”

  “Sorry, Dicky,” the tall man apologized. “Hope she didn’t hear; introduce me to the lady, and I’ll see if I can’t work the oracle with Rupert of Hentzau, there.” Bruce nodded towards a slim-waited officer who stood some distance away.

  The introduction was made, Bruce took Richard’s passport and held a short conversation with the so-called Rupert of Hentzau, there was much laughter between them, and the little officer gave an extra twist to his moustache as he looked at Marie Lou, then Bruce rejoined them.

  “All serene,” he announced. “He says you’re a lucky fellow, Dickybird.”

  “I—why?” Richard yawned, wearily.

  “Well, I had to make up a bit of a story, so I said Madame was your wife. In fact, I implied in a sort of way, that you were on your honeymoon—doing the round trip—Berlin, Warsaw, Vienna. Little chappie got quite excited about it. I thought it best not to mention Russia.”

  “Idiot,” said Richard. He looked quickly away from Marie Lou and felt himself grow quite hot in the darkness.

  “’Fraid I can’t offer to put you up,” Bruce went on as they climbed into a taxi. “I occupy a palatial suite of two whole rooms and sleep in the bath most of the time myself.”

  “That’s all right, tell him to go to the Kurplatz,” said Richard, sleepily. “Anywhere for a bed.”

  “Righto, my Croesus—it’s a guinea a minute, but as you’re on your honeymoon, I suppose it’s excusable.”

  “If I were not so tired I’d knock your head off,” Richard yawned. “As it is I’ll poison you at lunch tomorrow, if you’ll come, then we’ll try and sort out this mess.”

  “Does the poor but honest Briton, earning his living in a distant land, refuse the invitation of his rich compatriot? No, Sirr! as our American cousins say. I’ll be there, and tell ’em to get in an extra supply of caviare!”

  At the Kurplatz Bruce left them. Richard threw off his clothes and tumbled into bed—within a minute he was fast asleep. But not so, Marie Lou; the luxurious bedroom was a revelation to her, she drew her fingers softly down the thick silk curtains, examined the embossed writing-paper on the desk and the telephones beside the bed. Then she explored the tiled bath-room, she tried the taps, the water gushed into the low porcelain bath. Slowly she drew off her worn garments, and stepped into the clear water. She lay down, and steeped her tired limbs in its warm comfort, kicking her pink legs delightedly. Afterwards she wrapped herself in the big towel, and when she was dry, crept between the soft sheets with a little sigh of contentment. For a few moments before she switched out the light she lay, weaving a new chapter in the fairy story of the Princess Marie Lou. As the light went out the first rays of another day were creeping through the blinds, but Marie Lou was fast asleep.

  It was after midday when she awoke to the shrilling of the telephone. She looked round her—bewildered— then she took off the receiver.

  Richard’s voice came to her over the wire. “Hallo! How are you this morning?”

  She snuggled down in the bed, the receiver held tightly to her ear. “I am very well, and how is my husband?”

  There was an embarrassed pause, while Marie Lou smiled wickedly to herself, then Richard’s voice came again. “I’m splendid, thanks. I only woke up ten minutes ago, but I’ve been busy since.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Listen.” He smiled into the mouthpiece of his telephone. “Gerry Bruce will be here at half past one, and you can’t very well lunch in the restaurant as you are.”

  “Oh no, not as I am! That would never do!” she agreed, with an amused smile at her reflection in the mirror.

  “Are you in bed?” he asked, suddenly.

  “Of course—are you?”

  “Yes—but I mean—er—you must have other clothes.” Richard smiled again. “I’ve told the people in the hotel to send out to the shops and bring you some things to see. Just choose what you want. Shoes, stockings, and a frock, sort of thing—just for today, you’ll have lots of time to get other things, later.”

  “I think you are very kind, Mr. Eaton.”

  “Oh, not a bit—but I say, you might call me Richard, will you?”

  Marie Lou smiled again. “Well then, Richard, I think that you are one of the very nicest people that I have ever met!” She quickly hung up the receiver, and hopped out of bed.

  When Richard called for her, a little after half past one, he was genuinely astonished at the transformation. She had chosen a simple blue frock and hat, but wore them with all the inherited chic that had made De Richleau hail her at once as a Parisienne born. She was admiring herself with childish delight in the long mirror, and swung round quickly as he came in.

  “Do you like me?” she asked, gaily.

  He smiled. “You look perfectly lovely.” Then
he shook his head with mock seriousness, and added: “But I’m afraid you won’t do like that!”

  “I will not do?” she said, a little note of anxiety creeping into her voice.

  “There’s something missing,” he declared.

  “But what?” She looked at herself in the mirror again.

  “Why these.” Richard produced from behind his back a large bunch of Parma violets.

  “Oh, but how lovely, Richard—give them to me quickly.” She took the violets and held them to her face, smiling at him over the tight mass; he thought her eyes were an even more lovely colour than the flowers over which they peeped.

  “Come along,” he said, cheerfully, “or Gerry will have drunk all the cocktails!”

  “Cocktails?” she asked, puzzled. “What is that?”

  “Sort of drink we have in these nice old capitalist countries,” he laughed. “Rex can tell you more about them than I can.” As they walked down the corridor he thought to himself what a lot of delightful things this child of the backwoods had yet to learn; he didn’t suppose she’d ever been to a dance or play, or even seen a sea warm enough to bathe in. What fun it would be to show her all those things. The sight of Gerry Bruce’s lean face, as he sat waiting for them in the lounge, reminded him sharply that there was some very urgent business to be done before he could show anybody anything!

  “Well, Dickybird!” Bruce greeted him, cheerfully. “Ordered in the caviare for your impecunious friend?”

  “Lots of it,” said Richard. “Brought half a dozen sturgeon with me in the ’plane last night!”

  Marie Lou was introduced to the mystery of cocktails, and shortly after they were seated at a little round table in the restaurant, consuming an excellent lunch.

  Richard began at once to tell the story of Rex, Simon, and the Duke; when he had finished Bruce looked very grave.

  “Don’t like it, Dicky, my boy. I don’t want to be depressing, but those poor chappies have probably gone through the hoop by now.”

  “I don’t think so,” Richard disagreed. “Valeria Petrovna will be in Kiev by now. She will have saved Simon’s apple-cart, and he’s not the man to forget his pals.”

  For the first time Marie Lou heard Valeria Petrovna’s views on Simon’s future, and her intention of abandoning Rex and the Duke to their fate.

  “What does the noble Richard intend to do now?” asked Bruce.

  Richard smiled. “Gerry, my boy, you don’t seriously think that I asked you to lunch because of your good looks, do you? Only useful, practising diplomats are allowed to devour a pound’s worth of caviare at a sitting. It’s up to you!”

  Bruce shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know that there’s much we can do. I’ll have a few words with the old man when I get back to the Embassy. We can demand their release or public trial. Trouble is, ten to one the Bolshies will say they’ve never heard of them. I don’t see what else we can do.”

  “Well, I shall go to Kiev,” said Richard.

  “My honourable and ancient auk, you’re potty!” Bruce declared. “What could you do?”

  “Oh, punt round a bit. I suppose we’ve got a consulate there. I can stir them up. Have a return match with Valeria Petrovna perhaps, and if she’s got Simon out I might be able to see him and hear the latest about the other two.”

  “Much more likely to land your silly self in jug.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Richard protested. “They’ve got nothing against me—probably don’t even know of my existence, certainly not of my connection with the others. My passport’s in order. I shall go with all the power and prestige of old England at my back. If you can’t do anything but exchange polite notes with these rotten swine, I’m hanged if I’m going to sit twiddling my thumbs!”

  “All right, my adventurous birdie, don’t get wild about it—but as a matter of fact your passport is out of order. You’ll need a new visa to enter the Soviet again.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “A fortnight, in the ordinary way, but if I go in and see the Soviet people myself I can get it for you in three or four days.”

  “Right you are, Gerry. Be a good chap and see about it this afternoon, will you?” Richard pushed his passport across the table. “And you might get your people at the Embassy to shoot off a letter tonight. With any luck they’ll get a reply before we get the visa.”

  “Thy will be done, O giver of good meals!” Bruce pocketed the passport.

  “If you go back to Russia, I will go, too,” said Marie Lou, gently.

  Richard laughed. “My dear girl, you can’t. I don’t quite know what to do with you as it is. I had thought of entrusting you to Gerry, but he’s not a fit companion for a nice girl like you!”

  “Take me with you,” she begged, seriously.

  He shook his head. “It’s sweet of you to want to come, but it’s absolutely out of the question.”

  “But why?” she argued. “With me, also, no one in Kiev knows that I am the friend of your friends, even if my description has been sent out from Romanovsk. Who would recognize me in my new clothes?”

  “That’s true enough, all the same it just can’t be done. The one bright spot in this whole ghastly mess is that you are out of danger.”

  “You are wrong to refuse to take me,” she said, earnestly. “What will you do in Kiev, all on your own, you cannot speak one word of Russian!”

  “I know, that’s the devil, isn’t it?” Richard admitted. “Means one can’t make any inquiries at all, except through the consulate. But, all the same, it would be frightfully dangerous for you to enter Russia again unless you are protected by a proper passport, so it’s useless to talk about it.”

  Gerry Bruce looked from one to the other with an amused smile. “Pity you’re not really married,” he said, with a twinkle. “Nothing to stop a chappie taking his wife anywhere. She goes on the same passport.”

  There was dead silence at the little table, the astute Gerry was thoroughly enjoying Richard’s embarrassment. “Wedding bells at the Embassy tomorrow morning, and there you are,” he continued, quickly. “Always get an annulment afterwards if you don’t—er—that is, if you feel you’d rather not keep it up.”

  “Is that true, Monsieur?” asked Marie Lou.

  “What nonsense!” exclaimed Richard. “This isn’t a French farce—besides, it might not be so easy to get an annulment afterwards as you think, and Marie Lou might not like the idea of being tied up to me all in a hurry like that!”

  “I have not been asked,” said Marie Lou, with her wicked little smile.

  “Now then, Dicky, my boy,” laughed Bruce. “This is where chappies go down on their knees and put their hands on their hearts.”

  “Oh, shut up,” said Richard. He had become very serious as he turned to Marie Lou. “Look here. I know all this seems like the Mad Hatter’s tea-party, but there’s something in what this idiot says. Under English law a wife takes her husband’s nationality. The Embassy is English soil—if we were married there, tomorrow you could be put on my passport, then there would be no difficulty about returning to Russia, and as my wife the police would never connect you with the girl at Romanovsk. I will admit, too, that there is very little I can do in Kiev without someone who I can trust that speaks Russian. Of course, I’d take all the necessary steps to give you your freedom directly we got back again.”

  She regarded him gravely for a moment—then she nodded, slowly. “Yes, I am sure I can trust you to do that. I know, also, that I shall be a help to you in Kiev. Let us then get married tomorrow.”

  And so it was arranged—the following morning there was a marriage at the British Embassy. Immediately afterwards Bruce took the joint passport of the newly married pair to the Soviet Legation and pressed for speedy visa. In the afternoon, on Richard’s advice, Marie Lou visited the astonished Chaplain to the Embassy who had married them in the morning, and declared vehemently, that she would never live with her husband, she had already discovered terrible things about h
im which she refused to disclose. In addition Richard moved to a different hotel. It was his idea that these precautions would materially assist them in securing an early annulment of their marriage on their return from Russia. Nevertheless, he dined with Marie Lou that night at one of the smaller restaurants, and thought it one of the most delightful evenings he had ever spent.

  The following day he took his official wife shopping, having obtained fresh supplies of cash through Bruce, and never in his life had he experienced so much pleasure as in Marie Lou’s delight at the lovely things he insisted on buying for her from the Vienna shops.

  That night he took her to a musical show. In her new evening dress she was radiantly lovely—tiny but perfect —a real princess.

  Many people turned to look at her and wonder who she was, but she had no eyes for anyone but Richard, that by no means silent Englishman, with his merry laugh, and his anxious, thoughtful care for her. Nobody who saw them doubted for a minute that they were lovers.

  On the third day a reply was received from the authorities at Kiev—Moscow had been consulted; an American called Van Ryn had arrived in that city on December 4th, and left on the 11th for an unknown destination. Mr. Simon Aron had arrived there on February 6th, he, also, had disappeared. Of the Duke de Richleau they had no knowledge. The suggestion that these three persons were being held prisoners in Kiev was quite unfounded.

  “There you are, my dear old bird,” said Bruce, as he showed the reply to Richard. “Just what I expected. Now, if you can prove that those chappies are in Kiev, we’ll create diplomatic hell, but more we can’t do.”

  That afternoon Richard took Marie Lou out to Schoenbrunn; they walked in the gardens of the palace, rejoicing in the fresh green of the early spring. In the evening he took her to another show and afterwards to a cabaret—they had recovered completely from the fatigue of the long journey and did not go to their respective hotels until the early hours of the morning. Somehow, the more they saw of each other the more they had to say. There was an infinite variety of incidents in their past lives that they had to tell each other. Then there were all their plans and hopes for the future, into which, of course, the question of marriage—at least for some years, and even then only to some person vaguely reminiscent of each other—did not enter.