The Forbidden Territory (16 page)

Simon talked little. He was not used to exercise, and knew that if he were to come through he must husband all his energy. De Richleau, in spite of the fact that he was far older than either of the others, walked briskly. It seemed that in this new adventure he had regained something of the vitality of his earlier years; even if he was a little out of training, his body was free of any superfluous flesh, and his tough sinews were rapidly regaining their elasticity.

It was Van Ryn who kept up the spirits of the party. Two months in prison—far from quelling his natural exuberance—seemed to have made him relish his freedom all the more. He told them of his capture when hidden in a coal truck on the military train from Turinsk to Tobolsk—of how he had used the lumps of coal for missiles when they had tried to arrest him.
There must have been quite a number of sore heads and aching limbs among that detachment of Red Guards on the following morning, but in the end he’d had to throw in his hand; being sniped from four different angles with the snipers a hundred yards away was no fun for a man only armed with lumps of coal—however big that man happened to be.

Then De Richleau gave an account of his and Simon’s activities since their arrival in Russia.

Simon was thinking of Valeria Petrovna—would he ever again, he wondered, behold her wonderful exotic beauty—touch the warm, golden softness of her skin, or feel her faintly perfumed breath on his cheek. Never would he forget those marvellous nights in Moscow, with a million stars shining in the frosty darkness from her window that overlooked the Moskawa River. It seemed absurd to think that he had only spent a week in Moscow. His well-ordered office in London, with its quiet, efficient routine, its telephones and typists—all seemed incredibly remote, like people and things in some former life. What would his able, unimaginative partners think if they could see him now? An accessory to a murder—on a forced march to escape capture by the police—and going where? After some absurd treasure buried by some mad prince. He gave one of his quick, sideways glances at his two companions. Surely the whole thing was a dream—a nightmare—and he would wake up in his comfortable bedroom at his club! Even as he turned his head the slight pressure of Valeria Petrovna’s ikon against his chest assured him that it was all very real indeed.

They had halted in sight of the first houses of a small village. De Richleau and Van Ryn began to discuss the advisability of raiding some lonely farmhouse for horses and a sleigh; the Duke was for an immediate attempt to obtain them at all costs—by purchase, if possible, and if not, by force.

Van Ryn was against this—he argued that if they were to get a sleigh now, in the early afternoon, they would almost certainly be spotted by the aeroplanes,
since they would be forced to remain on the road. By comparing a big sweep in the river with their map, he pointed out that it could not be more than five miles to Romanovsk, so he proposed that they should stick to the woods and walk the remaining distance. By nightfall they would be safe from aeroplane observation. He was willing enough to beat up any farm if need be—but let it be after dark!

Simon sided with Rex, and so it was settled; they made a wide detour, leaving the village on their right. The forest was of larch and pine, with little undergrowth, and in its shelter they found walking easier, for the heat of the sun had started to thaw the frozen crust of the road, and progress on it had become increasingly difficult.

It was during this detour that they saw the first flight of big ’planes. They were crossing a wide clearing at the time, and dodged hastily back among the trees. Six giant ’planes, flying in perfect formation, and at less than a thousand feet, roared over their heads—they were followed by six more, and yet another six, in quick succession.

De Richleau looked at the other two. “This is very strange; the small ’planes which we saw all the morning may have been searching for us, but we can hardly suppose that they would turn out flights of bombera on our account!”

“Must be an air-park somewhere around,” suggested Rex.

“Jack Straw told us to keep our eyes open for anything military up this way,” nodded Simon.

“If it is,” drawled Rex, “it’d sure interest the secret service folks in Washington.”

“An air-park,” murmured the Duke. “And you say, Rex, that these ’planes are of a completely different type to those generally used in Europe and America?”

“Sure, the wings are set at a different angle, and they’re shorter—you can see how much more like dicky-birds they look than ours.”

They continued their way through the forest, but
after they saw the first squadron of big bombers, the hum of innumerable aeroplanes was always in the background, loud or faint, breaking the silence of the afternoon.

In threes or in sixes, or singly, the sky was rarely free of them as they swooped or hovered, practising their evolutions.

They had just breasted a slight rise when they first saw the fence; it stretched away on either hand, some fifty yards in front of them, the height of a man, and formed of six strands of copper wire, which shone brightly in the sunlight—the wires stretched taut throughout steel uprights. It looked innocent enough, but De Richleau, at least, had seen fences of that type before—on the enemy frontiers during the War.

As they walked up to it, he laid his hand on Simon’s arm: “Be careful, it is almost certain to be electrified—it would be instant death to touch it!”

Rex pointed to a dead ermine that lay a few feet away. “Sure thing, that poor feller crashed it. I guess he never knew what hit him. I’ll say they’re mighty keen to keep people out of their backyard in these parts.”

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.”

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.