The Forbidden Territory (2 page)

“May I suggest that you endeavour to translate the name?” The grey eyes of almost piercing brilliance, which gave character to De Richleau’s face, lit up.

“‘Tsar,’ that’s Cassar—King,” Simon Aron began, “‘
de
’ of, or from—‘
ryn
—ah! now wait a minute—this is interesting, very interesting—” He sat forward suddenly and began nodding his narrow head up and down. “Of course—this is from our old friend Rex Van Ryn!”

His host smiled encouragement.

Simon read the letter through again. “And Rex is in a muddle—a really nasty muddle,” he added jerkily.

“Exactly the conclusion I had arrived at,” De Richleau agreed. “Now what do you make of the rest of the letter?”

For some little time Simon did not reply. In his left hand he slowly revolved the bowl-shaped glass that held some of the Duke’s wonderful old brandy, in his right he held the long evenly burning cigar. For the moment his thoughts had left the beautiful room with its lovely old panelling, its four famous pictures by great masters, and the heavy carpet which seemed to deaden every sound.

He was thinking of Rex Van Ryn—that great hulking American with the ugly face and the enormous sense of fun. He could see Rex now, in the little sitting-room of the house in Trevor Square, which he always took when he came to London. He could hear him dilating on the question of drinks—“Never give a guy a large cocktail, but plenty of ’em—make ’em dry and drink ’em quick—come on, boys—it takes a fourth to make an appetite—here’s to crime!”—and now this strange letter out of Russia. What sort of wild escapade could have taken Rex to such a place? What kind of trouble was he up against? For Simon had not the least doubt that he
was
in trouble, and Simon was worried—he was very fond of Rex.

De Richleau meanwhile sat silent at the head of the table, a striking and unusual figure. He was a slim, delicate-looking man, somewhat above middle height, with slender, fragile hands and greying hair; but there was no trace of weakness in his fine distinguished face. His aquiline nose, broad forehead, and grey devil’s eyebrows might well have replaced those of the cavalier in the Van Dyke that gazed down from the opposite wall. Instead of the conventional black, he wore a claret-coloured Vicuna smoking-suit, with silk lapels and braided fastenings; this touch of colour increased his likeness to the portrait. He watched Simon with a slight smile on his firm mouth. He knew the cautious, subtle brain that lay behind the sloping forehead of his guest too well to hurry his deliberations.

“Let’s go through it carefully,” said Simon at last. “What’s all this business about a mine? I didn’t know that Rex ever trained as a mining engineer.”

“Nor I,” agreed the Duke. “What do you make of the passage about Eatonov?”

Simon’s dark eyes flickered over his spectacles at the Duke.

“That’s where the muddle comes in—Eatonov is Richard Eaton, of course—and poor Richard went to Brixton! Rex is in prison—that’s what it seems to me.”

“Without a doubt,” De Richleau nodded, “that reference to Eaton was a clever way of putting it—no ordinary person could understand it, but he would know that, to us, it would be abundantly clear. If one needs further confirmation, one has only to note the suggestion about his transfer being arranged for, and that ‘it will be impossible for him to come to Moscow
now
to meet us’; he is somewhere in Soviet Russia, but he is not a free man.”

“The letter was posted in Finland,” Simon remarked.

“Certainly.” The Duke pushed the old brandy across the table to his guest. “It looks as if the letter was smuggled out of Russia, evidently Rex was afraid that his messenger might be searched at the frontier, and so made him commit the address to memory. From the envelope I doubt if the man could even speak English. The whole thing, with its talk of centres, comrades, and reactionary Governments, is obviously designed to throw dust in the eyes of any Soviet official.”

“Who is Jack Straw? I don’t—er—understand that bit at all. The only Jack Straw’s that I’ve ever heard of is the Castle on the Heath.”

“Jack Straw’s Castle—what is that?” The Duke looked puzzled.

“An inn on Hampstead Heath—place where Dick Turpin, the highwayman, used to make his headquarters…” Simon corrected himself, “Though I’m not certain that wasn’t The Spaniards’.”

“What can an inn on Hampstead Heath have to do
with a mine in Russia? There must be some other explanation.”

“Perhaps,” Simon hesitated, “it is the meeting-place of some secret Bolshevik society.”

“But, my friend, if Rex has fallen foul of the Ogpu, surely they would be the last people to give us any information about him?”

“It might be a society of counter-revolutionaries, and Rex has been arrested for being in touch with them.”

“If you are right, Rex may have gone to Russia on behalf of these é
migrés,
and been arrested on that account—if so, the mine may be anything of value—perhaps even secret information.”

“Well—I’ll tell you,” said Simon, “I don’t like it a little bit—look at the last sentence in that
letter—‘I certainly need help pretty badly in my present position, it’s too much for me alone
!’ ”

The Duke gently laid the long blue-grey ash of his cigar in the onyx ash tray. “There is not a doubt,” he said, slowly, “our good friend Van Ryn is a prisoner in Soviet Russia—Rex is one of the bravest men I have ever known, he would never have written that last paragraph unless he were in dire distress. It is a cry for help. Where he may be in that vast territory which constitutes the Union of Soviet Peoples, it will be no easy task to discover. He has found somebody—a fellow prisoner, perhaps—who was about to leave the country, and persuaded him to take this letter in the hope that it would get through. The chances were all against it reaching it’s destination, but as it has done so—the point is now—what are we to do?”

Simon Aron leant forward and laughed his short, jerky laugh into his hand. “Well—er—I hate to say so,” he laughed again, “but it seems to me that you and I have got to take a trip to Russia.”

“Now this,” said the Duke, “is indeed a pleasant surprise. I thought you might bring fresh light to bear upon some aspect of this affair—but to have your actual help was more than I had dared to hope.”

“Very fond of Rex,” said Simon briefly.

“I know,” De Richleau nodded, “but our situations are so different. My life is one of leisure—in fact, now that old age is creeping upon me, and more and more pursuits become barred to a man of my years—I find it increasingly difficult to pass my time in an interesting and agreeable manner. You, on the contrary, as a young partner in a great financial house, have always to be on the end of the eternal telephone. You even grudge a single afternoon spent away from your office in the City. I had imagined that it would be quite impossible for you to get away.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was—er—thinking of taking a holiday—going down to Monte for a few days—might just as well go to Russia!”

De Richleau smiled rather grimly. “I fear that this will be a very different kind of holiday, my friend. However, we will not talk of that. It is some days since I received this letter, so I have already made certain inquiries and preparations.”

“Tell me,” said Simon, shortly.

“First I cabled to my old friend, the President of the Chesapeake Banking and Trust Corporation—Van Ryn the elder—for news of Rex. Let us go into the other room, and I will show you his reply.” As he spoke the Duke left the table and threw open the door for his guest.

“Yes, I’d like to see that—I’ll take my brandy with
me, if you don’t mind.” Carrying his glass, Simon Aron led the way into the big library.

It was not so much the size or decoration which made this room in the Curzon Street flat so memorable for those who had been privileged to visit it, but the unique collection of rare and beautiful objects which it contained. A Tibetan Buddha seated upon the Lotus; bronze figurines from Ancient Greece. Beautifully chased rapiers of Toledo steel and Moorish pistols inlaid with turquoise and gold, Ikons from Holy Russia, set with semi-precious stones, and curiously carved ivories from the East. The walls were lined shoulder-high with books, but above them hung lovely old colour-prints, and a number of priceless historical documents and maps.

De Richleau went over to his desk and, taking a few flimsy sheets from a drawer, handed them silently to Aron.

Simon read out the contents of the cable:

“
Rex very unsettled since return from Europe last summer—went lone hunting expedition in Rockies August September—went South America October—stayed West Indies on return trip—went Russia late November against my wish ostensibly investigate commercial conditions properly accredited by me—letter received dated December fourth stating safe arrival no news since—became worried end December put inquiry through Embassy—Rex left Moscow December eleventh destination unknown—all efforts to trace movements so far unavailing—spare no expense cable any news immediately now very anxious Channock Van Ryn.”

Simon nodded. “Expensive cable that!”

The Duke crossed his slender legs, as he settled himself comfortably in an armchair. “That I think would hardly matter to Channock Van Ryn, and Rex, you will remember, is his only son. I am not surprised that he is anxious, but if there was ever any doubt about the message having come from our young friend, I think this cable places the matter beyond dispute.”

“Umm,” Simon nodded. “Now let’s see—today’s the 24th of January, isn’t it? At any rate, it’s nearly seven weeks since he disappeared from Moscow.”

“Exactly, but there is one comfort: we know at least that he has not been knocked on the head in some low quarter of the town and his body flung into the river—or pushed under the ice, rather—for, of course, the Moskawa River will be frozen over now. He must have fallen foul of the secret police in some way—our young friend is nothing if not inquisitive—and I believe there are very definite restrictions as to what visitors to the Soviet may, or may not, see during their stay.”

“Wait a moment!” Simon slowly revolved his brandy-glass, holding it in the palm of his hand to warm the spirit through the thin transparent glass—“Wait a minute,” he repeated, “that cable said ‘left Moscow FOR an unknown destination’!”

“Yes,” agreed the Duke, “and during the last few days I have been gathering information regarding other places to which he may have gone. I think you would be surprised at the knowledge which I now possess of the towns and railways of the Soviet Republic.”

“How—er—did you set about it?” Simon asked curiously.

“The obvious way, my friend.” De Richleau’s clever face broke into a sudden smile. “I paid a visit to the London office of the ‘Intourist’, which, as you may know, is the official travel bureau of the Soviet. For some time now, Stalin and the present group of Kommissars have thought it desirable that people of the anti-Bolshevik states should be encouraged to visit Russia. For one thing they spend money which the Soviet badly needs—for another, they are shown certain aspects of the Bolshevik State, such as the great Metalurgical works, and scientifically run agricultural centres, of which the Kommissars are justly proud. It is hoped that they will return to their own countries with a glowing picture of the benefits of Communism for the masses.”

“But you can’t just take a ticket and go to Russia, can you?” Simon spoke doubtfully.

“Almost—but not quite, they have been very clever.” The Duke spread out his slim hands. “You wish to go to Russia? Good! To what part would you like to go—Leningrad, Moscow, Kieff, Odessa, the Crimea, the Caucassus? Would you like to stay four days—or four weeks? To start in the north, or in the south? All you have to do is to tell—us—The Intourist’. We will be your servants in a country where there are servants no longer. Here are all sorts of itineraries, all ready planned. They can be varied to suit your purpose. Is it the treasures of the old world, that we have so carefully preserved, which you wish to see—or the marvellous industrial developments, by which Russia will lead the world in a few years’ time? Let us plan your journey for you. We will take your railway tickets in advance, and provide you with hotel accommodation during your stay. Of both there are four grades; and which you choose depends only upon what you wish to pay. Good meals will be provided for you, and the prices of the tours include not only entrance to all museums and sights of interest, but to the theatres and places of amusement as well. What is that? You fear you may have difficulty with the language? But not at all! An interpreter will be placed at your disposal—You do not wish to go with a crowd of people like a tourist? Certainly not! You shall have an interpreter entirely to yourself—there is no extra charge. You see, my friend—” Once more the Duke spread out his elegant hands as he finished his word-picture of the persuasive advertising agent of the Bolsheviks.

“Clever,” Simon said softly. “Oh, very clever!”

“Exactly.” De Richleau smiled again. “And that little Bolshevik interpreter will be your guide, philosopher, and friend, from the time you arrive until the time you leave this very interesting country. You can secure neither railway tickets nor hotel accommodation without consulting him, and although this excellent ‘Intourist’ will cheerfully get your passport
visa
for you to
enter
the Soviet—should you by chance desire to change your plans, and forget to inform the little interpreter—you
will find it quite impossible, to secure the necessary
visa
to get
out.
”

“I see,” Simon laughed his little nervous laugh. “And that’s where the fun begins. Supposing we wanted to get off the beaten track—to some place that the itineraries don’t mention—what happens then?”

“That,” said the Duke, slowly, “is a different matter. I talked vaguely to the polite young man at the bureau of visiting Archangel. He pointed out that the port would be frozen over at this time of year; an uninteresting place to visit, he seemed to think. I spoke of other towns not mentioned in the official guide—and the winter scenery in the Urals. He said that there would be no suitable accommodation. In fact, he was not helpful in any way.”