The Forbidden Territory (38 page)

“I will lunch in my room, I think.”

“Dear me,” he raised his eyebrows; “well, if you change your mind, let me know. Good night,” he turned away abruptly.

The Duke and Rex were with the manager. They had tied up the jewels in a napkin, and were now transferring them into three stout envelopes, to be sealed with wax before being deposited in the hotel safe.

Gerry Bruce bade them good night and left. The four friends remained standing in the hall. Simon limped to the hall porter’s desk and asked for his key; the man gave it to him, and with it a letter.

“Hullo,” he said, “wonder who this is from—no one but my office knows where I am.”

There was a second envelope inside the first. “Letter addressed to Miriam’s house,” he remarked to Richard. “Can’t think who can have written to me there; she sent it on to the office.”

“It’s got a Russian stamp,” said the Duke with interest.

“Valeria Petrovna!” exclaimed Simon, looking at the large sheets covered with a round, childish hand. “This is awkward; she warns us that Leshkin is applying for extradition papers.”

“I have reason to know that they will not be executed,” remarked De Richleau, with a little smile.

“Say, are you sure of that?” asked Rex.

“Quite certain,” the Duke answered firmly. “I am taking steps to ensure that we shall not be troubled with any unpleasantness of that kind.”

“Great business,” grinned Rex. “Well, I’m for hitting the hay; I’ve had quite enough hectic business to last me for some little time.” He yawned loudly as he turned towards the lift.

“I will go with you,” said the Duke.

“Hope the thought of those pretty toys of Marie Lou’s don’t keep you from your sleep,” said Rex.

De Richleau had just exchanged a few words in a low tone with the hall porter. He smiled. “I think I shall read for a while; I have found a most interesting book on the subject of murder, the theory of the game as opposed to the practice causes me considerable amusement.”

Simon had just finished reading his letter. He held it in one hand, stooping a little as he smiled at Richard, who was getting into his coat preparatory to leaving the hotel.

“She wants me to meet her in Berlin next month—
that is, if we don’t get extradited!’ He laughed his jerky little laugh.

“Shall you go?” asked Richard, curiously.

Simon nodded his clever, narrow head up and down. “Got to—Valeria’s in a muddle with her contracts—have to see what I can do.”

4

Richard was disturbed and unhappy as he made his way slowly to his hotel. Could Marie Lou be getting spoilt, he wondered. Why must she go rushing off to bed like that, having danced half the evening with Rex—he had hardly had a word with her all day. And then this absurd business of stopping in bed all the next morning; there were so many things in Vienna he wanted to show her. Lunching in bed, too! It really was the limit. … Could it be the jewels that had made the difference? … She was independent of him now. Tomorrow he supposed she would be asking him to see about the annulment of their marriage—of course he’d have to set her free—he couldn’t hold her to it. But how he wished that he could.

When he got to his hotel he went up in the lift and down the corridor to his room. It was innocent of all signs of occupation. “Hullo—wrong room,” he muttered, switching off the light again; “I must be on the next floor.” He looked at the number on the door: “218”. Surely that was right? What an extraordinary thing; perhaps they had shifted him because of the central heating. Still, they ought to have let him know.

He went down to the bureau in the hall. “What have you done with my things?” he said.

The night clerk looked surprised. “We sent them over on your instructions, sir.”

“My instructions? What do you mean?”

“The American gentleman, Mr. Van Ryn, who took the room for you, came here just before eight o’clock. He
said you wished to transfer to the Regina, where your friends were staying. We were to pack for you and send over your things at once. He paid your bill. I hope we have done right, sir?”

Richard frowned. What in the world had bitten Rex? Still, there it was—he’d better go and find out. Absently he walked out into the street again.

At the Regina he was told that Mr. Van Ryn had booked a room for him, No. 447—the night porter gave him the key.

What the devil had Rex been up to? thought Richard, as he walked over to the lift. If this was supposed to be a joke, it was in damned bad taste—447 was next to Marie Lou. Richard walked angrily down the corridor. He supposed he’d better have his things moved again to another room.

He opened the door—yes, there were all his belongings, unpacked, too—what a fool Rex was. This sort of thing wasn’t like him, either.

The communicating-door to No. 448 stood a little open. Richard was tempted; here was an opportunity for a word with Marie Lou—he could explain that he was moving.

He looked into the bedroom. There she was, the darling, lying in bed. She made no movement; perhaps she was asleep? Only the light by the bed was still on. The orchids that he had given her that evening stood near it in a glass.

He tiptoed over to the side of the bed. Yes, she was asleep—how divinely pretty she looked with her long dark lashes lying on her cheeks. One lovely arm thrown back over her curly head; she lay quite still, breathing gently.

His heart began to thump as he looked at her—he simply
must
steal just one kiss—he bent over and very gently touched her forehead with his lips.

He turned reluctantly and began to tiptoe back to the other room.

“Richard,” said a soft voice from the bed.

He swung round, the picture of guilt. “Hullo,” he
said, in a voice that he tried to make as casual as possible, “I thought you were asleep.”

She shook her head. “Do you like your new room?” she asked slyly.

“So you knew about that, eh?” He was quite at his ease and smiling at her now.

“Of course; I asked Rex to manage it—it is a wife’s duty to look after her husband,” she added, virtuously. “I couldn’t have you sleeping in that cold hotel.”

He sat down on the side of the bed. “Look here,” he said, with an effort, “if we do this sort of thing we shan’t be able to get the annulment, you know.”

She sat up quickly, clasping her hands round her knees, a tiny perfect figure, Dresden china flushed with rosy life.

“Richard,” she said gravely, “do you want that annulment very, very badly?”

He drew a sharp breath. “There’s nothing in the world I want less!”

She laughed. “And you won’t be sulky if we don’t go out tomorrow morning—or if we lunch in bed?”

“Marie Lou! you angel!” He leant over her. Her soft arms were round his neck; she whispered in his ear: “Richard, my darling, this is the perfect ending to the Fairy Story of the Princess Marie Lou.”

5

The Duke de Richleau put down his interesting book on murder and picked up the shrilling telephone at his side.

“Thank you,” he said, “I am much obliged.” He replaced the receiver and took up his book again, reading quietly till the end of the chapter. He carefully inserted a marker, and laid the book beside the bed. Then he examined the automatic which the waiter had brought him in the restaurant, also a small bottle, taken from among those on his washstand. He put the bottle and the weapon in his pocket, and lighting a fresh cigar, he left the room. As he came out into the corridor he
glanced swiftly to right and left; it was in semi-darkness, and no sound disturbed the silence. Outside the door to the left of his room a neat pair of black shoes reposed—Simon’s. Opposite lay a pair of large brogues, Rex’s. Outside Marie Lou’s door were a tiny pair of buckled court shoes, and beside them—“Strange,” thought the observant Duke—a pair of man’s patent evening shoes.

“Very strange,” the Duke thought again; then a gurgle of delighted laughter came faintly from beyond the door. De Richleau raised one slanting eyebrow meditatively. Sly dog, that Richard; what a thing it was to be young and in Vienna, city of dreams. How fond he was of them all, and how fortunate he was—that, at his age, all these young people seemed to take such pleasure in his company. Life was a pleasant thing indeed. He drew thoughtfully on his cigar, and quietly strolled down the corridor.

His walk had all the assurance that marked his every movement with distinction; nevertheless, his footsteps were almost noiseless. He came to a baize door, and passed through it to the service staircase beyond. He mounted slowly in the darkness, his bright eyes gleaming like those of some great cat. From a long acquaintance with continental hotels he knew that spare pass-keys were always to be found in the floor-waiter’s pantry. Two floors above his own he found the room he sought, with its nails and brushes. The light was on, a tired chambermaid was sleeping in a chair, a paper-covered novel on her knees. With infinite precaution De Richleau took the key he needed from its hook above her head. He was easier in his mind now—the possession of that key was the one thing that troubled him. Soft-footed he walked down the passage, seeking Leshkin’s room. He found it and inserted the key in the lock. He turned it gently and the door opened without a sound. He slipped inside.

Kommissar Leshkin was late in going to bed. He stood in his stockinged feet and shirt-sleeves, removing his tie and collar. He had some little difficulty, as his fat fingers still bore the angry weals where Valeria
Petrovna’s whip had caught them. He took a pot of ointment from the dressing-table and was just about to apply it to the cuts on his face; in the looking-glass he caught the reflection of a white shirt-front. He dropped the pot and spun round.

It was the Duke, grey-haired, immaculate in evening dress. In his right hand he held an automatic, in his left a long, evenly burning cigar. For a moment the Kommissar did not recognise him; he looked so different from the ragged prisoner of the Pecher-Lavra Prison.

“So we meet once more, and for the last time, Kommissar Leshkin,” the Duke said softly.

Leshkin backed quickly towards the bedside.

“Stay where you are,” De Richleau spoke, sharply now; “put your hands above your head.”

For a moment it seemed as if the Kommissar was going to charge him; his great head was lowered and his bull neck swelled above the collar of his shirt—but he thought better of it and slowly raised his hands above his head.

De Richleau nodded. “That is better,” he said, evenly. “Now we will talk a little; but first I will relieve you of the temptation to secure the weapon by your bed.”

He put his cigar in the ashtray on the table and moved swiftly to the bedside, keeping his eyes fixed on the Kommissar’s face.

Having secured Leshkin’s weapon, he slipped his own pistol in his pocket and again picked up his cigar.

“I understand,” he addressed Leshkin evenly, “that your presence in Vienna is due to an application for the extradition of myself and my friends?”

Leshkin’s uneven teeth showed in an ugly grin. “That is so, Mr. Richwater, and if you think to steal my papers, it will do you little good. Duplicates can be forwarded from Moscow, and I shall follow you to England, if necessary.”

“I fear you misunderstand the purpose of my visit. I do not come to steal anything. I come to place it beyond your power to enforce the extradition once and for all.”

“You mean to murder me?” Leshkin gave him a
quick look. “If you shoot you will rouse the hotel. The police here know already the purpose for which I have come—you will be arrested immediately.”

De Richleau smiled. “Yes, I have already thought of that.” He moved softly to the big french windows and opened them wide. “It is a lovely night, is it not?” he murmured. “These rooms in summer must be quite charming, the view is superb.”

Leshkin shivered slightly as the March air penetrated the warm room. “What do you mean to do?” he asked.

“You are not interested in the sleeping city?” De Richleau moved away from the window. “But of course one would not expect that from you, who seek to destroy all the beauty of life—you have your eyes so much on the gutters that you have forgotten the existence of the stars.”

“What do you mean to do?” repeated Leshkin thickly. There was something terrifying about this quiet, sinister man with his slow measured movements.

“I will tell you.” De Richleau put down his cigar again and picked up a toothglass from the washstand. He took the small bottle from his pocket, uncorked it carefully, and poured the contents into the glass.

“Ha! you mean to poison me,” Leshkin exclaimed. “I will not drink—I refuse.”

The Duke shook his head. “You wrong me, my dear Leshkin—that is not my idea. It seems that in this question of extradition it is necessary to prove identity. You are the only person who can identify Mr. Simon Aron, Mr. Rex Van Ryn, and myself as the men concerned in the shooting that night at Romanovsk.” He carefully picked up the tumbler in his left hand. “If you were to become blind, Leshkin, you could not identify us, could you?”

“What are you going to do?” Fear had come into the Kommissar’s eyes.

De Richleau held up the glass once more. “This,” he said, softly, “is vitriol. I purpose to throw it in your face. You will be blinded beyond any hope of recovery. After that you may go back to Russia if you will.”

“No—no—” Leshkin cringed away, an awful horror dawned on his coarse features.

The Duke stepped round the little table, fixing the Kommissar with his brilliant eyes. Leshkin backed again quickly towards the window; he held his hands in terror before his face. “No, no, I will go back—I will destroy the extradition—”

“I fear it is too late.” De Richleau took another step forward; Leshkin made a sudden movement, as if to rush him, but as the glass was raised he gave back quickly. Now he was standing between the open windows.

“Are you ready?”

A grim smile played round the corners of the Duke’s firm mouth.

“Shoot me,” said Leshkin. “Shoot me!”

De Richleau waved the Kommissar’s automatic gently up and down. “You would prefer to die?” he asked evenly.

“No … no … I am not ready to die … give me time.”