The Forbidden Territory by Dennis Wheatley

steward earlier in the evening, and certain drugs were procured during the halt, so the drowsy Simon found himself compelled to sit up and pretend to swallow capsules as the train steamed out. The Duke also took his temperature with great gravity in front of the now solemn and anxious steward.
    This second night the train laboured and puffed its way through the Urals, but in the black darkness they could see nothing of the scenery. At a little after six the Duke woke Simon and said, with his grey eyes twinkling: “My poor friend—you are very, very ill I fear—dying almost, I think.”
    Simon groaned, in truth this time, but De Richleau put on his dressing-gown and fetched the steward. “My friend,” he cried in Russian. “He will die—he is almost already dead!”
    “What can we do,” said the fat steward, sympathetically shrugging his broad shoulders.
    “We must get off at Sverdlovsk,” said the Duke.
    “You cannot,” said the man. “Your tickets are marked for Irkutsk!”
    “What does that matter,” protested the Duke, “the only hope for him is hospital.”
    The man shook his head. “The station authorities—they will not permit.”
    “It is three more days to Irkutsk,” said De Richleau, almost weeping. “You cannot let him die on the train!”
    “No, no, he cannot die on the train!” agreed the steward, obviously frightened and superstitious. “It might mean an accident!”
    “Then we must get off at Sverdlovsk!”
    “You must see the officials, then—it is the only way.”
    “Bah! the
Tchinovinks!
” De Richleau cried. “The officials, what use are they? All your life you have lived under the
Tchinovinks,
and what have they done for you? Tsarist or Bolshevist—they are all the same—delay, delay, delay, and in the meantime my poor friend dies. It must not be!”
    “No, it must not be—” echoed the steward, fired by the Duke’s harangue. “The
Tchinovinks
are either rogues or fools. I have it! Always before we arrive at Sverdlovsk we draw into the goods-yard. You shall descend there!”
    “Is it possible?” exclaimed the Duke.
    “But yes, it shall be done!”
    “My brother!” cried De Richleau, flinging his arms round the fat man’s neck!
    “Little father!” exclaimed the steward, using in his emotion an expression that must have been foreign to his lips for many years.
    “Come, let us dress him,” said the Duke, and without warning Simon found himself seized; he played up gallantly, letting his head loll helplessly from side to side, and groaning a little. It was a longish job, but at last they had him dressed and propped up in a corner.
    De Richleau packed for both of them—gathering their few belongings together in the two suitcases the steward had left them.
    They jogged on for a while through the grey light of the coming dawn, and at last, after a series of shrill whistles, the train came to a standstill; the steward returned, and with breathless mutterings in Russian, helped the Duke to get the apparently comatose Simon out of the compartment and along the corridor, then down the steps at the end of the carriage. He pushedtheir bags out after them, and, recognising in the half light the high value of the banknote which De Richleau thrust into his hand, broke into voluble protestations of gratitude.
    The Duke looked quickly about him; the dark masses of buildings seen indistinctly, and the glimmer of lights a few hundred yards ahead, was evidently the main station. They stood in the snow. About them were timber stacks, coal dumps, and immediately in their rear some rough sheds. With a heave the train moved slowly on—the steward still leaning from the window. As it gathered speed and disappeared into the gloom, De Richleau ceased to pretend that he was supporting Simon.
    “Come,” he said. “This way—quickly!” and seizing one of the bags he headed for the cover of the sheds. Simon gripped the other and followed. They were not more than half way across the