The Forbidden Territory

The Forbidden Territory by Dennis Wheatley Page A

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Authors: Dennis Wheatley
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yard when Simon’s quick ear caught a crunching sound, as of someone stumbling suddenly over cinders. He whipped round, just in time to see in the semi-darkness a figure that had evidently leapt off the last coach of the train, scuttle behind one of the stacks of timber.
    “We’re spotted,” he gasped.
    “No matter. Leave this to me,” said the Duke, as he darted behind the shed. “Here, take this,” and he thrust the other suitcase into Simon’s free hand.
    Simon stood, helpless and gaping, the two heavy bags, one in each hand, weighing him down. De Richleau flattened himself against the side of the shed—they waited breathlessly.
    A soft, padding sound came to their ears, as of someone running on the thick carpet of snow, a second later a small man came round the corner full upon them. He made a rapid motion of recoil, but it was too late, the Duke’s left hand shot out and caught him by the throat. The small man did not utter a sound—he stared with terrified, bulging eyes over De Richleau’s shoulder, full at Simon, who saw at once that in his left eye there was a cast!
    Then there happened a thing which shocked and horrified the mild, peace-loving soul of Simon Aron, for he had never witnessed such a thing before. With almost incredible swiftness the Duke’s right hand left the pocket of his greatcoat—it flew back to the utmost stretch of his shoulder, holding a long, thin, glittering blade—and then, with a dull thud, it hit the little man in the side, just under the heart. His eyes seemed for a second to start out of their sockets at Simon—then his head fell forward, and he dropped limp and soundless at De Richleau’s feet.
    “Good God!” said Simon, in a breathless whisper, utterly aghast. “You’ve killed him.”
    The Duke gave a grim laugh as he spurned the body with his foot. “What else was there to do, my friend—it was either him or us. We are in Soviet Russia, and when we stepped off that train, we placed ourselves beyond the pale.”

Chapter X
“Where The Railway Ends”
    Simon felt his knees grow weak beneath him—he was almost overcome with nausea; he was not frightened for himself, only appalled at this sudden slaying of a fellow human without warning. “It’s—it’s awful,” he stammered.
    “There, there, my son,” said De Richleau, soothingly. “Do not waste your great heart on this scum. You would not pity him if you had seen all that I have—a thousand horrors committed at the instigation of your friend Leshkin and his kind. It is a nightmare that I would forget.”
    Simon put down the suitcases and drew a breath. He was a natural philosopher, and once recovered from the shock, accepted the awful thing as part and parcel of this astounding adventure into which he had been drawn.
    The door of the shed was fastened only by a piece of rope, and they found it to be filled with old farm implements.
    Quickly, and as noiselessly as possible, they moved a stack of bent and broken shovels—carried in the body of the wall-eyed man, and piled the shovels over him until he was completely hidden; they secured the door more firmly, and, having obliterated the blood marks in the snow, hurried through the maze of wood stacks towardsanother group of sheds, the roofs of which were rapidly becoming plainer in the growing light.
    The goods-yard seemed deserted, and they were fortunate in finding an empty shed. Once inside it De Richleau flung his suitcase on the ground, and, kneeling down, commenced to unpack. Simon followed his example. In a few minutes they had stuffed the rucksacks with the supplies of food and their most necessary belongings. Next they defaced the labels on their bags and stowed them in an opening between two sheds, heaping stones and rubble on top to hide them from view.
    Wherever they moved they left large footprints in the snow, and Simon, greatly perturbed, pointed out their tracks to the Duke, but De Richleau did not seem unduly worried.
    “Look at the

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