The Forbidden Territory

XXVIII — The Last Round

I

Marie Lou gave a little wriggle of her shoulders and her new dress settled gracefully round her slender figure. She looked at herself gravely in the long mirror. It was a pretty frock — in fact the prettiest frock that Marie Lou had ever seen. She wondered if Richard would like it as much as she did.

Tonight there was to be a party. It was just forty-eight hours since their arrival in Vienna, and so they were to celebrate their freedom.

On the morning after their escape out of Russia the Duke had taken the train to Bucharest. He went to secure, through the Embassy, a temporary legalization of their position for the satisfaction of the Rumanian police, and also to get passports for them to travel to Vienna.

With a humorous look De Richleau had suggested, before his departure, that Richard should proceed to Vienna alone. Someone must make the necessary arrangements for their arrival, and send off telegrams for clothes to be sent to them by air from London. Richard had not seemed pleased at the idea; Simon’s wound had been badly inflamed by his race for life, and Marie Lou must stay and nurse him. Richard thought he ought to stay too. “Just in case,” he explained, with a vague wave of his hand. No one was indiscreet enough to press for an explanation of this hypothetical emergency, and he seemed quite ready for Rex to take his ’plane and do the job, so it was arranged thus. They had had to stay three nights in the little Rumanian village near the frontier. By that time Simon was recovered, and the Duke returned. They reached Vienna the following evening.

There was a knock on the bedroom door; Marie Lou knew that knock by now. “Come in,” she called, gaily.

“You are comfy here?” Richard remarked, looking round the well-equipped room.

“Why, yes,” she replied, as she thought how terribly attractive he looked in his evening clothes. “It is so lovely that I almost regret to leave it for the restaurant or the shops. But are you not comfortable at your hotel?”

“Oh, I’m all right, but something’s gone wrong with the central heating since the afternoon. It was as cold as Siberia when I changed just now.” He held out a spray of catlias with a smile.

“Richard — how lovely.” She took the orchids. “You spoil me terribly. Look at all the lovely flowers you sent me this morning.” She waved her hand towards the roses and lilies that stood about making the room a perfect bower.

“I’m so glad you like them,” he said, softly.

She felt herself blushing under his gaze, and moving quickly over to the dressing-table, pinned on the orchids.

“I am so sorry you are miserable at your hotel,” she said, not looking at him.

“They’ll put it right,” he remarked, casually. “It’ll be on again by the time I get back tonight.”

“Richard,” she said, after a moment. “Would you mind if I came down to you in the lounge? I have one little matter that I would like to see to.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

When he had gone Marie Lou picked up the house telephone; all their party, with the exception of Richard, were staying at the same hotel; she tried De Richleau’s room, but could get no reply, then she tried Rex — he was still dressing.

A wicked little smile lurked round the corners of her mouth while she was talking to him — his laughter came clearly over the line. “Sure,” he said, chuckling. “Sure, I’ll fix it!”

“And you won’t tell?” she begged.

“Not on your life. You leave it all to me.”

Marie Lou’s little face was grave as she hung up the receiver.

II

The Duke was in his dressing-gown, the brilliantly coloured robe of honour of a Chinese mandarin. The house telephone tinkled, and he picked it up. He thought that he had heard it ring a few moments before, when he was in his bath.

“Yes,” he answered. “This is the Duke de Richleau ... who? Herr Murenberg?... I don’t think that I ... what?... he says that I shall remember him as Fritz of the Baumgarten?... ah, yes, of course, let him come up.”

A few minutes later an official in a handsome uniform was shown into the Duke’s room.

De Richleau extended his hand. “My dear Fritz, this is an unexpected pleasure.”

Herr Murenberg took the Duke’s hand with marked deference, he clicked his heels and bowed low over it. “For me also, Altesse.”

“How many years is it since I have last seen you? Fifteen — no, twenty it must be — dear me, but you have prospered, my dear Fritz.” De Richleau patted the Austrian on the shoulder. “What a fine uniform you have got, to be sure.”

Herr Murenberg bowed and smiled again. “I hope, Altesse, you will be kind enough to forget the little restaurant where you so often gave me your patronage in the old days, many things are changed since then, although I remember your kindness with much gratitude.”

“That would be impossible, my dear fellow; many of my most cherished memories have an association with the dear old Baumgarten which you used to run so well. Nevertheless I am delighted to think that the upheaval of the War has brought good fortune to one of my friends at least. What splendid position has Fate decreed for you?”

“I am deputy chief of the police, Altesse; that I knew many languages has stood me in good stead.”

“Dear me,” the Duke made a grimace. “I — er — trust that this is not an official visit?”

“I fear, yes, Altesse,” he bowed again. “It is a serious matter that I come upon.”

“Sit down, my friend. Let us hear how I have broken the laws of your delightful city.”

The Chief of Police sat gingerly on the extreme edge of an arm-chair. “Unfortunately, Altesse, it is not here that you have offended — if that were so...” he spread out his hands, “it would be my pleasure to put the matter right; it seems that you have come from Russia?”

De Richleau’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he admitted, “that is so.”

Murenberg was obviously troubled. “Altesse, in the old days you were a gentleman who liked his amusements; the cabmen of Vienna, they knew you well — and if you smashed up their cabs with reckless driving after a party — what matter. If you broke a few heads even — you paid handsomely in the morning, and all was well, but now it seems that you have taken to killing men for your amusement — Bolsheviks, it is true, but even so it is a serious thing.”

“Hardly for amusement, my dear Fritz,” the Duke smiled, grimly. “It happened that I was called on to defend myself. I did so to the best of my ability.”

The Chief of Police shook his head sadly, he raised one arched eyebrow, and scratched the back of his neck; he was evidently much troubled. “An order has been applied for — for the extradition of yourself and others, Excellency. What am I to do?”

De Richleau was thinking quickly. “What is the procedure in such cases,” he asked.

“It is my duty to issue a warrant for the arrest of you and your friends.”

“You have not done it yet?”

“No, Altesse, when I saw your name on the paper the memory of the old days came to me, I thought to myself ‘tomorrow will do for this — tonight I will go informally to pay my respects to my old patron’.”

“That was very good of you, Fritz; tell me, what happens when this warrant is executed?”

“There is a man from Russia here. He will identify you; we shall supply an escort to the frontier, and with him you will go back to Moscow to be tried.”

“Do you know the name of the man they have sent?”

“Yes, Altesse. It is an important man, a Kommissar Leshkin. He stays in this hotel.”

De Richleau nodded. “Now if we leave Austria tonight, this man will follow us, will he not, and apply for our extradition in any country in which he finds us?”

“I fear that is so, Altesse, but the world is wide; there are many very comfortable trains which leave Vienna this evening. If you travel it will mean delay — important witnesses against you may disappear — time is on your side in this affair.”

“If there were no one to prove our identity, however, they could not apply for our extradition, I imagine,” the Duke said, softly.

“No, that is true.” Herr Murenberg stood up. “But this man is here, Excellency. For the sake of the old days I trust that I may not have to make this arrest tomorrow morning.”

De Richleau took his hand. “I am more grateful to you, my dear Fritz, than I can say, you may rely on me to spare you that painful duty.”

III

The dinner-table was gay with flowers, the string band was worthy of the Viennese traditions, the champagne sparkled in the glasses. To Marie Lou it was like fairyland.

Richard sat on her right, Simon on her left. Across the table were Rex and De Richleau, between them the long, humorous face of Gerry Bruce.

Dinner was over, the Duke was handing round cigars, the first of a new box of the famous Hoyos, that had arrived with his clothes that afternoon from London. Marie Lou had just finished a peach, the first that she had ever seen in her life, the flavour lingered, exquisite, on her tongue — she was in Heaven. She looked across at Rex. “Have you arranged everything?” she asked.

He grinned. “Sure thing. There won’t be any fool — ”

“Hush!” she exclaimed, quickly.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I nearly spilled the beans that time, but it’s all O.K., you can take it from me.”

“Thank you. It is a little surprise that Rex and I have arranged for you,” she explained to the others, who were looking completely mystified. “He has got me a nice strong file; I spent a busy hour this morning.”

Rex began to look mystified, too; he had got no file for her, and it was only while dressing for dinner that she had asked for his co-operation in a little secret.

She produced a flat square parcel from under her chair, and laid it on the table. They had all wondered what it could be when she had brought it in to dinner with her.

Richard and Simon cleared away the plates and glasses to make room; Rex was looking more and more puzzled.

A waiter paused beside De Richleau’s chair and laid a heavy triangular parcel on the table beside him: “The manager’s compliments, sir, and he hopes that will do.”

“Thank you.” The Duke nodded, and gave the man a coin, then he felt the package carefully and transferred it to the pocket of his tail coat; the others were far too interested in Marie Lou’s big parcel to pay any attention.

She smiled at Rex as she undid the wrapping. “For a long time,” she said, “he has been telling us that it will be tomorrow that he will find the jewels — I have decided that it shall be today!”

She removed the last sheet of paper from her parcel. Rex and the Duke recognized at once the gaily painted abacus that she had insisted on taking from her cottage at Romanovsk when they fled to the Château. It lay there, incongruous enough — a childish toy, the solid square frame and the cross wires with the gaily painted beads, upon which every Russian learns to calculate.

“As I have told you,” she said slowly, “my mother always said that if I ever left Russia, I must take this with me; and it was not because she feared that I should forget how to count. I knew that she had taken it from the walls of the foundry after the fire — it was she who cleaned and painted it after that. This morning I filed through the iron tubing which makes the frame — see, now, what it contains.” As she finished speaking she divided one piece of the framework from the other where she had filed it through. She swept some wafers from a dish in front of her and poured out the contents of the hollow pipe.

With a little rattle they fell on the china dish — a heap of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, a glistening pile of precious stones sparkling and flashing in the electric light. She took the second and third and fourth sides of the abacus and added their contents to the shining heap. The men sat round, speechless, gazing in wonder at the heap of stones sparkling with hidden fire from their many facets.

“There are the pearls still,” she cried, delighted with the success of her surprise; “each bead is a great pearl from the famous necklace of the Princess Tzan, dipped in some substance which protected it from the fire.” She drew them off the wires, putting them beside the glittering stones already in the dish. One she retained and began to scrape it with her knife; the covering flaked away, leaving a great rosy pearl.

“Princess, you may not know it, but you have a fortune here,” said the Duke. “Even I have never seen such rubies; they are of the true pigeon’s blood, worth a king’s ransom.”

“It is said, Monsieur, that a Prince Shulimoff who lived in Catherine the Second’s time was granted rights over all the Russian lands that lie adjacent to Persia. It is believed that he got these during his Khanship there.”

The Duke nodded. “I do not doubt it; the Shah himself has no better stones than these.” His long, elegant fingers played with the pile. Red, green, and blue, the stones glittered under the big electrolier — a dazzling sight which held them fascinated.

“And now,” said Marie Lou, “I wish that you all should choose such stones as you may like to be keepsakes of our days in Russia.”

They drew away shyly. Marie Lou’s mouth drooped with disappointment.

“Princess,” said De Richleau, voicing all their thoughts, “this is your fortune; on it we trust that you may live in happiness for many years. We could not rob you of your inheritance.”

“Oh, please,” she begged, “it will spoil it all for me if you do not- — had it not been for you I should still be at Romanovsk.”

She looked so disappointed that Richard bent forward and picked up a square diamond from the pile.

“I will keep it for you in trust, Marie Lou,” he said, smiling. “I shall treasure it always because it comes from you, but if you ever need it, it is yours.” She squeezed his hand gratefully, and his pulse raced at the pressure of her tiny hand in his. The others each picked a jewel in turn, with the same reservation.

“Say,” Rex grunted, “this packet’s going in the hotel safe tonight; we’ve had all the trouble we’re needing for a while.”

A waiter stood beside De Richleau. “The gentleman you were inquiring for has just gone into the grill, sir.”

“Thank you.” The Duke carefully placed the beautiful ruby he had chosen in his waistcoat pocket. “Be good enough to inform me when he goes up to his room.”

Rex took Marie Lou’s hand “Come on,” he said, “let’s hit the floor again.”

He was teaching her the gentle art of modern dancing. Like most Americans, he had such a perfect sense of rhythm that it was impossible not to follow him. Richard sat watching and wished that he could dance as well. Marie Lou seemed to be picking it up easily and quickly, but he knew that it was too soon for him to attempt to dance with her yet, and he was too wise to try — let her learn with Rex. When they returned to the table Gerry Bruce took up his glass. “Well, fellers,” he declared, “as I’m the one and only guest, it’s up to me to give a bit of a toast”

“Hear, hear!” Simon filled up the glasses with champagne.

Gerry lifted his glass. “May Russia freeze the Bolshies, and may you all live to give your old friend Gerry Bruce many another good dinner in the years to come. How’s that?”

They drank it with enthusiasm. A little later Marie Lou turned to Richard. “Would you mind very much if I went to bed?”

“But it’s early,” he protested.

“I’m tired,” she said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, just as you like.”

She rose from the table and he followed her out into the hall. “I’ve hardly seen you alone all day,” he said reproachfully, as she was about to enter the lift.

“I’m sorry,” she smiled sweetly at him, “but I’m tired; I want to go to bed.”

“What about tomorrow?” he asked. “I thought we might get a car and go for a drive. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

She shook her head. “No, tomorrow I mean to have a long morning in bed.”

“Right-o, if that’s how you feel,” he said, a little sulkily. “What about lunch?”

“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 into the palm of his hand.

“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.”

IV

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.”

V

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 chamber-maid 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 Petrovra’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 recognize 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.”

“So —” the Duke mocked him. “You still think that God will help you when man will not? I am surprised that a man like you should believe in these effete superstitions. What is death, after all, but a cessation of activity?”

Leshkin was out on the balcony now, his hands behind him on the low stone coping, sweat was pouring down his brutal face.

“I prefer that you should be blinded. To shoot you might inconvenience myself.” With a sudden gesture the Duke raised the tumbler.

Leshkin shuddered and gave back once more. He shrieked as the contents of the glass hit him full between the eyes. For a second he swayed, wildly endeavouring to regain his balance, clutching with desperate fingers at the empty air — then, with a little moan, he disappeared into the depths below.

De Richleau smiled as he carelessly slipped the little bottle into his pocket, he replaced the Kommissar’s pistol beside the bed — the innocent borrowed weapon, for which he had no bullets, went into his pocket too. He laughed softly at his own handsome reflection in the mirror as he straightened his white tie. Then, picking up his cigar, he left the room as quietly as he had come.

As Leshkin hurtled towards the pavement a hundred feet below he was conscious only of one swift thought — his enemy had tricked him — it was nothing but cold water trickling down behind his ears.

48 Queen’s Gate

S.W.7

Milton Court

Dorking