“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 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!”
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. Praise be to God, I have killed many such. You would not pity him if you had seen, as I have, all that his kind accomplished in 1919 and 1920. I fought with Denikin’s White Army, and we saw sights that froze one’s heart. Little children burned to death — men with their eyes gouged out — women of our own blood, who had been kept in brothels, filthy with disease — a thousand horrors committed at the instigation of your friend Leshkin and his kind. It is a nightmare that I would forget. Come now, help me to hide the body of this dog.”
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 towards another 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 there tracks to the Duke, but De Richleau did not seem unduly worried.
“Look at the snow,” he waved his hand about him. “They will be covered in an hour.” And, with the coming of day, the snow had begun to fall again, softly, silently, in great, white, drifting petals that settled as they fell, increasing the heavy band of white on every roof and ledge.
“Well, I never thought I should be glad to see snow,” said Simon, with his little nervous laugh. “What do we do now?”
De Richleau adjusted his rucksack on his shoulders; he frowned.
“We have a difficult task before us — while attracting as little attention as possible, we must find out how the trains run on the branch line to the Tavda River, and then secure seats.
“How far is it — I mean to Tobolsk?” Simon inquired.
“Two hundred miles to the dead end of the railway, and a further hundred across country — but we have at least one piece of good fortune.”
“What’s that?”
“That we should have arrived here early in the morning; if there is a train today we cannot have missed it!”
“Today?” echoed Simon, aghast “Aren’t there trains every day?”
De Richleau laughed. “My dear fellow, it is not Brighton that we are going to. In such a place as this, trains run only twice weekly, or at best every other day!”
Simon grunted. “Thank God we didn’t arrive in the middle of the night, then.”
“Yes, we should have been frozen before the morning.”
While they were talking they had left the goods-yard and turned down a road leading away from the station. There were no houses, only timber-yards and back lots.
After they had walked about half a mile De Richleau spoke again. “I think we might now turn back. Our train should have halted here for about twenty minutes, and it must be forty at least since our good friend the steward set us down.”
“Poor chap, I hope he doesn’t get it in the neck over this job.”
“Let us hope not. If he has any sense he will say that we left the train without his knowledge. They are certain to question him at Irkutsk, but if he says that he did not see us after dinner last night, they cannot put the blame on him.”
Simon began sawing his arms across his narrow chest. “My God, it’s cold,” he said suddenly. “I could do with some breakfast!”
De Richleau laughed. “About that we shall see. We are coming to a cluster of houses, and that building on the left looks like the station. I should think there is certain to be some sort of inn near it.”
He was right; they found a small third-rate hostelry, of which the only occupant was a solemn peasant seated near the great china stove, sipping his tea and staring into vacancy.
The Duke clapped his hands loudly, and the landlord appeared, a clean, honest-looking fellow in a starched white blouse. After some questioning he disappeared, presently to return with two plates of eggs; true, they were fried in lard, but the two travellers were so hungry and cold that almost any food would have been welcome, even the black rye bread and bitter tea which accompanied the eggs.