De Richleau leaned over the table and fixed his grey eyes with their strange, piercing brilliance on the Kommissar. “If you are so sure,” he said, softly, “tell me the name of the third man who sat with Aron and me in the ‘Tavern of the Howling Wolf’ on our second night in Moscow.”
“I do not know — also I do not care.”
The Duke nodded, then he smiled slowly and turned away.
“No,” he said, lightly. “Stalin does not tell everybody everything — why should he?”
At the name of Stalin — the Iron Man — Kommissar of Kommissars, who rules Russia more autocratically than any Tsar, Leshkin stiffened where he sat. There was a brief, pregnant silence in the little room, nothing stirred — save the faint flicker of shadows on the ceiling.
“Stalin?” echoed Leshkin very softly; there was a note of reverence in his voice — a shade too of fear.
De Richleau followed up his advantage. “Have me shot then. I am an old man. I have faced death many times. I am not afraid, but remember that you shall answer for it to... Stalin.”
“If this is true, you have papers.” Leshkin held out his hand. “Show me the passes of the Ogpu.”
“I have no papers.” De Richleau made a disdainful gesture. “There are forces outside the Ogpu — forces outside the Soviet Union; Stalin uses many strange weapons for the good of The Party.”
“I do not believe this,” Leshkin murmured, sullenly.
“Do you know anything of my history?” De Richleau went on. “If you do, you know that I am a political exile from my own country; driven out as a young man, nearly forty years ago, by a capitalist government Do you know why Aron was received by Madame Karkoff immediately on his arrival in Moscow? On instructions. Between them there was no thought but of the secret work that must be done for The Party. We made pretence of seeking information in order that even the Ogpu should not suspect our true intentions. Do you know who the American is? He is the son of Channock Van Ryn, one of the richest men in America. It was for us to gain his confidence — far greater issues hang upon this American than a simple attempt to recover these jewels — they are an old-wives’ tale. I doubt if they are here at all!” He paused impressively, holding the Russian with his eyes.
Leshkin sat silent for a little — again he clawed his sparse red beard. He knew that Stalin employed secret spies outside the Ogpu — was it possible that these were members of the inner circle? Then his eyes took on a cunning look, and he said, sullenly:
“Why, then, did you let the American go south alone? No —” he hit the table with his big, white fist. “I do not believe it — you are intriguing foreigners — I will have you shot.”
“So be it.” De Richleau gave the suggestion of a bow. “The choice is yours. I have only one regret — I shall be unable to be present when you are called upon to face our master. That will be a bad half-hour for you. Comrade.”
The Kommissar stood up. At his call the guards came back into the room. He gave short instructions and the Duke and Simon were led out. They were taken down the passage again, across the great, echoing hall, and through a second passage, into another wing. Here a door was opened and they were thrust into the darkness. The door slammed behind them and they heard a heavy bolt shot home.
“Phew!” Simon let out a short whistle as he drew his hand across his forehead. “I don’t like that man.”
De Richleau placed a steadying hand on his shoulder in the dark. “Neither do I, my friend, but you were magnificent, so calm — you showed a splendid courage.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Simon confessed, “I didn’t feel it. Do you think he’ll have us shot?” They both spoke in whispers.
“Not for the present — he half believes my little story about Stalin; none of these people trust each other. It is quite likely that we might be Stalin’s secret agents; he will do nothing till he has communicated with Moscow.”
“Um. I thought it was wonderful, the way you put that over. Of course he’ll send a wireless from the airpark. When the reply comes we shall be in a real muddle!” As Simon used his favourite expression for any sort of trouble, instinctively he laughed his nervous little laugh.
“That’s better,” said the Duke. ‘To hear you laugh so is good. Much may happen before they receive that reply. I’m angry with myself though, that I should have brought you into such danger. I wish now that I had never shown you the letter from Rex.”
Simon laughed again. “I’d never have forgiven you if you hadn’t — but, talking of Rex, I suppose there’s just a chance that he may get us out of this?”
In the dark De Richleau shook his head. “I fear he cannot help us — there must be at least a dozen secret police with Leshkin. Rex does not even know of our plight. I only trust he does not come to look for us and blunder into their clutches.”
Simon produced his torch, covering the bulb with his fingers, so that the light should not shine under the door. He pressed the button. “Might as well see where we are,” he suggested. “Try and help ourselves if there’s no one else to help us!”
The faint glow, coming pink through his fingers, was insufficient to light the room; only the Duke’s face showed faintly, heavy with shadows. Simon turned his back to the door and took his fingers off the bulb.
A quick glance showed them that the room was empty. It seemed to be some portion of the servants’ quarters — stone-flagged, and with a big, round copper built into the wall at one corner. Simon turned the light up to the roof. It was lath and plaster, supported by small beams at intervals. In one corner there was a rent, only about six inches wide — but enough, when they stood directly below it, to see three or four stars shining brightly.
“If we could widen that!” Simon suggested.
“Ah, if we could,” the Duke agreed. “But it is too high for us, my friend.”
As he spoke a single shot broke the silence of the night. It was followed by a burst of firing.
“Rex!” exclaimed Simon. “Hope they haven’t got him.” He clicked out his torch as the door of their prison swung open. Outside, with a lamp in one hand, stood the big Mongolian with the hare-lip. In the other hand he held a deadly-looking automatic, which he levelled at them.
The Duke and Simon were at least ten feet away. There was no possible chance that they might rush the man. It was evident that he meant to shoot on sight if they made the least move. Wisely they put their hands above their heads.
Then came the sound of another single shot — then another burst of firing from the other end of the Château. The Mongolian looked quickly down the passage in that direction, but only for a second; his dark eyes returned to them almost immediately, and he held them covered all the time.
The sound of shouting came to them from the garden — there were running footsteps which seemed to be crossing the big hall — a perfect fusillade of shots, and the whine of a ricochet. A man screamed — there were three more single shots, a murmur of angry voices — then silence once more.
The Mongolian swung the door shut, and shot the bolt. They were alone again in the darkness.
Both had been holding their breath while they listened to the fight outside; sharply now they released it Was Rex dead, or had he escaped? Someone had been hit — that was certain, but there had been shots after that — the Bolsheviks, perhaps, taking a last shot as Rex ran off into the night, or finishing him off as he lay, wounded, on the ground. Which? Such were the thoughts teeming through their minds.
“Do not fear,” said De Richleau, trying to comfort both himself and Simon. “He will have got away, he is a splendid shot, and he would have the advantage of the darkness — the others would be in the light.”