Three frontier guards had come out of the wood and were blazing away at Richard, but they ceased firing as he landed, fearful of hitting Leshkin’s men. Simon thought his head would burst as he made a last desperate effort to reach the ’plane. The soldiers had crossed the plough now — they were shouting as they struggled through the hedge. Richard stood up in the ’plane and yelled wildly.
“Run, Simon... run!” He saw the soldiers were rapidly gaining ground, and climbed out of the ’plane to go to Simon’s assistance.
Leshkin was through the hedge and bellowing like a bull — his face purple with the unaccustomed exercise. The foremost soldier was running level with Valeria Petrovna. Suddenly she struck out with her crop — a fierce back-hander, that caught the man in the face; he stumbled and stopped with a yelp of pain. Simon had reached the ’plane, white, exhausted, almost fainting. Richard had him by the arm and leg, half-lifting him towards the passenger seat. He grabbed at the rim and hoisted himself over the edge. Valeria Petrovna had stopped and turned — facing the soldiers. With all her remaining force she was lashing at them with her whip, driving off the nearest with her fierce, cutting lash. Richard was in the cockpit again — the ’plane ran forward — one of the men made a futile grab at the wing, and was flung to the earth.
“Shoot!” roared Leshkin, “shoot!” But the soldiers were panting and breathless. By the time they had fumbled with their rifles and taken unsteady aim, the ’plane was sailing high into the air.
Simon looked down into the green field below. A bullet whizzed past his head — another hit the tail with a loud “phut”. The soldiers stood in a little group mopping their perspiring faces; Valeria Petrovna was standing a little apart with Leshkin — she waved her crop in farewell. Simon waved back, and then he saw a curious thing.
She turned suddenly and struck Leshkin with her whip; the lash took him full in the face. For a moment he was blinded by the pain; he sprang back, holding up his hand to protect his head; the swift lash came down again.
“You fool,” Valeria Petrovna was shrieking, “you fool. I ’ave trick you. I pay you now for what you make me suffer — that you ’ave been to Stalin and make me lose ’im I love.” She struck again and again with her swift, cutting lash, until Leshkin’s face was a mass of blood; at last she was hauled off by the soldiers.
The ’plane had vanished into the distance, when he was once more able to see her out of feverish, bloodshot eyes. “It is you who are a fool,” he said, harshly. “You have forgotten that these men have done murder — and that there is a law of extradition.”
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.”