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
About the Author
DENNIS WHEATLEY was born in London in 1897, the son and grandson of Mayfair wine merchants. From 1908 to 1912 he was a cadet in HMS Worcester, then spent a year in Germany, learning about wine-making. In September 1914 (aged 17) he received his first commission (2nd/1st City of London R.F.A. (T) and later fought at Passchendaele, Cambrai and St Quentin.
Gassed on the French front and consequently invalided from the Army, he entered the family wine business in 1919, becoming the sole owner in 1926, on the death of his father. Among his customers he numbered three Kings, twenty-one Princes (including H.M. King George VI, then Duke of York), and many millionaires. During this period he tried his hand at writing short stories, many of which were later published or expanded into novels. He became a Liveryman of the Vintners and Distillers Companies, and in 1931, married Joan, the younger daughter of the late Hon. Louis Johnstone.
In 1932 he sold his business to take up writing as a profession. His first short story was published in January 1933 in Nash’s and The Cosmopolitan (USA), and his first novel, The Forbidden Territory, in the same month. It was reprinted seven times in seven weeks, and Alfred Hitchcock bought the film rights. His next book, Such Power is Dangerous, was also a bestseller and the books that followed earned him world wide praise from the leading critics; there can be few other authors with such an unbroken record of successes that every one of his novels is still kept in print and selling in tens of thousands. Due to this success Dennis Wheatley was one of the first authors to form himself into a limited company.
In 1939 he became editor of the “Personality Pages” of the Sunday Graphic and also joined a panel of voluntary speakers to secure volunteers for the Services, V.A D.‘s, etc. In 1941 he was re-commissioned in the R.A.F.V.R., to fill a specially created post on the Joint Planning Staff of the War Cabinet — the only civilian ever to receive such a distinction. Until December 1944 he worked as a Wing Commander in the famous fortress basement which was Sir Winston Churchill’s war-time headquarters, writing papers on the high direction of the war for submission to the Chiefs-of-Staff.
He has traveled in most European countries, North, Central and South America, Africa, the Far East, and the South Seas. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, and of the Royal Society of Arts, and was President of the New Forest Agricultural Show in 1968. His work has been published in twenty-six languages and over thirty million copies of his books have been sold.