The Forbidden Territory by Dennis Wheatley Read Free Book Online Page B

ore have been taken from the great Kuznetsky basin, which they are now beginning to exploit—how the branch of the young Communist party in Niji-Novgorod has passed a resolution giving up their fifth day holiday, for a year, in order that The Plan may be completed the quicker—and every five minutes the announcer says: ‘You who hear this—what are you doing for the Five Year Plan? What are you doing that the Five Year Plan shall be completed in Four?’ ” He shuddered. “There is somethingterrible about it, my son. These fanatics will yet eat us all alive.”
    They fell silent, each pondering on the threat to the old civilisation of Western Europe, that was gaining force in this blind, monstrous power, growing beneath their eyes.
    The car left the smooth asphalt of the more frequented streets, jolting and bumping its way down narrow turnings into the suburbs of the city. Eventually they stopped before a house in a mean street. Faint sounds of music came from within, and these, together with the chinks of light that shone through the heavily curtained windows, were the only signs of life.
    They got out, and their driver knocked loudly upon the door; after a little it was opened, and they went in, bidding the driver to return in an hour. It was snowing heavily in the street, and as they began to remove their wraps they were astonished at the quantity of snow that had gathered upon them during the short wait on the threshold. They took a small table near the great china stove, blowing into their hands to warm their chilled fingers. A slatternly woman shuffled up to them, and after a short conversation with the Duke, set two small glasses of spirit before them; it proved to be some kind of plum brandy, similar to Sleigowitz.
    In the low room were about twenty tables, some dozen of which were occupied. Men of all classes were present—several low-browed, stupid, or sullen-looking workers, in the usual Kaftan, here and there a better type, who from his dress seemed to be some minor official; one or two faces suggested the cultured European who has “gone native”, and known much suffering—one elderly man, with a fine domed head, sat staring with wide blue eyes into vacancy. The only woman there had a hard unpleasant face with the pink eyes of an albino, and patchy hair, alternate tufts of white and yellow.
    There was little talking, and few groups of any size; most of the denizens of this dubious haunt seemed tired and listless, content to sit idle, listening to a monotonousrepetition of gipsy music from the travesty of a Tzigane band.
    The Duke and Simon sat for a long time studying the people, bored, but anxious not to miss any movement or word which might give them the opportunity to get in touch with the frequenters of this poor hostelry; but nothing changed, nor did anyone molest them. Even so, Simon was happy to be able to press the hard bulk of the big automatic between his upper arm and his ribs. He was aware that they were being covertly watched from a number of tables, and if many of the faces were tired, some of them were far from being free of evil.
    Now and again a newcomer entered, heralded by a gust of icy wind and snow—occasionally a man pulled his extra long layers of frowzy clothing about him, and went out into the night. Beneath the low rafters the room grew thick with the haze of cheap tobacco smoke, the monotonous band droned on.
    After a long time, as it seemed, three workmen arrived, bringing with them quite a drift of falling snow; they were a little drunk, and two of them began to clap, and call for “
Jakko”.
The face of the third seemed vaguely familiar to Simon, who caught him slyly glancing in the direction of their table. He noticed, with a feeling of aversion, that the man had a cast in one eye, and quietly, almost unconsciously, forked his fingers under the table.
    The cry of “
Jakko
” was taken up by several others; the band of three struck up a livelier tune, and through a door