Free Evil in a Mask by Dennis Wheatley

please you, Sir.’
    Stained and bedraggled as the uniforms were that he and his companions were wearing, they were still easily recognisable as French.
    Slapping his thigh, the officer gave a hearty laugh. ‘What? On the way to your enemy’s headquarters? Is it likely that I’d believe that? You are Frenchmen, and my prisoners.’

4
A Desperate Gamble
    It was futile to argue. Even if Roger could have passed himself off as a Lett or Ukranian who had taken a French uniform from a corpse, he could not possibly explain away his companions.
    As he gave a resigned shrug, the officer said, ‘We were making for Baron Znamensk’s castle, since it seemed as good a place as any in this neighbourhood to pass the night. Turn your
troika
and accompany us.’
    Roger did as he was bade; but, as the little cavalcade headed for the entrance to the clearing he was suddenly struck by a thought that, during the emergency of the past ten minutes, had not crossed his mind. It so appalled him that for a moment the blood drained from his face.
    To have been cheated of his hopes of freedom at the eleventh hour and taken prisoner by the Russians was ill fortune enough. But a return to the castle must inevitably lead to the discovery of the Baron’s body, and nobody would have any doubts about who had murdered him. Freda of the huge bottom and breasts would be screaming for vengeance and Roger could see no reason whatever why the tall Cossack officer should not grant it to her by having Fournier, Vitu and himself promptly shot.
    Ten minutes later, when they arrived within sight of the castle, Roger saw that his worst fears looked like being realised. Several of the barred ground floor windows of the squat ugly building were lit up and men with lanterns were moving about near the big barn.
    As the cavalcade came to a halt in front of it Freda, her huge breasts wobbling and her long, fair hair streaming behind her, came running up to the Cossack officer, pouring out a spate of German. Following her came two men, bearing a rough stretcher, upon which reposed the dead body of the Baron. Pointing at it, then at Roger and his companions, she denounced them as her husband’s murderers and demanded that they should be handed over to her for treatment suited to the heinous crime they had committed.
    The greater part of this was lost upon the Russian, because he could not understand German; but the dead body and Freda’s tirade against the three Frenchmen whom he had caught escaping left him in no doubt as to what had happened.
    In this situation, where their guilt was so damningly obvious, Roger had only one slender advantage. At least he could speak fairly fluent Russian, and so could communicate freely with the arbiter of their fate. When the Baroness had at last to pause for breath, he said calmly to the officer:
    â€˜Of course we killed this pig of a Prussian. And I make no pleas that we did so in self-defence. We deliberately trapped and slew him. Had you been in our situation, you would have done the same. Never have I met a monster who better deserved to die.’
    The Russian gave him a puzzled look. ‘So you admit to this murder? I suppose you realise that, unless you can produce some quite extraordinary justification for your deed, I shall have you hanged?’
    â€˜Officers,’ Roger declared quietly, ‘are not hanged, but shot.’
    â€˜True,’ nodded the other. ‘And, although your epaulettes and gold braid appear to have been torn from your uniform, by your manner and speech I should have realised that you are not a common soldier. But rank does not convey licence to murder. I am the Hetman Sergius Dutoff. Who are you?’
    Roger made a low bow to hide the sudden glint of hope that had sparked in his eye on learning that he had to deal, not with an ordinary, country-bred Lieutenant of Cossacks, but a Hetman—an aristocrat with whom he might have acquaintances in common.