The Forbidden Territory (4 page)

He brought his rather flabby, white face, with its short, flat nose, and small, hot eyes, down to the level of hers for a moment with a wicked look, and spoke again.

Her eyes lit with a sudden fire, and she almost spat the words back at him—so that her melodious, husky voice became quite harsh for a moment. He turned, and stared angrily in Simon’s face. With his great, broad shoulders, powerful jaw, and receding forehead, he reminded Simon of a gorilla; then with a sudden scowl he swung upon his heel and turned away.

“Who—er—is that?” Simon asked, curiously, although he knew already who the man must be.

She shrugged—smiling again in a moment. “Oh, that—that ees Nicolai Alexis—Kommissar Leshkin. We travel together, you know—’e is a little drunk tonight, I think.”

After that they heard Capello play; the Maestro was in form and drew marvellous music from his cherished violin.

“Oh, it ’ees tears ’e makes me cry,” Valeria Petrovna exclaimed passionately after he had played one aria, and the gallant Simon found it difficult not to cry out with pain, as she unconsciously dug her sharp nails into his hand which she held between her own.

They returned to the buffet and drank more tumblers of champagne, then Simon suggested that she might like to powder her nose. She seemed surprised at the suggestion, but accepted it; actually it was Simon’s way of saying that he wanted to use the telephone, he also wanted a word with Richard Eaton.

He found his friend without difficulty—and led the way to a quiet corner. Richard Eaton was a young man of medium height. His dark hair was brushed straight back from a “widow’s peak”, grey eyes twinkled out of a tanned, clean-shaven, oval face; he had a most attractive smile. He smiled now at Simon. “You are hitting it up, my boy—who’s the lovely lady?”

Simon looked a trifle sheepish—“Madame Karkoff,”
he mumbled. “She’s a Russian—Moscow Arts Theatre—nice, isn’t she? But, look here, where have you been all the week? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.”

“I’ve been staying with the Terences, down near Reading—he’s great fun—commanded a battalion of the Coldstream in the Chinese shemozzle. I’ve got my new plane down there—been trying it out.”

“I see,” Simon nodded. “Well—I wanted to see you, because—er—I’m off to Russia in a few days’ time.”

“My dear old boy, you have got it badly!”

“Don’t be an ass.” Simon wriggled his neck and grinned. “No, honestly, there is a muddle on.”

“What sort of a muddle?” Richard Eaton asked, serious at once.

“It’s Rex. He’s in Russia—spot of trouble with the authorities. He’s in prison somewhere—we don’t quite know where.”

“Phew!” Eaton let out a long whistle. “That’s a nasty one—poor old Rex—and you’re going over to try and get him out, is that the idea?”

Simon nodded. “That’s about it.”

“Well,” said Richard Eaton, slowly, “you can’t go off on a job like that alone—I’d better come, too. I owe Rex a turn over that mess of mine.”

“Ner—awfully nice of you, Richard, but De Richleaus’ coming, in fact he’s already gone—probably there by now, but I’ll tell you what I
do
want you to do.”

“Go right ahead, Simon.” Eaton took his friend by the arm. “Just say how I can help. I was going to take the new bus down to Cannes for a week or two, but I can easily scrap that.”

“That’s splendid of you, Richard, but don’t alter anything,” Simon begged. “As long as you don’t kill yourself in your plane. I’m always terrified that you’ll do that!”

Eaton laughed. “Not likely; she’s fast and foolproof—a kid of twelve could fly her—but what’s the drill?”

“I shall arrive in Moscow next Tuesday. I’ve got a
permit for three weeks; now if you don’t hear from the Duke or myself that we are safely back out of Russia by then, I want you to stir things up. Get busy with the Foreign Office, and pull every wire you know to get us out of it. Of course I shall leave instructions with the firm as well—but I want someone like you, who’ll not stop kicking people until they get us out.”

Richard Eaton nodded slowly. “Right you are, old boy, leave it to me—but I’ll see you before you go?”

“Um, rather—what about lunch tomorrow?”

“Splendid, where shall we say? Let’s go and see Vecchi at the Hungaria. One o’clock suit you?”

“Yes. Look!” Simon had just caught sight of Valeria Petrovna again. “There’s Madame Karkoff—come over and let me introduce you.”

Richard shook his head in mock fright. “No, thanks, Simon. I like ’em small and cuddlesome. I should be scared that Russian girl would eat me!”

“Don’t be an idiot. I want to telephone—come and talk to her. I shan’t be a minute.”

“Oh, if it’s only a matter of holding the fort while you’re busy, that’s another thing.” Richard was duly presented, and Simon slipped away.

Eaton found her easier to talk to than he had expected, but she did not attract him in the least. He was glad when Simon came back, and took the opportunity to leave them when they suggested returning to the music-room.

Simon and Valeria Petrovna heard Alec Wolff play, which was a pleasant interlude—and a bald man sing, which, after what had gone before, was an impertinence.

Later, at the buffet, Madame Karkoff consumed two large plates of some incredible confection, the principal ingredient of which seemed to be cream, with the gusto of a wicked child, and Simon ate some
foie gras
sandwiches. They both drank more champagne, she lashing hers with Benedictine, because she considered it “dry-thin” and much inferior to the sweet, sparkling Caucasian wine to which she was accustomed; but the
amount which she drank seemed in no way to affect her.

At length Simon suggested that he might see her home. She looked round the crowded room with half-closed eyes, then she shrugged eloquently, and smiled. “Why not? Nicolai Alexis will be furious, but what does it matter?—’E is drunk—let us go!”

With a magnificent gesture she seemed to sweep her garments about her, and the crowd gave passage as she sailed towards the door, the narrow-shouldered Simon following.

They both assured the tired and still anxious Miriam that it had been a “marvellous party”, and reached the hall.

“Mr. Aron’s car? Yes, sir.” The hired butler nodded. “One moment, sir.”

He gave a shout and beckoned, and a moment later a great silver Rolls was standing before the door; Simon had not telephoned in vain. He had a garage with whom he had an understanding that, at any hour of the day or night, a luxury car was always at Mr. Aron’s disposal, and he paid handsomely.

“Where—er—shall I tell him?” Simon asked.

“Ze Berkeley,” she said, quickly. “Come, get in.”

Simon gave instructions and did as he was bid. Almost immediately they were speeding down the gradients towards the West End.

She talked quickly and vividly of the party and the people whom they had just left. The car had reached Baker Street before Simon had a chance to get in the question which he’d been meaning to ask; he said quickly: “What about a little lunch one day?”

Her shoulders moved slightly under her ermine cloak. “My frien’, it would be nice—but it is impossible. Tomorrow I ave a ’undred things to do, an’ the next day I go back to Russia.”

The car slid through Grosvenor Square, and into Carlos Place. Simon considered for a moment, then he said, seriously: “Are you doing anything for lunch today week?”

She put her head back, and her magnificent laughter filled the car. “Foolish one, I shall be in Moskawa—you are an absurd.”

“Ner,” Simon shook his head quickly. “Tell me—are you booked for lunch next Thursday?”

The car sped through the eastern side of Berkeley Square, and up Berkeley Street. She pressed his hand. “Silly boy—of course not, but I’ave told you—I shall be in Moskawa once more!”

“All right,” said Simon, decisively. “Then you will meet me for lunch at one o’clock at the Hotel Metropole in Moscow—Thursday, a week today.”

The car had stopped before the entrance to the hotel, the commissionaire stepped forward and opened the door.

“You make a joke! You do not mean this?” she asked, in her melodious, husky voice, leaning forward to peer into his face.

“I do,” nodded Simon, earnestly.

She laughed suddenly, and drew her hand quickly down his cheek with a caressing gesture. “All right—I will be there!”

At twelve o’clock precisely on the 7th of February, a very cold and miserable little figure stood ostensibly admiring the ancient Ilyinka Gate in Moscow.

It was Mr. Simon Aron, clad in his ordinary London clothes. A smart blue overcoat buttoned tightly across his narrow chest, black shoes, gloves and stick, a soft hat pulled well down over his arc of nose.

Somehow, Mr. Aron, for all his foresightedness in the realms of commerce and finance, had failed to bargain for the rigours of a Russian winter. The cold wind cut through his cloth coat, his feet were wet through with the slush of the streets, and the glare of the snow upon the open “prospekts” was already beginning to hurt his eyes—never too strong at the best of times.

It was with more than ordinary relief that he saw a trim, soldierly form come through the gate; it was easily discernible among the crowd of town moujiks and porters. He recognised the Duke immediately, but how changed—in all but the clever, handsome face.

De Richleau was dressed in the manner of a Russian nobleman before the Revolution, or a high official under the Soviet Government. He wore a heavy coat, belted at the waist and with a vast fur collar, shining black Hessian boots, and on his head at a rakish angle—making him look much taller than usual—a big fur “papenka”.

As the crowd instinctively made way for him, he looked sharply from side to side, evidently catching sight of Simon at the first glance—but taking no apparent notice. Turning to speak to a little man beside him, who wore a shabby coat and peaked cap which suggested
some sort of uniform, he started to cross the street diagonally.

Simon knew the shabby individual to be a guide; he had just such another standing at his elbow, dilating to him on the history of the Ilyinka Gate. He turned to his man quickly. “Let’s go on,” he said. “I’m cold,” and he began to walk down the pavement to the point at which the Duke would arrive.

De Richleau looked round suddenly when he was nearly across the road, and seemed to see Simon for the first time. He waved a greeting.

“Hello!
mon cher,
and what are you doing in Moscow?”

Simon pretended equal surprise as they shook hands. “Over here on a holiday—thought I’d like to see some of the wonderful improvements they’re said to be making.”

“Indeed, yes,” the Duke agreed heartily. “All educated people should know of the great progress which is being made for civilisation. I find it most interesting. Have you seen the Mogess power station and the Michelson Works?”

“Ner.” Simon shook his head. “I only arrived last night.”

“I see, and where are you staying?”

“The Metropole.”

“Really! But that is excellent; I am there, too.” De Richleau took Simon’s arm and led him down the street—their respective guides, who had been interested listeners, followed side by side. “Are you alone?”

“Yes—friend who was coming with me let me down at the last minute—he couldn’t help it poor chap—lost his father suddenly.”

“Dear me. However, we shall now be able to see something of this fine town together.” The Duke spoke in loud tones, determined that the guides should not lose one syllable of the conversation. “Some of the historical sights are of the greatest interest—and the museums, what treasures they have got! All the beautiful things that were formerly locked up in the houses of the nobles.”

“I saw the Kremlin this morning,” Simon volunteered.
“But I was a bit disappointed really—I mean with the old part—Lenin’s tomb is worth seeing, though!”

“A marvellous sight, is it not, with all those precious metals sent from every part of Russia? The tombs of the Tsars are nothing to it. But you look cold, my friend!”

“I am,” Simon declared feelingly, and in truth his thin face was almost blue.

“But what clothes!” exclaimed the Duke, surveying him. “You must get furs if you are to stay here any length of time, or else you will be miserable!”

“I shall be here about a fortnight,” said Simon doubtfully.

“In that case—most certainly. We will go to the trading rows in Red Square at once.” He turned, and spoke rapidly in Russian to the guides; they nodded, and looked sympathetically at Simon. The whole party then retraced their footsteps.

“It will not cost you a great deal,” De Richleau added. “You see, if we buy well, you will be able to sell the furs again at a good figure before you go home. The comfort to you will most certainly be worth the difference.”

Before long they arrived at the Trading Rows, and after some sharp bargaining, which the Duke carried out with the assistance of the two guides, Simon found himself equipped in a fashion not unlike that of the traditional Cossack. In addition to furs, De Richleau insisted that he should have a pair of galoshes; for without these, no boots, however tough, could long withstand the continual wetness of the Moscow streets in winter; and as Simon looked about him he saw that everyone was wearing them.

“Let us lunch, my friend,” said the Duke, once more taking him by the arm when their purchases were completed. “The Hotel Metropole is not the Ritz in Paris, or our old friend the Berkeley in London, but I am hungry—so it will serve!”

Arrived at the hotel, the guides wished to know “the plans of gentlemen for afternoon”.

“Have you seen the Park of Culture and Leisure?” the Duke asked Simon.

“Ner, what’s that?”

“It is in the Zamoskvarechye—the River district; a great park where there is every variety of amusement for the people—volley-ball, tennis, fencing, a circus and a children’s town, a hundred things—it would be interesting—let us go there.”

“Um,” Simon nodded, “yes, let’s.”

“If situation is such, gentlemen will not need us?” proffered one of the guides. “Gentlemen can find their way?”

“Thank you—yes,” De Richleau answered. “I have the little map which you gave me.”