The Forbidden Territory (8 page)

As he spoke he regarded her steadily with his sharp expressive eyes, and evidently she understood, for she smiled slightly.

“You must come and visit my apartment, it is quiet there. You can tell me all about yourself; I am interested in you, Mistaire Aron, you do not make stupid love, like all the other young men; yet you like me, do you not?” Her smile became bewitching.

“I’d love to come,” said Simon, simply, and the world of meaning in his voice was a sufficient answer to her question.

“Let us see, then,” her eyes sparkled; “it must be at a time when Leshkin ees not there. Oh, ’e ees so jealous, that one, you ’ave no idea! The scene ’e make me when I go off to lunch with you. I’ad not thought for a little minute that you would be ’ere, and when your message come and I telephone ’im to say I cannot meet ’im—Ho! what a temper! It all comes, I think, because ’e ’as red ’air!” and she went off into peals of delighted laughter.

“What about the afternoon?” Simon suggested.

“Why not?” she smiled; “you shall come back with me, and we will make what you call
Whoopee!
”

She was as infectious in her child-like gaiety as in her fierce enthusiasms, and Simon felt the spirit of adventure stirring in him.

“I’d love to come,” he said, again.

“Let us go, then—now, this moment!” She set down her coffee cup and rose impulsively.

He followed her out of the restaurant, and they secured their furs. Madame Karkoff’s limousine was waiting at the hotel entrance; it was one of the few private cars that Simon had seen during his two days’ stay in Moscow. The fact that the traffic was almost entirely composed of and occasional carts, and that their car was not once blocked en route, made Simon revise his lunch-time reflections as to the true prosperity of Soviet Russia; the traffic of a city is a very good index to its wealth and commercial activities. Making a mental note to consider the business aspect of the position later, Simon devoted himself to the lovely creature at his side.

Madame Karkoff’s apartment was on the first floor of an old-fashioned block. She explained to him that all the new domestic buildings were composed of large numbers of small flats, modern in every way, with communal kitchens and wash-houses, and crèches for the workers’ children, but that none of these flats were of any size. If one wanted spacious rooms, there was nothing to be had other than the mansions and apartments of the old
bourgeoisie.

The outside of the building was depressing, with its peeling paint and rain-streaked walls, but the inside was a revelation.

The great rooms were almost barbaric in their splendour, with no trace of modern decoration. Magnificent tapestries hung from the walls and beautiful lamps in Russian silver filigree from the ceiling; the polished floor was strewn with furs and Persian carpets in glowing reds and purples.

A maid in a neat dark dress put a tray with tea in glasses, and sugar and lemon, on a low stool beside her mistress, and Valeria Petrovna drew Simon down on to the divan beside her.

“Now tell me,” she commanded, “why, Mistaire Aron, you—come to Russia?”

“Simon,” he corrected, gently.

“Simon!” She went off into fits of laughter. “Simon—that ees good—you know why I laugh?”

“Ner—” he confessed, puzzled.

“It ees the childhood rhyme I learn when I have an English Nurse: ‘
Simple Simon met a pieman, going to a fair; said Simple Simon to the pieman, what ’ave you got there
?’ ” and once more she dissolved into tears of childish laughter.

“Now look here,” Simon protested, “that’s quite enough of that!” but he smiled his kind, indulgent smile at her teasing.

“What ees a pieman?” she inquired, seriously.

“Chap who makes pies,” Simon grinned from ear to ear; “you know—cakes, puddings, and all that.”

“Ah, well, I am glad I am not a pieman! Tell me, little Simon, what are you?”

“Well,” Simon hesitated, “I’m a banker, in a way—but I’ll tell you, I do all sorts of other things as well. I’m interested in chemicals and metals and phosphorus.”

“And what do you make ’ere in Moscow?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not here on business exactly,” Simon continued, cautiously; “I’m looking for a friend of mine; he got into some trouble with the police, I believe.”

She looked suddenly grave. “That ees bad; they are powerful, the Ogpu—was it for politics that ’e got into trouble?”

Simon was in a quandary; he wanted to discover the whereabouts of Rex, but he could not tolerate the idea of lying to this beautiful and charming woman, who seemed to have taken such a liking to him, and in whom his own interest was growing deeper every minute. Honesty, with Simon, was not only policy, but a principle from which he never deviated—it had brought him the confidence and respect of business acquaintances and friends alike.

“Ner,” he answered, “not as far as I know. Perhaps he may have gone somewhere he should not have gone, or got tight or something, but I don’t think he got into
a muddle with politics. The only thing I know is that he is in prison, poor devil.”

“But what could you do? Even if you know where ’e was, they would not let ’im out—”

“We’d get him out,” said Simon, promptly. “If we knew where he was, we’d apply for his release through his Embassy; he’s an American. But we can’t, you see, if we don’t know! That’s the trouble.”

“I will see what I can do,” she said suddenly. “Kommissar Leshkin ’as a great deal to do with the prisons. What ees the name of your frien’?”

“Rex Van Ryn.” Simon spoke the syllables carefully. “Here,” he produced a gold pencil from his waistcoat pocket, “I’ll write it down for you—no, better write it yourself—you’ll understand your own writing better.” He gave her the pencil, and she wrote the name in a large round childish hand as he spelt it out for her.

She pushed the piece of paper into the top drawer of a small desk that stood near her.

“You won’t forget?” Simon asked, anxiously.

“No,” she shook her dark head; “eet may take a little time, but an occasion will come when I can ask Leshkin—’e may not know ’imself, but ’e will tell me if ’e does.”

“I—er—suppose Kommissar Leshkin is a great friend of yours?” hazarded Simon.

She made a little grimace. “What would you—’ow old are you? Twenty-eight; thirty, perhaps; three, four years older than myself—it does not matter. You are a man of the world; you know it, then. All artistes must have a protector; eef I’ad lived twenty years ago it would ’ave been a Grand Duke; now eet is a Kommissar. What does eet matter; eet is life!”

Simon nodded with much understanding, but he went on quietly probing. “Of course, I realise that, but—er—I mean, is it just a political alliance, or are you really friendly?”

“I ’ate ’im,” she said, suddenly, with a flash of her magnificent eyes; “ ’e is stupid, a bore, ’e ’as no delicacy of feeling, no finesse. In the revolution ’e did terrible
things. Sometimes it makes me shudder to think ’ow ’is ’ands they are cover with blood—’e was what you call ‘Terrorist’ then. It was ’im they send to crush the revolt in the Ukraine; eet was ’orrible that, the people that ’e kill, ’ole batches at a time. Most of those terrorist they are finish now, but not ’im; ’e is cunning, you understand, and strong, that is ’ow ’e keeps ’is place among the others; if ’e ’as any attraction for me, it is ’is strength, I think—but let us not talk of ’im.”

Unfortunately they were not destined to talk of anything else, for raised voices sounded at that moment in the hall outside, the door was thrust violently open, and the big, red-headed Kommissar strode in with a scowl on his face.

Simon got slowly to his feet, and Valeria Petrovna introduced them, recalling to Leshkin their former brief meeting in London.

“How do you do?” said Simon, in his most polite manner.

“Thank you—and yourself?” said Leshkin, without any trace of cordiality in his manner; “do you stay long in Moskawa?”

“Don’t know,” Simon replied, airily. “I rather like Moscow, I may stay for a month.” He was well aware that he had done nothing so far to which the authorities could object, and behind his passport lay all the power and prestige that gives every British subject such a sense of security in any part of the world. Moreover, passport or no passport, Mr. Simon Aron was not accustomed to being browbeaten. Between his rather narrow shoulders there lay a quiet but very determined courage, so, ignoring Leshkin, he turned with a smile to Valeria Petrovna and asked her to dine with him that night.

“But ’ow can I? You forget the theatre; but you shall call for me, and we will ’ave supper after. Leshkin,” she turned imperiously to the Kommissar, “do not be a bear; Mistaire Aron is the guest of Russia—’elp ’im with ’is furs, and show ’im out.”

Leshkin’s small eyes narrowed beneath his beetling
brows, his great jaw came forward with an ugly curve—for the fraction of a second it looked as though he were going to seize the frail Simon in his big powerful hands.

Valeria Petrovna stood between them, her eyes never left Leshkin’s face. With a sharp movement she flicked the butt of her cigarette from the long slender holder. Suddenly the Kommissar relaxed, and with a little shrug of his giant shoulders, obeyed.

When Simon got back to the Metropole he asked his guide to get seats for that evening’s performance at the Moscow Arts Theatre, and on this occasion he and the Duke really made use of the tickets.

Both were lovers of the theatre, and enjoyed the finish and technique of the production; De Richleau was enraptured with Valeria Petrovna and her performance. In the first interval he turned to Simon with a sigh.

“Ah, my friend, why am I not twenty years younger? I envy you the friendship of this lovely lady.”

Simon laughed a little self-consciously. “Well, I shouldn’t care to have you as a rival, as it is!”

“You have no cause to fear on that score.” De Richleau laid his hand gently on Simon’s arm. “The
chère amie
of a friend is always to me in the same category as an aged aunt, and in any case I think it best that you should not present me; develop this friendship with Valeria Petrovna on your own; it will give more time for me to work on other lines.”

When the play was over the Duke made his way back to the hotel alone, and Simon waited at the stage door, as he had been instructed. Valeria Petrovna appeared in a remarkably short time, and whisked him back in her big car to her luxurious apartment and a charming
petit souper à deux.

She was in marvellous spirits, the room rang with her laughter as she told him of the scene she had had after his departure that afternoon with Leshkin.

“You should ’ave seen ’im,” she declared. “’Ow ’e rage and stamp ’is big feet, but I tell ’im ’e is a great
fool. I am no little chorus girl to be told ’oo I entertain; a few years ago, that was different; but now, I will ’ave ’oo I choose to be my frien’! Come, fill up your glass, little Simon, that red-’ed can go to ’ell!”

Simon filled up his glass, also Valeria Petrovna’s. He was just a trifle anxious that, instead of going to hell, the large and brutal Kommissar might wait outside for him on the pavement, but he put such unpleasant thoughts quickly from him; fate had sent him this delightful companion, who glowed with life and beauty, the heavy curtains shut out the falling snow, the subdued lights lent an added richness to the warm luxury of the room. With all the hesitant, tactful charm with which he was so well endowed, Simon set himself to captivate the lovely Russian.

Even if Leshkin had meant to waylay his rival that night, the long wait in the bitter cold must have quenched his furious jealousy, for it was some hours before Simon left the apartment, and even then Valeria Petrovna was reluctant to let him go.

The next few days were crowded with incident for Simon. In the mornings with De Richleau he visited the places of interest in the city. It was necessary—indeed, vital—to sustain their character of intelligent and interested tourists. They visited the cathedrals and palaces—the latter now turned into museums—the Lenin Institute, and the Museum of the Revolution, formerly the English Club.

They kept a sharp look-out for the man with a cast in his eye on these expeditions, and caught a quick glimpse of him now and then, so they did not dare venture near the “Tavern of the Howling Wolf”, or communicate with Jack Straw in any way. They felt that he would manage to let them know if he received any news of Rex.

The Duke’s shrewd, observant eyes missed nothing of Simon’s restlessness and preoccupation during these days; it was he who planned a different excursion for each morning, and exerted himself to interest and amuse his friend, recreating for him in vivid pictures the
changes that had taken place in Moscow since he had first visited it in the early ’eighties, as a small boy of nine.

At lunch-time they parted, for Simon and Valeria Petrovna lunched together every day and spent the afternoon sleigh-riding, driving in her big car out into the country, or skating on the frozen ponds. Simon was a most graceful skater, and the swift motion in perfect unison was a delight to both of them.

The guides did not bother Simon, as long as he was with the famous actress. Valeria Petrovna was the idol of the Russian public, and Simon shone with her reflected glory in the eyes of the two interpreters.

He dined each evening with the Duke, and they went alternately to a theatre or the opera, the latter being one of Simon’s greatest interests in life. Afterwards he would call for his beautiful lady at the Arts Theatre, and have supper with her in her apartment, only to leave her in the small hours of the morning.

Six days went by in this manner, but they had failed to secure any further information regarding Rex. De Richleau persisted in his inquiries through the Embassies and Legations, and also through various American and English trading houses to which he obtained introductions; but without result. Rex might have been spirited away by a djinn for all the traces he had left behind him. Simon raised the question tentatively with Valeria Petrovna several times, but she always brushed it aside quickly.