The Forbidden Territory (3 page)

“Have you any idea what conditions are like out there now?”

De Richleau shrugged. “It is difficult to say—the reports of people to whom I have spoken vary so greatly. There is little doubt that the towns are overcrowded and food scarce. Everyone has to surrender thirty-five per cent of their wages to assist in the accomplishment of the Five Year Plan. The whole population is pauperised to this one end.”

“That’s more or less what I’ve heard.” Simon solemnly nodded his head up and down.

“Every day thousands of young people are graduating from the enlarged universities under high pressure, and every one of them is a Communist. That is one great factor in their favour; they control the intelligent youth of Russia, the other is their fanaticism. With them the Communist ideal is a religion. Ambition, comfort, leisure, personal relations, everything
must
give way to that. That is why I believe in the long run they are bound to triumph.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps—I don’t know,” he said slowly. “Christianity hasn’t triumphed, or Islam—and they were fanatical enough. Still it won’t be yet awhile, and anyhow it’s not our business. When do you think of starting?”

“I am leaving tomorrow,” the Duke replied, somewhat to Simon’s surprise. “You will understand, I had not counted upon your company, and I felt that every day was of importance. Traces that our friend may have left in his passage will tend more and more to become obliterated; and I do not care to contemplate what Rex may be suffering in a Bolshevik prison. It was for that reason that I made all speed—even to securing a special diplomatic pass through a certain Embassy, where I have particularly obliging friends.”

“All right,” Simon agreed. “I shan’t be able to get away for a few days, but I’ll follow you as soon as I can.”

“Do not follow me, my friend, but join me in Moscow. I have elected to go by sea to Gothenburg, and hence by rail
via
Stockholm and St. Petersburg—or rather Leningrad as they call it now. It will take some days longer, but you will remember that the messenger posted Rex’s letter in Helsingfors. It is my intention to break my journey there for forty-eight hours; I shall advertise in the Finnish papers for news of Rex, and offer a substantial reward. If fortune is with us, the messenger may still be in the town, and able to inform us more
exactly regarding our poor friend’s misfortune and his present whereabouts.”

“Yes—that’s sound. Thanks—” Simon helped himself to another cigar. “We shall miss our Hoyo’s—he laughed suddenly.

“Not altogether, I trust,” De Richleau smiled. “I have dispatched two hundred in an airtight case to await our arrival.”

“Won’t they be opened at the frontier? Customs people pretty troublesome about anything like that, I should think.”

“Not these, my friend—I sent them in the Embassy bag—and that, at least, is one privilege that we, who used to rule the world, retain—as long as we have friends in the diplomatic service there is always that wonderful elastic Embassy bag—passing the Customs without examination, and giving immunity to correspondence.”

Simon’s dark eyes flickered at the Duke with an amused smile. “That’s wonderful,” he agreed, “and if the food’s going to be bad we shall enjoy the Hoyo’s all the more. I’ll tell you one thing I’m worried about, though. I can’t speak a word of Russian! How are we going to make our inquiries?”

“Fortunately I can,” De Richleau replied. “You probably do not know it but my mother was a Plakoff—her mother again was a Bourbon-Condé, so I am only one-quarter Russian—but before the War I spent much time in Russia. Prince Plakoff possessed immense estates in the foothills of the Carpathians. A part of that territory is now in the enlarged Rumania, the other portion remains in the new Soviet of the Ukraine. I stayed there, sometimes for months at a time, when I was young. I also know many of the Russian cities well.”

“That’s lucky,” said Simon. “Now what exactly would you like me to do?”

“Go to the ‘Intourist’ and arrange for a stay of perhaps a fortnight in Moscow; let them obtain your passport
visa
in the ordinary way—that will take some little time. Book by the direct route to Moscow,
via
Berlin and Warsaw—you will cross the frontier at

Negoreloye; I will meet you in Moscow after making my inquiries in Helsingfors, and combing the Consulates in Leningrad for any information which they may have.”

Simon nodded. “What about the Embassies here. I suppose you’ve done what you can?”

“Yes, but quite uselessly. The American Embassy had already been questioned by Washington on behalf of Channock Van Ryn, but they could add nothing to Moscow’s report that ‘Rex left on December 11th for an unknown destination’.”

“How about mun?”

“Who?” asked the Duke, vaguely.

“Money—I mean,” Simon corrected with a grin.

“I would suggest a good supply. It is permissible to carry any currency into Russia, only the amount must be declared, in order that no question can be raised as to taking it out again.”

“Won’t they be suspicious if I—er—bring in more than I should need in the ordinary way?”

“Yes, perhaps. Therefore it would be best if you declare only one third of what you bring; conceal the rest about you—in your boots or the lining of your waistcoat. I am sending a reserve for myself by way of that excellent Embassy bag. It is quite possible that we may need a considerable sum for bribes, and, if we can find Rex, for arranging a method by which he can be smuggled out of the country. If we declare all that we have when we go in—it might be difficult to explain upon what it has been expended, when we go out. You must remember that all travels, hotels, food—practically everything is supposed to be paid for before we start.”

“Jack Straw?” queried Simon, suddenly “I can’t help wondering what he meant by that. Do you think there’s anything to be done there?”

De Richleau ran his hand lightly over his forehead. “What do you suggest?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I don’t think it would do any harm if I went up to Hampstead one evening—had a look at the people that go there these days—we might get a line.”

“An excellent plan; you will have ample time.”

“Do you happen to have an atlas?” Simon asked with a little laugh. “I’ve almost forgotten what Russia looks like!”

“But certainly, my friend.” De Richleau produced a heavy volume. For a long time the handsome grey head of the Duke remained in close proximity to the dark profile of Mr. Simon Aron, while the two talked together in low voices.

Some two hours later, De Richleau saw his guest down the broad stairway of Errol House to the main hall, and out into the silent deserted streets of Mayfair.

“You will not forget Jack Straw?” he said as they shook hands. “And twelve o’clock at the Ilyinka Gate a fortnight hence—it is best that we should seem to meet by chance.”

“I’ll be there,” said Simon, adjusting his top-hat upon his narrow head. “The Ilyinka Gate, Moscow, at twelve o’clock, fourteen days from now.”

Simon Aron stepped out of a taxi in front of his cousin’s house in Hampstead one night, a little more than a week after his dinner with the Duke.

Simon was a very rich young man, but it was an interesting point in his psychology that he lived in one small room at his club, and did not own a car. The taxi-driver, however, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his tip, although he had had a long and chilly wait outside Jack Straw’s Castle.

His cousin Miriam’s house was one of those long, low, modern mansions standing back from the road in its own grounds. The short gravel drive and the roadway on each side were lined with private cars of all makes and sizes; the windows of the house were a blaze of light; it was evident that a party was in progress.

Having greeted the maid at the door as an old friend, and divested himself of his silk scarf, white kid gloves, stick, and shining topper—Simon was soon in conversation with his hostess.

“Good party tonight, Miriam?” he asked her in his jerky way, with a wide smile.

“I hope so, Simon dear,” she replied a little nervously. “I’ve taken an awful lot of trouble—but you never know what people will like—do you?”

“Of course it will be a good party, Miriam,” he encouraged her, “Your parties always are good parties! Anyone special coming?”

“We’ve got Gian Capello—he’s promised to play, and Madame Maliperi is going to sing; it’s a great help having Alec Wolff too, he’s really very clever at the piano; Jacob
says he’ll go a long way—and knowing him so well I can get him to play at any time.”

“Of course you can—Alec’s a nice boy.”

“I tell you who I have got here—” she went on hurriedly. “Madame Karkoff—you know, Valeria Petrovna Karkoff—from the Moscow Arts Theatre; she’s over here on a visit with Kommissar Leshkin. Jacob met them at the film studios at Elstree last week.”

Simon’s quick eyes flickered about the wide hall; with sudden interest he asked: “Does she—er—speak English?”

“Oh yes. Simon dear I do wish you’d look after her, will you? They don’t know anybody here. It would be an awful weight off my mind. Look! there she is—the dark-haired woman, in the yellow dress. She’s awfully good-looking I think—will you?”

“Well—er—” He appeared to hesitate. “Taking on a bit of a handful, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, Simon. You get on so well with everybody. Of course,” she went on a little wistfully, “I do love giving parties, but you know what Jacob is—he just asks everybody that he can think of—and I have to do all the work. Do be a dear!”

Simon allowed himself to be led over. “Oh, Madame Karkoff, I want you to meet my cousin, Mr. Aron.” Simon’s hostess smiled a little unhappily. “He’s awfully interested in the theatre.”

“ ’Ow do you do, Mistaire Aron?” said Madame Karkoff, in a rich, deep, almost husky voice, as she lifted her fine chin and held out a long slender hand. “Come—sit ’ere by me.” With a quick gesture she made a pretence of drawing aside her dress.

Simon accepted the invitation, and produced his cigarette-case. She took one with a giggle.

“I ’ave been dying for a cigarette,” she confessed. “Ah, sank you.” Almost before the cigarette had reached her scarlet lips Simon’s other hand had left his pocket, and the patent lighter in it flickered into flame. It was a much-practised little trick of his.

“So you are interested in the theatre, eh?” She
regarded him curiously. “Tell me about the theatre, Mistaire Aron!”

Simon leant forward and laughed his little nervous laugh into the palm of his hand. “ ’Fraid I can’t,” he chuckled. “Mind you, I’d love to be able to, but we haven’t got a theatre in England!”

“Ah! So you know that, do you?” A gleam of appreciation showed in her large dark eyes.

“Of course,” he nodded vigorously. “There is no theatre here in the sense that you know it; there are some people who try pretty hard, but they don’t get much encouragement—and they’ve got a lot to learn.”

He studied her thoughtfully, marvelling at her dark beauty. The dead-white skin, the narrow arched eyebrows; the rather flat face with high cheek-bones, relieved by the sensual scarlet mouth and slumbrous dark eyes. No one would have thought of her as other than a woman, although she was actually little more than a girl. He put her down as about twenty-five.

“You are Jewish—are you not?” she asked suddenly. He laughed jerkily again, as he ran his finger down his prominent nose. “Of course. I couldn’t hide this, could I? And as a matter of fact I’ve no wish to try.”

She laughed delightedly, showing two rows of strong, white, even teeth. “I’ave of the Jewish blood myself,” she said then, serious again in a moment. “My grandmother—she was Jewish. It is good; there is no art where there is not Jewish blood.”

Simon looked round the big lounge-hall. “Well then we’re in good company tonight,” he said. He smiled and waved a greeting as he caught sight of his friend, Richard Eaton, who was one of the Christian minority.

“I would like champagne,” declared Madame Karkoff, suddenly—throwing back her dark head, and exhaling a cloud of cigarette-smoke. “Lots and lots of champagne!”

“All right.” Simon stood up. “It’ll be in the billiard-room, I expect.”

She made no attempt to rise. “Bring it to me “ere,” she said with a little shrug of the shoulders.

“Ner.” He shook his head rapidly as he uttered the curious negative which he often used. It came of his saying “no” without troubling to close the lips of his full mouth. “Ner—you come with me, it’s so crowded here.”

For a moment her mouth went sullen as she looked at the slim figure, with its narrow stooping shoulders, that stood before her, then she rose languidly.

He piloted her through the crush to the buffer in the billiards-room. An obsequious waiter proffered two glasses; they might have held a fair-sized cocktail, but they were not Simon’s idea of glasses for champagne. He waved them aside quickly with one word—“tumblers!”

Two small tumblers were produced and filled by the waiter. As Simon handed one to Madame Valeria Petrovna Karkoff she smiled approval.

“They are meeserable—those little glasses for champagne, no good at all—all the same, chin-chin!”

Simon laughed, they finished another tumbler apiece before they left the billiards-room. “Come on,” he said. “I think Maliperi is going to sing.”

“Maliperi?” she exclaimed, opening wide her eyes. “Come then, why do we stay ’ere?” and gripping him impulsively by the hand she ran him down the long passage to the music-room at the back of the house.

They stood together in a corner while Maliperi sang, and marvelled at her art, although the magnificent voice that had filled so many opera houses was too great for the moderate-sized room, and a certain portion of its beauty lost.

“Let us ’ave more champagne,” said Valeria Petrovna, when it was over. “I feel I will enjoy myself tonight.”

Simon led the way back to the buffet, and very shortly two more tumblers stood before them. As they were about to drink, a big red-headed man put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, and spoke thickly, in what Simon could only imagine to be Russian.

She shook his hand off with an impatient gesture, and answered him sharply in the same tongue.