Dennis Wheatley - The Forbidden Territory

“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 realize that, but — er — I mean, is it just a political allience, 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; Mistake 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 hands 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!”

“Little” 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.