V
“Perez arrived yesterday afternoon,” reported Moldenko, “and was admitted to the Kremlin this morning. He flies back to Germany in three days. I have reserved a place also for you, and will attend to the vise necessary for your departure.”
“Have you found it possible to learn anything definite as to his reason for being here?” asked Reading.
“No, captain; I can give you only limited service in Moscow, and must not press my inquiries too closely.” He turned a wrist, as though he were turning a jailer’s key, and grinned a little apprehensively.
“I can make no other suggestion except that it is likely that his mission must be learned from the contents of his dispatch case when he leaves Moscow. I am not a member of the Communist party and must be careful.”
“Where is he stopping?”
“Here in the Savoy. You are likely to meet him. He has no reason to suspect that you are other than a member of the American Air Mail on leave and on a holiday tour of personal observation?”
“I don’t think so. I met him on the steamer coming over, and again at Paris, and casually mentioned that I expected to fly to Moscow if the opportunity presented itself.”
“That is well, captain, for if your reason for coming to Russia became known, or even strongly suspected, I should not like to guarantee your safety. Many things happen suddenly in Moscow.”
Reading considered his position. He was in Moscow, and in the same hotel with him was the man he had followed by steamer and airplane five thousand miles from New York. Perhaps Perez had already learned of his arrival. Would he suspect his presence? Reading had had practically no choice except to take the chance.
He could claim no protection from an American embassy if his purpose in the Red capital — the heart of Soviet Russia, Communists loved to call it — became known or even strong suspected.
He knew that the confessedly ruthless government, a sterner dictatorship even than that of the czar’s which it had displaced, would not hesitate to deal summarily with him if it regarded him as a serious threat to its international plans.
He must work quietly and carefully, and yet in the open. This could be no job of back-alley sleuthing. He determined to assume the initiative; to bring about as soon as possible another seemingly casual meeting with Perez.
Telephoning, he was told that Perez was not in his room, and had left no word as to when he would return.
Reading had decided upon a stroll in the direction of the Kremlin, and was crossing the lobby of the hotel when Perez entered. The American thought lie detected the merest flash of apprehension in the eyes of the little Latin as he caught sight of him, but his mobile countenance smiled a polite greeting as he came forward with outstretched hand.
“Travelers’ luck again, captain!” he exclaimed. “I had hardly hoped to meet with you again so soon — although I do remember you said that Moscow was included in the itinerary of your airways travel.”
“It is pleasant to find you here, Mr. Perez,” returned Reading. He was about to remark that the meeting was unexpected, but thought it best to let Perez volunteer an explanation as to why he was not in Paris or on the Mediterranean. This came quickly enough.
“The swiftness of air travel seems to increase the probability of such chance meetings of travelers who have met before, but perhaps you are surprised that I am here.
“I have had to interrupt my holiday to attend to business. The day after my arrival in Paris some South American connections cabled, asking me to make inquiries into the status of mining concessions which they have in the Ural region.”
A wave of the hand. “And so you find me here.”
Reading wondered whether to admire the other’s assurance or doubt whether, after all, he was not on a wild-goose chase. Tips such as that which had caused the State Department to commandeer the Air Mail detective’s services did not always assay according to expectations.
But he thought it best to let Perez know at once the time of his departure from Moscow, and so perhaps forestall any further suspicion that might arise from another forced coincidence.
“Why, my dear captain, I too have reserved a place in the plane for Berlin on Friday,” he replied. “It will be a pleasure to fly with you again.”
This with so convincing an air of amiability that Reading again found himself in speculation. If the Central American was, by chance, telling the truth, his visit to government offices meant nothing more than a business errand. Moldenko may have deceived himself.
But if Perez was in Moscow to convey revolutionary plans and funds south Of the Rio Grande he was working boldly, almost openly, and against all the established canons of international intrigue. If he concealed a suspicion of Reading would he change his plans and fly out of Russia in another plane?
In that case he might head for Riga, the Latvian port, and leave Europe via the Baltic. There were small steamers on which he might sail directly to a Latin-American port.
It might have been a mistake to let him know when he was leaving Moscow. But Reading hoped that his own apparent candor would serve to fend off any suspicion Perez might have.
Perez ascended to his room, and Reading was again moving toward the door when a voice hailed him from the room clerk’s desk.
“Jim Reading!”
He turned and saw David Rossiter of the New York Globe. They had been friends when Rossiter was a Washington correspondent.
“Dave, I’m glad to see you. I thought you had been sent to your London office. What are you doing here?”
“Transferred a month ago, when the first hint came that things were being patched up between Washington and Moscow. Nelson was glad to be switched to London and his favorite brand of Scotch, but said he was afraid he would have to use it as a chaser, after training on vodka for a year. You were going out. May I walk with you?”
“Of course — or would you rather come up to my room?” invited Reading. “I intended going out only for a short walk before turning in. My legs are stiff from sitting in a plane all day and no rudder-bar to kick.”
“Let’s walk then. Have you seen Red Square and the Kremlin at night?”
“No; I intended to walk in that direction.”
Outside, on the dimly lighted sidewalk, Rossiter became the inquiring reporter,
“I’m your friend, Jim, but I am also Moscow correspondent of the Globe. I learned at the Deruluft office that you had arrived; they told me you were to be here for a few days as part of a trip to look over the European airways. Is that all, or you up to something else?”
In Washington Reading had learned to trust this newspaper man, and had several times confided in him and been quietly helped by him in his investigations. He knew that Rossiter would not violate a confidence in order to put over a news beat.
Rossiter respected Reading as one of the few agents of the government he knew who was not a publicity hunter. They had formed a real friendship. Neither attempted to use the other, but they had both gained in exchanges of information in times past.
It was known to the detective that the newspaper man had frequently been in the confidence of high government officials, especially in the State Department.
Reading now decided to confide in Rossiter, and was about to answer his question when the other added: “But if you are here on something you can’t talk about, forget the question and any personal inclination you may have to answer it.”
“I’m going to tell you what has brought me here, Dave. We may be able to help each other.”
Rossiter listened in silence, then whistled softly.
“It’s lucky I haven’t filed a little yam I’ve written about Perez’s visit here. I had a talk with him to-day and he gave me the same story he told you.