“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 Richleau’s 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, with big blue eyes! 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 Wolf! 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 this 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!”
IV — Cigars and Pistols for Two
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 recognized 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”.