Delphi collected works o.., p.434
Delphi Collected Works of Peter Cheyney Illustrated, page 434
I lighted a cigarette and waited.
After a few minutes my weedy friend returned. He said: “Will you come this way, sir?”
I threw my cigarette stub into a brass ash-tray and went after him. We seemed to walk a long way down one passage and up another. From here and there about the house I could hear the sound of music and voices. Eventually, he pulled aside a heavy plush curtain and opened a door. I went into the room.
She was standing in front of the fireplace. A small fire was burning, either for effect or because there was a little breeze in the air. The room was well-furnished in dark oak. The pile carpet was a soft blue. Two or three vases were filled with well-arranged flowers. It was a nice room.
She said: “Good evening to you. I am the Countess Sonia Karakoff.” She smiled.
I am going to tell you that the Countess — as she called herself — Sonia Karakoff was definitely easy on the eyes. She was tall — about five feet nine — and she had one of those faces that one is never quite certain about. She had a camelia complexion and a raspberry mouth. The shape of her face was fascinating. You looked at her and wondered whether she was lovely or pretty or merely handsome. She had a straight, long nose: full, attractive lips; large dark eyes. Her hair was dead black and dressed closely to her head. She wore a close-fitting, long, lace dinner frock and high heeled crêpe-de-Chine sandals. Round her neck was a necklace of cabochon emeralds, and there was a bracelet to match for each slim wrist. Her fingers were long and white. She must have worn at least ten rings on her hands, and one of them in diamonds was a replica of the Cross of St. George of Russia. She was definitely an eyeful.
I said: “Good evening to you, Countess. My name’s Michael Kells, and I thought it was time you and I had a little talk.”
She said, without moving: “About what, Mr. Kells?”
I came a little closer. “You know, I think it’s time that you went back to work. So does the Old Man.”
She smiled. Her teeth were white and even. She smiled only with her mouth. Her eyes were steady and watchful.
She said: “So...! But I thought it was understood that that part of my life was finished. You see, I now own this club. I am very interested in it. It is successful. Here I exist in the peace of the countryside. Sometimes I look at the birds, and there are other things...”
I said: “I’d still like to talk to you.”
She sighed. “I am a weak woman. And you look to me like a very determined man. Also I have heard about you, Mr. Kells.” She smiled again. She went on: “Would you like to drink with me? Tell me what you would like. Will you drink champagne or brandy or whisky or rum or vodka?”
I asked: “Are you going to drink vodka?”
“No, I shall drink brandy.”
I said: “Well, I’ll drink brandy, too.”
“Please help yourself to cigarettes, which you will find on the table.” She rang a bell by the fireplace. When the weedy- looking butler arrived she ordered brandy, soda and ice.
I walked about the room, smoking a cigarette and looking at the pictures. They were pretty good and there were some excellent, carefully chosen prints. We didn’t say anything. She stood relaxed, almost inanimate, in front of the fire, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her head up, her eyes following me as I walked round the room. I took a quick look at her over my shoulder. In that position a very good figure showed itself to the best advantage, and the plunging neckline of her frock told the world that the “Countess” Sonia Karakoff had no need of uplift.
The butler put the drinks on the table and went away.
She said: “Let us sit down and talk.”
I placed a chair for her, poured out the drinks; added soda and ice and put them on the table. We sat down.
I said: “I expect you know what I am here for. In our peculiar profession, Countess — and I have an idea that you know more about me than you care to tell — wars go on for ever, even when the shooting stops.”
She said languidly: “Has that stopped? It seems to me that somewhere in the world there is always shooting.” She drank a little brandy fastidiously. Then she said: “I wish I had a machine-gun so that I could go out into the world and shoot everybody except myself and those I love.”
I said: “I can’t see what good that would do.”
“Perhaps not...! What is it that you wish me to do? And why should I do it?”
I said: “Sonia, I’m going to be very frank with you. You have an application in at the Home Office for British nationality, and on your record you certainly deserve it. Incidentally, that application was recommended by the Old Man. It would be rather a pity if he should be forced to withdraw his recommendation. If he did I don’t think there would be any naturalisation for you.”
She said: “I see... blackmail...! Do you know, Kells, what I think you are — a complete and utter swine?”
“Maybe... Why don’t you call me Michael? But that is the position. I think that the Old Man rather feels that you ought to do one more job. After that, I give you my word that that application is going through right away. Before you know where you are you’ll find yourself a British citizen.”
She asked: “What is this business? Do I have to go away. Do I have to be at the mercy of some Bolshevik or some German Nazi?”
I said: “That’s the charm of the whole thing, Sonia. I don’t think you’ll have to go anywhere. I don’t think you’ll have to go outside London, and probably you’ll be able to run your club at the same time.”
Her eyes widened. “This is amazing. This is what you call too good to be true.” Her voice was soft, a little hoarse, very attractive. “This sounds almost likeable. Before, I have been asked to do much more difficult things.”
I said: “This may be difficult, even if you don’t have to travel, and there’s just as much danger in England as there is in some other parts of the world. You know what our friends on the other side are like.”
She said softly: “I know.” She went on: “Very much I wish to have my British nationality; also I would always like to oblige the Old One. Incidentally, I would like also to be friends with you. But there is the question of love to be considered. I am in love.”
I said: “That’s too bad.”
She went on: “You see I am always in love. One must always be in love to get any sort of inspiration from life. Whatever one does is always done better if one is in love — even working for the Old One. Love is inclined to improve one’s technique.”
I asked: “Exactly what is this leading to?”
She said: “I have a person in this club. His name is Rico Mellish — or that is what he calls himself. He is very excitable. He is not likely to approve of any scheme that you wish to put up to me.”
“No one’s asking him to approve of anything. My advice to him is to watch his step if he’s going to butt into my business. Where is this Mellish?”
She said: “He is here. Perhaps you would like to meet him before you go.” She stopped talking as the door was burst open.
A man came into the room. I guessed this was Mellish. He was tall and thin. He had a thin face — a face with a grudge against the world. He was inclined to be sallow. Under his nose was a pencil-line moustache, a not particularly nice mouth and large white teeth. He had lots of black hair that was plastered down in the fashion that gigolos adopt. His double-breasted tuxedo fitted him too well and his shirt and collar were of the finest silk. His patent leather evening shoes were too pointed. There were rings on his fingers. He looked to me rather a dangerous type.
He slammed the door. Without looking at me he came across to the table and addressed Sonia. He talked to her in Russian, spitting the words out of his mouth.
She said languidly: “My Rico, you might just as well talk English. I am sure that Mr. Kells speaks Russian.”
He gesticulated violently with his hands. He said in an Italian accent: “Very well, I will speak English. They tell me that this man come to the house to-night and demanded to see you. This is behind my back. So you don’t trust me. You have no faith in me.” He pointed a long, well-manicured forefinger at me. “So this man is your lover?”
Sonia rose slowly to her feet. She said: “My darling, you are becoming excited. Come here, my sweet one.” She picked up the brandy bottle and hit him across the face.
Mellish subsided on the carpet unconscious.
She put the bottle back on the tray. She said, apologetically: “You understand, Michael, that Rico is a little passionate and violent. On these occasions the only thing to do is to arrange for him to go to sleep. When he comes to I will reason with him. In the meantime let us walk in the garden. It is pleasant there.”
I got up. I felt that I was going to like the Countess Karakoff.
We went into the garden.
V. VOLANSKI
AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK I looked up the telephone number Madame Volanski had given me and called her. A few moments later Volanski came on the line.
I reminded her that she had asked me to get into touch with her; would she like to lunch with me?
She said no; she’d like me to lunch with her. She suggested that we met at a restaurant in Soho. She said the food was very good there; that she was glad I’d called her. She sounded rather down, I thought... I imagined she was either in the throes of a deep depression or suffering from a first-class hangover.
I found her a rather difficult person to think about, more especially because you never know about women. And, believe me, you don’t! They are the greatest dissemblers in creation and the soft, shy little woman who can’t say boo to a goose can be as dangerous and pack as mean a wallop as the most veritable Amazon. Right from the start I’d found Madame Volanski rather more than an enigma. Outwardly, she was a fat, peculiarly shapeless, miserable Russian type. She was in fact an old bag, but then you never knew even when they were old bags, when they were Russians. The question that was uppermost in my mind was whether Volanski knew that her pretended brother, Alexandrov, the ex-Hetman of Cossacks, was Riffenbach, late of the S.S., now working for the Russians. Of course she might know that. She might have picked Riffenbach up somewhere and joined forces with him in order to keep an eye on him, or she might not. Riffenbach, with his big, burly frame, immense moustaches and complete self-confidence, would not be unattractive to a certain type of woman. And apparently Volanski had money. It might be that. I shrugged my shoulders. It wasn’t any good asking myself questions. I had to try and find out.
I went out at one o’clock and found the restaurant. It was a small place — not far from the Tottenham Court Road. It was long, narrow, airless, and smelt vaguely of garlic. The tablecloths weren’t very clean and the waiters might have been anything but waiters.
I went in. She was sitting at a table in the corner at the end of the room. She looked terrible. She was wearing a tight, black coat and skirt which would have looked fashionable on anyone else’s figure, but not on hers. Her ample bosom was endeavouring to escape from the tightness of the coat. Her fat, shapeless face was covered with about an eighth of an inch of enamel, and her eyes — small and beady through crying or a hangover, I didn’t know which — looked miserably around the over-heated room. She wore a funny hat under which some wisps of hair had escaped, and on one lapel of her coat was a large diamond clip that must have been worth five thousand pounds.
I said: “Good morning, Madame Volanski. How is it? You don’t look very well. Are you still worrying about your brother?”
She said, in a low, cracked voice: “Call me Olga. Of course I’m terribly worried. Always I worry. All the time I look around for ‘appiness and what do I always get? What you call a poke in the eye.”
I said: “You’d better have a hair of the dog that bit you. You were crying last night, weren’t you? What was it — vodka?”
She said: “My friend, you are right. You are a man of discernment. I wish I knew some more about you. You are mysterious, but I theenk you have a peculiar sort of wisdom. It was not only vodka. It was misery and tears. Always they go together.”
I signalled to one of the waiters — a rather decrepit specimen- -who shuffled over; ordered two large brandies and sodas and handed the menu to her.
She said: “I do not want to eat. I am miserable.”
“A little food won’t hurt.” I ordered for us both.
She said: “I don’ know why I wanted to talk to you, but a woman gets to a state when she feels she ‘as to do something. She is ‘arassed and miserable. She is excited and lonely and impatient.”
“I know...” I grinned at her. “Ladies won’t wait,” I said, rather liking the implication of those words. “They think there’s nothing worth waiting for, so they feel they have to do something about it.”
She said: “Yes. They ‘ave to do something about it. But what are they to do? What does a woman do when she is lonely and sick for love and she does not trust anybody? What is she to do, Mister Kells?”
I gave her a cigarette; lighted it; took one myself.
I said: “You can take it from me that the best thing she can do is to trust somebody even if she is wrong.”
“I would like to trust you,” she said. “But I am rather afraid of you.”
“Yes? What are you afraid of me for?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “There could be a lot of reasons. You might be a policeman. You might be a spy. You might be anything.”
I said: “All right. Let’s examine that. If I’m a policeman why should you be afraid of the fact, and why should you expect me to be a spy?”
She shrugged her shoulders again. “I am not thinking for myself. I am thinking for Alexandrov.” Tears welled into her eyes. It struck me that her affection for the supposed Alexandrov was almost too strong for a sister.
I asked: “I suppose he is your brother?”
She shook her head. “No... ’e is not my brother. If ’e was my brother I would not cry. I don’ know why I am telling you of this, but I ‘ave ‘ad enough of everything. I ‘ave to talk to somebody. ’E is not my brother. ’E is my lover. I adored ‘eem. Not only is ’e my lover; ’e is also a sadist. You see, this son of a beech knew my temperament. You know, Russian women are always the same, wherever they come from. They like being ‘urt and Alexandrov is an expert at doing that. ’E telephones to girls in front of me and makes appointments. Once I threw a bronze statue at ‘eem. I missed ‘eem and ’e threw it back at me and knocked two front teeth out. I was in agony for weeks. ’E laughed at me when I came back from the dentist’s and said it was necessary to suffer in order to be beautiful, and that the new teeth looked better than the old ones.
“Always ’e is going off to some place ’e ‘as somewhere — a place about which I knew nothing — and taking women. This pleases ‘eem. ’E knows it drives me mad. Eventually, I came to realise that all ’e wants from me is my money.”
“What is he doing here?” I asked. “According to what you told me the other night you two have been wandering about the world, and being kicked out of country after country. Was that true? According to you, you exist merely to supply money to this man much younger than yourself whom you love.”
She looked at me. Tears were trembling in her eyes. Her mascara’d eyelids were fluttering. Across the table came a suggestion of stale breath.
I thought Volanski was a terrible woman. I thought that Riffenbach was more than a trifle heroic to stand for her. He must have wanted the money badly.
She said: “I theenk you are a police officer or something like that. Why should I talk any more to you?”
I replied: “I don’t know. I’ll make one or two guesses. Have you got your passport with you, Olga?”
She looked at me quickly. I saw a suggestion of fear in her eyes. She answered: “I ‘ave not my passport with me. Alexandrov ‘as my passport.”
I thought that was pretty good. I said: “Well, it looks as if you’re in a spot, Olga, because Alexandrov has gone and your passport with him. I wouldn’t like to be you.”
She said: “My God... ’ere is some more misery...! Always I am followed by a relentless fate.” She cried some more; then took a large gulp of brandy and soda. There was a silence. I looked at her. I thought that even if Olga Volanski liked being miserable the news about Riffenbach had definitely shaken her badly.
She said: “Tell me about ‘eem. Where ‘as ’e gone?”
I decided to take a chance. I said: “I’m going to trust you, Olga, because you told me the truth about Alexandrov not being your brother. Well, I’m an Aliens Officer at the Passport Office. When I received your invitation to the cocktail party I didn’t know that I was going to meet Alexandrov there. I was very lucky, because we’ve been very interested in him and his movements. Are you sure you don’t know what he was doing? What he really came to England for?”
“No...” She took out a lace handkerchief delicately perfumed; dabbed at her eyes, being careful not to disturb the mascara. “I met Alexandrov in Egypt. We met at a gaming ‘ouse. I love gambling. I am a rich woman, but I am always losing my money. I took a liking to ‘eem, and ’e professed to be ver’ fond of me. I expect it was my money. So we joined forces and became brother and sister. Then we went to Paris. Something ‘appened and ’e said we must get out; we must go to England.”
I asked: “How did you get into England?”
“I do not know. We came over on the boat, and ’e produced the necessary papers and passports. Where ’e got them from I do not know. I was so crazy about ‘eem that I did not ask any questions. Then there was a woman who owned a dress shop. Alexandrov seemed to know ’er. He told me to say that was my business; that I was in the dressmaking business, if anybody asked me. The invitations to that party were arranged for by the dress shop. I do not know who did it. Alexandrov ‘ad the apartment in St. John’s Wood. Where ’e got it from I do not know. ’E told me ’e also ‘ad a ‘ouse somewhere in the country.”
I looked at her again. I wondered if she was telling the truth. Actually, I believed she was.
