Complete works of peter.., p.472
Complete Works of Peter Cheyney. Illustrated, page 472
I shrugged my shoulders. "That rather depends on point of view, doesn't it. I see nothing the matter with the world as a world. It's simply that the people in it don't seem to be getting along very well together."
He said: "What you have to understand, M'sieu Kells, is that there is not going to be any peace in the world until somebody decides what is going to be done with Russia. Don' you understand this?"
"Yes... possibly... But who is going to decide what is to be done with Russia?"
He said: "Somebody's got to. And per'aps it will be the Russians who will decide."
I said: "Maybe. What do you think they'll decide to do? I don't think Russia wants to fight anybody any more than any other nation in the world."
"Per'aps you are right," said Alexandrov. "Per'aps in a minute she will decide to fight herself. That is what I hope."
"You don't mean to say you consider there's a possibility of a revolution in Russia?"
He looked at me with wide eyes. Beneath his black moustaches his teeth glistened. "And why not? Everybody is so very funny about that. Why should not there be a revolution? The Russians are always revolting against something. They are born revolutionists. It is a sort of habit with them, you know."
I nodded. "I suppose if there were a revolution you'd go back, Alexandrov?"
He said: "Of course..." He got up from the table; expanded his chest. "I shall go back and fight. I love fighting. It is a marvellous sport."
I finished my drink.
He said: "M'sieu Kells, if you wish to be alone, you stay here and have some drinks. If you wish to be with other people go back to the drawing-room. Most of them are friends of Madame Volanski, my sister. Most of them are what you call bloody fools. But for me I must leave you. I must leave you because I must go and find your lovely cousin. I want to talk to her. You know, directly she came into this apartment I looked at her and said: 'This woman is lovely and she is a Pole.'"
I said: "You're perfectly right on both counts. She is a Pole."
"She looks to me very intelligent," said Alexandrov. "When I meet beauty in a woman I am delighted. And when also she is intelligent then I am enchanted. For the moment, au revoir...."
He went out of the room.
I walked round the room searching amongst the large collection of bottles until I found some whisky. I found a siphon and a clean glass; poured myself a drink; sat down again. I began to think about Madame Volanski and her effusive brother, the late Hetman of Cossacks. I thought they were an interesting pair. And perhaps not so interesting as odd. I thought Carla had been right about Madame Volanski. She was a phoney. Everything about her exuded spuriousness in a big way. Quite obviously the invitation I had received was a plant. For some reason or other these people wanted me to come to their party, and I supposed the reason would emerge a little later on.
And I didn't go for Alexandrov. Not at all. His Russian accent—and I speak the language—was rather peculiar, and I thought the Hetman of Cossacks stuff was just bunk. It occurred to me that there was something almost amateurish about the pair of them, rather as if they'd taken on something that was a little too big for them and realised it before they'd started on the job.
After a few minutes I walked back into the drawing-room. The party had thinned out. There were still little groups of people talking quietly or arguing in corners. There were one or two glassy-eyed ladies of uncertain ages who walked from group to group with the peculiar expression of the unsatisfied and slighted virgin in search of prey.
But the sting had gone out of the party. I walked across the drawing-room, through the door on the other side—the doorway that led away from the hallway—into a corridor. At the end of the corridor a door leading into a lighted room was half open. I put my head round it.
Madame Volanski was sitting in a high-backed chair in front of an old refectory table. She had a bottle and a large glass of vodka in her hand. She was sipping the vodka and crying into the glass.
I looked round the room. It had the appearance of a library. There were bookshelves filled with volumes. It also had the appearance of being used more than the other rooms in the apartment. I went in. I stood on the other side of the table looking at her.
I asked: "Is anything wrong? Can I help?"
"No, Meester Kells. You cannot do anything. You see, I live in a sort of vicious circle. When I am sober I am so un'appy I cry. When I cry Alexis says to me 'For God's sake stop crying, you drive me mad,' so to stop crying I dreenk some vodka. And when I dreenk vodka I cry, because vodka makes me cry. So you see, Meester Kells, there ees not a great deal of 'ope for me to stop crying."
I asked: "Have you ever tried eating, as apart from drinking I mean?"
She shook her head. "Who wants to eat? I don' want to eat. I am too miserable. I wish only to die."
I walked back to the door and shut it. I returned; drew up a chair; sat down facing her across the table.
She said: "Would you like a dreenk?" She pushed the bottle across to me.
I said: "Not for the moment. I feel very sorry for you. I suppose all White Russians are inclined to be unhappy?"
She nodded. "I think all Russians are un'appy, but especially the White Russians. For them there ees no 'ope at all... not for people like Alexis."
I asked: "Why is it worse for Alexis? He seems to me to be a very cheerful sort of fellow. A large, experienced man of the world who loves fighting, drinking and loving, and who probably is feeling slightly frustrated at the moment because he isn't getting enough of these things—except possibly, drinking."
"Per'aps," she said. "But Alexis ees a fool. Always 'e picks the wrong people. Especially the women. Always they are winding 'eem round their fingers..."
I thought she was pulling a line and doing it rather badly. She was using the oldest trick in the world. Trying to belittle Alexandrov; to make him out a fool. I thought that he might be a fool, but not that sort of fool.
I said: "I would never have thought that Alexis would have trouble with women. Maybe he's too attractive."
She shrugged her shoulders. She made a deprecatory gesture with her hands. She said: "Alexis...! All my life I have spent trying to get Alexis out of trouble. You understand? 'E ees always getting 'eemself into trouble."
I asked: "Why?"
She shrugged again. "It ees the wrong sort of people 'e mixes with. Wherever you find Alexis you find a lot of no-goods about 'eem. Sometimes it does not matter because it ees children's stuff... you know, like playing the Robin 'ood or Dick Turpin. These people do not matter. But sometimes it ees not peoples like that. Sometimes it ees people like those 'e ees mixed up with now. They are not good."
I said: "Who are they? I think it is very interesting. I think something should be done to save Alexis from himself. Who are these people?"
She looked at me sideways. I thought that at some time or other she had been quite attractive. I wondered what the hell she was playing at.
She said: "I don' know. But I would like to know. That ees what I would like to do. You see, Alexis 'as been in troubles all 'is life. I want that to stop. I don' want 'eem to be mixed up with strange peoples any more. First of all a long time ago we got out of Russia; then we got out of Poland; then we got out of a lot of other countries. Then we go to France."
I asked: "Did Alexis get into trouble in France?"
She nodded. She spread her hands. "But, of course...! So we are asked to leave France if we don' mind. It was not anything ver' much, you understand. Alexis got mixed up in some ver' big card game. Some American lost a great deal of money. That would not have mattered per'aps, but 'e was attached to the American Embassy. So the Préfecture of Police thought it might be a good idea if Alexis went away.
"So we came 'ere. I start this dress business, and I am doing ver' well. Always I can make some monies. But I cannot make myself any 'appiness."
I said: "And do you think Alexis is up to something?"
She nodded. "I don' theenk anything about it, Meester Kells. I know 'e ees." She sighed. She refilled her glass; drank some more vodka. The tears were running down each side of her nose. She looked like a pathetic comedienne.
She went on: "I don' know why I am talking to you like thees, except that I theenk you are a nice man. You look as if you are 'uman and 'ave understanding."
I said: "That's very nice of you, Madame Volanski."
She put her hand across the table; it rested on mine. It was a plump, white hand. There was a diamond ring on the second finger which must have cost a lot of money.
She said: "Don' call me Madame Volanski. Call me Olga."
"I think Olga is a lovely name," I said. "Tell me something, Olga, why did you invite me to this party? Was my name on a list of yours, or did you just get an idea?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "I don' know. You see, I 'ave these parties. I ask so many of my friends. And then I go to an agency to ask other important peoples in London who are interested in frocks to come. So quite often there are lots of peoples at my parties whom I do not know. It does not matter. It ees good for business. I have met people with whom I 'ave done a lot of business like that. It was probably the agency who ask you."
I said: "Well, I'm glad they did because I'm having a very enjoyable time."
There was a silence; then she said: "You know, Meester Kells, one morning I would like to 'ave a talk with you. One morning I would like to meet you somewhere where there ees not any vodka. Per'aps we could 'ave lunch together. Per'aps we could 'ave a talk. Per'aps I could tell you some things that would interest you a lot." She looked at me. Her eyes were filled with tears. But they still looked very interesting, very intriguing. I thought that Olga Volanski was definitely a character.
I said: "That's an idea. Give me your telephone number. I'll ring you."
She said: "I will give you a card. When you think you would like to talk to me; when you think the time 'as come when you would like to invite me to lunch, ring me up."
"I will, Olga," I said. "And sooner than you think." I got up; put the card in my pocket. "Well, I'll be seeing you!"
She said: "Yes... I 'ave no doubt... Fate 'as said our paths shall cross." She drank some more vodka.
I went back to the drawing-room. There were only about ten people there. I remembered the whisky. I walked across the room to the little store where I'd talked with Alexandrov. The room was dark. I switched on the electric light by the doorway; stood looking into the room.
On the other side of the room behind the table, Carla was enveloped in the arms of the ex-Hetman of Cossacks. They were in the middle of a passionate embrace.
I said: "Don't let me interrupt anything."
Alexandrov released Carla. She stood, gasping a little, re- adjusting her hair.
She said: "You know, Michael, this man Alexis is like a bear— a Russian bear. But I find him very interesting."
Alexandrov said: "I am a very interesting man. Always I do everything better than any other man. I am bigger. I am more handsome. I fight better and I make love in the most amazing way." He indicated Carla. "This woman has fallen for me in a big way, M'sieu Kells. I think I shall probably marry her sometime." He moved to the table; poured himself a drink.
Carla gave me a very quick wink. I nodded my head.
I said: "I've been trying to find you, Alexandrov. I wanted to say good night to you. I'm on my way." I turned to Carla. "Would you like to come back, my dear, or shall Alexandrov bring you back?"
She said: "I'll stay for a little while—just a little while. Must you go?"
"Yes, I've an appointment. But I shall be free in about half an hour's time. Shall I come back for you?"
She shook her head. "No, Michael... to-night I can look after myself." She threw a love-lorn glance at Alexandrov.
He said: "Kells... you will not worry about Carla. I wish to talk to her. When she wishes to go away I shall look after her. Good night to you."
"All right," I said. "Good night to you." I winked surreptitiously at Carla. "Don't do anything I wouldn't like to read about in the papers."
I went back into the drawing-room; crossed it; walked along the passageway and took a final peep at Olga. She was sitting where I had left her, looking at the half-filled glass of vodka, her eyes pouring with tears. She didn't see me. I went back into the drawing-room, crossed the hallway, took my hat, opened the door and went out. I thought it had been a very interesting party.
Outside, it was a fine night with a moon and a gentle breeze. I began to walk back to my apartment.
I thought that there hadn't been any "mistake" in the invitation to the Volanski party being left at my flat. Somebody, either Olga Volanski or her brother, or someone else who knew of their technique for giving parties, had thought it necessary that I should attend. And my money was on Olga. Her sudden desire to open her heart to me was a little too sudden, and as for her tears—I shrugged my shoulders at the memory—I had known plenty of tough ladies who had been able to open their tear ducts at will. In fact, I thought Russian women were a damn sight more dangerous when they were crying than otherwise.
Then there was Alexandrov. But I wasn't worrying too much about him. The ex-Hetman of Cossacks hadn't yet realised what he was up against. He was up against Carla. If I knew anything of Carla and her ability to adapt herself to men like Alexandrov he hadn't got a dog's chance.
It took me the best part of three-quarters of an hour to walk home. When I arrived, I made some coffee, drank a small glass of brandy, got into pyjamas and lay down on my bed, smoking and trying to sort out my impressions.
But whatever ideas came into my head I found my mind returning to the delightful and charming Madame St. Philippe, whose entrance into my life and exit from it had been so rapid and without effect. The manner of her death, and her death itself, told me nothing. It was difficult to visualise her as a friend, and a little more difficult to think of her as an enemy.
Unless... and the thought struck me suddenly and I found myself pleased with it... unless Madame St. Philippe was an innocent party in this business who did not know what she was doing. Someone who had been sucked into the little whirlpool caused by the disappearance of Rockie, and who was doing what she was told because she had to. This could easily be. She would not be the first charming and cultured woman who had been blackmailed into working for people she feared and despised.
Whatever I surmised, whatever queer thoughts came into my head, one thing was definite. Both Olly and St. Philippe had been killed to prevent them talking to me. They had to be killed quickly before they had a chance to talk.
I yawned; got off the bed; went to the window and looked out. It was a still night—or morning. I wondered what Carla was at, and whether she had begun to pump Alexandrov.
I went to sleep.
I was awakened by the telephone jangling in my sitting-room. I got out of bed, reached for a dressing-gown and cursed. I am one of those people who do not like being disturbed—especially by a telephone call—in the small hours of the morning. First of all because I hate the discomfort of waking up, and secondly because nocturnal telephone calls, in my profession, usually mean trouble.
I went into the sitting-room; reached for the telephone.
It was Carla.
She said: "Hallo, Michael... good morning. I'm sorry to disturb you, but you must understand, my dear, that I am in a little trouble; that it was quite necessary for me to disturb you."
I said: "Think nothing of it, my girl." I looked at my watch. It was three-fifteen. I picked up an odd cigarette from the table, and a lighter. I lighted the cigarette and inhaled a mouthful of smoke.
I said: "What is it, Carla? And where are you?"
She answered: "I'm at a place called Forest Hills. At least I'm somewhere on the road between Forest Hills and East Grinstead—but nearer to Forest Hills. There's a cross-roads outside the town and on the right-hand fork there is a telephone box. That's where I am."
"What about Alexandrov?" I asked. "Is he there?"
She said, rather flatly: "He's not here. Not with me. Also, if you please, Michael, I don't want to answer a lot of questions. I am desolate and need sympathy."
I thought that if she was, as she put it, desolate and needing sympathy, something must be very odd and peculiar.
I said: "I'll drive down to you. But it's an hour's journey. What are you going to do in the meantime? You'd better go to an hotel and wait for me."
She said: "No, Michael... that's no good. It is important that no one sees me about here. But I'll go somewhere and I'll come back here and wait for you at the telephone box in an hour's time."
I said: "All right," and hung up.
I dressed quickly, went round to the garage, fuelled the Jaguar and got on to the road. In five minutes' time I was haring down the Fulham Road, indulging in a guesswork competition as to what had happened to Carla.
I kept the speedometer at fifty until I was through Sutton. Then I put my foot down. It was a clear night, the road was clear and I watched the speedometer needle mount up to sixty, seventy, eighty. I relaxed in the driving seat, slowed down to light a cigarette, then accelerated to seventy-five, which is a nice speed for driving and thinking.
I thought that life wasn't so bad if you didn't take it too seriously. That it wasn't too bad even if you did. That you couldn't stop what was going to happen and all you could do was to do your best to see that what happened was as near to what you wanted as you could make it.
This is what I considered to be a good philosophy—provided, I thought with a grin, that Carla hadn't done something to jigger up the whole bag of tricks. Because she was, as you will probably guess, both astute and impulsive, and the two qualities—if you can call them qualities—sometimes do not go very well together.
The moon was shining as I drove through Reigate and swung on to the Eastbourne road. Twenty minutes later I slowed down at the cross-roads outside Forest Hills.
Carla came out of the shadow of an oak tree on the roadside. She held her black velvet cloak and skirts closely about her. I held the car door open for her.
