by Paul Gallico
Mrs Butterfield took aboard another generous helping of the stale smoke-filled air of the interrogation room and continued.
‘And wot’s all this me friend ’ere tells me about searching through our private belongings and lookin’ down on us through ’oles in the ceiling? What’s that kind of a way to treat visitors comin’ over ’ere to see all them plyces like in them lovely photygraphs? And then bein’ treated like spies. That’s a good one. What would anybody want to be spyin’ on a country for that gets its plumbing mixed up with its electricity. And as for us bein’ follered about by comedy cops that any six-year-old kid could reckernize was dressed up for the part. It’s me nyme you want to know, do yer? Well, it’s Violet Mabel Ernestine Butterfield and yer can all kiss me royal …’
Mrs Harris was just in time to choke off the conclusion of the sentence by laying her hand on her friend’s arm and saying, ‘Violet,’ for she had been observing the mounting choler in the Colonel which now burst. It was Mrs Butterfield’s last remark appertaining to the operatives of his own beloved department which had pierced Colonel Dugliev to the marrow and with a thunderous thump of his fist on the table and a shout of ‘Quiet! You are both under arrest. We are asking the questions,’ and here he banged his fist once more this time upon a pile of folders and dossiers some three inches thick. ‘You will be lucky if you do not spend the rest of your life in a labour camp. We know you are spies and couriers.’
He now rounded upon Ada. ‘Your name?’
She recognized that the Colonel was in no mood for further lecturing and replied, ‘Ada Millicent Harris.’
‘Give me your handbag. Afterwards you will both be more thoroughly searched.’
Violet Butterfield turned a sickly green. All the fight had gone out of her for she knew what was inside the bag and so did Ada Harris who thought to herself, That’s it. We’re done for. What a bloody fool I’ve been.
For she was still carrying Mr Lockwood’s allegedly tender missive to his girlfriend, but goodness knows whether that’s what it actually was and not a call for comrades to arise in revolution. If they arrested you in Moscow for raising your voice in praise of the good Lord anything more incriminating and you were for the high jump.
She had not even any longer the forlorn hope that her little silly ruse would succeed for what she had done was to cover the outside of the envelope with little notes such as ‘Send postcards to Frank, Johnny and Aunt Mary’, ‘Buy doll for Annie’, ‘Fur coat’, ‘Gum Store’, ‘Souvenirs’, several addresses in London and other such memory joggers which gave the envelope a character of a bit of scrap as a shopping list and reminder. But all the things that had been happening since their arrival, the search, the shadowing, and now the arrest served to make her realize that this was far more serious than she had thought and what was more the detectives who had been tailing them might be comedy characters but these grim men in this grim place were not. What she had marked upon the envelope wouldn’t fool them for a second and even if it did the envelope was sealed and they would most certainly open it. They were lost.
The Colonel had his arm outstretched to seize the handbag when there came an interruption first in the form of footsteps and voices off and the clanging of iron doors, torrents of voluble Russian in which the voice of a young woman could be heard mingling with those of the police. It culminated in the door of the interrogation room flying open and momentarily framing the face and figure of a lovely girl neatly clad and wearing the Intourist badge and on her youthful face a look of indescribable perturbation.
For a moment she remained thus while all stared at her and the next moment she had flung herself into the room and fallen upon her knees before Mrs Harris.
‘Lady Char!’ she cried. ‘I am so glad to have found you at last. But what has happened? Why are you here?’ She arose and faced the KGB and police group suddenly white with fury and demanded in Russian, ‘What is the meaning of this? Are you aware of who this is and what you have done?’
One of the less bright policemen replied, ‘They are members of a forbidden religious group and have been arrested for …’
The KGB Colonel said, ‘Religious group nothing. These are dangerous spies and who are you and what is the meaning of this interference?’
Not in the least intimidated the girl turned upon them with still greater anger and in Russian scolded them, ‘Spies? You must all be out of your minds. You have laid your hands upon one of Britain’s most important aristocrats, Lady Char. The Special Branch for International Culture has been searching for her since she arrived and I have been delegated to look after her,’ and then switching to English, ‘My dear Lady Char, however can you forgive us? Someone has muddled your papers but now that I have found you all will be well. We must hurry as you are on the list of guests for the Foreign Office reception which begins in an hour. You will just have time to change.’
What had seemed like a simple solution to the problem they had been pursuing had suddenly taken such a bizarre turn that the KGB Chief, instead of having the girl thrown out or arrested, said, ‘What nonsense are you talking about an aristocrat? And how dare you interfere in KGB affairs? This pair here is dangerous …’
Apparently the girl was not impressed by the Colonel’s manner, his voice or his speech. She must either have been highly courageous or have known the firmness of the ground upon which she stood or both for she now lost her temper and said cuttingly, ‘I assume that having reached the rank of Colonel you must have learned to read at some time. Then please read these,’ and she slapped down the documents she had been holding on to the table. The Colonel, the Inspector, the Captain of Police and the interpreter leaned over and examined them. The first was the set of applications of Ada Harris, Lady Char, and her attendant, Violet Butterfield, for visas to join a five-day tour of Moscow, covered with official stamps and various Russian versions of ‘OK’, of ‘Examined and Passed’, and ‘Special Treatment’, etc. The second was a document of instructions from the Special Branch for International Culture advising all and whomever that Ada Harris, Lady Char, and her attendant were special guests of the Soviet Union and were to be shown every courtesy at all times. Both of these documents bore the likenesses of Ada Harris, Lady Char, and her personal servant, Violet Butterfield.
The silence as these two formidable pieces of paper were fingered, examined and read was broken only by a slight rustling and Mrs Butterfield murmuring, ‘What’s all this? ’Oo’s this Lady Char?’ and a hissing rejoinder from Mrs Harris, ‘Shut up.’
The Colonel was suddenly worried and had calmed down; the documents were undeniably genuine. He said, ‘There must be a mistake. We happen to know about these ladies and besides which, my girl, one does not speak in this fashion to the KGB if one is in command of one’s senses. This matter will have to be further looked into.’
The girl went up in flames again, Russian flames which Ada could not understand but gathered was all on their side. She had stolen a look at the papers and to an old hand as astute as she it was no problem to see if one moved just one word one would get Ada Harris, Lady Char. And in this case the paper indubitably identified her and her picture as a member of the British aristocracy singled out for special treatment.
‘Mistake!’ shouted the girl. ‘It is you who have made it. I have no further time to argue. My job is to present these ladies at the reception. If you wish to ignore these documents you will do so at your own risk when the Presidium hears about it,’ and then once more in English to Ada and Mrs Butterfield. ‘My car is waiting outside. We will move you and your belongings immediately to the quarters reserved for you at the Hotel Rossia where you will receive the personal apologies of the Assistant Vice-Commissar of the Special Branch for International Culture.’ She picked the papers up off the table and with the same gesture got Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield to arise. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘We will go.’
The Colonel hesitated and was lost. He represented one of the most powerful agencies of terror and coercion
in the world, in a sense an entire administration in itself responsible only to the Presidium. But he also knew that while the Presidium wielded the KGB as a deadly instrument it also had its pet and that was the Special Branch for International Culture whose purpose was to charm British milords and ladies, Italian dukes, Oriental princes, South American and North American millionaires to the point where they would be flattered into giving Communist Russia the best of everything it needed and wanted. The Colonel knew that, if anything, the Chiefs of State were slightly more inclined to bend towards the cultural organization which was only a cover name to achieve its aim of a détente which would not only be to Russia’s commercial benefit but would also blind the West to the total conspiracy of destruction being conducted by the KGB. If the girl was right, and certainly the documents looked genuine, he could be in considerable trouble. The young Intourist guide, followed by Mrs Ada Millicent Harris and Mrs Violet Mabel Ernestine Butterfield, marched through the door, out of the front entrance, boarded the Intourist limousine and were off to freedom. The guide said, ‘We will go first to this inferior hotel and move you to your proper quarters.’
Mrs Harris said nothing and Mrs Butterfield, having been told to shut up in no uncertain terms, remained shut. They made the halting rise in the jerky elevator, received a key from Mrs ’Orrible, who quailed under a withering look from the girl, and entered the quarters that had been occupied by the two travellers.
When the door had been closed Mrs Harris turned quietly to the young girl and said, ‘Hello, Liz.’
14
When the letter had been read, and apparently Mr Lockwood had not misled Mrs Harris as to its contents, and the crying, the laughing, the jubilation, the hugging and kissing and hysterics were over, Lisabeta Nadeshda Borovaskaya dried her eyes and in deference to concealed microphones, whispered, ‘Oh, Lady Char, you have made me the happiest girl in the world. I have never stopped loving Geoffrey but life has been agony not knowing whether he was alive or dead or in prison or perhaps had stopped loving me and found someone else. Oh, please, milady, may I kiss you again for what you have done for me? I should be grateful to you and the good God for all the rest of my life and never, never doubt or be unhappy again. Oh, I must not even think of it but, perhaps you, milady, might be able to help me to leave the country and go to Geoffrey.’
The thought that arrowed through the mind of Mrs Ada Harris in view of what they had just been through plus their other experience was not bloody likely, but in consideration of the girl’s ecstatic happiness at having at last heard from her lover, she could not bear to discourage her and she said, ‘We’ll see.’ It all wasn’t over and somehow she might really yet see. However, there was another imminent danger to occupy her mind and which had to be dealt with. Violet Butterfield was a woman, a large one, who therefore entertained a larger supply of normal female curiosity. She had heard her old friend and co-worker suddenly addressed as Lady Char and milady, rescued from the clutches of the secret police, fawned upon, hugged and kissed while she herself had been commanded to shut up. Also Ada was aware that what must be biting Violet was that in this weird and obviously ridiculously erroneous muddle Mrs Butterfield had been relegated to the position of lady-in-waiting or rather personal servant to Lady Char. She was not going to be able to remain shut for very much longer and Ada knew it. At any moment this peculiar game which had suddenly popped up in the very nick of time might be blown.
Drying her eyes Liz asked, ‘Do you know Geoffrey well?’ and then answered the question herself. ‘But of course you must. He is a most important writer and would know everybody.’
Another side look thrown at Mrs Butterfield told Ada that Violet was nearing the point where her safety valve would go. Whatever happened the important thing was that this girl and her superiors, whoever they were, should continue to believe that the blood coursing through her veins was as blue as the Danube was reputed to be.
Rescue came again from the charming girl and Ada Harris now fully understood the agony of Mr Lockwood at losing her and for an instant fell prey to all the old longings and fantasies of reuniting them. Liz looked at her watch and said, ‘Oh dear, I’ve been neglecting my duties. We must be at the grand reception as quickly as possible, but first we shall move you to the Rossia. It is only a few blocks. I will make sure that your suite is ready.’ She picked up the receiver of the telephone, which instrument reacted no differently than ever it had before and after a wait the girl banged down the receiver, said something expletive in Russian and then ‘I’ll call from the desk by the lift. Wait here, I’ll be right back,’ and she was flying down the hall.
No sooner had the door closed when Mrs Butterfield’s mouth was open and Ada was just in time to rush across the room and put her hand across the orifice pointing up to the ceiling as she did so, as well as to the lamp and other articles of furniture which were surely bugged. She dragged Mrs Butterfield over to the window where they both leaned out. There was some roar of early evening traffic from the street below while the jangling of the great church bells provided the cover for Violet Butterfield’s speech.
‘What’s all this abaht, Ada? ’Oo’s this Lady Char and all this kowtowing to ’er? You ain’t no lady. Not that you ain’t a lady, luv, but what’s all this got to do wif me waitin’ on yer and you bein’ tyken for an ’igh mucky-muck and the letter bein’ for this girl and changin’ hotels? One minute we’re in the nick and about to get hung like I told you we would and the next it’s me Lady Char and ’er lady-in-waitin’ goin’ to a reception. Me mind’s in such a muddle I don’t know where I am.’
There not being much time Ada tried to make it short and concise. ‘Listen to me, luv,’ she said, ‘you’ve got to keep yer ’ead on yer shoulders now or they will tyke it off for you. There’s been a muddle which, from what I’ve seen since we got ’ere, I’d say was typically Russian. You know them forms we filled out and I wrote down me profession, Char Lady. Well, somebody got it turned around and made it Lady Char and has got us in with the nobs, photers and all. As long as they think that, nothing can ’appen to us. I’m the one they’re in a mix-up about so just let me do the talkin’ while you stand about and if I arsk you to ’and me a ’andkerchief or me lipstick, try to do it grycefully and don’t forget to call me milady even if it kills yer.’
Footsteps were heard down the hall and they quickly went away from the window as Lizzie burst in on them. ‘It’s all prepared for you,’ she cried, ‘and the Assistant Vice-Commissar is already there and waiting for you to make his apologies.’
‘Loverly,’ said Mrs Harris, and then to Mrs Butterfield, ‘Pack me bag, Violet, and don’t be long about it.’
‘Yes, milady,’ Mrs Butterfield managed to say, but from her looks Ada knew that her approach to the safety valve was not far away.
The effect upon Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield of the fabulous mountain of glass and marble known as the Hotel Rossia after the tatty hotel to which they had been assigned was staggering. The building covered an area of something like thirty-three acres, was twelve storeys high, boasted of three separate lobbies, three thousand two hundred rooms, nine restaurants, the biggest ballroom in the world and ninety-three elevators. The effect of the great marble pillars, the gilt and the plush was stunning even though the sharp eye of Mrs Harris noted that the carpets were already becoming threadbare and the furnishings showing more signs of wear and tear than one would expect from such a grandiose hostelry. And of course Mrs Butterfield’s first immediate report after they had entered their suite was ‘There’s no loo paper.’
But the two-room suite itself was elegantly furnished, the view was stupendous, many of the amenities worked as they should and before they had been there a few minutes a young man in a smart uniform appeared and made a graceful speech of apology on behalf of the Special Branch for International Culture for the fact that they had been missed at the airport. The fool who had mixed up their papers had already been detached from his position and sent to some far north
and highly uncomfortable post of the Union and every effort would be undertaken to make up for whatever discomfort they might have suffered and as for the arrest they would receive a written apology.
And he glanced at his watch and said, ‘If I might beg you to hurry, for the reception begins in half an hour and the doors will be closed. Fortunately, the Hall of Congress is close by.’
Ada Harris was now so attuned to her friend that she knew Violet was about to inquire ‘Reception? What’s all this about a reception? ’Oo’s it for?’ and thus was able to forestall her with ‘Lay out me silk afternoon dress and patent leather shoes, will you please, Violet. And put on your best suit yourself. I gather you are to be allowed to accompany me,’ and received a barely audible ‘Yes, milady.’
The ecstatic Liz, who at this point had thought no further into the future than that her lover still loved and wanted her, went off saying she would return for them in twenty minutes. She had barely left when Violet was off with, ‘Now then, milady,’ with slightly too much accent upon the milady, when again Ada cut her off, this time with her fingers to her lips as she pointed to the ceiling, the pictures on the walls, the telephone, two or three lamps, call buttons for maids, etc. Mrs Butterfield managed to get it in one since the fact that they had been moved into a grand luxury hotel did not at all preclude that it probably would be equipped with even more sophisticated instruments to keep tabs on the guests which as Liz explained later was indeed the case. An entire room in the basement of the giant hostelry was one vast recording studio to take down on tape conversations as well as visual shenanigans of any kind from the rooms so Mrs Butterfield quickly concluded with ‘I’ll ’ave you all fixed up and ready in a jiffy.’
