‘Tackle Smith-Fennimore?’ Haldean shifted unhappily. ‘I suppose I’ve got to, haven’t I?’
The Countess Drubetskaya might, thought Malcolm Smith-Fennimore, be apparently giving him the benefit of her whole-hearted attention, but he was willing to bet that what she was actually thinking of was the dark blue jewellery case he had placed on the table. He looked dispassionately at the beautiful woman in front of him. Whatever had he seen in her? She was beautiful and intensely sophisticated. Those were the qualities which had first attracted him. Now she seemed artificial and slightly overdone.
Compared to Isabelle . . . He stopped. He didn’t want to compare Isabelle to anyone, especially to this hothouse flower. It wasn’t just her looks, although Isabelle’s looks thrilled him. All the women he’d ever known were beautiful enough. That was, in a way, taken for granted. But Isabelle . . . He could talk to Isabelle properly. She was interested in him, not merely the things he could give her. He’d never told anyone that story about Jimmy Chilton. She’d understood. The only fly in the ointment was Stanton. Stanton was in love with Isabelle. Everyone had expected Isabelle to marry Stanton. He’d heard the Robiceux girls yesterday, discussing it. What a catch! Yes, but will it last? I honestly thought she’d marry Arthur. Maybe she will in the end. She thinks the world of him . . . It would be fine. Everything was going to be fine. He’d make it work. Yes, it’d work all right.
He’d never trusted a woman before. He’d never – this was a shocking thing to admit – known any love he hadn’t had to pay for. In a way it was inevitable; Oxford, the navy, the bank, the track . . . all men. That was how it was. Men were friends, women were desirable, expensive commodities. But it didn’t have to be like that. He wanted, with a stomach-churning intensity, to love someone who would love – really love – him in return. And why the blazes shouldn’t he? The clerks at the bank, the stewards at the club, the mechanics at the track; they were married. They didn’t spell love with a pound sign for an L. He was tired of ‘arrangements’. He wanted to say, openly, honestly, ‘This is my wife . . . This is Isabelle, my wife . . .’ Isabelle. It was going to work.
The Countess was still talking. He sighed inwardly, trying to cut off the drone of words. He wanted to carry on thinking about Isabelle. Well, if he was going to make the break, he’d better get on with it. He hoped there wouldn’t be too much of a scene. The Countess thrived on them. He’d found that exciting at first. He smiled, cynically. The jewels should ease his passing.
He held out the case towards her. ‘I called at Garrard’s before coming here. These are for you.’ He saw the greed in her face.
The Countess stopped in mid-sentence and took the case eagerly, her eyes widening as she saw the diamond necklace and ear-rings nestling on the dark blue velvet inside the box. ‘But Malcolm, they are exquisite!’
‘They are to say goodbye,’ he said, rather more abruptly than he had intended.
She looked up, her attention momentarily diverted. ‘But why is this, Malcolm?’
The accent on ‘Malcolm’ intrigued him no longer. ‘Because I am going to get married.’
She threw up her hands and laughed. ‘Married! Not you, chéri. No, wait. It is that little English Miss with the so-proper Mama and Papa we saw at the Savoy? You will be bored within the week.’
Her black eyes sparkled and he had a sudden, vivid picture of her as she had been that night at the Savoy, the night he had met Isabelle. He had ushered her into the Delage Salamanca and she had reclined back, her face framed by her white fur stole, the silver fittings and the silk braided cushions of the Salamanca surrounding her as if by right. He tried to imagine the Countess at the wheel of the Bentley while he instructed her in the gentle art of driving. The picture was so incongruous that he nearly laughed out loud. He would sell the Delage now; it wouldn’t suit Isabelle and he had no further use for it.
The Countess whirled on him angrily. ‘You find me funny? Yes?’
‘No, no,’ he apologized. ‘Something just struck me, that’s all. I think I’d better be going.’ She was gearing up for a fight, another orgy of throbbing, insincere emotion.
‘I throw these diamonds back at you.’ She carefully didn’t suit action to words. ‘You think you can go? You will leave me? Alone?’
He’d had enough of this. ‘Well, there’s always the others.’ He knew perfectly well that he wasn’t the only man the Countess saw, but she had no idea he’d guessed.
‘Others? What others, Malcolm?’
‘Well, there’s that asinine young idiot, Fraylingham, for instance, and your fat Italian friend.’ That should take the wind out of her sails.
It did. ‘But they are no fun,’ she protested, in a lightning change of mood, her white teeth parting in a smile. ‘And the Italian snores!’
The crisis had passed. He bent over her hand and kissed it. ‘Goodbye, my dear. Thank you.’
Vargen Yashin, well dressed, well fed but very far from well contented, strolled into Soho Square, turned down Sutton Row and into Lacey Street. He was thinking about Victor, Lord Lyvenden. He had walked back from the Café Royal because he wanted time to think. What he had heard there made him want to think very carefully indeed.
The Café Royal had been a good choice. The personality he had so carefully built up fitted into that artistic, bohemian atmosphere. It was fashionable, too. The right people went there. He made no secret of his Bolshevik sympathies. He could, when called upon, talk mournfully of life under the Tsars. And society, London society, or certain sections of it at least, loved it. They flirted with Communism as embodied by Yashin. He was a Good Bloke, Not Bad For A Russian, a Decent Sort. And as for his politics, what did you expect? You should hear his stories . . . I tell you, there’s a lot more to this Communism business than you think, You can’t believe what you read in the papers. That’s just propaganda. Listen to Yashin; he’ll tell you what it’s really like. Of course he’s nothing official. And there London society was wrong.
For Vargen Yashin was the head of the English section of the Third International and if Yusif Dolokhov, his chief and leading light of the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party – Yashin winced slightly at the name – found out how close Yashin’s section had come to wrecking his plans for a revolution in England, he could look forward to a firing squad at the best. If it wasn’t preceded by painful hours in a cellar, he’d be lucky.
For Lyvenden had been visited at Hesperus. Lyvenden had been badly frightened at Hesperus. And if Lyvenden turned awkward or if Lyvenden said too much . . . Yashin sighed. Lord Lyvenden’s visitor – he had recognized the description – was Youri Gerasimov. His lip curled. It was typical of Gerasimov to try and frighten Lyvenden into speeding things up. Then – for he knew Gerasimov’s mind as clearly as he knew his own – Gerasimov would be hailed in triumph, he, Yashin, would be deposed and Gerasimov would be the new leader. Fool! Great, blundering fool! He had no idea of the people he would be dealing with. They had to be coaxed, cajoled, fed a mixture of flattery, self-interest and ideals. Once the revolution had been won was the time for education by terror. He looked forward to teaching these innocents that particular lesson. Yashin bit his lip thoughtfully. The revolution: the English – his English – took it as a joke. ‘After the revolution’ was a joke. That suited his purpose, but it annoyed him, all the same. Even the most earnest of his English followers seemed to have no idea of what actually happened after a revolution. They honestly thought it would be sweetness, happiness and light. But people had to be educated. They never dreamed it could really happen. Yashin suspected that if they ever thought it could, they would be horrified. In spite of all the Central Committee had announced about spreading revolution abroad, they persisted in believing it could never happen here. Yashin shook his head. It could. But if Dolokhov ever found out that Gerasimov, a man supposed to be under his control, had threatened his plans, then he, Yashin, would pay the price.
Gerasimov was doubtless feeling very pleased with himself
. He’d got a couple of little nuggets of information on his visit to Hesperus, which he would look forward to using. Yashin smiled in anticipation. He would enjoy dealing with Gerasimov.
He paused by the entrance to the Paradise Club. It was his club and he was proud of it. His name wasn’t on any deed or document, of course, but it was his all the same. Gerasimov would never have been able to think of a place like this. A magnet for the wealthy who enjoyed a frisson of real life (real life!) with their drinking and dancing. I know a most wonderful place in Soho. He’d heard it said lots of times. It’s just too thrilling. A wonderful place meant excitement; it meant mixing with carefully cultivated guests like Belayaev, whose pictures had shocked half of fashionable London whilst baffling the other half. It meant the tantalizing prospect of seeing a real fight. Only two nights ago Konstantine had given Savchuk a black eye. The Paradise Club smelt of kippers, had a dance floor like gravel and sold wine they’d throw back in any West End restaurant. These things added up to real life. For some of these fools a wonderful place meant a few words in the right ear which produced enough white powder to make the Paradise Club live up to its name.
But no one at all guessed that the real purpose of the club was to hide an attic room from which he could carry out his plans. Looking for somewhere secret, the likes of Gerasimov would never have dreamt of the Paradise Club. It was too open, too loud in its support for the new Soviet state. And that was precisely why Yashin had carefully made it so. He knew how the English mind worked. The Paradise Club? Nothing really goes on there, old boy. We know all about the Paradise Club. He gave a very thin smile. Even in the eyes of the English authorities, the Paradise Club was known and discounted. The real power, they cleverly told each other, must lie elsewhere.
Vargen Yashin went into the cloakroom and up the small staircase leading from the back, along the bare and filthy corridor, and entered the attic overlooking Clarkson’s Rents.
There was a meeting in progress. Yashin’s heart sank as he looked at them. There were eight men in the room and all of them, even the native English and Scots, looked exactly what they were; rough, uneducated, mindless slum dwellers and peasants who thought violence was the answer to all questions. Not one of them was subtle enough to see that violence had to be used sparingly and correctly. Not one of them realized that fear was the best weapon of all. And none of them had a hope of moving, as he did, between the world of the rich and gullible to the world of the avaricious and dispossessed, adding them together and making the answer to the sum equal power.
Tanswell, a small, underfed, red-headed Cockney with a bandage round his head, was holding forth. He lit another cigarette, adding to the pall of smoke that sat over the room like a rain cloud. ‘A waste of bleeding time,’ he was saying. He looked up anxiously, then relaxed. ‘Oh, it’s you, boss. I was just making my report, if you can call it that. That march today. Well, I ask you, where did it get us? Really get us, I mean? A lot of smashed windows and a couple of dented coppers. I tell you, as I’ve told you before, we need money. If I had a thousand quid I could have the Pool of London banged up so tight no bugger could move. What’s the point of pouring money into Ireland? We need it here. Here’s the heart of the bleeding British Empire. This is where it’ll hurt them.’
Gerasimov, at the head of the table, smiled smugly. ‘Money, eh?’
Yashin cut in. ‘Money, Gerasimov. Money which, by your stupidity, you have imperilled.’ He pulled off his gloves. ‘You are in the wrong place, by the way. That is my seat. Move.’
Gerasimov thought about it, then, with a sulky insolence, moved.
‘Very good. Youri Gerasimov, you acted without orders. You were clever, yes? You found out who a certain person was and where a certain person was and paid him a visit. He did not enjoy that visit. I am unhappy that he was troubled. You found out other things as well which I do not wish you to know.’ Gerasimov, he was glad to see, was beginning to look frightened. He would enjoy spinning this out, but regretfully decided against it. His authority had been questioned recently. There were a couple of these . . . these peasants who thought they would make a better leader. Let them watch.
Vargen Yashin looked at the man sitting across from Gerasimov. ‘Boris. Boris Paputin, I have sometimes wondered about your loyalty to us. You are a friend of Gerasimov’s.’
Paputin licked dry lips and nodded nervously.
Yashin sounded, if anything, slightly bored. ‘You have in your right-hand pocket a loaded Mauser pistol. Take it out and shoot Gerasimov.’
Paputin, Yashin noted, didn’t flinch. This was his chance to prove his loyalty. He drew out the gun and held it in a steady hand.
‘No!’ cried Gerasimov. ‘Boris, no!’ He jumped to his feet, kicking his chair over. Paputin steadied his aim and fired.
The report of the gun was deafening in the small room. Gerasimov slumped down, clutching at the table, blood pumping sluggishly from his chest.
The men round the table sat, heads bowed, afraid to catch the eye of either their neighbour or their leader.
Yashin nodded in satisfaction. His authority was restored. ‘Boris, Michael, dispose of the body in the usual way.’ He spoke quietly but the two men leapt to do his bidding as if stung. They were afraid. Good. He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘This meeting is over. You may leave.’ He watched as his men silently filed past, then, once he was alone, drew out his silver cigarette case and lit a cigarette thoughtfully.
Hesperus. There was a lot for him to be interested in at Hesperus. He didn’t understand all of it and that worried him. How much had Lyvenden let slip? That worried him, too. It wasn’t so much what he’d said but what could be worked out and inferred by a clever man. There was a very clever man at Hesperus. Major Haldean, a police spy. He frowned in concentration. Just at the moment, Major Haldean was a latent, undeveloped threat. But he, Yashin, didn’t like threats. He was safe because he didn’t like threats. He shrugged. To take action now would be stupid. But, if the opportunity arose, he would make sure he dealt with Major Haldean.
Chapter Six
Haldean put down the phone in the hall with a feeling of satisfaction. Yes, said the sergeant at Stanmore Parry police station, Superintendent Ashley was back from his holiday, and yes, he, the sergeant, would certainly pass on Major Haldean’s message. Good. That meant, if it all worked out as he hoped, an early evening pint and an interesting conversation in the Wheatsheaf.
And after that, he was going to have a quiet night in. He yawned. It had been three o’clock before they had got back from London after a very jolly evening in the Savoy Grill. Malcolm Smith-Fennimore had presented Isabelle with an enormous emerald engagement ring, and that could, of course, only be celebrated with champagne, then they had run into Mark Stuckley and his crowd, which called for more champagne, so, what with one thing and another, everyone had been very merry indeed.
It had been so merry it had been a real effort to get up for the golf party which Uncle Philip, a lifelong early riser, had organized for that morning but he’d managed it, and so had everyone else. The only one who wasn’t on time was Stanton, who didn’t even have a late night as an excuse. Haldean, who knew all about his uncle’s views on punctuality, had winced as Stanton ambled into the hall, a good ten minutes after the cars were at the door. ‘I can’t find my cuff-links,’ he announced. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’
‘Do you want to borrow some of mine?’ Haldean asked, hearing his uncle snort like a leaky radiator in the background.
Stanton had heard the radiator impression too. ‘No thanks, Jack,’ he said hastily. ‘I don’t want to hold everybody up any longer. I’ll play with my sleeves rolled up. It’s a blinking nuisance, though. I can’t think where they’ve got to.’
‘The same place as your tie-clips, your shirt studs and the blue tie which you were sure you’d brought with you and then decided you’d left in London?’ suggested Haldean.
Stanton smiled sheepishly. ‘I suppose so.’ He looked round the asse
mbled group. ‘Are we going, then?’
Sir Philip turned up the heat on the radiator and led the way out of the hall at a very military quick march.
Not that the standard of play when they’d got to the links had been very high. Sir Philip, a twelve handicap man, had won easily by playing a succession of fair-to-medium balls, which improved his mood enormously. Haldean had the occasional flash of brilliance in a very average game but even Bubble and Squeak had played like things inspired compared to Lord Lyvenden whose awful golf was only matched by his still more awful plus-fours. Smith-Fennimore, who said he had a handicap of nine, was definitely off his form.
Malcolm Smith-Fennimore. Haldean bit his lip. He’d have to tackle the man sometime, especially as Fennimore had said he didn’t want a long engagement. That conversation with his godfather had left him no choice in the matter but he couldn’t pretend he was looking forward to it.
He glanced at the grandfather clock. Just after half past one. The side door from the garden opened and Smith-Fennimore came into the hall. Haldean looked up. ‘Hello, Fennimore. I wondered if I could have a word, old man.’
Smith-Fennimore rubbed the side of his chin with his hand and yawned discreetly. ‘Of course. I’m not late, am I? I’ve just been out to my car.’
Haldean shook his head. ‘No, we’ve got a few minutes yet. My aunt put back lunch for us. She knows what my uncle’s like once you get him on the links.’
‘He enjoys his game, doesn’t he? So do I as a general rule.’ Smith-Fennimore was obviously making an effort to talk. He looked stale, and scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk to me about?’
Haldean glanced up and down the hall. There was no one else around. He drew closer. ‘There was, as a matter of fact.’ He plunged in. ‘It’s about you and Isabelle.’
Mad About the Boy? Page 11
