by Ken Follett
He needed to do something about the Packard. The Buffalo police might cable a description to Toronto. He should either change the plates or change the car. But he could not summon the energy.
Olga was probably glad to get rid of him. She would have her inheritance all to herself. However, the Vyalov empire was worth less and less every day.
He wondered if he could bring Marga and baby Gregory to Canada. Would Marga even want to come? America was her dream, as it had been Lev's. Canada was not the fantasy destination of nightclub singers. She might follow Lev to New York or California, but not to Toronto.
He was going to miss his children. Tears came to his eyes as he thought of Daisy growing up without him. She was not quite four: she might forget him altogether. At best she would have a vague recollection. She would not remember the largest sandwich in the world.
After the third drink it struck him that he was a pitiable victim of injustice. He had not meant to kill his father-in-law. Josef had struck first. Anyway, Lev had not actually killed him: he had died of some kind of seizure or heart attack. It was really just bad luck. But no one was going to believe that. Olga was the only witness and she would want revenge.
He poured another vodka and lay on the bed. To hell with them all, he thought.
As he drifted into a restless alcoholic sleep, he thought of the bottles in the shop window. "Canadian Club, $4.00," read the sign. There was something important about that, he knew, but for the moment he could not put his finger on it.
When he woke up next morning his mouth was dry and his head ached, but he knew that Canadian Club at four bucks a bottle could be his salvation.
He rinsed his whisky glass and drank the melted ice at the bottom of the pail. By his third glassful he had a plan.
Orange juice, coffee, and aspirins made him feel better. He thought about the dangers ahead. But he had never allowed himself to be deterred by risks. If I did that, he thought, I'd be my brother.
There was one great drawback to his scheme. It depended on reconciliation with Olga.
He drove to a low-rent neighborhood and went into a cheap restaurant that was serving breakfast to workingmen. He sat at a table with a group of what looked like housepainters and said: "I need to trade my car for a truck. Do you know anyone who might be interested?"
One of the men said: "Is it legitimate?"
Lev gave his charming grin. "Give me a break, buddy," he said. "If it was legit, would I be selling it here?"
He found no takers there or at the next few places he tried, but eventually he ended up at an automobile repair shop run by a father and son. He exchanged the Packard for a two-ton Mack Junior van with two spare wheels in a no-cash, no-papers deal. He knew he was being robbed, but the garageman knew he was desperate.
Late that afternoon he went to a liquor wholesaler whose address he had found in the city directory. "I want a hundred cases of Canadian Club," he said. "What's your price?"
"For that quantity, thirty-six bucks a case."
"It's a deal." Lev took out his money. "I'm opening a tavern outside of town, and--"
"No need to explain, pal," said the wholesaler. He pointed out of the window. On the neighboring vacant lot, a team of building laborers were breaking ground. "My new warehouse, five times the size of this one. Thank God for Prohibition."
Lev realized he was not the first person to have this bright idea.
He paid the man and they loaded the whisky into the Mack van.
Next day Lev drove back to Buffalo.
{ III }
Lev parked the van full of whisky on the street outside the Vyalov house. The winter afternoon was turning to dusk. There were no cars on the driveway. He waited a while, tense, expectant, ready to flee, but he saw no activity.
His nerves stretched taut, he got out of the van, walked up to the front door, and let himself in with his own key.
The place was hushed. From upstairs he could hear Daisy's voice, and the murmured replies of Polina. There was no other sound.
Moving quietly on the thick carpet, he crossed the hall and looked into the drawing room. All the chairs had been pushed to the sides of the room. In the middle was a stand draped in black silk bearing a polished mahogany coffin with gleaming brass handles. In the casket was the corpse of Josef Vyalov. Death had softened the pugnacious lines of the face, and he looked harmless.
Olga sat alone beside the body. She wore a black dress. Her back was to the door.
Lev stepped into the room. "Hello, Olga," he said quietly.
She opened her mouth to scream, but he put his hand over her face and stopped her.
"Nothing to worry about," Lev said. "I just want to talk." Slowly, he eased his grip.
She did not scream.
He relaxed a little. He was over the first hurdle.
"You killed my father!" she said angrily. "What could there be to talk about?"
He took a deep breath. He had to handle this exactly right. Mere charm would not be enough. It would take brains too. "The future," he said. He spoke in a low, intimate tone. "Yours, mine, and little Daisy's. I'm in trouble, I know--but so are you."
She did not want to listen. "I'm not in any trouble." She turned away and looked at the body.
Lev pulled up a chair and sat close to her. "The business you've inherited is shot. It's falling apart, almost worthless."
"My father was very wealthy!" she said indignantly.
"He owned bars, hotels, and a liquor wholesaling business. They're all losing money, and Prohibition has been in force only two weeks. He's already closed five bars. Soon there will be nothing left." Lev hesitated, then used the strongest argument he had. "You can't just consider yourself. You have to think about how you're going to raise Daisy."
She looked shaken. "Is the business really going bust?"
"You heard what your father said to me at breakfast the day before yesterday."
"I don't really remember."
"Well, don't take my word for anything, please. Check it out. Ask Norman Niall, the accountant. Ask anyone."
She gave him a hard look and decided to take him seriously. "Why have you come to tell me this?"
"Because I've figured out how to save the business."
"How?"
"By importing liquor from Canada."
"It's against the law."
"Yes. But it's your only hope. Without booze, you have no business."
She tossed her head. "I can look after myself."
"Sure," he said. "You can sell this house for a good sum, invest the proceeds, and move into a little apartment with your mother. Probably you could salvage enough from the estate to keep yourself and Daisy alive for a few years, though you should consider going out to work--"
"I can't work!" she said. "I've never trained for anything. What would I do?"
"Oh, listen, you could be a salesgirl in a department store, you could work in a factory--"
He was not serious and she knew it. "Don't be ridiculous," she snapped.
"Then there's only one option." He reached out to touch her.
She flinched away. "Why do you care what happens to me?"
"You're my wife."
She gave him a strange look.
He put on his most sincere face. "I know I've mistreated you, but we loved each other once."
She made a scornful noise in her throat.
"And we have a daughter to worry about."
"But you're going to jail."
"Unless you tell the truth."
"What do you mean?"
"Olga, you saw what happened. Your father attacked me. Look at my face--I have a black eye to prove it. I had to fight back. He must have had a weak heart. He may have been ill for some time--it would explain why he failed to prepare the business for Prohibition. Anyway, he was killed by the effort of attacking me, not by the few blows I struck in self-defense. All you have to do is tell the police the truth."
"I've already told them you killed him."
&nb
sp; Lev was heartened: he was making progress. "That's all right," he reassured her. "You made a statement in the heat of the moment when you were stricken with grief. Now that you're calmer, you realize that your father's death was a terrible accident, brought on by his bad health and his angry tantrum."
"Will they believe me?"
"A jury will. But if I hire a good lawyer there won't even be a trial. How could there be, if the only witness swears it wasn't murder?"
"I don't know." She changed tack. "How are you going to get the liquor?"
"Easy. Don't worry about it."
She turned in her chair to face him directly. "I don't believe you. You're saying all this just to make me change my story."
"Put your coat on and I'll show you something."
It was a tense moment. If she went with him, she was his.
After a pause, she stood up.
Lev hid a triumphant smile.
They left the room. Outside on the street, he opened the rear doors of the van.
She was silent for a long moment. Then she said: "Canadian Club?" Her tone had changed, he noted. It was practical. The emotion had faded into the background.
"A hundred cases," he said. "I bought it for three bucks a bottle. I can get ten here--more if we sell it by the shot."
"I have to think about this."
That was a good sign. She was ready to agree, but did not want to rush into anything. "I understand, but there's no time," he said. "I'm a wanted man with a truckload of illegal whisky and I have to have your decision right away. I'm sorry to hustle you, but you can see I have no choice."
She nodded thoughtfully, but did not say anything.
Lev went on: "If you turn me down I'll sell my booze, take a profit, and disappear. You'll be on your own, then. I'll wish you luck and say good-bye forever, with no hard feelings. I would understand."
"And if I say yes?"
"We'll go to the police right away."
There was a long silence.
At last she nodded. "All right."
Lev looked away to hide his face. You did it, he said to himself. You sat with her in the same room as her father's dead body, and you won her back.
You dog.
{ IV }
"I have to put on a hat," said Olga. "And you need a clean shirt. We want to make a favorable impression."
That was good. She was really on his side.
They went back into the house and got ready. While he was waiting for her he called the Buffalo Advertiser and asked for Peter Hoyle, the editor. A secretary asked him his business. "Tell him I'm the man who's wanted for the murder of Josef Vyalov."
A moment later a voice barked. "Hoyle here. Who are you?"
"Lev Peshkov, Vyalov's son-in-law."
"Where are you?"
Lev ignored the question. "If you can have a reporter on the steps of police headquarters in half an hour, I'll have a statement for you."
"We'll be there."
"Mr. Hoyle?"
"Yes?"
"Send a photographer too." Lev hung up.
With Olga beside him in the open front of the van, he drove first to Josef's waterfront warehouse. Boxes of stolen cigarettes were stacked around the walls. In the office at the back they found Vyalov's accountant, Norman Niall, plus the usual group of thugs. Norman was crooked but pernickety, Lev knew. He was sitting in Josef 's chair, behind Josef 's desk.
They were all astonished to see Lev and Olga.
Lev said: "Olga has inherited the business. I'll be running things from now on."
Norman did not get up out of his chair. "We'll see about that," he said.
Lev gave him a hard stare and said nothing.
Norman spoke again with less assurance. "The will has to be proved, and so on."
Lev shook his head. "If we wait for the formalities there will be no business left." He pointed at one of the goons. "Ilya, go out in the yard, look in the van, come back here, and tell Norm what you see."
Ilya went out. Lev moved around the desk to stand next to Norman. They waited in silence until Ilya came back.
"A hundred cases of Canadian Club." He put a bottle on the table. "We can try it, see if it's the real thing."
Lev said: "I'm going to run the business with booze imported from Canada. Prohibition is the greatest business opportunity ever. People will pay anything for liquor. We're going to make a fortune. Get out of that chair, Norm."
"I don't think so, kid," said Norman.
Lev pulled his gun fast and pistol-whipped Norman on both sides of the face. Norman cried out. Lev held the Colt casually pointed in the direction of the thugs.
To her credit, Olga did not scream.
"You asshole," Lev said to Norman. "I killed Josef Vyalov--do you think I'm scared of a fucking accountant?"
Norman got up and scurried out of the room, holding a hand to his bleeding mouth.
Lev turned to the other men, still holding the pistol pointing in their general direction, and said: "Anyone else who doesn't want to work for me can leave now, and no hard feelings."
No one moved.
"Good," said Lev. "Because I was lying about no hard feelings." He pointed at Ilya. "You come with me and Mrs. Peshkov. You can drive. The rest of you, unload the van."
Ilya drove them downtown in the blue Hudson.
Lev felt he might have made a mistake back there. He should not have said I killed Josef Vyalov in front of Olga. She could yet change her mind. If she mentioned it, he decided he would say he didn't mean it, but just said it to scare Norm. However, Olga did not raise the matter.
Outside police headquarters, two men in overcoats and hats were waiting beside a big camera on a tripod.
Lev and Olga got out of the car.
Lev said to the reporter: "The death of Josef Vyalov is a tragedy for us, his family, and for this city." The man scribbled shorthand in a notebook. "I have come to give the police my account of what happened. My wife, Olga, the only other person present when he collapsed, is here to testify that I am innocent. The postmortem will show that my father-in-law died of a heart attack. My wife and I plan to continue to expand the great business Josef Vyalov started here in Buffalo. Thank you."
"Look at the camera, please?" said the photographer.
Lev put his arm around Olga, pulled her close, and looked at the camera.
The reporter said: "How did you get the shiner, Lev?"
"This?" he said, and pointed to his eye. "Oh, hell, that's another story." He smiled his most charming grin, and the photographer's magnesium flare went off with a blinding flash.
CHAPTER FORTY
February to December 1920
The Aldershot Military Detention Barracks was a grim place, Billy thought, but it was better than Siberia. Aldershot was an army town thirty-five miles southwest of London. The prison was a modern building with galleries of cells on three floors around an atrium. It was brightly lit by a glazed roof that gave the place its nickname of "the Glasshouse." With heat pipes and gas lighting, it was more comfortable than most of the places where Billy had slept during the past four years.
All the same, he was miserable. The war had been over for more than a year, yet he was still in the army. Most of his friends were out, earning good wages and taking girls to the pictures. He still wore the uniform and saluted, he slept in an army bed, and he ate army food. He worked all day at weaving mats, which was the prison industry. Worst of all, he never saw a woman. Somewhere out there, Mildred was waiting for him--probably. Everyone had a tale to tell of a soldier who had come home to find that his wife or girlfriend had gone off with another man.
He had no communication with Mildred or anyone else outside. Prisoners--or "soldiers under sentence" as they were officially called--could normally send and receive letters, but Billy was a special case. Because he had been convicted of betraying army secrets in letters, his mail was confiscated by the authorities. This was part of the army's revenge. He no longer had any secrets to betray, of course.
What was he going to tell his sister? "The boiled potatoes are always undercooked."
Did Mam and Da and Gramper even know about the court-martial? The soldier's next of kin had to be informed, he thought, but he was not sure and no one would answer his questions. Anyway, Tommy Griffiths would almost certainly have told them. He hoped Ethel had explained what he had really been doing.
He received no visitors. He suspected his family did not even know that he was back from Russia. He would have liked to challenge the ban on his receiving mail, but he had no way of contacting a lawyer--and no money to pay one. His only consolation was a vague feeling that this could not go on indefinitely.
His news of the outside world came from the papers. Fitz was back in London, making speeches urging more military aid for the Whites in Russia. Billy wondered if that meant the Aberowen Pals had come home.
Fitz's speeches were doing no good. Ethel's "Hands Off Russia" campaign had won support and been endorsed by the Labour Party. Despite colorful anti-Bolshevik speeches by the minister for war, Winston Churchill, Britain had withdrawn its troops from Arctic Russia. In mid-November the Reds had driven Admiral Kolchak out of Omsk. Everything Billy had said about the Whites, and Ethel had repeated in her campaign, turned out to be correct; everything Fitz and Churchill said was wrong. Yet Billy was in jail and Fitz was in the House of Lords.
He had little in common with his fellow inmates. They were not political prisoners. Most had committed real crimes, theft and assault and murder. They were hard men, but so was Billy and he was not afraid of them. They treated him with wary deference, apparently feeling that his offense was a cut above theirs. He talked to them amiably enough but none of them had any interest in politics. They saw nothing wrong with the society that had imprisoned them; they were just determined to beat the system next time.
