The Forbidden Territory

III — “Valeria Petrovna”

Simon Aron stepped out of a taxi in front of his cousin’s house in Hampstead one night, a little more than a week after his dinner with the Duke.

Simon was a very rich young man, but it was an interesting point in his psychology that he lived in one small room at his club, and did not own a car. The taxi-driver, however, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his tip, although he had had a long and chilly wait outside Jack Straw’s Castle, which his fare had elected to visit on his way from Piccadilly.

The house was one of those long, low, modern mansions standing back from the road in its own grounds. The short gravel drive and the roadway on each side were lined with private cars of all makes and sizes; the windows of the house were a blaze of light; it was evident that a party was in progress.

Having greeted the maid at the door as an old friend, and divested himself of his silk scarf, white kid gloves, stick, and shining topper — Simon was soon in conversation with his hostess.

“Good party tonight, Miriam?” he asked her in his jerky way, with a wide smile.

“I hope so, Simon dear,” she replied a little nervously. “I’ve taken an awful lot of trouble — but you never know what people will like — do you?”

“Of course it will be a good party, Miriam,” he encouraged her. “Your parties always are good parties! Anyone special coming?”

“We’ve got Gian Capello — he’s promised to play, and Madame Maliperi is going to sing; it’s a great help having Alec Wolff too, he’s really very clever at the piano; Jacob says he’ll go a long way — and knowing him so well I can get him to play at any time.”

“Of course you can — Alec’s a nice boy.”

“I tell you who I have got here —” she went on hurriedly. “Madame Karkoff — you know, Valeria Petrovna Karkoff — from the Moscow Arts Theatre; she’s over here on a visit with Kommissar Leshkin. Jacob met them at the film studios at Elstree last week.”

Simon’s quick eyes flickered about the wide hall; with sudden interest he asked: “Does she — er — speak English?”

“Oh yes. Simon dear I do wish you’d look after her, will you? They don’t know anybody here. It would be an awful weight off my mind. Look! there she is — the dark woman, in the yellow dress. She’s awfully good-looking I think — will you?”

“Well — er —” He appeared to hesitate. “Taking on a bit of a handful, isn’t it?”

“Oh, no, Simon. You get on so well with everybody. Of course,” she went on a little wistfully, “I do love giving parties, but you know what Jacob is — he just asks everybody that he can think of — and I have to do all the work. Do be a dear!”

Simon allowed himself to be led over. “Oh, Madame Karkoff, I want you to meet my cousin, Mr. Aron.” Simon’s hostess smiled a little unhappily. “He’s awfully interested in the theatre.”

“’Ow do you do, Meestaire Aron?” said Madame Karkoff, in a rich, deep, almost husky voice, as she lifted her fine chin and held out a long slender hand. “Come — sit ’ere by me.” With a quick gesture she made a pretence of drawing aside her dress.

Simon accepted the invitation, and produced his cigarette-case. She took one with a little laugh.

“I ’ave been dying for a cigarette,” she confessed. “Ah, sank you.” Almost before the cigarette had reached her scarlet lips Simon’s other hand had left his pocket, and the patent lighter in it flickered into flame. It was a much-practised little trick of his.

“So you are interested in the theatre, eh?” She regarded him curiously. “Tell me about the theatre, Meestaire Aron!”

Simon leant forward and laughed his little nervous laugh into the palm of his hand. “Fraid I can’t,” he chuckled. “Mind you, I’d love to be able to, but we haven’t got a theatre in England!”

“Ah! So you know that, do you?” A gleam of appreciation showed in her large dark eyes.

“Of course,” he nodded vigorously. “There is no theatre here in the sense that you know it; there are some people who try pretty hard, but they don’t get much encouragement — and they’ve got a lot to learn.”

He studied her thoughtfully, marvelling at her dark beauty. The dead-white skin, the narrow arched eyebrows; the rather flat face with high cheek-bones, relieved by the sensual scarlet mouth and slumbrous dark eyes. No one would have thought of her as other than a woman, although she was actually little more than a girl. He put her down as about twenty-five.

“You are a Jew — are you not?” she asked suddenly.

He laughed jerkily again, as he ran his finger down his prominent nose. “Of course. I couldn’t hide this, could I? And as a matter of fact I’ve no wish to try.”

She laughed delightedly, showing two rows of strong white, even teeth. “I ’ave of the Jewish blood myself,” she said then, serious again in a moment. “My grandmother — she was a Jewess. It is good; there is no art where there is not Jewish blood.”

Simon looked round the big lounge-hall. “Plenty of them here tonight,” he said. And indeed, although there were a fair number of Christians, the majority of the guests were obviously what Simon would have termed “our people”. He smiled and waved a greeting as he caught sight of his friend, Richard Eaton, who was one of the Christian minority.

“I would like champagne,” declared Madame Karkoff, suddenly — throwing back her dark head, and exhaling a cloud of cigarette-smoke. “Lots and lots of champagne!”

“All right.” Simon stood up. “It’ll be in the billiard-room, I expect.”

She made no attempt to rise. “Bring it to me ’ere,” she said with a little shrug of the shoulders.

“Ner.” He shook his head rapidly as he uttered the curious negative which he often used. It came of his saying “no” without troubling to close the lips of his full mouth. “Ner — you come with me, it’s so crowded here.”

For a moment her mouth went sullen as she looked at the slim figure, with its narrow stooping shoulders, that stood before her, then she rose languidly.

He piloted her through the crush to the buffet in the billiards-room. An obsequious waiter proffered two glasses; they might have held a fair-sized cocktail, but they were not Simon’s idea of glasses for champagne. He waved them aside quickly with one word — “tumblers!”

Two small tumblers were produced and filled by the waiter. As Simon handed one to Madame Valeria Petrovna Karkoff she smiled approval.

“They are meeserable — those little glasses for champagne, no good at all — all the same you are, ’ow do you say? ‘You are a one, ’ees it not? Chin-chin!”

Simon laughed, they finished another tumbler apiece before they left the billiards-room. “Come on,” he said. “I think Maliperi is going to sing.”

“Maliperi?” she exclaimed, opening wide her eyes. “Come then, why do we stay ’ere?” and gripping him impulsively by the hand she ran him down the long passage to the music-room at the back of the house.

They stood together in a corner while Maliperi sang, and marvelled at her art, although the magnificent voice that had filled so many opera houses was too great for the moderate-sized room, and a certain portion of its beauty lost.

“Let us ’ave more champagne,” said Valeria Petrovna, when it was over. “I feel I will enjoy myself tonight.”

Simon led the way back to the buffet, and very shortly two more tumblers stood before them. As they were about to drink, a big red-headed man put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, and spoke thickly, in what Simon could only imagine to be Russian.

She shook his hand off with an impatient gesture, and answered him sharply in the same tongue.

He brought his rather flabby, white face, with its short, flat nose, and small, hot eyes, down to the level of hers for a moment with a wicked look, and spoke again.

Her eyes lit with a sudden fire, and she almost spat the words back at him — so that her melodious, husky voice became quite harsh for a moment. He turned, and stared angrily in Simon’s face. With his great, broad shoulders, powerful jaw, and receding forehead, he reminded Simon of a gorilla; then with a sudden scowl he swung upon his heel and turned away.

“Who — er — is that?” Simon asked, curiously, although he knew already who the man must be.

She shrugged — smiling again in a moment. “Oh, that — that ees Nicolai Alexis — Kommissar Leshkin. We travel together, you know — ’e is a little drunk tonight, I think.”

After that they heard Capello play; the Maestro was in form and drew marvellous music from his cherished violin.

“Oh, it ’ees tears ’e makes me cry,” Valeria Petrovna exclaimed passionately after he had played one aria, and the gallant Simon found it difficult not to cry out with pain, as she unconsciously dug her sharp nails into his hand which she held between her own.

They returned to the buffet and drank more tumblers of champagne, then Simon suggested that she might like to powder her nose. She seemed surprised at the suggestion, but accepted it; actually it was Simon’s way of saying that he wanted to use the telephone, he also wanted a word with Richard Eaton.

He found his friend without difficulty — and led the way to a quiet corner. Richard Eaton was a young man of medium height. His dark hair was brushed straight back from a “widow’s peak”, grey eyes twinkled out of a tanned, clean-shaven, oval face; he had a most attractive smile. He smiled now at Simon. “You are hitting it up, my boy — who’s the lovely lady?”

Simon looked a trifle sheepish — “Madame Karkoff,” he mumbled. “She’s a Russian — Moscow Arts Theatre — nice, isn’t she? But, look here, where have you been all the week? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days.”

“I’ve been staying with the Terences, down near Reading — he’s great fun — commanded a battalion of the Coldstream in the Chinese shemozzle. I’ve got my new plane down there — been trying it out.”

“I see,” Simon nodded. “Well — I wanted to see you, because — er — I’m off to Russia in a few days’ time.”

“My dear old boy, you have got it badly!”

“Don’t be an ass.” Simon wriggled his neck and grinned. “No, honestly, there is a muddle on.”

“What sort of a muddle?” Richard Eaton asked, serious at once.

“It’s Rex. He’s in Russia — spot of trouble with the authorities. He’s in prison somewhere — we don’t quite know where.”

“Phew!” Eaton let out a long whistle. “That’s a nasty one — poor old Rex — and you’re going over to try and get him out, is that the idea?”

Simon nodded. “That’s about it”

“Well,” said Richard Eaton, slowly, “you can’t go off on a job like that alone — I’d better come, too. I owe Rex a turn over that mess of mine.”

“Ner — awfully nice of you, Richard, but De Richleau’s coming, in fact he’s already gone — probably there by now, but I’ll tell you what I do want you to do.”

“Go right ahead, Simon.” Eaton took his friend by the arm. “Just say how I can help. I was going to take the new bus down to Cannes for a week or two, but I can easily scrap that.”

“That’s splendid of you, Richard, but don’t alter anything,” Simon begged. “As long as you don’t kill yourself in your plane. I’m always terrified that you’ll do that!”

Eaton laughed. “Not likely; she’s fast and foolproof — a kid of twelve could fly her — but what’s the drill?”

“I shall arrive in Moscow next Tuesday. I’ve got a permit for three weeks; now if you don’t hear from the Duke or myself that we are safely back out of Russia by then, I want you to stir things up. Get busy with the Foreign Office, and pull every wire you know to get us out of it. Of course I shall leave instructions with the firm as well — but I want someone like you, who’ll not stop kicking people until they get us out.”

Richard Eaton nodded slowly. “Right you are, old boy, leave it to me — but I’ll see you before you go?”

“Um, rather — what about lunch tomorrow?”

“Splendid, where shall we say? Let’s go and see Vecchi at the Hungaria. One o’clock suit you?”

“Yes. Look!” Simon had just caught sight of Valeria Petrovna again. “There’s Madame Karkoff — come over and let me introduce you.”

Richard shook his head in mock fright. “No, thanks, Simon. I like ’em small and cuddlesome, with big blue eyes! I should be scared that Russian girl would eat me!”

“Don’t be an idiot! I want to telephone — come and talk to her. I shan’t be a minute.”

“Oh, if it’s only a matter of holding the fort while you’re busy — that’s another thing!” Richard was duly presented, and Simon slipped away.

Eaton found her easier to talk to than he had expected, but she did not attract him in the least. He was glad when Simon came back, and took the opportunity to leave them when they suggested returning to the music-room.

Simon and Valeria Petrovna heard Alec Wolf! play, which was a pleasant interlude — and a bald man sing, which, after what had gone before, was an impertinence.

Later, at the buffet, Madame Karkoff consumed two large plates of some incredible confection, the principal ingredient of which seemed to be cream, with the gusto of a wicked child, and Simon ate some foie gras sandwiches. They both drank more champagne, she lashing hers with Benedictine, because she considered it “dry-thin” and much inferior to the sweet, sparkling Caucasian wine to which she was accustomed; but the amount which she drank seemed in no way to affect her.

At length Simon suggested that he might see her home. She looked round the crowded room with half-closed eyes, then she shrugged eloquently, and smiled. “Why not? Nicolai Alexis will be furious, but what does it matter? — ’E is drunk — let us go!”

With a magnificent gesture she seemed to sweep her garments about her, and the crowd gave passage as she sailed towards the door, the narrow-shouldered Simon following.

They both assured the tired and still anxious Miriam that it had been a “marvellous party”, and reached the hall.

“Mr. Aron’s car? Yes, sir.” The hired butler nodded. “One moment, sir.”

He gave a shout and beckoned, and a moment later a great silver Rolls was standing before the door; Simon had not telephoned in vain. He had a garage with whom he had an understanding that, at any hour of the day or night, a luxury car was always at Mr. Aron’s disposal, and he paid handsomely.

“Where — er — shall I tell him?” Simon asked.

“Ze Berkeley,” she said, quickly. “Come, get in.”

Simon gave instructions and did as he was bid. Almost immediately they were speeding down the gradients towards the West End.

She talked quickly and vividly of the party and the people whom they had just left The car had reached Baker Street before Simon had a chance to get in the question which he’d been meaning to ask; he said quickly: “What about a little lunch one day?”

Her shoulders moved slightly under her ermine cloak. “My frien’, it would be nice — but it is impossible. Tomorrow I ’ave a ’undred things to do, an’ the next day I go back to Russia.”

The car slid through Grosvenor Square, and into Carlos Place. Simon considered for a moment, then he said, seriously: “Are you doing anything for lunch this week?”

She put her head back, and her magnificent laughter filled the car. “Foolish one, I shall be in Moskawa — you are an absurd.”

“Ner.” Simon shook his head quickly. “Tell me — are you booked for lunch next Thursday?”

The car sped through the eastern side of Berkeley Square, and up Berkeley Street. She pressed his hand. “Silly boy — of course not, but I ’ave told you — I shall be in Moskawa once more!”

“All right,” said Simon, decisively. “Then you will meet me for lunch at one o’clock at the Hotel Metropole in Moscow — Thursday, a week today.”

The car had stopped before the entrance to the hotel, the commissionaire stepped forward and opened the door.

“You make a joke! You do not mean this?” she asked, in her melodious, husky voice, leaning forward to peer into his face.

“I do,” nodded Simon, earnestly.

She laughed suddenly, and drew her hand quickly down his cheek with a caressing gesture. “All right — I will be there!”