The Forbidden Territory

V — The “Tavern of the Howling Wolf”

After walking for some half an hour they came at last to the Park of Culture and Leisure.

“Now,” said De Richleau, with a sigh of relief, “we can talk freely.”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” Simon laughed into the palm of his heavily gloved hand, “I’m glad about that!”

“My friend,” said the Duke, seriously, “before — it was impossible; there are eyes and ears everywhere. Have you noticed those little ventilators in your bedroom at the hotel? They are microphones, so that all you say may be overheard. In the restaurant, along the walls, there are microphones also; Russia is pleased to welcome the tourist or harmless business man, but always the Kommissars are terrified of counter revolution. It is not easy for the small Communist party to keep an entire population in subjection on short rations; and how can they tell who is the tourist, and who the secret enemy of the Soviet, only by watching? You may be certain that the parcel containing our Hoyos will be opened and examined before it is delivered to me — yes,” he smiled, “and they will look below the two top layers; that was why I did not dare have the case delivered to me just as it arrived. Even the streets are not safe, a passer-by may overhear some chance word, and immediately one is suspect — that is why I brought you here. In these open spaces we are safe — we can speak our thoughts aloud — but only here, remember that!”

“I will,” said Simon, briefly. “Now — any news of Rex?”

“No,” the Duke shook his head. “My advertisements in the Finnish papers at Helsingfors brought no response. The messenger is, perhaps, by this time in Paris or New York, or more probably he is an illiterate who can hardly read. I had to word the advertisements with care, of course, and I did not dare to use my own name — the Russian authorities might have seen them, and refused to allow me to pass the frontier. I worded them as far as possible as if they had been inserted by the American Legation, or a relative who was seeking news of Rex. In any case they have proved useless.”

Simon nodded. “Bad luck that; I didn’t have much fun either. I went up to Jack Straw’s Castle three times; got to know the barman and the manager quite well, but there wasn’t a Russian near the place. Just the usual quiet, old-fashioned pub; no trace of any special club using it as a meeting place either, and very little business doing at this time of year.”

“That is bad — one moment!” The Duke swung on his heel, to confront a seedy-looking man who, although apparently uninterested in them, had approached silently from behind.

The man lurched up as De Richleau turned, and asked in Russian for a light; the Duke gave him one without comment, and they moved on until he was out of earshot.

“Do you think that chap was listening?” Simon asked, nervously.

“I shouldn’t think so — just a lounger. Now tell me, have you had any ideas on the subject of Rex’s mine?”

“Ner. I’ve been puzzling quite a lot about that. Have you?”

“No; it completely defeats me. I did not have any good fortune in Leningrad either, although I questioned everyone that I knew in the Consulates.”

“What’s Leningrad like?” Simon inquired. “As dreary as this place?”

“Worse, my friend; it is a dying city. As you may know, that part of Russia was wrested from the Swedes, and the city built by Peter the Great in an attempt to make Russia a maritime power. Since the Upper Baltic is frozen for a considerable portion of the year, that ambition has never been fully realized. Only the fact that it was the seat of Government for so long has maintained the prestige of the city. Now that Moscow is the capital once again, the life-blood has been drawn from Leningrad. These Kommissars are no fools; they know that all the wealth and fertility of Russia lies in the South, and it is here that they are making their great efforts for the future. The ‘Nevsky Prospekt’, the Piccadilly of old St. Petersburg, which used to be such a wonderful sight, is now dreary beyond description; filled with the same crowds that you see here, it is true, but lacking the bustle and vitality of these Moscow streets. Leningrad was stricken mortally on that dark night when Dimitry and Yousopoff pushed the still warm body of Rasputin under the ice of the Neva.”

“I suppose you’ve been to the American Embassy?”

“Yes, but they can tell us nothing that we do not already know. Rex arrived here on the 4th of December, did the usual round of sight-seeing, and left again on the 11th.”

“What do we do now?” Simon asked, thoughtfully.

“There is one possible line of inquiry which a friend of mine in the Italian Embassy suggested to me. It seems that there is a small ‘stoloveya’, that is, a restaurant of sorts, in the lower quarters of the town, where certain discontented elements in the population meet. There is nothing at all against them, you understand, or they would be arrested at once by the Ogpu, but it is thought that many of the habitués have counterrevolutionary sympathies.

“My friend was told that Rex was seen there one night during his stay; I thought that we also might pay a visit to this place. It is called the ‘Tavern of the Howling Wolf’. He may have gone there only out of curiosity, but, on the other hand, it is just possible that we might learn something.”

“Going to be a bit difficult, isn’t it?” Simon laughed. “I mean with these wretched guides about.”

The Duke smiled. “If it is agreeable to you, I thought that, for once, we might play truant this evening.”

“What — cut the theatre?”

“Yes, it is possible that they may not even know that we absented ourselves; but even if they do find out, I do not think that anything very serious can happen to us. We shall be duly apologetic, and say that, at the last moment, we decided on a change of plan for our evening’s entertainment.”

“Splendid!” said Simon. “Let’s. I tell you one curious thing that happened to me before I left London.”

“What was that?”

Simon told De Richleau of his meeting with Valeria Petrovna Karkoff, and her appointment to lunch with him the following day.

The Duke was pleased and interested. “That friendship can most certainly do us no harm,” he said; “the famous artistes are as powerful here now as they ever were — more so, perhaps. It is always so after a revolution; the one thing which the people will not allow the dictators to interfere with is their amusements. The most powerful Kommissar would hesitate before offending a prima donna or a ballerina.”

The early twilight was already falling, and in the clear air a myriad lights began to twinkle from the houses and factories across the river. They made their way back across the crisp snow of the Park, and through the slush of the streets, to the hotel.

Dinner was a long, uninteresting meal, with many tiresome delays in service, and, since they could not talk freely together, they were glad when it was over.

After, they sat for a little time in the lounge, where dancing was in progress; it was a strange assembly. Most of the men wore the Tolstoyian blouse of the proletariat, or some kind of threadbare uniform; one or two were in evening dress; most of the better clad were Germans or Jews. The women, for the most part, seemed blowzy and ill-cared for, only a few were dressed in the special costume created by the revolution, most of them had shoddy copies of the fashions prevailing in London and Paris a year before. Here and there, and not necessarily with the best-dressed men, were women with expensive clothes, who would have passed muster in the smartest restaurants of the European capitals. Everybody seemed to be drinking freely, although the prices were prohibitive; the band was shocking, and the waiters surly. Simon and the Duke did not stay long, and were relieved when the time came at which they should have gone to the theatre. One of the limited number of hired cars that are to be had in Moscow had been ordered by the Duke; they climbed in and settled themselves upon its hard seats. De Richleau gave the address in a low voice to the driver, and the car started off, nosing its way through the crowded streets.

On each street corner, attached to the electric light standards, were affixed a cluster of loud-speaker megaphones — they blared continuously, not music, but a harsh voice, dinning short sentences into the ears of the moving multitude.

“What’s it all about?” asked Simon. “Loud speakers never seem to stop here! I noticed them this morning, and again this afternoon — can’t be news all the time, can it?”

“It is the Five Year Plan, my friend,” the Duke shrugged. “Never for one second are the masses allowed to forget it. Those megaphones relate what is being done all the time — how many tractors have been turned out at Stalingrad today — how many new teachers graduated with honours from the University of Karkov last week — how many tons of ore have been taken from the great Kuznetsky basin, which they are now beginning to exploit — how the branch of the young Communist party in Niji-Novgorod has passed a resolution giving up their fifth day holiday, for a year, in order that The Plan may be completed the quicker — and every five minutes the announcer says: ‘You who hear this — what are you doing for the Five Year Plan? — what are you doing that the Five Year Plan shall be completed in Four?’” He shuddered. “There is something terrible about it, my son. These fanatics will yet eat us all alive.”

They fell silent, each pondering on the. threat to the old civilization of Western Europe, that was gaining force in this blind, monstrous power, growing beneath their eyes.

The car left the smooth asphalt of the more frequented streets, jolting and bumping its way down narrow turnings into the suburbs of the city. Eventually they stopped before a house in a mean street. Faint sounds of music came from within, and these, together with the chinks of light that shone through the heavily curtained windows, were the only signs of life.

They got out, and their driver knocked loudly upon the door; after a little it was opened, and they went in, bidding the driver return in an hour. It was snowing heavily in the street, and as they began to remove their wraps they were astonished at the quantity of snow that had gathered upon them during the short wait on the threshold. They took a small table near the great china stove, blowing into their hands to warm their chilled fingers. A slatternly woman shuffled up to them, and after a short conversation with the Duke, set two small glasses of spirit before them; it proved to be some kind of plum brandy, similar to Sleigowitz.

In the low room were about twenty tables, some dozen of which were occupied. Men of all classes were present — several low-browed, stupid, or sullen-looking workers, in the usual Kaftan, here and there a better type, who from his dress seemed to be some minor official; one or two faces suggested the cultured European who has “gone native”, and known much suffering — one elderly man, with a fine domed head, sat staring with wide blue eyes into vacancy. The only woman there had a hard unpleasant face with the pink eyes of an albino, and patchy hair, alternate tufts of white and yellow.

There was little talking, and few groups of any size; most of the denizens of this dubious haunt seemed tired and listless, content to sit idle, listening to a monotonous repetition of gipsy music from the travesty of a Tzigane band.

The Duke and Simon sat for a long time studying the people, bored, but anxious not to miss any movement or word which might give them the opportunity to get in touch with the frequenters of this poor hostelry; but nothing changed, nor did anyone molest them. Even so, Simon was happy to be able to press the hard bulk of the big automatic between his upper arm and his ribs. He was aware that they were being covertly watched from a number of tables, and if many of the faces were tired, some of them were far from being free of evil.

Now and again a newcomer entered, heralded by a gust of icy wind and snow — occasionally a man pulled his extra long layers of frowzy clothing about him, and went out into the night. Beneath the low rafters the room grew thick with the haze of cheap tobacco smoke, the monotonous band droned on.

After a long time, as it seemed, three workmen arrived, bringing with them quite a drift of falling snow; they were a little drunk, and two of them began to clap, and call for “Jakko”. The face of the third seemed vaguely familiar to Simon, who caught him slyly glancing in the direction of their table. He noticed, with a feeling of aversion, that the man had a cast in one eye, and quietly, almost unconsciously, forked his fingers under the table.

The cry of “Jakko” was taken up by several others; the band of three struck up a livelier tune, and through a door at the back of the room appeared a dancer.

He was clad in a fantastic costume of ribbons and dried grasses, not unlike the traditional Hawaiian dress. As he pirouetted, his skirts flared out about him; he carried an enormous tambourine, and upon his head he wore a conical hat of reeds, reminiscent of Robinson Crusoe in the pantomime. Leaping into the clear space in the centre of the room, he began a wild and noisy czardas, in time to the monotonous clapping of the audience.

De Richleau looked at him for a moment, and then away with a slight shrug. “This fellow will keep going for hours,” he said, impatiently. “He is, or would pretend to be, a Shamman from the Alti — that is, a sort of witch-doctor from the desolate Russian lands north of Mongolia, where the Tartar tribes still worship the spirits of their ancestors. I think we had better go — there is nothing for us here.”

But Simon was not listening; his shrewd eyes were riveted on the gyrating dancer. He was careful not to look at the Duke, not even to appear to speak to him, but he nudged him slightly, and, placing his hand casually before his mouth, whispered:

“Don’t you see? This is Jack Straw!!!”