The Best of British Crime omnibus Page 2

  There was a good deal of coming and going in the corridor as the delegates sorted themselves out. My compartment was at the extreme end of the coach so I wasn’t well-placed to see who was who, but from time to time I caught some choice fragments of conversation.

  ‘It’s intolerable that I should be expected to sleep with that odious woman,’ an affected female voice complained. ‘I can’t think why they had to bring her. Listen to her now!’

  There was a pause for listening. The ‘odious woman’ was crooning to herself in the drawn-out, maudlin accents of the comfortably intoxicated. A man with a musical baritone voice laughed tolerantly. ‘It is trying for you,’ he agreed. ‘She’s not a bad soul at heart, though.’

  ‘I think she’s quite insufferable. She’s loud and vulgar and ignorant.’ The Kensington tones had become distinctly chilly.

  ‘You’re sisters under the skin, don’t forget,’ the man teased.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  There was another pause, and then Mullett’s voice boomed along the carriage. ‘If you like to bring your Russian grammar now, Cressey, we can resume our studies.’

  The ‘sister-under-the-skin’ man muttered ‘Pompous ass!’ For a peace-loving delegation, I reflected, they seemed to be getting off to a fine start.

  There was a last, agonised wail from the singer, and then all was quiet. The voices faded away along the corridor. I turned to the window and for a while sat watching the battered suburbs of Warsaw sliding past. ‘One of the loveliest cities in Europe,’ I’d been told before my first visit there. I remembered how I’d stood on one of the Vistula bridges – it must have been around 1930, when I was en route for Russia for the first time – and thought how right the verdict had been. Well, the place hadn’t much beauty now.

  I picked up a book. Presently someone sauntered past my door, came back to take a second look, and stopped with an exclamation of surprise. ‘Surely it’s George Verney?’ It was the man I’d heard talking in the corridor.

  For a moment I couldn’t place him. He was a tall, wide-shouldered fellow in his early thirties, very good-looking in a dramatic way, with curling black hair, dark intense eyes, and a sensuous, mobile mouth. I knew that I’d seen him before, and I groped in my memory for time and place.

  ‘Islwyn Thomas,’ he said, helping me out. ‘Don’t you remember – the bad boy of the Military Mission?’

  I did remember, then. I don’t suppose I’d spoken to him more than a couple of times, but I clearly recalled the incident which had got him sent home in disgrace from Moscow. He’d been a passionate Welsh Nationalist – the sort of man who’d have gloried in pinching a Coronation Stone if there’d been a Welsh one to pinch. One day he’d got very tight on Welsh eloquence and Russian vodka and had socked a Brigadier who, he said, had insulted his country. He had given trouble before, I fancy, and that was considered the last straw.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Were you court-martialled?’

  ‘Yes, I most certainly was. I told the court I didn’t recognise its jurisdiction – it was an English court, of course – but they gave me three months and reduced me to the ranks. It was the only kind of justice I expected.’

  I hardly knew what to say. ‘What are you doing with this outfit. Are you hoping that Wales will be liberated by the Soviet Union?’

  ‘Perhaps. Wales certainly won’t remain an English satellite much longer.’

  ‘You can’t be serious!’

  ‘I was never more serious in my life.’

  That turned out to be the truth. Thomas was as bitter about the remote conquest of Wales as a Dublin leader-writer about the iniquities of Cromwell. With a flash in his eyes he began declaiming about the Welsh national struggle, working himself up into a white heat by a process of spontaneous combustion, and sounding more and more Welsh as his periods lengthened and rolled. He was more than a romantic, he was a fanatical Anglophobe, and I was staggered that anyone could become so verbally violent with so little provocation. With his impetuous temperament I could almost visualise him starting a sort of Welsh ‘underground’ in the hills. ‘The fact is,’ he said, ‘that Soviet Russia is the only country that cares for the rights of small nations… ’

  It was too preposterous. I certainly wasn’t going to get involved in an argument with him. He must have seen my hand groping for my book, for the torrent suddenly ceased. He gave a rather embarrassed laugh, and changed the subject.

  ‘Anyway, Verney,’ he said, ‘what are you doing these days? Are you still with the Record?’

  I told him I was.

  His black eyebrows arched. ‘And the Russians have given you a visa? I thought all the correspondents who were in Moscow during the war were out of favour.’

  ‘Only those who wrote books about it when they got away. I didn’t write a book.’

  He chuckled, throwing his head back. He was given to rather theatrical gestures. ‘Did you want to go back, or is this just a job?’

  ‘A bit of both. I must say I’m looking forward to seeing Moscow again. I don’t suppose it’s changed a lot in six years, but some of the old things were pretty good … Lepeshinskaya at the Bolshoi; and boeuf Stroganov at the Aragvi, with a bottle of Mukuzani!’

  ‘You sound quite nostalgic.’

  ‘You can call it that. I always liked the people, you know. It’s the tragedy of this century that we haven’t been able to get together with them in a civilised way.’

  ‘No wonder they gave you a visa!’

  ‘For liking the Russian people? There’s no visa-appeal in that. It can work the other way if you like them too much.’ I took out my pipe and settled down more comfortably in the corner. ‘Tell me about this delegation of yours – who’s on it? Anyone I’d know from the old days?’

  ‘I doubt it. Several of them were in Moscow during the war, but before your time, I think. You came in forty-three, didn’t you? Let’s see, now – there’s Mullett, of course.’

  ‘The pompous ass? Yes, I know about him.’

  Thomas shot me a quick glance, and then grinned. ‘So he is. I can’t stand that over-bearing manner. Well, then, there’s Robson Bolting, the Labour M.P for Longside – have you met him?’

  ‘Not in the flesh,’ I said. ‘I know him by reputation, of course.’

  Robson Bolting, indeed, was almost as much publicised a figure as Mullett himself. I was a little vague about his personal background, but I had an idea that he’d been attached to the Moscow Embassy in some quite minor capacity during the early part of the war. In any case, about that time he’d caught the pro-Russian fever, and in the General Election of 1945 when people had believed that ‘Left could speak to Left’ his attitude had helped to carry him into Parliament for what had always been regarded as a safe Tory seat. Since then he had become outstanding as a leader of a dangerous little group of ‘fellow-travellers.’ Personally, I found his approach nauseating. He’d go out of his way to admit that Russia was by no means always right, yet on all practical issues he’d advocate the policies she favoured. He’d agree that the Russians had been ‘difficult,’ but he’d somehow manage to leave the impression that the post-war breach had been our fault. He’d publicly regret Communist intolerance behind the Iron Curtain, but that wouldn’t prevent him putting his name to telegrams of salutation and friendship on appropriate occasions. He’d hotly deny that he was a Communist, but he’d never mind appearing on the same platform as one. His attitude to the United States was the same as his attitude to Russia, but in reverse. He’d acknowledge that we owed something to America, praising with faint damns, but if an opportunity came to blacken her, he’d rush in with joy. He was either very clever or very naïve, and I didn’t believe he was naïve. If, as seemed clear, the Russians were setting great store by Mullett’s delegation, Bolting was an obvious choice.

  ‘Well, then there’s Schofield,’ Thomas went on. ‘You know, the Professor of Economics. He’s rather a cold fish. He was in Moscow, too, early in the war – on some financial mission. Q
uite brilliant, I believe.’

  I nodded. Schofield was not much more than a name to me, but he was a big name. He was one of the most incisive of the intellectuals who had gone over to the Russian side. There had been a movement, I remembered, to have him sacked from his University or deprived of his Chair or something, but it hadn’t come to anything. I tried to recall some of the books he’d written – mainly re-interpretations of Marx, I rather thought, and textbooks with innocent-sounding titles like ‘Value, Price and Profit’ that were absolute dynamite if you could understand them.

  ‘Then there’s Miss Manning,’ Thomas said. ‘Perdita Manning, you know – the sculptress.’

  I didn’t know. ‘Is she any good?’

  ‘Oh, I think so.’ He looked a bit self-conscious. ‘I believe she’s a leading exponent of socialist realism. Very down on the Greeks.’ He had the grace to laugh. ‘Not that I know much about it. They think a lot of her in Russia, though, I can tell you that. They’re giving some special reception for her.’

  ‘Let’s hope I’ll qualify for an invitation,’ I said. ‘Well, who else?’

  ‘There’s a fellow called Richard Tranter – an official of one of the big peace societies, I forget just which. He’s a pleasant chap, rather quiet – got a gammy leg. Then there’s Cressey – he’s a factory worker, a protégé of Mullett’s. And of course, Mrs Clarke.’

  ‘The dancing girl?’

  He looked startled, and then broke into a loud laugh. His sense of humour seemed to be normal enough except when he was talking about Wales. ‘Oh, you saw her on the platform? Yes, she’s the representative of some Co-operative Women’s League in South London – always talking about “the Co-op point of view!” Perdita can’t stand her, but they get left together a good deal as they’re the only two women. The real trouble with Mrs Clarke is that she’s not used to all this drink and it goes to her head. She’s sleeping off the effects now. I daren’t think what she’ll be like in Moscow.’

  I grinned. If you ever have to carry her through the revolving doors at the Astoria, I trust I’ll be there. That’s where you’ll all be staying, I suppose?’

  ‘I imagine so. It’s not exactly a gay hotel, but I’m quite looking forward to getting back there. Last time I was there… ’

  His reminiscences were cut short by the appearance of Miss Manning. ‘Oh, here you are, Islwyn.’ She pronounced his name ‘Izzle-win’; obviously in order to tease him. She gave me a rather condescending glance, and Thomas introduced us. She was very striking. She had sleek, beautifully-dressed dark hair, deep blue eyes under long dark lashes, and pale, aquiline features. She was of medium height, but slender, and the expensively-tailored, close-fitting costume she was wearing made her look taller than she was.

  She sat down and looked lazily across at me. ‘What paper do you write for?’ she asked.

  I told her the Record.

  ’Really? How can you bear it?’ She had an infuriating drawl.

  Her eyes travelled round the compartment and she gave an exclamation of mild annoyance. ‘You don’t mean to say you’ve got this place all to yourself?’

  I smiled. ‘Naturally. I’m a capitalist pariah.’

  I could see that she was mentally working out possible permutations and combination and not getting anywhere, except back with Mrs Clarke.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘you’re going to write a lot of nonsense about Russia?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to write, yet.’

  ‘That’s unusual – most correspondents make up their minds before they’ve even seen the place.’

  ‘I’ve been there before,’ I said. ‘Have you?’

  ‘This is my fifth visit,’ she said loftily.

  I nodded. ‘Those pre-war conducted tours were such good value, weren’t they?’ Leningrad and Moscow, a few days in the Crimea or the Caucasus, a trip down the Volga… “Will you give me now, please, your sight-seeing coupons!” Delightful!’

  It may surprise you to learn, Mr Verney, that I’ve made quite a study of the country and that I’d like very much to work there.’

  ‘You’d have to lower your standards a bit,’ I said. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that sort of thing from a fashionable woman.

  ‘That simply shows how little you know.

  As a matter of fact, people with creative imagination make an excellent living in Russia. Not that that’s so important – what matters is that they can feel some sense of purpose there, too. It’s the only country in the world where the artist knows exactly where he’s going.’

  ‘I knew one who went to a forced labour camp.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ she said, without heat. Her air of conscious superiority was hard to take. Thomas was gazing at her in evident admiration. I could easily have lost my temper, but the luncheon bell saved me. Perdita got up, very gracefully. ‘How tedious all this eating is!’ She gave me a disdainful nod. ‘Coming, Izzle-win?’ He went after her happily, like a puppy called to heel.

  I lingered for a while. I didn’t much fancy having to listen to the eight of them going into an ecstatic huddle over Russia in the dining-car. In the end, however, hunger called – I was too recently out of England to share Perdita’s view that eating was a bore.

  A couple of compartments along, I almost collided with an emerging Mrs Clarke. She was a plump, large-framed woman, with a neck and chin that formed one massif of flesh. Her face was flushed, and she seemed to be having a little difficulty with her breathing.

  Was that the lunch bell, dear?’ she asked, and then she noticed that I was a stranger. ‘Oh, excuse me,’ she said, pushing a fuzz of dark, dyed hair behind her ear, ‘I didn’t know… ‘

  I smiled. ‘Yes, it was the lunch bell.’

  ‘I don’t think I want any lunch. Something I had for breakfast hasn’t agreed with me. If you’re going in there, I wonder if you’d mind telling some friends of mine that I’m feeling a bit poorly?’

  ‘You mean Mr Mullett and company? Yes, I’ll tell them.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, I’m sure.’ Mrs Clarke looked at me with new interest. ‘Are you joining the delegation?’

  ‘No, I’m a newspaperman.’

  ‘Oh, one of them!’ I feared I was to be plunged back into pariahdom. ‘Well, mind you write the truth, that’s all. The working class has come into its own in Russia, and don’t you forget it. There’s no “nobs” there; it’s fair do’s for everybody. You put that in your paper, young man, and you won’t go far wrong.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ I said gravely. I would have passed on, but there was barely room to squeeze by. ‘How are you enjoying the trip, Mrs Clarke?’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, ‘but I can’t stay I’ll be sorry when we get there. Tiring, that’s what it is. On your feet the whole time – it’s worse than canvassing. But they’re all such nice people. Give you a real welcome, they do, and no class distinctions. Look at those flowers they give Miss Manning and me – makes you feel like a princess.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ I said. ‘I’ve just had the pleasure of meeting Miss Manning.’

  Mrs Clarke’s face lit up. ‘Now there’s a real nice girl for you,’ she said. ‘Got money, you know, but she doesn’t boast about it. We go around everywhere together – you wouldn’t find that happening in England, would you? But she believes in the working class. A bit stiff she was, at first, but I soon put her at her ease. “Call me Ethel,” I said, “we might as well start the way we’re going on.” Now we’re just like sisters. We have fine old times together, going to meetings and parties and theatres.’

  For the first time I felt a certain regard for Perdita. At least she’d taken the trouble to conceal her real feelings from her companion.

  ‘She’s clever, too,’ Mrs Clarke went on. ‘She does these statues and things. Real people, like Madame Tussauds, only in marble. ‘Course, I’ve only seen photos – she’s brought lots of photos with her. Clever – you’d never believe! They’re going to give her a sort of sw
orry when we get to Moscow, and she’s going to do a statue of Comrade Stalin’s head if he’s got time. Mind you, he’s a very busy man, we know that, but he wouldn’t have to stop working, would he? Good luck to her, I say. Oh, well, I mustn’t keep you from your dinner. Don’t forget to tell ‘em, will you – I’m all right, you know, but just off me food.’

  I said I wouldn’t forget, and walked through to the dining-car. I was still being segregated – the attendant showed me to a place on the opposite side of the gangway from the delegation and a couple of tables away. The Red Army officers were also on their own.

  Thomas nodded to me, and when he could get a word in he introduced me to Mullett across the gap.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mullett affably, ‘a gentleman of the Press, eh? Well, we shall all have to mind our P’s and Q’s now. What paper, Mr Verney?’

  ‘The Record.’ I said, feeling slightly aggressive.

  ‘Ah – the Record.’ He gave a sigh of well-mannered disappointment. ‘I can’t say it’s a paper I see very often myself. A little – er – sensational, perhaps. However… ’ In turn he introduced me to the other delegates.

  I said: ‘Oh, Mrs Clarke asked me to tell you that she wouldn’t be in to lunch. She isn’t feeling very well.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Mullett. ‘I hope the celebrations haven’t been too much for her.’ Robson Bolting looked across at Perdita.

  ’Mightn’t it be as well, perhaps, to see if she needs anything?’

  ‘All she needs is a rest,’ said Perdita. ‘She’ll be much better left alone.’

  He nodded. ‘I daresay you’re right.’

  ‘After all,’ she added, with a touch of malice, ‘it isn’t as though she’s one of your constituents.’

  Bolting’s eyes twinkled, but he made no reply, and Islwyn Thomas jealously engaged Perdita’s attention again.