Treasure in Roubles, page 7
‘It was probably ours,’ Mrs Vauxley announced stiffly.
‘Of course you’re sharing with Mr Frenk, Nigel,’ said Molly. ‘Where is he?’
‘Gone down already.’
‘The water from the samovar must be for making tea,’ Edwina half questioned as she and Treasure walked down the stairs together.
‘Yes. Ready browned water too. It’s free but I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,’ said Molly who was behind with Dirving. The other two ladies were taking the lift.
‘You drank it in your half cup of coffee this morning and begged for more,’ remarked her husband.
‘So I did. I suppose it’s all right if it’s boiled.’ But Molly sounded chastened.
As the visitor descends into the Astoria’s long, high reception hall, the residents’ lounge, the bank, the Intourist desk, and the barber’s shop are to the left, with the coffee shop and night club further along around a corner. To the right is the reception desk, and beyond, past the main entrance, the cloakroom and magazine stand are two large, adjoining restaurants. The one on the right is the grander of the two with small tables, a dance band playing at night, an à la carte menu and a clientele in the main affluent, upper class Russian but with a sprinkling of official foreign guests. The other restaurant is much busier, has larger tables, and provides table d’hôte meals for package tourists.
This second restaurant was crowded at six-thirty with most of the tables occupied by groups from various nationalities. The Baroque Circle table for sixteen was near the centre of the room, set between two tables whose occupants were speaking German. All fifteen members of the British party were present: the extra place was empty because Valya Sinitseva who joined them for breakfast and lunch stopped her official duties at six.
‘Wonder what they call this fish?’ asked Gloria Blinton from half way down the table in her little altered from girlhood, throaty East London accent. ‘Funny colour if you ask me. Tastes all right though, d’you think?’
‘Looks to me like the piece of cod that passeth all understanding,’ said Nigel sitting opposite. ‘Sorry, Canon. Slipped out.’
‘Fish slipping out. You are a card, Nigel,’ said Gloria looking up and down the table for agreement. None was registered. She pulled a face at Dirving and went back to her eating.
Canon Emdon began stroking the end of his prominent nose—a characteristic gesture some of the others recognised as a preliminary to speech. ‘North Sea cod probably, and better than any … ish caught in the local waters,’ he said. ‘The brown colour would come from the cooking pans. Or the water.
‘Oh Lord!’ said Gloria. ‘Well, you only live once.’
‘Drink plenty of the wine,’ advised Wander, filling her glass. He was sitting on her left. ‘Topping antidote for anything nasty.’ He put down the bottle and placed a reassuring hand over hers for a moment—quite a long moment.
‘Guten Abend, Herr Doktor.’ The German who greeted Emdon had stopped behind Wander’s chair. He was heavily built, and about the canon’s own age. His head was completely shaven, and steel-rimmed spectacles added to his somewhat sinister appearance. Without waiting for acknowledgment he bowed, turned about and took a seat at the adjacent table. The American blinked and returned to his fish without comment.
‘… locked it and left the key with the floor concierge. Expect a maid took it,’ Sol Blinton was explaining to Molly further along the table.
‘What did you get up to this afternoon, Mr Blinton?’ asked Effie Tate who was across from him.
‘I saw the two of you take off in a taxi. Very grand,’ Candy Royce put in loudly from nearby.
‘Also quite cheap, would you believe?’ said Blinton, briefly gesturing towards her with one bent arm and wearing a good-natured grin on his round, cherubic face. ‘The driver spoke some English. Better than my Russian, I’m telling you. He took us over the river to what’s called the Petrograd side. That’s the four islands to the north. Very populated. We went to the Peter-Paul fortress. It’s where Peter the Great started the city in seventeen hundred and three. Everybody should see that. It’s quite something. The cathedral especially. Then we toured all round in the cab.’
‘The Jewish quarter’s up there perhaps, Mr Blinton?’ asked Mrs Vauxley in a patronising voice.
‘Maybe.’ He considered for a moment, then shrugged and continued, ‘My grandfather lived in this city. Died here. We were looking for his house.’
‘And your father? Did he …?’ This was Reggie Tate.
‘He died in France. In nineteen-sixteen. In action. With the City of London Fusiliers.’
‘… I get migraines from time to time. Often after a journey of some length,’ Rudy Frenk was explaining to Felicity Wander in his pedantic, accented English.
‘Yah. Too crippling. A drag it kept you in today.’ Felicity brought a pepper pot close up to her face to identify it before shaking it over her carrots as well as a large area of tablecloth.
‘The coach will leave at seven prompt,’ Candy announced, getting up from the table. ‘I have to go back upstairs. Don’t forget your opera tickets.’
‘Not having your pudding, Candy dear?’ enquired Mrs Tate solicitously. Dessert on both evenings had been slices of plain cake put on the table before the meal began.
‘Reggie can have mine. He needs feeding up,’ the girl joked in answer.
‘No fruit at any meal so far,’ complained Mrs Vauxley.
‘Valya said none is grown around here, and it’s difficult to transport,’ said her companion.
‘What rot,’ countered Dirving. ‘Might as well say there’s no petrol because the oil wells are somewhere else.’
‘We brought fruit with us,’ beamed Sol Binton. ‘Apples.’ His hand went to a side pocket as if he was going to produce one, but he didn’t: he looked puzzled instead.
‘He eats two apples a day. Throws away the best part though. The peel,’ his wife informed everybody.
Frenk made as if to speak, then thought better of it and helped himself to cake.
Treasure was sitting at the head of the table with a view of the door. Molly and Edwina were on either side of him. He had been watching Candy leave. ‘Who’s that chap sitting by himself d’you suppose?’ he asked.
Molly turned her head. ‘At the little table near the door? A music lover escaping from that dreadful band in the other room.’
‘I’ve been watching him too,’ said Edwina. ‘He’s not eaten anything. Just drinks and studies the people. Mostly us.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ commented the banker. ‘Did you notice the way he watched Candy just now?’
‘Shows excellent taste then.’ Molly smiled. ‘D’you have to pay for the wine before we can go, darling?’
‘Please let me pay,’ said Edwina. ‘This is the second time I’ve drunk your wine.’
‘And you’re welcome to do so for the duration of the stay,’ Treasure replied expansively. ‘There’s not much choice, but it’s not bad and it’s remarkably cheap. I just have to remember to pay for it at each meal. They don’t let you sign or put it on the bill.’ He looked about him. ‘Trouble is there’s no proper wine waiter.’
‘Or head waiter, either. No one seems to be in charge,’ said Molly. ‘That’s why I couldn’t complain about the coffee at breakfast. Ah, there’s the one who served the wine. Waiter!’ she called.
‘My wine bill, please,’ said Treasure to the man who didn’t immediately understand. He tried again. ‘How much for the wine?’
The waiter looked from side to side, then stooped to mutter: ‘Three packs of Marlboro, OK?’
Chapter Seven
‘Drink?’ Treasure asked his wife as they left their seats for the second interval during the opera. ‘This production really is tremendous.’
‘Best we’ll ever see,’ she agreed. ‘No drink this time, thanks. A glass of that nice champagne again in the next interval, perhaps. Can we go up to the perambulatory—or whatever it’s called?’
‘If you like. It looked fun.’
‘Glad we’re in the orchestra stalls. It’s odd we’re the only ones from the group down here.’
‘Luck of the draw. What I was handed at the Intourist desk in the hotel. Seats obviously aren’t allocated on a group basis. Only in pairs. Good thing in a way. Makes it less like a works’ outing.’
‘Daphne Vauxley’s not very pleased with where she and Amelia are sitting. Second tier, I think, but I don’t see them.’
Treasure raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Mrs Vauxley was hard to please.
The elegant Kirov opera house with its bright gilded decor was built in 1860 in the classic style with rococo trimmings. It has a pitched auditorium floor, and five narrow tiers lining the horseshoe interior rising one above the next, each fronted by prettily moulded balconies. Intruding at the back, and dead centre to the stage, is the arched, blue canopied royal box occupying the width of ten seats and the height of three tiers. The stall seating consists of rows of upholstered chairs in the Chippendale style.
The spectacle of the massive stage was perfect from where the Treasures were sitting, half way back in the centre. They had learned from others in their party, encountered in the first interval, that the view was not nearly so good from the three-rowed tiers, except for those in the front seats.
‘I still can’t get over that waiter wanting to barter cigarettes for the wine. In the best hotel in Leningrad,’ said the banker as they made their way out of the auditorium. ‘And after over sixty-five years of applied socialism. It’s really rather sad.’
‘I gather Russian cigarettes are pretty foul.’
‘That is so, madam,’ said the amused, well dressed man who was holding a door open for Molly, and who she found vaguely familiar. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m Russian, you understand. If your waiter asked for kind not cash, it’s not exactly barter. In my country traditionally a waiter owns the food and wine he brings you from the kitchen. If you don’t pay for it for any reason then he must. By extension it is thus his property to sell in kind if he wishes, so long as he doesn’t ask for greater value than the cash price.’
‘It’d complicate life if every waiter did it,’ observed Treasure, amiably.
‘Of course. And none of them should. You’re right, it is rather sad. I offered the point as an explanation not a pure defence. You paid him?’
‘In cash. We neither of us smoke.’
‘I’m glad. Good evening. Enjoy your stay, Mr Treasure. A great honour to have you with us … and your famous wife.’ The man bowed and melted into the crowd.
‘Charming. And he must go to my movies,’ said Molly, glowing. ‘Wasn’t he our lone diner at the hotel this evening?’
‘I think so. I wonder …?’ Treasure frowned then shrugged dismissively. ‘It’s this way isn’t it?’ He led her along the overcrowded curved corridor flanking the auditorium. It was punctuated by archways and steps to a lower, wider corridor serving the cloakrooms and the short stairs down to the box office foyer where smoking was allowed. But they took the first stairway leading upwards.
‘What a divine performance,’ called Nigel Dirving who they ran into on the next floor outside the royal box. ‘Seen Edwina or Candy have you? Promised them a drink. But I’m dying for a smoke.’ He nodded towards the open double doors to the box where its occupants, a group of high ranking army officers and their wives, were conversing over glasses of champagne. ‘Never seen a British general at Covent Garden.’
‘Not in uniform, perhaps,’ Treasure answered. ‘I know a number of musical generals.’
‘Is the m … en’s room this way, d’you know?’ Canon Emdon had appeared at Treasure’s side and was whispering urgently in his ear. ‘Long act that one. Ah!’ He hurried onwards where he could see a male queue forming.
Further along they saw Felicity Wander in the crush but she didn’t see them. It seemed she was alone although she might simply have lost sight of her husband.
Gloria Blinton was definitely by herself. She greeted them at the foot of another staircase. ‘Going for an ice, are you? I am. Sol’s giving up. He’s not musical really. And it is going on a bit. Lovely ices though. I had one in the last interval. Well you got to have something to keep you going, haven’t you? See you, then.’ Flushed and bubbly she elbowed her way through the wide archway that led to the icecream counter.
‘Here we are, I think,’ said Treasure.
The columned doorway led into the high-ceilinged, chandelier-lit reception room, which they had noticed earlier. Couples came here in the intervals to progress arm-in-arm, anticlockwise around the carpeted perimeter. It was already fairly full, but a senior looking army officer gallantly made a place for them to slip into ahead of himself and his escort.
‘Now we’re here it makes me terribly self-conscious for some reason,’ laughed Molly taking her husband’s arm. ‘D’you remember doing the Military Two-step?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Well it started just like this. Makes me think we should be dancing. Except there’s no music. Shall we break into a skip?’
‘No,’ he responded promptly for fear she meant it. ‘If we did we’d probably be thrown out. This is a time-honoured ritual.’
‘You’re guessing. That’s a beautiful parquet floor in the centre. The gilt-work and mouldings in this building are gorgeous. And like everything else the place was practically rebuilt after the war. I wonder if this was the ballroom?’
‘Possibly still is.’
‘Is good. Good for legs. No?’ the beaming officer roared from behind them.
‘Good for everything, I should think,’ Molly replied brightly. ‘It’s the voyeurs up there I don’t care for. They make me feel like an exhibit.’
Around fifteen feet of wall in a corner near the doorway had been omitted. This opening, from floor to ceiling, exposed the rising marble balustrade of the staircase outside that Gloria had been descending when they met her. Above this was a balcony. Both these observation points were crammed with mostly young men regarding the people processing below—or perhaps only studying the young women involved there.
‘Isn’t that …?’
As Treasure began to speak there was a sudden sharp commotion on the balcony. What happened was over in seconds but was no less difficult to credit for that. The watchers up there were crying out as they seemed to be thrust forward in a body, clutching each other to stop themselves falling. Then came the sound of one, piercing, agonising shout as the figure of a man at the front and centre separated from the rest, his arms reaching forward grasping at the air. For a split second he hovered like a gargoyle. Then, to a chorus of screams, he plunged head first over the balustrade, scattering the people below and crashing to the floor a few paces from where the Treasures were standing.
There were more screams and gasps while some of the horrified onlookers pressed forward to see the stricken man. Others, closer, recoiled from the sight.
It was the army officer who took charge. He conjured up, it seemed from nowhere, a handful of soldiers who at his bidding began clearing back the people. ‘You, please stay,’ he had said to Treasure before issuing a sharp order to the nearest soldier who immediately moved to Molly’s side.
A younger officer hurried in and knelt beside the body. It was very still, splayed out, face nearly downwards, the neck twisted awkwardly. There was a clearly visible tear in the back of the light grey jacket—slightly left of centre, between the shoulder-blades. One could only guess at the substance that had caused the damp patch in the material around and below the tear.
The kneeling man was presumably a doctor. He looked for pulses then turned the body on its side and thrust his ear to the chest. The woman who had followed him in produced a small mirror from her handbag and handed it to him without being asked. He held it to the victim’s mouth looking for the misting signs of breathing on the glass. Treasure was close enough to see that there were none.
The doctor looked up at the senior officer and shook his head.
By this time more soldiers had appeared, some of them wearing caps and greatcoats. They were herding the people from the room, except for a handful of designated couples. Several other senior officers—some of those Treasure remembered seeing in the royal box—had also come in, and with them was the well dressed civilian who had held the door for Molly earlier.
After a brief conversation with the first officer, the civilian turned to the Treasures. ‘My name is Grinyev. Colonel Maxim Grinyev of the Committee for State Security. We spoke earlier. In happier circumstances. The general asked you to stay because he saw you witness what occurred. He thinks if this poor fellow is a foreign tourist it would be better if …’
‘He is. From Britain’ Treasure interrupted. ‘One of our party.’
‘His name is Frenk. Rudolph Frenk,’ said Molly, turning away.
‘I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. You’re comfortable here? They’ve brought wine I see. Is there anything else I can get you?’ Anything at all?’ Colonel Grinyev had entered full of solicitation.
It was thirty minutes since the tragedy. The Treasures had been left alone in this room for most of that time.
‘We’re sorry to be missing the third act.’ Treasure, standing near Molly with a glass of wine, glanced at her as he spoke. ‘But of course we understand.’
‘I’m very grateful to you, sir.’
The colonel was a little under medium height, fit, thickset, and dark, and looking to be in his early forties. His normal expression seemed always to be prefacing announcements of the deferential kind, with a downwardly inclined head lending support to that superficial impression. But to the closer observer, and Treasure was one such, the darting upsearching eyes told more about the man than the gentler attributes like the soft voice and the raised hands clasping and unclasping each other in a nearly obsequious way.
Still there was more of the cultivated civilian than the intelligence officer in the outward composition of this unexpected colonel in the KGB.
The three were in the artistic director’s office at the opera house. It was quite a big room but over-filled with furniture, a grand piano, stage models, musical scores, and other predictable paraphernalia. The Treasures had been conducted here by the soldier first told off to stay with them, and who had made it clear he would be remaining outside the door.
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