The Best of British Crime omnibus (3 page)

‘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. Quite 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 sworry 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.

I finished my soup and sat back to study the delegates. Mullett himself, a big tall man in his late fifties, had seemed to have a certain dignity and power on the platform, but at close quarters it was no longer apparent. He had a large, obstinate forehead with receding red hair. His eyes were small and closely set, and a trick of peering up just under the top rims of his heavy glasses gave him an oddly suspicious expression. He had a little button mouth and a double chin. Altogether, his features looked too small for the size of his face. His hands were white and fat, and as they clove the air in illustration of some point he was making – he was always, it seemed, making a point – pale freckles showed on the backs, and tufts of red hair glistened below each knuckle. His Fleet Street nickname of ‘Red' Mullett was evidently due quite as much to his physical as to his political characteristics.

On his right, looking slightly subdued, was his protégé and pupil in the Russian language, Joe Cressey, a stocky, solid figure in a patently new dark-blue suit. Cressey's pink face was as smooth and shiny as a schoolboy's, and his black hair was plastered down as though he were just off to a party. A long, heavy chin gave him a somewhat ponderous appearance, and his reactions seemed slow.

Robson Bolting was at the second table, with the Professor and Tranter. If I'd known nothing about him I'd have put him down as a successful business man rather than a Labour politician of extreme views. He was about forty-five, with a well-fed, well-dressed appearance and an air of self-confidence and strength. His thick brown hair was swept back from a broad forehead, and he wore glasses with heavy tortoiseshell rims. Though I abhorred his politics, I decided that on the whole I rather liked his face, which was intelligent and not without humour. By contrast, Professor Schofield had a lean and hungry look. He was a man nearer Mullett's age, I guessed; tall, with greying hair and thin sardonic lips. His clothes hung on him and his side-pockets bulged. Tranter, who was quite unknown to me, might have been anything between forty and sixty. A head of beautiful white hair gave him a rather Quakerish appearance and his face had the earnest look of a man devoted to Causes.

Bolting and the Professor seemed to be getting on pretty well together, and their conversation covered a wide field. Tranter made very little contribution himself, but appeared interested and rather impressed by the range of their talk. The other table was still dominated by Mullett, who was telling a long story about how he had been hurriedly evacuated from Moscow to Kuibishev in 1941. I could see Perdita and Islwyn Thomas becoming increasingly restive under his ceaseless monologue. When the arrival of coffee temporarily silenced him, Thomas plunged abruptly into a new topic.

‘The snow should be in wonderful condition after this fall,' he said. ‘How about trying to get some skiing, Perdita?'

She gave him a pitying smile. ‘I can't think of anything I should loathe more.' She didn't look as though outdoor sports were much in her line.

Thomas turned to the other table. ‘You'll come, Bolting, won't you?'

Bolting shook his head. ‘Sorry, Islwyn, count me out. Last time I skied in Moscow I fractured my skull. It'll be a long time before I try again.'

‘What a misfortune!' said Mullett. ‘Very bad luck. However, I'm sure you had the best possible treatment. That's one thing you can always count on in the Soviet Union, Cressey – good medical treatment. I remember… '

‘We'll have to make up a party somehow,' Thomas persisted. ‘What about you, Cressey? Shake your liver up a bit.'

Cressey glanced at Mullett. ‘Well, I'd like to try, Mr Thomas, if it wouldn't inconvenience anybody.'

Mullett looked owlish. ‘I think we should remember,' he said, ‘that we're a serious delegation, and that we have a heavy programme in front of us. There's no reason why we shouldn't take a little recreation, of course, but our hosts have gone to considerable expense to bring us out here and we must be careful not to fritter away our time. As a matter of fact, this may be a suitable moment to discuss our time-table. I had a message from Madame Mirnova just before we left Warsaw, suggesting that if the delegation had any special desires… ' He stopped suddenly, and seemed to remember my presence. ‘I hope we're not disturbing you, Mr Verney? Of course, this isn't of any professional interest to you… '