Come into my Parlour Page 5

  Gregory raised an eyebrow. “So that’s the idea. Well, it seems a very sound proposition.”

  “Oh, it fits in with your theory about encouraging the Russians to keep the main German Army occupied on the ground while we hammer hell out of Germany from the air. But if we rob all our new divisions of the weapons they should be receiving to send the stuff to the Bolshies, and they do collapse by the autumn, we’ll look a pretty lot of fools, won’t we?”

  “You certainly would,” Gregory laughed. “What a problem! I certainly don’t envy the people whose responsibility it is to pass judgement on that one.”

  “You’re right, my boy. To send or not to send this stuff to Russia is probably the most important decision we’ll be called on to make during the whole war. No good taking half measures. That’s a sure road to ruin, whatever happens. We’ve got to back the Bolshies for all we’re worth and take a chance on being left naked ourselves next spring, or play for safety now with the prospect of having to fight the Germans on our own again in a few months’ time. Now you see why the people who have to make that decision are so desperately anxious to know what the real chances are of the Russians being able to fight on through the winter if we hand over our weapons to them.”

  “It’s taking on the hell of a lot, but I’ll do my best for you. There’s one serious snag, though, I can only speak about ten words of Russian.”

  “I thought of that. I want you to take that tame Bolshevik of yours with you to act as your interpreter, General Kupopoff, or something. Never could get the hang of these foreign names.”

  “You mean Stefan Kuporovitch?”

  “That’s it. How’s he hitting it off with that French gel he married? Pretty little baggage. Have they been enjoying themselves at Gwaine Meads?”

  “Who could help enjoying themselves at your lovely home? They’ve been having a marvellous honeymoon, and fortunately Madeleine and Erika like each other, so all four of us have been living on top of the world. Still, I don’t think Stefan could go back to Russia.”

  “Why? Has that French piece of nonsense tied him to her apron strings?”

  “No, it’s not that. They’ve had a longer honeymoon than most people get who marry in the middle of a war, so I don’t think she’d stand in his way. And, as a matter of fact, ever since the Germans began to get the best of it he’s been itching to get back to fight for his country.”

  “Well, here’s his opportunity—anyhow, to do some useful work for the cause of the Allies.”

  “That’s all very well, but if he went back to Russia it’s a million to a sack of potatoes that Stalin’s boys would shoot him.”

  “I thought he was a pal of Voroshilov’s?”

  “So he was. He started life as a Czarist officer; but like all the more intelligent ones he was a Liberal, and more by force of circumstances than anything else he found himself on the side of the Reds. He served under Voroshilov at Tzaritsin and formed a great attachment to him, so, pretty naturally, from that point he continued his military career. But by the time I met him at Kandalaksha he was fed up to the back teeth with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and all its works. That’s why he decided to clear out with me. So you see he’s really a deserter from the Russian Army.”

  Sir Pellinore stroked his fine white moustache thoughtfully for a moment, then he said: “I’ve got over worse fences than that in my time. We’ll make him a naturalised Englishman and give him a British passport. Thousands of Russians have fled the country in the last twenty years and taken other nationalities. Scores of ’em have gone back too, and been none the worse for it.”

  “That certainly is an idea,” Gregory agreed. “And now that Britain and Russia are allies it’s hardly likely that they’d deliberately pick a quarrel with us over an interpreter attached to our Mission.”

  “No. At worst they might say that he’s persona ingrata, and ask our Ambassador to send him home; but if he keeps himself well in the background he may not even be recognised.”

  “How is Sir Stafford doing in Moscow?”

  “As well as can be expected. Cripps is a clever fellow—very able man. So was Karl Marx, but I can’t see him as the hit of the season at the court of Queen Victoria.”

  “Oh, come,” Gregory smiled. “That’s no fair comparison. Surely it was paying the Russians a pleasant compliment to send them our leading Communist, as they are Communists themselves.”

  “Are they?” Sir Pellinore ceased his pacing and fixed Gregory with his bright blue eyes. “Maybe they were in Trotsky’s time, but in all but name they’ve been National Socialists for years. Anyhow, Cripps may be as patriotic as Winston, but the fact remains that in Russian eyes he does not represent British thought or feeling. The way to have won their confidence would have been to send ’em the Duke of Gloucester. They’d have been so flattered they would have eaten out of our hands, and you wouldn’t have been able to see Moscow for Union Jacks. I put that up to one or two people, but they wouldn’t listen. And after all, why should they? Everyone knows I’ve got no brains—no brains at all!”

  Gregory’s mocking laugh was cut short by the appearance of the elderly butler to announce lunch.

  “Well, that’s enough of your smoking-room stories, my boy,” Sir Pellinore gave a broad wink. “Got to get down to business while we eat. This plaguy rationing is a darn sight more of a nuisance than the bombs, but at least that house-painter feller can’t stop us getting lobsters off our shores, and some of those nectarines you brought up won’t go down too badly with a bottle of Yquem.”

  Having partaken of Sir Pellinore’s Lucullan hospitality, Gregory made a few purchases in the West End, spent an hour at his club and caught the six-ten back to Shrewsbury, where a car met him and carried him to Gwaine Meads in time for a late supper.

  The major part of Sir Pellinore’s stately home was now an R.A.F. hospital. Before the war was twenty-four hours old he had said to one of his friends in the Air Ministry: “Have the place fitted up for as many convalescents as it will hold and send the bill to me. No commandeering, mind. Everyone who stays, patients, nurses, doctors, gillies, cooks—are all my guests, and each one is to be told so individually. It’s not that I want any thanks, but if they know that they’ll have the decency to refrain from burning the Jacobean staircase and making bawdy additions to my Angelica Kaufmann frescoes. Send me a monthly account of what it costs to run and I’ll pay the whole shooting match, but the west wing is to remain untouched and at my disposal. I may want to send friends there to recuperate if they’ve been through a rough time. Understand?”

  The Air Marshal, being a man of sense, had “understood” and, at the price of considerable inroads into even his enormous fortune, the elderly Baronet still enjoyed the amenities of a dozen rooms in his beautiful country home, although he was much too occupied with the war ever to go there himself.

  Since Erika had been evacuated from Dunkirk he had insisted on her making her home there, so Gregory also spent nearly all his time at Gwaine Meads whenever he was in England. At the moment, Sir Pellinore’s other private guests consisted of Stefan Kuporovitch and Madeleine; an elderly scientist who was recovering from a breakdown due to overwork and a young Guards officer who had recently been cashiered. The others did not know it, but he had acquiesced in fake charges being laid against him for highly secret reasons. None of Sir Pellinore’s guests ever enquired into one another’s business. It was quite sufficient for them that they had all been sponsored by him, and they got on excellently.

  Although Erika lived in the private wing she had long since taken on voluntary duties in the hospital, and Madeleine, being a fully trained nurse had, after a brief holiday, also joined the staff. In consequence, the two girls were busy most of the day, so on the Friday morning Gregory had no difficulty in getting Kuporovitch to himself.

  In this second summer of the war the gardens had lost some of their former splendour, but a few old gardeners managed to keep them tidy and a number of the convalescents often
amused themselves by running the motor mower over the lawns, so the turf on to which Gregory led his friend, in order to be out of earshot of everybody, was still smooth and springy.

  “I saw Sir Pellinore yesterday,” Gregory opened up in French, which they still used as a common language. “And he wants me to do a job for him in Russia.”

  “Mais, mon vieux!” The Russian’s black eyebrows, that contrasted so strangely with his grey hair, lifted, wrinkling his smooth forehead. “You would be crazy to attempt under-cover work there, seeing that you can hardly speak a word of Russian.”

  “That’s exactly what I said, and he suggested that I should take you as my interpreter.”

  Kuporovitch’s lazy blue eyes remained quite expressionless for a moment, then he said: “You know as well as I do that for me to return to Russia is to court death. Yet I am not afraid to die, and would risk my life willingly if by so doing I can serve my country.”

  “Sir Pellinore proposes that, if you agree to go, he should take out naturalisation papers on your behalf. You would not only travel on a British passport but enjoy the full protection of our Embassy. He seemed quite confident that then, even if you were recognised, you would remain immune from arrest.”

  “That is an idea. I doubt if it would be sufficient protection in ordinary times. The Ogpu would arrange that I met with an ‘accident’ and send your Ambassador their regrets. But we Russians are realists. We do not cut off our noses to spite our faces. It is unlikely that they would interfere with me if I have taken British nationality and they are also given reasons to believe that I am fulfilling a useful function with their British Allies.”

  “Good. I’m sure that could all be fixed up; and I need hardly say how much I’d like to have you with me; but there would still be the risk of their catching us prying into their affairs.”

  “Mon ami, again I can only say to you that I am willing to risk my life if by so doing I can serve my country. But, on the face of it, to return there as the secret agent of a foreign Power seems a strange way to do so.”

  They had reached the long herbaceous border, now a little past its best, but still bright with a multitude of flowers that were just beginning to seed. As they turned back towards the terrace of the house Gregory did not reply and they paced on in silence for a little, two figures apparently much of a height. Actually Gregory was several inches taller than the Russian, but his head was thrust forward as usual in a predatory slouch while Kuporovitch’s broad shoulders and bulky torso were largely offset by the fact that a lifetime of military service caused him to carry himself rigidly erect.

  Gregory was in a quandary. He wanted to be fair to his friend, yet, at the same time he had the interests of his own country to think of. He knew that it would be impossible to accomplish his mission without a reliable interpreter, and that his chances of finding one who would also prove such a courageous and resourceful companion as Kuporovitch were extremely slender. At length he said:

  “What do you think of Russia’s chances, Stefan? Do you reckon she will be able to hold this German onslaught and stick it out till next spring?”

  “Of course she will,” Kuporovitch replied with quiet confidence. “We may have to give much more ground, but that has always been Russia’s strategy. Her war machine is so vast that it will take months to get it into full operation. I doubt even if her mobilisation will be completed until this time next year. But then you will see. It will indeed be ‘death to the German invaders’!”

  “Yes. I realise the immensity of Russia’s resources. But the Blitzkrieg, with its armoured spearheads racing ahead at fifty miles a day, is a new form of warfare. Isn’t it possible that she might be knocked out by the capture of most of her principal cities before she’s had a chance really to get going?”

  Kuporovitch shook his round bullet-head. “No. We have always believed that one day the Germans would attack us, and years ago Voroshilov, as Commissar for Defence, made his plans accordingly. Today our main munition plants are in places like Sverdlovsk, Omsk, Tobolsk, Petropavlovsk and Cheliabinsk, all right back behind the Urals; and a constant stream of reserve formations will be brought forward into the battle. It will be a hard war for many of our poor people, but even the fall of Leningrad, Kiev, Odessa and Moscow could not put us out of the war, and our soldiers will not lay down their arms while there is one Hitlerite bandit left on Russian soil.”

  Gregory sighed. “How I wish our people would accept your word for all that; then it wouldn’t be necessary for me to make this trip. Still, if you’re convinced of that yourself, Stefan, I can set your conscience at rest. In order to decide on its own future strategy the British Government want me to go out to assess Russia’s capacity for remaining in the war. As long as they have any doubt about that they’re bound to play for safety, but once satisfied they could take all sorts of risks which should have the effect of bringing about the final defeat of Germany very much sooner. So if you can help me to prove that your beliefs are correct you’ll be rendering a great service to your own country.”

  “In that case, mon vieux, I am your man. My countrymen have a habit of giving short shrift to people whom they catch trying to find out their secrets, so we shall have to be very, very careful; but that is all the more reason, knowing something of their methods, that I should go with you.”

  “Bless you, Stefan.” Gregory linked his arm affectionately through that of the Russian. “I honestly think I’d funk this job on my own, but with you to help me the chances of getting back to Gwaine Meads again are increased a thousandfold.”

  “When do we leave?”

  “We catch the morning train to London on Monday and dine with Sir Pellinore that night. After that it will be up to him; but he can get all sorts of things done in a few days that take other people months. So if I telephone to him at lunch time that you’ve agreed to play he’ll probably have your naturalisation papers pushed through over the weekend. It would be as well, I think, to anglicise your name at the same time. Fewer questions are likely to be asked if the passport is issued to Mr. Stephen Cooper.”

  “Yes, that is sound. I fear though that the little Madeleine will take my departure badly.”

  “So will Erika; but they both know that we’re not the sort of chaps to sit at home indefinitely while there’s a war on, and at rock bottom they wouldn’t think much of us if we did. After all, we’re lucky to have had a month here; but I suggest that we shouldn’t say anything about our being off again till Sunday night.”

  “I agree. Then the prospect of parting will not shadow our last weekend here, and we’ll do our damnedest to make it a super good one.”

  “That’s it,” Gregory laughed. “Let’s eat, drink and be merry while we may. What about a visit to the peach houses, to collect some fruit for lunch?”

  That night and for the two days that followed they lived up to their intention and nobody but the two girls who loved them would have suspected that they had a care in the world, but perhaps it was their grasping with such fresh zest at every pleasure that offered which made both Madeleine and Erika slightly uneasy.

  In consequence, when Gregory took Erika out on to the terrace after dinner on the Sunday night and said: “I’ve got some news for you,” she replied at once:

  “I know, darling. You’re going abroad again, aren’t you?”

  “So you guessed,” he smiled, and picking her up sat her on the stone balustrade, so that her golden head came nearly level with his own.

  “It wasn’t very difficult.” She put a soft arm around his neck, “Your going up to London on Thursday, and then your love-making having been so hectic ever since.”

  His tight-lipped mouth twisted into a grin that brought deep furrows each side of it to his lean cheeks. “So I overdid it, eh?”

  “No, my sweet. You could never overdo making love to me, but that’s how I guessed.”

  “Well, there it is. As a matter of fact I had two pieces of news for you and I’ve a penny here still clutched
in one hand. I was going to ask you to guess which fist it was in, and if you’d picked the one with the penny you’d have had the good news first. Still, you beat me to it and know the worst now. I’m off on my travels again tomorrow morning.”

  “Is it—is it Germany?” she asked, with a little catch in her voice.

  “No. I don’t think you need worry overmuch this time. I’m going to Russia.”

  “Russia! But the Russians are fighting Hitler too. You know I’m not trying to pry but I simply can’t imagine why Sir Pellinore should be sending you there.”

  “There’s no harm in my telling you, because even if the Nazis knew they couldn’t stop me, or do anything to interfere with my activities, and there’s nothing at all specific about my mission. I’m simply going to try to find out what everybody would like to know. How long the Russians can hope to resist the German armies; how much of their man-power they can really put into the field; how much territory they can afford to give away, and that sort of thing; and, incidentally, the state of Stalin’s health.”

  “I see. Yes, I suppose it is important that the British should secure their own really reliable information about that sort of thing. But everything in Russia is hidden behind a veil of secrecy, and the Russians are such strange ruthless people that, even now they are your allies, I shall be frightened for you till you get back.”

  “I’m taking Stefan with me.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad. I suppose that’s selfish of me, because poor Madeleine will be heartbroken. She simply adores that dear old tough. But he’s as cunning as a monkey and as courageous as his national bear; and he knows the ways of those grim compatriots of his, as well. It’ll be a tremendous comfort to me to know he’s with you. But can he go back? I thought—”