Red Dusk and the Morrow · Chapter 3 (2/4)

“There is no time like the present, Michael Ivanitch.”

“But there are other things to think of. We will speak of it again when⁠—”

“When⁠—?”

“When you have got Mrs. Marsh out of prison.”

The little man appeared completely to shrivel up when thus dragged brusquely back into the world of crude reality. He flushed for a moment, it seemed to me, with anger, but pulled himself together at once and reassumed his original manner of demonstrative servility.

“At present we have business on hand, Alexei Fomitch,” I added, “and I wish to talk first about that. How do matters stand?”

The Policeman said his agents were busily at work, studying the ground and the possibilities of Mrs. Marsh’s escape. The whole town, he stated, was being searched for Marsh, and the inability to unearth him had already given rise to the suspicion that he had fled. In a day or two the news would be confirmed by Bolshevist agents in Finland. He foresaw an alleviation of Mrs. Marsh’s lot owing to the probable cessation of cross-examinations. It only remained to see whether she would be transferred to another cell or prison, and then plans for escape might be laid.

“Fire ahead,” I said in conclusion. “And when Mrs. Marsh is free⁠—we will perhaps discuss other matters.”

“There is no time like the present, Michael Ivanitch,” repeated the little Policeman, but his voice sounded forlorn.

Meanwhile, what of Melnikoff?

Zorinsky was all excitement when I called him up.

“How is your brother?” I said over the phone. “Was the accident serious? Is there any hope of recovery?”

“Yes, yes,” came the reply. “The doctor says he fears he will be in hospital some time, but the chances are he will get over it.”

“Where has he been put?”

“He is now in a private sanitarium in Gorokhovaya Street, but we hope he will be removed to some larger and more comfortable hospital.”

“The conditions, I hope, are good?”

“As good as we can arrange for under present-day circumstances. For the time being he is in a separate room and on limited diet. But can you not come round this evening, Pavel Ivanitch?”

“Thank you; I am afraid I have a meeting of our house committee to attend, but I could come tomorrow.”

“Good. Come tomorrow. I have news of Leo, who is coming to Petrograd.”

“My regards to Elena Ivanovna.”

“Thanks. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

The telephone was an inestimable boon, but one that had to be employed with extreme caution. From time to time at moments of panic the Government would completely stop the telephone service, causing immense inconvenience and exasperating the population whom they were trying to placate. But it was not in Bolshevist interests to suppress it entirely, the telephone being an effectual means of detecting “counterrevolutionary” machinations. The lines were closely watched, a suspicious voice or phrase would lead to a line being “tapped,” the recorded conversations would be scrutinized for hints of persons or addresses, and then the Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold to seize books, papers, and documents, and augment the number of occupants of Gorokhovayan cells. So one either spoke in fluent metaphor or by prearranged verbal signals camouflaged behind talk of the weather or food. The “news of Leo,” for instance, I understood at once to mean news of Trotsky, or information regarding the Red army.

Zorinsky was enthusiastic when I called next day and stayed to dinner. “We’ll have Melnikoff out in no time,” he exclaimed. “They are holding his case over for further evidence. He will be taken either to the Shpalernaya or Deriabinskaya prison, where we shall be allowed to send him food. Then we’ll communicate by hiding notes in the food and let him know our plan of escape. Meanwhile, all’s well with ourselves, so come and have a glass of vodka.”

I was overjoyed at this good news. The conditions at either of the two prisons he mentioned were much better than at No. 2 Gorokhovaya, and though transference to them meant delay in decision and consequent prolongation of imprisonment, the prison regime was generally regarded as more lenient.

“By the way,” said Zorinsky, “it is lucky you have come today. A certain Colonel H. is coming in this evening. He works on the General Staff and has interesting news. Trotsky is planning to come up to Petrograd.”

Elena Ivanovna was in a bad mood because a lot of sugar that had been promised to her and her colleagues had failed to arrive and she had been unable to make cakes for two days.

“You must excuse the bad dinner tonight, Pavel Ivanitch,” she said. “I had intended to have chocolate pudding for you, but as it is there will be no third course. Really, the way we are treated is outrageous.”

“Your health, Pavel Ivanitch,” said Zorinsky, undismayed by the prospect of no third course. “Here we have something better even than chocolate pudding, haven’t we?”

He talked on volubly in his usual strain, harping back again to prewar days and the pleasures of regimental life. I asked him if he thought most of the officers were still monarchists.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I expect you’ll find they are pretty evenly divided. Very few are socialists, but a lot think themselves republicans. Some, of course, are monarchists, and many are nothing at all. As for me,” he continued, “when I joined my regiment I took the oath of allegiance to the Tsar.” (At the mention of the Tsar he stood upright and then sat down again, a gesture which astonished me, for it really seemed to be spontaneous and unfeigned.) “But I consider myself absolved and free to serve whom I will from the moment the Tsar signed the deed of abdication. At present I serve nobody. I will not serve Trotsky, but I will work with him if he offers a career. That is, if the Allies do not come into Petrograd. By the way,” he added, checking himself abruptly and obviously desirous of knowing, “do you think the Allies really will come⁠—the English, for instance?”

“I have no idea.”

“Strange. Everyone here is sure of it. But that means nothing, of course. Listen in the queues or market places. Now Kronstadt has been taken, now the Allies are in Finland, and so on. Personally, I believe they will bungle everything. Nobody really understands Russia, not even we ourselves. Except, perhaps, Trotsky,” he added as an afterthought, “or the Germans.”

“The Germans, you think?”

“Surely. Prussianism is what we want. You see these fat-faced commissars in leathern jackets with three or four revolvers in their belts? or the sailors with gold watch-chains and rings, with their prostitutes promenading the Nevsky? Those rascals, I tell you, will be working inside of a year, working like hell, because if the Whites get here every commissar will be hanged, drawn and quartered. Somebody must work to keep things going. Mark my words, first the Bolsheviks will make their Communists work, they’ll give them all sorts of privileges and power, and then they’ll make the Communists make the others work. Forward the whip and knout! The good old times again! And if you don’t like it, kindly step this way to No. 2 Gorokhovaya! Ugh!” he shuddered. “No. 2 Gorokhovaya! Here’s to you, Pavel Ivanitch!”

Zorinsky drank heavily, but the liquor produced no visible effect on him.

“By the way,” he asked, abruptly, “you haven’t heard anything of Marsh, have you?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, “he is in Finland.”

“What!” he cried, half rising from the table. He was livid.

“In Finland,” I repeated, regarding him with astonishment. “He got away the day before yesterday.”

“He got away⁠—ha! ha! ha!” Zorinsky dropped back into his seat. His momentary expression changed as suddenly as it had appeared, and he burst into uproarious laughter. “Do you really mean to say so? Ha! ha! My God, won’t they be wild! Damned clever! Don’t you know they’ve been turning the place upside down to find him? Ha, ha, ha! Now that really is good news, upon my soul!”

“Why should you be so glad about it?” I inquired. “You seemed at first to⁠—”

“I was astounded.” He spoke rapidly and a little excitedly. “Don’t you know Marsh was regarded as chief of allied organizations and a most dangerous man? But for some reason they were dead certain of catching him⁠—dead certain. Haven’t they got his wife, or his mother, or somebody, as hostage?”

“His wife.”

“It’ll go badly with her,” he laughed cruelly.

It was my turn to be startled. “What do you mean?” I said, striving to appear indifferent.

“They will shoot her.”

It was with difficulty that I maintained a tone of mere casual interest. “Do you really think they will shoot her?” I said, incredulously.

“Sure to,” he replied, emphatically. “What else do they take hostages for?”

For the rest of the evening I thought of nothing else but the possibility of Mrs. Marsh being shot. The Policeman had said the direct opposite, basing his statement on what he said was inside information. On the other hand, why on earth should hostages be taken if they were to be liberated when the culprits had fled? I could elicit nothing more from Zorinsky except that in his opinion Mrs. Marsh might be kept in prison a month or two, but in the long run would most undoubtedly be shot.

I listened but idly to the colonel, a pompous gentleman with a bushy white beard, who came in after dinner. Zorinsky told him he might speak freely in my presence and, sitting bolt upright, he conversed in a rather ponderous manner on the latest developments. He appeared to have a high opinion of Zorinsky. He confirmed the latter’s statements regarding radical changes in the organization of the army, and said Trotsky was planning to establish a similar new regime in the Baltic Fleet. I was not nearly so attentive as I ought to have been, and had to ask the colonel to repeat it all to me at our next meeting.

Maria was the only person I took into my confidence as to all my movements. Every morning I banged at the chalk-marked door. Maria let me in and I told her how things were going with Mrs. Marsh. Of course, I always gave her optimistic reports. Then I would say, “Tonight, Maria, I am staying at the Journalist’s⁠—you know his address⁠—tomorrow at Stepanovna’s, Friday night at Zorinsky’s, and Saturday, here. So if anything happens you will know where it probably occurred. If I disappear, wait a couple of days, and then get someone over the frontier⁠—perhaps the coachman will go⁠—and tell the British Consul.” Then I would give her my notes, written in minute handwriting on tracing paper, and she would hide them for me. Two more Englishmen left by Marsh’s route a few days after his departure and Maria gave them another small packet to carry, saying it was a letter from herself to Marsh. So it was, only on the same sheet as she had scrawled a pencil note to Marsh I wrote a long message in invisible ink. I made the ink by⁠—oh, it doesn’t matter how.

Zorinsky’s reports as to Melnikoff continued to be favourable. He hinted at a certain investigator who might have to be bought off, to which I gave eager assent. He gave me further information on political matters which proved to be quite accurate, and repellent though his bearing and appearance were, I began to feel less distrustful of him. It was about a week later, when I called him up, that he told me “the doctors had decided his brother was sufficiently well to leave hospital.” Tingling with excitement and expectation I hurried round.

“The investigator is our man,” explained Zorinsky, “and guarantees to let Melnikoff out within a month.”

“How will he do it?” I inquired.

“That rather depends. He may twist the evidence, but Melnikoff’s is a bad case and there’s not much evidence that isn’t damaging. If that’s too hard, he may swap Melnikoff’s dossier for somebody else’s and let the error be found out when it’s too late. But he’ll manage it all right.”

“And it must take a whole month?”

“Melnikoff will be freed about the middle of January. There’s no doubt about it. And the investigator wants 60,000 roubles.”

“Sixty thousand roubles!” I gasped. I was appalled at this unexpected figure. Where should I get the money from? The rouble was still worth about forty to the pound, so that this was some £1,500.

“Melnikoff’s case is a hopeless one,” said Zorinsky, dryly. “No one can let him off and go scot-free. The investigator wants to be guaranteed, for he will have to get over the frontier the same night, too. But I advise you to pay only half now, and the rest the day Melnikoff gets out. There will also be a few odd bribes to accomplices. Better allow 75,000 or 80,000 roubles all told.”

“I have very little money with me just now,” I said, “but I will try to get you the first 30,000 in two or three days.”

“And by the way,” he added, “I forgot to tell you last time you were here that I have seen Melnikoff’s sister, who is in the direst straits. Elena Ivanovna and I have sent her a little food, but she also needs money. We have no money, for we scarcely use it nowadays, but perhaps you could spare a thousand or so now and again.”

“I will give you some for her when I bring the other.”

“Thank you. She will be grateful. And now, unpleasant business over, let’s go and have a glass of vodka. Your health, Pavel Ivanitch.”

Rejoicing at the prospect of securing Melnikoff’s release, and burdened at the same time with the problem of procuring this large sum of money, I rang up next day the business friend of whom Marsh had spoken, using a prearranged password. Marsh called this gentleman the “Banker,” though that was not his profession, because he had left his finances in his charge. When I visited him I found him to be a man of agreeable though nervous deportment, very devoted to Marsh. He was unable to supply me with all the money I required, and I decided I must somehow get the rest from Finland, perhaps when I took Mrs. Marsh away.

The “Banker” had just returned from Moscow, whither he had been called with an invitation to accept a post in a new department created to check the ruin of industry. He was very sarcastic over the manner in which, he said, the “government of horny hands” (as the Bolsheviks frequently designate themselves) was beginning “to grovel before people who can read and write.” “In public speeches,” said the Banker, “they still have to call us ‘bourzhu (bourgeois) swine’ for the sake of appearances, but in private, when the doors are closed, it is very different. They have even ceased ‘comrading’: it is no longer ‘Comrade A.’ or ‘Comrade B.’ when they address us⁠—that honour they reserve for themselves⁠—but ‘Excuse me, Alexander Vladimirovitch,’ or ‘May I trouble you, Boris Konstantinovitch?’ ” He laughed ironically. “Quite ‘pogentlemensky,’ ” he added, using a Russianized expression whose meaning is obvious.

“Did you accept the post?” I asked.

“I? No, sir!” he replied with emphasis. “Do I want a dirty workman holding a revolver over me all day? That is the sort of ‘control’ they intend to exercise.” (He did accept it, however, just a month later, when the offer was renewed with the promise of a tidy salary if he took it, and prison if he didn’t.)

On the following day I brought the money to Zorinsky, and he said he would have it transferred to the investigator at once.

“By the way,” I said, “I may be going to Finland for a few days. Do not be surprised if you do not hear from me for a week or so.”

“To Finland?” Zorinsky was very interested. “Then perhaps you will not return?”

“I am certain to return,” I said, “even if only on account of Melnikoff.”

“And of course you have other business here,” he said. “By the way, how are you going?”

“I don’t know yet; they say it is easy enough to walk over the frontier.”

“Not quite so easy,” he replied. “Why not just walk across the bridge?”

“What bridge?”

“The frontier bridge at Bielo’ostrof.”

I thought he was mad. “What on earth do you mean?” I asked.