Red Stefan (17 page)

Stephen looked over his shoulder at Elizabeth and laughed.

“That's done his job!” he said. After which he picked Petroff up and carried him into the back room.

He came back alone.

“We've got to hurry,” he said. “It's a nuisance about the police. We'll have to go out of that back window. There's a bit of sloping roof that might have been made for us. I'm afraid those policemen are going to have a long cold wait.”

As he spoke, he was taking a canvas roll out of his pocket and opening it. It seemed to contain some very odd things. He picked out a stick of shaving-soap, a razor, and a pair of scissors. Next he filled the empty glass with boiling tea and spread newspapers over the floor and upon the table. A pocket mirror came out of the roll and was set up. Kneeling down before it, he began to remove his beard, using the scissors first and the razor afterwards.

Elizabeth watched him, leaning on the table. The nightmare had gone, but it was just as if a very loud noise had suddenly stopped, or as if she had been in frightful pain and all at once the pain had been wiped away. There was a feeling of almost dazed relief. She could not really think; she could only feel that the pain had gone.

She watched Stephen.

He looked younger without his beard. Her eye was pleased by the shape of his chin and the clear, firm line of the jaw.

He looked round at her suddenly with a frown.

“Why did you look like that when you came? Nobody's hurt you?”

(Nobody—Oh. Stephen!)

“Oh no,” said Elizabeth.

“Then why did you look like that?” said Stephen, scraping away at his cheek.

Elizabeth was silent. The situation was beyond her. How could she say, “I thought you had betrayed me?” And yet what else was there that she could have thought? What did she think now? Quite frankly, she didn't know. Only the nightmare seemed to have broken and released her.

Stephen had finished shaving. He dived into his pocket and brought out a wig o£ unkempt black hair. He put it on, adjusted it carefully, and then repeated his question.

“Why did you look like that? Did you think I'd let you down?”

Elizabeth had no answer.

Stephen picked up a stick of something that looked like putty, nipped a bit out of it, and proceeded to alter the shape of his nose by giving it a higher bridge.

“I'm sorry if you thought that,” he said. “You see, I ran into Irina and her crowd of Young Communists just after I left you. The Young Communists were on their way to keep guard over you whilst Irina went to fetch Petroff. They didn't see me, so I thought I'd better get going before Irina did.”

He poured away nearly all the tea, added some dark powder to what remained, stirred it with the handle of Petroff's pen, and began to apply the stuff to his face. It gave him the skin of a gipsy, and he further added to the effect by running his hands over the none too scrupulously tended floor and then smearing his face with the resulting grime. Darkened lashes and a pair of bushy black eyebrows made him the complete ruffian.

“Now for you,” he said. “I'm afraid I'll have to make you a bit dirty. Don't look till I've done with you.”

Elizabeth sat down. She shut her eyes when she was told to shut them, and felt Stephen's fingers busy with her face. He was staining her skin as he had stained his own, rubbing the stuff well in and then dabbing things here and there. He talked all the time.

“I was afraid you might think I had let you down, but of course I hoped you wouldn't. If I hadn't got to Petroff first, he'd probably have arrested me too. Can you tip your face up a little so that the stuff doesn't run off? Yes, that's all right. You do see that I was bound to stop them arresting me, don't you?”

“Oh yes,” said Elizabeth.

He drew back a little and looked at her critically.

“I hope I haven't made you too brown. You didn't say that ‘Oh yes' as if you meant it. Here's your wig. It's quite clean inside. You said ‘Oh yes' exactly as if you meant, ‘You did it to save your own skin, you swab!' Is that what you thought?” He was adjusting the wig as he spoke.

Her eyes met his and fell. It was like being stared down by a terrifying stranger. His eyes were strange under the shaggy brows. But the voice and the hands were Stephen's voice and Stephen's hands. The voice was gentle.

“I expect it was bound to look like that,” he said reassuringly. “Once I was arrested, you wouldn't have had a chance. Don't you see that? As long as I could keep on the right side of Petroff there were bound to be chances all the time. This is one of them. I couldn't have done anything if I'd been in prison too, or even if I'd been under suspicion. I had to go the whole hog. The great thing was to keep you out of the hands of the G.P.U. Once they've got you they never let go. Fortunately, Petroff wanted to run the show himself—if there was any credit going, he didn't want to share it. I told him you'd probably die just to spite him if he let you go to the political prison, so he wangled that. He really has got a special authority to deal with your case, you know, and I persuaded him to have you here so that he could deal with you all on his own without any prison officials to cramp his style. The fact is they want that process of Radin's, and if Petroff managed to get it out of you, nobody would ask any questions about how he got it. Give me that handkerchief from your neck—it'll help to keep the wig on.”

He knotted it under her chin and then suddenly held up the mirror.

Elizabeth uttered a faint exclamation. She saw a face which she would not have known, framed in dark greasy hair just streaked with grey. Coarse eyebrows covered her own and concealed their delicate arch. A strip of very dirty sticking-plaster crossed the left cheek, whilst three large warts adorned forehead, nose, and chin.

“And now we've got to hurry,” said Stephen.

He made a bundle of the newspapers, taking care that nothing fell from them. When he had pushed them into the stove and watched them burn, he came back to the table and began to put away all the things he had used. He was slipping the canvas roll into his pocket, when Elizabeth suddenly caught him by the arm. He turned his head, and so for a moment they stood and listened.

Someone was coming up the stair.

CHAPTER XVIII

Firm, light steps coming up the stair. No policeman on the habitable globe ever walked like that. Elizabeth's grip tightened as the footsteps ceased. There was a knock upon the door, and in the same moment the handle was turned and shaken, and Irina's voice said,

“Let me in, Petroff. Why have you locked the door?”

Stephen's hand came up empty out of his pocket. He put his arm round Elizabeth for a moment and, turning his face from the door, he laughed and said,

“Shall I let her in, Comrade?”

“Why have you locked the door?” said Irina outside.

Stephen released himself from Elizabeth, pushed her gently away, walked round the table without making a sound, and spoke in Petroff's rasping tones.

“Can't a man lock his own door? Tell her she can't come in!”

Irina raised her voice in some annoyance.

“Why can't I come in? You've got that woman there. Open the door! I want to speak to Stefan.”

Stephen walked to the door and leaned against it. He sounded very persuasive as he said,

“Well, here I am. If you've got anything to say to me, I hope it's something nice.”

“Why?” said Irina shortly. She twisted the handle again and rattled it.

The sweat stood out on Elizabeth's temples. At any moment she expected to hear the tramp of the police.

Stephen laughed a lazy laugh.

“Why? Why, because we've got a damned obstinate woman here, and I'd like something pleasant for a change.” He dropped his voice and spoke into the crack of the door. “Irina—”

“What is it?”

“I want to come and see you.”

“Do you?” Her tone was soft.

“When will you be in?”

“All the evening.”

“Will you be alone?”

“Do you want me to be alone?”

“Well, what do you think?”

“I can be.”

From the other side of the room came Petroff's voice again. The illusion was so perfect that Elizabeth started and looked round to see if the Commissar had broken in upon them. Petroff's voice said angrily,

“Go away—I'm busy! Don't you know when you're not wanted?”

And immediately Stephen was whispering at the door.

“You'd better go. We can't talk here. I'll come when I can.”

There was a pause. Then Irina said softly,

“Come quickly.”

They heard her step going away down the stair.

Elizabeth had not moved. Stephen whispering to Irina.… Stephen asking her whether she would be alone.… He was cheating her of course.… Why shouldn't he trick her? Irina wouldn't know that it was a trick until he didn't come.… In some queer way Elizabeth felt that she herself was being tricked. You couldn't trust anyone really. Nicolas Radin had taught her that.

Irina's last faint footstep died away. The house door shut with a dull bang.

Stephen turned round with a soundless whistle.

“That was a near thing!”

He took Elizabeth by the arm and hurried her into the back room. As her foot crossed the threshold, she felt the old sick fear. The light sprang on in the ceiling and she looked instinctively at the big bed in the corner. It was as if she expected to see the terrible old woman who had slept there—white scanty hair flying loose, thin lips drawn back in a sneer, jaws mumbling out cruel words, and red-rimmed eyes a-glitter with malice. Instead there lay propped up against the pillows a mummied Petroff, rolled up stiff and stark, with the sheet over his head. The blankets lay in a pile on the floor.

Stephen nicked the strongest with his knife to cut the hem, and then tore it into strips, which he knotted into a rope. Over the last knot he nodded to Elizabeth.

“Put out the light and shut the door into the other room.”

With her hand on the switch, she saw the mummy heave. Then the darkness came with a rush, and imraediately the wind blew cold from the opened window. Such a horror fell upon Elizabeth that she had no fear left for the drop to the yard. She had no thought left except to be gone from this haunted room. A weight of old, dead cruelty pressed upon her, and in the darkness Petroff writhed against his bonds.

She climbed eagerly out upon the sill with the blanket rope about her waist and met the bitter air with relief.

“Steady now,” said Stephen, whispering. “Let your eyes get accustomed to the dark. There's snow on the roof below—that will help you. Get as far as the gutter and then let yourself down gently. It's quite easy.”

At any other time she might have found it difficult. Now she only wanted to get away from that horrible room. The roof sloped below her. She let go of the sill and slid down with the sliding snow. She slid quite gently because of the rope, but when her feet found the gutter she had a sick moment of fear, because now she would have to swing out over the edge and hang dangling like a spider on a thread. Someone might look out of the window below and see her. Someone might look out of any other back window and see her. The knotted strips might loosen, or fray against the edge of the roof.

She lowered herself by her hands. They were so cold from the snow that as soon as her weight came upon them they lost their hold. She caught at the rope, spun giddily for a moment, and then came safely down upon the snow of the yard.

Stephen was after her in no time and they were running for the gate. It opened on a narrow alleyway, which they followed to a street of tall, dark houses.

“Where are we going?” said Elizabeth in a breathless whisper.

“To the station. We've made Tronsk a bit too hot to hold us.”

Fear of the station surged up in Elizabeth. She had a picture of it in her mind as a wind-swept place beneath relentless arc lamps where the police of the G.P.U. scanned every passenger.

Stephen pressed her arm encouragingly.

“Don't worry—we'll get away before anyone finds Petroff. We shall probably catch something that was due an hour or two ago. They don't worry about time-tables in Russia. If it were summer, when everyone is travelling, we might have to wait a day or two to get into a train. It won't be as bad as that now, and we can thank all our stars they haven't got their internal passport system going yet.”

Elizabeth drew away from him in the dark.

“What's the matter?”

She did not speak. She was tired, and bewildered, and afraid, and she could take no comfort from Stephen who had comforted her before. She was full of a cold grey anger which seemed to be soaking into her mind like sleety rain. A hot anger would have warmed her, but this cold resentment chilled her to the marrow.

Stephen slipped his hand through her arm.

“What's the matter?” he said again, and felt her draw sharply away. “Are you angry?”

“Oh no,” said Elizabeth in a desolate voice.

“That means ‘Oh yes,'” said Stephen. “I knew you were angry when you pulled your arm away. I won't touch you again, but you'd better tell me what I've done. It's going to be very difficult escaping with someone who is hating me like poison.”

“I don't.”

“I hope you don't. You sounded awfully like it just now. What have I done?”

The cold anger became suddenly hot. It loosened Elizabeth's tongue.

“Why did you ask Irina if she would be alone tonight?”

“Because I had to get rid of her, of course. You didn't think I was going, did you?”

“Oh no,” said Elizabeth wearily—“I knew you weren't going. But Irina didn't. She'll sit there and wait for you to come. That's what I hate.”

“Do you want me to call on Irina?” said Stephen. “I will if you like. We shall miss our train, but that won't matter, because you'll have been arrested again. They won't put you in the civil prison this time, and it'll end in our both being shot, but of course any of that would be better than keeping Irina waiting.”