copper's cruise 14

 

Chapter 14 six foot by three in Carthage part 5

 

“Tony, I want you to keep Percy as close to you as you can,” said Alexander. “I think I’ve opened his eyes before he gets dragged in deeply to something he would either regret or become so hard boiled over convincing himself that it is right that you wouldn’t know him by the time he has finished his degree. And he’ll be vulnerable at Oxford, so for Pete’s sake, write to him.”

“I will,” said Tony. “Do you want to be more formal with the others?”

“If there’s a setting I can use, yes,” said Alexander.

“I have my own study,” said Tony. “You can park yourself in there, and I’ll send them to you. Who do you want first?”

“Alexei,” said Alexander.

 

 

 

“Alexei, dobroho ranku,” said Alexander.

“I am not familiar with Ukranian Russian,” said Alexei.

“No? then we can remain in English,” said Alexander.

“What is this? I feel as if I am on trial by the English policeman,” said Alexei, shrilly.

“No, not at all. Just a preliminary investigation,” said Alexander.

“Investigation? Investigation? I don’t understand!” it was almost a whinny.

“What, are you telling me that you are unaware of Madame Zeleika’s death?” asked Alexander.

“Dead? She is dead? I had no idea! How did this happen?” asked Alexei.

“I ask the questions,” said Alexander. “Is it not true that you introduced Gospoza Natalya Ivanova Bukina, alias Madame Zeleika to this and other English households?” He had received a note from Hebert, giving her true name.

“Is that her name? I did not ask. She appealed to me as another exile to find those who would help to support her,” said Alexei.

“But she’s not an exile, is she?” asked Alexander. “She’s an officer of the Razvedupr.[1]  Tovarishch Captain Bukina was sent especially to gain what intelligence she could about whether there might be British involvement in aiding France in their support of Poland in the border clashes after the Russo-Polish war.  And as a British officer seconded by intelligence, I need to find out your level of involvement with the Razvedupr, and what rank you hold in it. Bugger me, he’s fainted.” He rang the little bell on the desk, and Campbell came in.

“Strewth!” said Campbell.

“Put him on his side,” said Alexander. “I’ve terrified the poor bastard, but Russians can be frightened into blurting things out. I’m not proud of it, but we need quick answers over who can be trusted.”

Alexei groaned, hollowly.

“Get him up and onto the chair,” said Alexander, in a cold tone.  “Gospodin Smirnov! What rank do you hold in the Razvedupr? How long have you been a member? Are you Bukina’s handler? What is your mission aim?”

Alexei started sobbing, thick, snotty, embarrassing sobs.

“As the Good Lord is my judge, I am nothing to do with those godless Bolsheviks!” he cried. “I am an exile, a Tsarist through and through! I had no idea that Zeleika might be in the Razvedupr!  I slept with her because I thought she was beautiful and lonely, and I told her all about my English friends because she seemed so sympathetic! Please, you have to believe me!”

“I don’t have to believe you,” said Alexander. “So, can you tell me that you think Stalin is a bastard, and the politburo are his bitches?”

“So help me! Stalin is more than a bastard, and the politburo are definitely his suka, his bitches,” said Alexei.

“Fine, I believe you,” said Alexander. “Any Bolshevik would be terrified of saying that because if reported back, his life would be short and his death long. Zeleika was strangled by her own scarf, and I need to eliminate all suspects. My apologies for giving you ten minutes of hell; I thought that would be better than general distrust.”

“Oh, Bozhe moy! Bozhe moy!” moaned Alexei. Alexander nodded to Campbell, who vanished briefly, and came back with strong sweet tea. Alexei drank, thirstily. Alexander sipped, savouring the taste.

“If you killed the woman, because you found out her affiliations, I will understand this,” said Alexander, kindly. “I don’t have to report anything officially. I just don’t like my betrothed having bodies left where she might find them.”

“I? I do not kill people!” cried Alexei. “I, Alexei Fedorovitch Smirnov, I am above such things! I am a poet, a poet and a novelist! I am writing the great epic which will show the world my genius, and the true beauty of spirit of the Russian novelist! Tolstoy would weep in his grave for the breadth of my vision, the purity and depth of my emotion! Strong men will weep at the tragedy of life as I portray it!  My masterwork is called, ‘Life and Death,’ and it will rock the world!”

“Of course, old man,” said Alexander. “Where were you, last night after leaving here?”

“I went to a coffee shop to contemplate life,” said Alexei.  “I left at about midnight. They make confections with cream, which are balm to the spirit. My neighbour was unduly rude to me about my late return. He is a noisy, irritating man who rises too early in the morning for any civilised man to find anything but rude.”

That could be easily checked. The poor devil had obviously thrown himself into the creation of his novel, to have something with which to anchor himself, thought Alexander.

“You will be staying here for your own protection,” said Alexander. “I strongly suspect the leader of the cell would try to use you as a scapegoat. And your apartment has been searched thoroughly by this time, which will also protect you if anything incriminating is later placed in it.”

“I… I am free, though?” gasped Alexei.

“You’re in protective custody,” said Alexander. “You are not a prisoner, but you would be wise to spend the weekend in this house, not stepping out for anything.”

“I… yes, I see. Thank you,” said Alexei.

“I am sorry to be rough,” said Alexander. The insights of his Ukrainian relatives had been very useful.

Alexei stumbled out.

“I took the liberty of putting a strong slug of brandy in his tea,” said Campbell.

“Good man,” said Alexander. “I want to see young Edgar Cavell next.”

 

Edgar strolled in.

“I say, what have you done to poor old Alexei? He’s in the chapel, lying on his face before the altar mooing ‘Bozhe moy’ like a cow at milking time.”

Alexander had to snigger; Edgar did make the phrase sound much like a lowing cow.

“He’s pleased to be largely exonerated from the murder of Madam Zeleika,” said Alexander. “Russians, you know; very emotional.”

“She’s dead? Well, if she’s a Bolshevist agent, I won’t lose any sleep,” said Edgar. “But don’t think you can bully me like you bullied Alexei.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Alexander. “An Englishman can be led, but not driven. But I had to be certain about Alexei. Now, he needs protection, if there’s a Bolshevik cell here.  As far as you are concerned, I have no official standing here, whatsoever, no jurisdiction, and I couldn’t arrest even an Englishman for anything, even if he committed every crime in the book in front of me. Which being so, and to keep the record straight, so I don’t have to follow up questions for anyone else, did you kill Zeleika for being involved with the devils who hurt your father?”

“No, sir, I didn’t,” said Edgar.  “I couldn’t kill a woman, though if I knew who she reported to, I might kill him.  I never thought it could be Alexei. He’s too much of a wet fish.”

“Perhaps I should have asked you first,” said Alexander. “Mind, people have pretended to be wet fish before now, and turned out to be sharks underneath.”

“I suppose so, but Alexei lives every emotion on his face,” said Edgar. “He’d have to act hard for hours at a time, and I think it would slip.”

“Well, that’s good confirmation, thank you,” said Alexander.

“How come you know Russian, sir?”

“I have Russian relatives; exiles, now, in England,” said Alexander. “I can do the dancing thing too… well, I can when I’m fit. I’m back to practising the squatting but it takes it out of me.  Having someone trying to carve one’s tripes out leaves one a little weak.”

“Rather,” said Edgar. “I hope you make a full recovery. The pater still walks with a stick after the car crash, and has a neck brace.”

“I wish him a full recovery, too,” said Alexander. “Well! I am now fairly certain I know who it was.  But I will be running a séance for everyone who was here yesterday evening, and see if I can trick him.”

“I can’t believe any of my friends would do anything so dastardly,” said Edgar.

“No; but you’re a nice, straightforward lad, as straight as a die, and without guile or side,” said Alexander. “Chummy is twisted up inside, and is dangerous.”

It was one occasion when he would make sure he and his party were all carrying firearms. There was real risk from this man.

And Major-General Mainwaring had the men to search the suspect’s rooms as well, with reasonable cause to do so, and his attendance at a supper-party and séance would get him out of them long enough to do so.

 

oOoOo

 

Alexander and his party were not to eat with Tony’s friends, though Gladys would be waiting at table to keep an eye on them.

After supper had been cleared, Tony stood.

“I don’t know how many of you have heard that poor Madam Zeleika has been brutally murdered,” he said.

There were little screams of horror from the women, and a few gasps from the men.

“Murdered? Are you sure?” asked the assured young man a few years Tony’s senior.

“Oh, yes, Ambrose, quite sure. One of the members of the boat party which visited Carthage found her. They’ve hurried away, of course, and her body is with the French authorities, but I thought she would consider it a sign of respect if we held a séance to discover who did her so foully to death.”

“That’s rather poor taste, isn’t it?” said Ambrose.

“Hardly; she was a medium, wasn’t she? So, she should find it easy to connect to another medium. Allow me to present Ali Abdul Bey, an eminent spiritualist.”

He opened the door for a grand and Arabian Nights style figure to enter.  Alex had enjoyed himself making himself up, with more subtlety than for the stage, but in the same manner. He had serious purpose, but he intended to enjoy the theatrical flair, as it would work better. He placed his hands together and bowed to the company, ready to, in his own description to Tony earlier, ‘Swami all the way up the Guru.’

“It is my pleasure to be here tonight, to reach into the darkness for the lost soul of my sister in the spiritual,” he said in as deep a voice as he could muster – what he called his ‘Pirate King’ voice, drawn from singing Gilbert and Sullivan but with an indeterminate foreign accent.

One of the women gave a little shriek; whether it was fear or anticipation, Alexander was not sure.

“Shall I turn out the lights?” asked Tony.

“Set the soul-candle to burn on the table,” said Alexander, still in that rich, deep voice with its hint of foreign accent.

This was something they had agreed on; the candle was to be sited to give Alexander an illuminated view of Ambrose. Percy, Alexei, and Edgar were to play along. It was a gamble; a massive gamble, but Alexander was certain that Ambrose would not readily crack with any other kind of interrogation.

“Let us all hold hands around the table,” said Alexander when the single candle was burning. Also a chafing dish left accidentally, and lit in the dark by Tony. “My fetch is named Nathoo, an Indian child who was eaten by a tiger,” said Alexander, who also read Kipling. “Nathoo, O Nathoo, can you hear me? Are you there, my child?” Then he made his voice childish. “I don’t want to come, effendi, there is violence.”  “You cannot be harmed, child. Go and seek for Madam Zeleika; she will help us find who is violent, and stop the disturbance to the spirit plane.”

“He’s rather good, isn’t he?” murmured Tony, to his father, having made sure to be out of the circle.

“Devilishly,” said Mainwaring senior. “If I’d known, I’d have recruited him.”

Alexander dropped his head down, biting into a capsule in his beard, to take cornstarch into his mouth, and exhaled heavily. In the candlelight, this theatrical trick looked like ectoplasm forming.

Several girls screamed.

So did Alexander, twisting and writhing as if in agony.

He slipped into his pantomime dame voice. Fortunately, Zeleika had been a contralto.

“Ya nyeh pannemyoo… no, I speak English… I do not understand! Why do you strangle me? AAAAAAAEEEEEEEE!” he screamed again and surreptitiously let go of Edgar’s hand to slide a sheet of paper, already treated with lemon juice, onto the chafing dish. Rapidly, the English letter ‘C’ in wobbly writing, tailing off without further letters.

“Madam Zeleika! Are you there?” demanded Alexander in his deep voice. “Have you a message for someone whose name begins with ‘C’?” he used the dame voice. “Smierch! Smierch!”

“She’s Russian,” said Alexei, on cue. “For us, your ‘C’ is the sound ‘S’.”

“Ambrozy, why?” said Alexander in his dame voice. “Ambrozy Sa’yer! You killed me!”

Ambrose leaped to his feet.

“No! this cannot be happening! I don’t believe in life after death!” he cried. “She was a fake! She was always a fake, working for the Politburo! You are not Zeleika, you are not! You cannot come back!”

“That’s a confession,” said Mainwaring senior, coming forward. “It’s enough for the French authorities anyway; they work on the code Napoleon which presumes guilt and it is up to the defendant to prove innocence.”

“I have diplomatic immunity!” whinnied Ambrose.

“You HAD diplomatic immunity. I just rescinded it,” said Mainwaring.

“Ask him about subverting French officials and distributing Opium,” said Alexander in his dame voice.  It was a long shot of a guess, but the Oxford group’s use of perfume to cover the smell had been refined upon; and the use of drugs to sap the will of potential opponents or tools was a known Bolshevist trick.

Ambrose screamed in terror.

“How could you know? How could you know?” he whimpered.

Well, the bow drawn at venture seemed to have worked, thought Alexander. The connection was Oxford University, and a use of the venal by the idealists.

 

oOoOo

 

Shocked to the core, Ambrose sang like the proverbial canary. As he was able to name the other members of the cell, including French members, he was handed into the custody of Hebert, who was very thankful not to have a trail ending with diplomatic immunity. Indicted and convicted of the murder of a common prostitute, he was even robbed of the glamour of being a political prisoner.

 

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[1] Ancestor of the GRU, the Soviet intelligence service. The name changed regularly for a while.