Red Dusk and the Morrow

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