Free The Forbidden Territory by Dennis Wheatley

block. She explained to him that all the new domestic buildings were composed of large numbers of small flats, modern in every way, with communal kitchens and wash-houses, and crèches for the workers’ children, but that none of these flats were of any size. If one wanted spacious rooms, there was nothing to be had other than the mansions and apartments of the old
bourgeoisie.
    The outside of the building was depressing, with its peeling paint and rain-streaked walls, but the inside was a revelation.
    The great rooms were almost barbaric in their splendour, with no trace of modern decoration. Magnificent tapestries hung from the walls and beautiful lamps in Russian silver filigree from the ceiling; the polished floor was strewn with furs and Persian carpets in glowing reds and purples.
    A maid in a neat dark dress put a tray with tea in glasses, and sugar and lemon, on a low stool beside her mistress, and Valeria Petrovna drew Simon down on to the divan beside her.
    “Now tell me,” she commanded, “why, Mistaire Aron, you—come to Russia?”
    “Simon,” he corrected, gently.
    “Simon!” She went off into fits of laughter. “Simon—that ees good—you know why I laugh?”
    “Ner—” he confessed, puzzled.
    “It ees the childhood rhyme I learn when I have an English Nurse: ‘
Simple Simon met a pieman, going to a fair; said Simple Simon to the pieman, what ’ave you got there
?’ ” and once more she dissolved into tears of childish laughter.
    “Now look here,” Simon protested, “that’s quite enough of that!” but he smiled his kind, indulgent smile at her teasing.
    “What ees a pieman?” she inquired, seriously.
    “Chap who makes pies,” Simon grinned from ear to ear; “you know—cakes, puddings, and all that.”
    “Ah, well, I am glad I am not a pieman! Tell me, little Simon, what are you?”
    “Well,” Simon hesitated, “I’m a banker, in a way—but I’ll tell you, I do all sorts of other things as well. I’m interested in chemicals and metals and phosphorus.”
    “And what do you make ’ere in Moscow?”
    “To tell you the truth, I’m not here on business exactly,” Simon continued, cautiously; “I’m looking for a friend of mine; he got into some trouble with the police, I believe.”
    She looked suddenly grave. “That ees bad; they are powerful, the Ogpu—was it for politics that ’e got into trouble?”
    Simon was in a quandary; he wanted to discover the whereabouts of Rex, but he could not tolerate the idea of lying to this beautiful and charming woman, who seemed to have taken such a liking to him, and in whom his own interest was growing deeper every minute. Honesty, with Simon, was not only policy, but a principle from which he never deviated—it had brought him the confidence and respect of business acquaintances and friends alike.
    “Ner,” he answered, “not as far as I know. Perhaps he may have gone somewhere he should not have gone, or got tight or something, but I don’t think he got intoa muddle with politics. The only thing I know is that he is in prison, poor devil.”
    “But what could you do? Even if you know where ’e was, they would not let ’im out—”
    “We’d get him out,” said Simon, promptly. “If we knew where he was, we’d apply for his release through his Embassy; he’s an American. But we can’t, you see, if we don’t know! That’s the trouble.”
    “I will see what I can do,” she said suddenly. “Kommissar Leshkin ’as a great deal to do with the prisons. What ees the name of your frien’?”
    “Rex Van Ryn.” Simon spoke the syllables carefully. “Here,” he produced a gold pencil from his waistcoat pocket, “I’ll write it down for you—no, better write it yourself—you’ll understand your own writing better.” He gave her the pencil, and she wrote the name in a large round childish hand as he spelt it out for her.
    She pushed the piece of paper into the top drawer of a small desk that stood near