Free The Best of British Crime omnibus by Andrew Garve, David Williams, Francis Durbridge Page B

of the Soviet Union’s most famous sculptors, who said a lot more nice things about her. I noticed that Mirnova cut him a little in translation.
    Finally we adjourned to the banqueting room for what VOKS called a ‘chai.’ The word means ‘tea,’ but to VOKS it meant a spread that Nero himself could hardly have rivalled. There was, as Waterhouse put it, ‘everything but a vomitorium.’ Perdita was carried off by Mirnova to grace a special table where the elite of the elite were gathered for worship, and the rest of us had our wants attended to by a bevy of young and charming hostesses. Mrs Clarke, still in her violet frock, was waited upon by a rather pansy young man. A blonde attached herself to Islwyn Thomas and Jeff’s Tanya was soon deep in conversation with Cressey. Jeff himself was still exploiting his unusual opportunities, and had buttonholed a Russian who spoke a few words of English.
    I was helping myself to a plate of hors d’oeuvres when Waterhouse edged towards me through the crowd, his eyes sparkling with mischief. ‘Well, George,’ he said, spiking about half a pound of smoked salmon, ‘what did you think of it?’
    â€˜I’m not cultured,’ I said. ‘As entertainment, I thought it went on too long.’
    He laughed. ‘Well, I do happen to know something about it, and you can take it from me, dear boy – that woman’s fourth-rate. Fifth-rate! This stuff of hers… ’ he waved a derisory hand at the exhibition, ‘… it’s pitiful.’ He poured out some vodka. ‘As for this preposterous notion that Russia leads in culture – pah! Art? – Soviet Russia hasn’t produced any art, not for years. Remember what Shaw wrote in Back to Methuselah ? – “Art has never been great except when it has been providing an iconography for a living religion.” That’s the trouble here – there’s no living religion. There hasn’t been since the early days of the Revolution. These people have ritual and dogma but they don’t feel anything inside any more. Their Communism is just a husk.’
    He looked up at me sardonically and then round at the cultured throng whose claims he had dismissed. There was a clatter of plates and a rising buzz of conversation and above it all boomed a monologue from Mullett.
    â€˜By the way,’ Waterhouse went on, ‘did you know that la Manning has asked if she can model Stalin?’
    â€˜I knew she was going to.’
    â€˜Well, she has. There’s a rather nice story going about. It seems that Mirnova consulted Mullett on the subject, because she didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings, and according to the story Mullett said – you know that club-footed humour of his – “I don’t think we need take Miss Manning’s desire to confer immortality on Mr Stalin too seriously.” The Russians are tickled to death – my secretary heard them talking about it at the Press Department. What’s more, it appears that the lady’s heard about it too, and she’s furious.’
    â€˜So that’s why she’s not on speaking terms with him!’
    â€˜I imagine so.’ Waterhouse balanced his vodka glass on his plate, preparatory to moving off. ‘Now who, I wonder, would appreciate that little story?’ He gazed round the room again as though choosing a suitable recipient for his conversation, and his eye rested for a moment on Tranter. ‘It’s odd, you know – I can’t help feeling I’ve seen that fellow before somewhere, but for the life of me I can’t remember where … ah, well, excuse me.’ He wandered off, and soon I saw him bending towards one of the agency men.
    A waiter swept past me with a loaded tray, and an eddy of humanity carried me to the side of Joe Cressey, who was with Tanya and Tranter. At the same time Bolting converged on the group.
    â€˜Oh,