Come into my Parlour by Dennis Wheatley Page A

Meads?”
    â€œWho could help enjoying themselves at your lovely home? They’ve been having a marvellous honeymoon, and fortunately Madeleine and Erika like each other, so all four of us have been living on top of the world. Still, I don’t think Stefan could go back to Russia.”
    â€œWhy? Has that French piece of nonsense tied him to her apron strings?”
    â€œNo, it’s not that. They’ve had a longer honeymoon than most people get who marry in the middle of a war, so I don’t think she’d stand in his way. And, as a matter of fact, ever since the Germans began to get the best of it he’s been itching to get back to fight for his country.”
    â€œWell, here’s his opportunity—anyhow, to do some useful work for the cause of the Allies.”
    â€œThat’s all very well, but if he went back to Russia it’s a million to a sack of potatoes that Stalin’s boys would shoot him.”
    â€œI thought he was a pal of Voroshilov’s?”
    â€œSo he was. He started life as a Czarist officer; but like all the more intelligent ones he was a Liberal, and more by force of circumstances than anything else he found himself on the side of the Reds. He served under Voroshilov at Tzaritsin and formed a great attachment to him, so, pretty naturally, from that point he continued his military career. But by the time I met him at Kandalaksha he was fed up to the back teeth with the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and all its works. That’s why he decided to clear out with me. So you see he’s really a deserter from the Russian Army.”
    Sir Pellinore stroked his fine white moustache thoughtfully for a moment, then he said: “I’ve got over worse fences than that in my time. We’ll make him a naturalised Englishman and give him a British passport. Thousands of Russians have fled the country in the last twenty years and taken other nationalities. Scores of ’em have gone back too, and been none the worse for it.”
    â€œThat certainly is an idea,” Gregory agreed. “And now thatBritain and Russia are allies it’s hardly likely that they’d deliberately pick a quarrel with us over an interpreter attached to our Mission.”
    â€œNo. At worst they might say that he’s
persona ingrata
, and ask our Ambassador to send him home; but if he keeps himself well in the background he may not even be recognised.”
    â€œHow is Sir Stafford doing in Moscow?”
    â€œAs well as can be expected. Cripps is a clever fellow—very able man. So was Karl Marx, but I can’t see him as the hit of the season at the court of Queen Victoria.”
    â€œOh, come,” Gregory smiled. “That’s no fair comparison. Surely it was paying the Russians a pleasant compliment to send them our leading Communist, as they are Communists themselves.”
    â€œAre they?” Sir Pellinore ceased his pacing and fixed Gregory with his bright blue eyes. “Maybe they were in Trotsky’s time, but in all but name they’ve been National Socialists for years. Anyhow, Cripps may be as patriotic as Winston, but the fact remains that in Russian eyes he does not represent British thought or feeling. The way to have won their confidence would have been to send ’em the Duke of Gloucester. They’d have been so flattered they would have eaten out of our hands, and you wouldn’t have been able to see Moscow for Union Jacks. I put that up to one or two people, but they wouldn’t listen. And after all, why should they? Everyone knows I’ve got no brains—no brains at all!”
    Gregory’s mocking laugh was cut short by the appearance of the elderly butler to announce lunch.
    â€œWell, that’s enough of your smoking-room stories, my boy,” Sir Pellinore gave a broad wink. “Got to get down to business while we eat. This plaguy rationing is a darn sight more of a nuisance than the bombs,