Read Online Cold Blood by James Fleming - Free Book Online

land on it. Instead I went smack into a body that was soft and shrieking. In fact I knocked her over, and as I sorted it out, I thought, What the hell was she doing kneeling on the floor of a Rolls-Royce, was she praying or what?

Eleven

    T HE BLINDS were drawn and latched. I could make out Boltikov’s head. Two-thirds of the way down his face, a cigar blossomed. I felt the force of the smoke on my cheek. It had a distinguished, exotic aroma. His voice came rasping out of the semi-darkness.
    â€œA visitor, Liselotte.”
    â€œHe fell on me... it hurts...”
    She was squirming under my shoulder. It was hard to tell which limb was where. I felt around, found Boltikov’s shoes, then the edge of the seat. I hoisted myself to my knees.
    The collar of his opera cape was still up. He was wearing a boiled shirt—stiff collar, white tie. It was all I could be certain of in the gloom. He said, “I was listening to what you said. There’s an instrument in the glove compartment that picks up everything. I don’t trust that English shuvver of mine. How did you know my father? Who are you?”
    â€œCharlie Doig.”
    â€œThe son of Irina Rykov? You are the famous traveller?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œLiselotte, I’ve cooled down. This man will be enough entertainment for the moment.”
    My eyes were now accustomed to the light. He was sitting in the centre of the back seat, his arms outstretched along the back. His cigar glowed mutely between his fingers. Below, like a white blanket on which a moulting black wolfhound has been lying, spread his hairy stomach. His thighs were naked to below his knees. Here one met the top band of his sock suspenders and the corrugations of his woollen underpants.
    He began to rearrange his clothing. “Excuse me, Doig, it’s not every night that one says farewell to the city of one’s birth— to one’s country. One’s emotions become excessive, especially after the opera. Liselotte has certain skills—
liebchen
, what are you doing? Stop scrabbling round down there. Come and sit beside me. We have company.”
    I’d sent her flying against the far door. She said the door handle had bruised her ribs. She had a final snivel and crawled over the carpet to Boltikov.
    â€œYour pardon,
barin
...”
    I was in her way. I pulled down a jump seat from the division for myself.
    Boltikov was thirty-five or so. He laughed across at me. “Liselotte is the governess of my son. She teaches him German in the morning and French in the evening. This part of her job is a penance for the evil Germany has inflicted on us—to be exact, for paying Mr Lenin to come here and start his revolution. She volunteered for this evening, of course. What do you say to that, Doig?”
    â€œTo Liselotte?”
    â€œLenin.”
    â€œOnly an hour ago I was speaking to him.”
    â€œYou should have shot him. He’ll finish our class. Tonight is for goodbyes. Tomorrow Liselotte and my secretary and I drive across the border to Finland. My wife and boy are already there. From Finland this idiot shuvver of mine goes home. If I find there’s trouble in Finland, I simply drive over the border to dear old Sweden. No one will stop a man in a Rolls-Royce. Wherever I get to, I’ll start again. I have good contacts.”
    â€œThe reason I didn’t shoot him was that I didn’t want to be killed myself.”
    â€œNot a martyr?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œYou can’t hide class,” he said reflectively. “Something will give you away, however much you try to conceal it. You can start speaking like a really stupid peasant, you can make the palms of your hands as rough as bark, but you’ll still get nailed. Intelligence will mark you out. Breeding too—”
    I laughed. “My mother pointed out your father on the train.She told me there was no bigger snob in the world than your father.”
    â€œBut