‘Well,’ Stephen said, standing up, and straightening his spine, ‘thank you for telling us.’
Misha hopped off the table and waved him back to his chair, talking earnestly.
‘That is not why he asked us to come here,’ Stephen relayed.
‘No,’ I said. ‘He gave you his phone number before all this happened.’
‘Never miss a trick, do you?’
‘I don’t really know,’ I said.
‘That figures.’
‘I speak to German,’ Misha said.
‘What?’ I looked at him with quickened interest. ‘Do you mean you spoke to Hans Kramer?’
Misha regretfully did not. Misha told Stephen that he had become friends with the boy who had looked after Hans Kramer’s horse. He had been unable to tell us that in the morning, because of course it was forbidden to talk to the foreigners and he had disobeyed orders.
‘Yes,’ I said resignedly. ‘Go on.’
It appeared that the two young men had formed a pleasant habit of retiring to a disused hay-loft to talk and smoke cigarettes. Smoking in the stables was forbidden also. Misha had enjoyed both talk and smoke, because they were forbidden.
Misha’s blue eyes were brightly alive, full of pleasure at his own daring, and totally unsophisticated.
‘What did you talk about?’ I prompted.
Horses, of course. And Hans Kramer. The German boy disliked Kramer, who was, Stephen translated succinctly, a bastard.
‘In what way?’
Misha talked. Stephen translated. ‘Kramer was apparently OK with horses, but he liked to play nasty little jokes on people.’
‘Yes, I was told of one,’ I said, thinking of Johnny and the pink-boa girl-boy. ‘Go on.’
‘He was also a thief.’
I showed disbelief. Misha nodded vigorously, not just with his head, but from halfway up his back.
‘Misha says,’ Stephen went on, ‘that Kramer stole a case from the veterinary surgeon’s car when he called to see the horses of the British team, before the trials began.’
‘A case containing drugs?’ I said.
‘Da,’ Misha said. ‘Drug.’
‘People are always stealing cases from doctors and vets,’ I said. ‘You’d think they would chain them up like bicycles, not leave them around in cars. Well... so was Kramer an addict?’
I felt doubtful as I said it, because heavy drug addiction and international-standard riding didn’t seem to be happy bedfellows. Misha, however, didn’t know. The German boy had told him there was a fuss when the vet discovered his loss, but Kramer had hidden the case.
‘How did the German boy know?’
‘He found it somewhere in the stable, hidden in Kramer’s kit. Four days later, when Kramer died, the German boy took the case to the hay-loft, and he and Misha shared out the contents.’
‘For God’s sake,’ I said.
‘It sounds to me,’ said Stephen, speaking frankly after another long tale from Misha, ‘that the German boy took the case itself and all the saleable items like barbiturates, and gave Misha the rubbish. Not surprising, really. Our Misha is a proper little innocent at large.’
‘What did he do with his share?’
Stephen consulted. ‘Brought it back to Moscow with some other stuff... souvenirs of the trip, that’s all. To remind him of the happy talks in the hayloft.’
I stared vacantly at the double-glazed window, seeing in my mind not an uncurtained black square, but an old-world cottage in England.
Johnny Farringford, I thought, had not wanted to be thought to be connected too much with Kramer. He had not wanted me to seek or find Alyosha; had wanted the rumours forgotten, and had denied there was any scandal to hush up. Suppose, I thought bleakly, that the Alyosha business was after all unimportant, and the thing Johnny desperately did not want uncovered was nothing to do with unorthodox sex but all to do with drugs.
‘Has Misha still got the stuff he brought back?’ I said.
Misha had.
‘Would you let me see it?’ I asked him.
Misha was not unwilling, but said he would be going away first thing in the morning.
‘Is it important?’ Stephen said.
‘Only in a negative sort of way.’ I sighed. ‘If Kramer had the case for four days before he died, he probably took out of it what he wanted. Then the German boy took his share... whatever Misha still has, it is not what Kramer wanted... which might tell us something. Besides barbiturates, vets usually carry other things. Pethidine, for example. It’s a painkiller, but I believe it is so addictive for humans that you can get hooked by using it a few times. And Butazolidin... and steroids...’
‘Got you,’ Stephen said, and spoke to Misha. Between them they had a long chat which ended in evident agreement.
‘Misha says his souvenirs are at his mother’s flat, but he himself has a room with the other grooms, near the stable. He has to be back there soon, and tomorrow morning he goes. He can’t get to his mother’s. But he will telephone, and ask his sister, who lives at home until she moves into this place, to bring the stuff to you tomorrow morning. But she cannot come to the hotel, as it would not do to be seen talking to foreigners, so she will meet you inside the main entrance of GUM. She will wear a red woollen hat with a white pompom, which Misha gave her last week for her birthday, and a long red scarf. She speaks some English, because she learned it in school.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Could she make it fairly early? I have to meet Chulitsky outside the National Hotel at ten.’
Misha said he thought she could get there by half-past nine, and on that we agreed.
I thanked Misha for all his trouble and kindness in giving us this information. I enthusiastically shook his hand.
‘Is good,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘You save horse. Nikolai Alexandrovich say help. I help.’
We arrived outside the Aragvi restaurant ten minutes late because of an absence of taxis in the far-flung suburb, and a scarcity of buses. The metro, we had discovered, came to an end three miles short of the flat. Misha travelled towards the city centre with us, but apart, not looking at us, not speaking. He left us on the train, when he reached his interchange station, without a flicker of farewell, his face as stolid as the others ranged about.
‘Don’t tell Malcolm Herrick what Misha has just told us,’ I said, as we hurried the last hundred yards on foot. ‘He’s a newspaperman. My brief is to hush up what I can, not get in printed in The Watch; and we’d get Misha into trouble.’
‘Silent as the sepulchre,’ Stephen promised, in a voice which spoke of teaching grandmothers something about eggs.
The Aragvi turned out to be less than half a mile from the Intourist Hoteclass="underline" up Gorky Street, and turn right at the traffic lights. Malcolm and Ian were waiting a short distance short of it and Malcolm grumbled, quietly for him, that we had kept them waiting in the cold.
There was a short queue outside the restaurant, shivering.
‘Follow me, and don’t talk until we are inside,’ Malcolm said. He by-passed the queue and opened the firmly-shut door. The by now familiar argument took place, and finally, grudgingly, we were let in.
‘I booked,’ Malcolm said as we peeled off our coats. ‘I come here often. You’d never think it.’
The place was full, and somewhere there was some music. We were led to the one vacant table and a bottle of vodka materialised within five seconds.
‘Of the two decent restaurants in Moscow,’ Malcolm said, ‘I like this the better.’
‘Two?’ I said.
‘That’s right. What do you want to eat?’ He peered into the large menu. ‘The food is Georgian. It is a Georgian restaurant. Most of the customers are from Georgia.’