Читать книгу The Cossack Cowboy - Lester S. Taube - Страница 10

Chapter II

The Gare St. Lazare in Paris, France, was crowded. Mr. Blatherbell leaned out of his compartment window as the train eased to a halt and looked up and down the platform.

“Porteur!” he called, spying a simply clad man with a leather apron wheeling a small cart.

The man hustled over and took off his hat, “A votre service, Monsieur.”

“Les bagages. Et appelez un fiacre.”

“Immediatement, Monsieur.”

While their cases were being passed out of the window by the car porter to the baggage man, Mr. Blatherbell led his two partners off the train onto the platform. He lifted his cane and stabbed it to the left. “The way out must be there. Forward.” Without a backward glance at his junior partners, Mr. Blatherbell took off, followed at exactly two paces by Mr. Snoddergas, who was followed at exactly two paces by Mr. Poopendal. In perfect time, their canes thrust forward, striking the ground, then lifted for another thrust, they steamed through the crowd towards the exit.

A carriage driver, observing their fine apparel and foreign appearance, waved off a less affluent-looking customer and moved his carriage ahead a few paces to garner the three tourists.

“Inspect the baggage,” said Mr. Blatherbell to Mr. Poopendal, and then concerned himself with fingering through a leather notebook for an address. When the baggage handler came up, Mr. Poopendal carefully counted their six pieces of luggage and had them stowed on the rear of the vehicle.

Mr. Blatherbell finally found the address he was searching for. “La Reine de Coeur,” he ordered the driver as he climbed into the carriage, his two partners on his heels.

“Ce n'est pas encore ouvert, Monsieur.”

“I did not ask whether it was open or not,” snapped Mr. Blatherbell. “Just take us there.”

“Comment?” asked the driver, not understanding English.

“Rien. Allez.”

It was spring, and the ladies were out in all their finery, their gaily-colored parasols framing their bold glances, their bustled skirts sweeping within an inch of the sidewalks, the pigeons scurrying out of their way as their high-buttoned boots pattered on the flagstones. Even Mr. Blatherbell sat up straighter and his brows twitched as they started up Rue Lafayette and his eyes grew rounder as they passed the Eglise de la Trinite and rolled along Rue Blanche, where the coquettish looks were not the playful ones of Rue Lafayette but downright serious, seductive magnets which would require the payment of fifty francs to explore.

The carriage turned into a narrow street, and here were the true sights and sounds of Paris, a marketplace lined with stalls of scarves and stockings and caps, and crowded with push-carts and horse-drawn carts piled high with vegetables and meats and fruits and cheeses, and the owner of each cart vying with his neighbor as to who could shout the louder or drag a customer from the other, and the horses contentedly munching hay and pooping in the faces of all who passed by.

And here, too, were the ten-franc girls, leaning out of the first-floor windows and making signs spelling out in no uncertain terms what their darlings would receive for their money. Mr. Poopendal blushed and turned his eyes upward. Mr. Snoddergas’ tongue hung from his mouth and his ears stood out even further from his head. Mr. Blatherbell was busy computing ten francs into English pence.

Barely a block further on, the carriage came to a halt in front of a princely dancehall, its façade of white Italian marble, with wide, tiled steps leading to twin gilded doors, and three royal blue marquees gracing its entrance, one leading directly to the street and the others along the sidewalk for twenty paces in each direction, guarded at each end by a richly-uniformed doorman dressed in silk pants and knee-length stockings, patent-leather shoes, and a brocaded cape with a matching d’Artagnan hat.

Huge letters stretching from one side of the building to the other indicated that here one found ‘La Reine de Coeur’.

The doorman on the street sprang to attention as they stopped in front of his marquee, and with a flourish he whipped off his feathered hat, bowed low, opened the door of the carriage, and cried in English, “Welcome, your Lordships,” - all at the same time.

Mr. Blatherbell stepped down, waited until his partners had also alighted then leveled his cane at the driver, “Attendez-nous,” he ordered sternly.

“He will wait,” cried the doorman, holding his open hand closer to Mr. Blatherbell. “On the soul of my maitresse’s mother, I promise that not one article will disappear.” Mr. Blatherbell placed a coin in his hand and the doorman’s vast smile of bonhomie turned sour when he appraised its value.

“We are here to see…” he looked again at his notebook, “Mademoiselle Colette Potier. Is she here now?”

“Of course, Messieurs,” answered the doorman, forgetting for the moment that he had addressed them as ‘Your Lordships’ upon their arrival. “Follow me.”

Inside was a small, ornate stage faced by row after row of plush lounge chairs. The floor above consisted of a narrow balcony divided into luxurious boxes. The doorman led them around the chairs to a corridor leading to the rear of the stage. On one side of the corridor were several doors, and as they walked past one which was opened it revealed an opulent sitting-room containing silk-covered divans and lovers’ chairs, and walls decorated with silk cloth in which floral designs were woven, and fresh flowers standing on a centre table next to a bowl of fruit and a bottle of wine. At the rear of the room was another door, and this being open disclosed a vast, silk-covered bed resting under a brightly-lighted mirror fixed to the ceiling.

“Is this a hotel, too?” asked Mr. Poopendal of Mr. Snoddergas. Mr. Snoddergas had a sudden fit of coughing.

Finally they reached the rear of the stage and the doorman halted in front of a door and knocked. A maid put out her head.

“Three gentlemen to see La Flamme”.

“La Flamme is resting,” said the maid pettishly. “Furthermore, she never sees a man without first speaking with his banker. And three at one time! Well, I never! Such things have not been done since she stopped working…” Her voice faded away.

Mr. Blatherbell leaned forward. “Would you be kind enough to tell Mademoiselle Potier that we are here in connection with a Mr. Paul Sanderson.”

The door was abruptly pulled open, propelling the maid back into the room. Standing in front of them was a tall goddess, thick red hair falling to her waist, a startling-white face framing huge, deep-blue eyes and a wide, scarlet mouth, rounded shoulders that were being covered by a silk robe, but not before the dimple in each screamed to be kissed, and deep, white breasts, heavy and full as if bursting with sweet-tasting cream, a trim waist flaring into demanding hips touched by reddish-gold at the vortex. Actually, she had been naked when she wrenched open the door, and the three solicitors, their eyes racing down at break-neck speed, managed to get in a glimpse of nerve-shattering delights before the robe slammed shut.

Paul!” she screamed, dragging Mr. Blatherbell into the room. Her robe fell open, and Mr. Blatherbell grew pale at the sight of a large quivering nipple staring him directly in the face only a couple of inches away and at the exact height of his lips. He started to bite it, but reason prevailed and he shut his eyes tightly and began to recite to himself the preamble to the Magna Carta.

“Where is he?” screamed La Flamme.

He opened one eye tentatively and saw the nipple still there, now swelling and growing dark from the intensity of her emotion.

He snapped shut his eye and leaned forward to conceal the sudden bulge in his trousers.

“May we be seated, Madame?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Of course, of course,” shouted the excited woman. “Josette, chairs for the gentlemen, quickly.”

Mr. Blatherbell groped about until he found a chair, sat down cautiously, then opened his eyes towards the floor and worked them up slowly until he saw that La Flamme’s robe was closed again. He took a deep breath and looked into her face.

“Madame, we are solicitors from England. A relative of Lord... Mr. Sanderson has recently died and we are here to inform him of his great loss.”

La Flamme’s shoulders sagged. “Then you have no message from him for me?” she asked plaintively.

“No, Madame. We found a letter in his relative’s files in which he had asked for some mon… information of sorts, and your name in care of La Reine de Coeur was given as a forwarding address.”

“Paul, Paul,” whispered La Flamme, sitting down heavily.

“Do you know where he is now?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

She shook her head sadly. “If I knew I would climb mountains, cross rivers, fight lions.” Her hands rose to her breasts and pressed them tightly. “I would even make love to him only twice a day. I swear it. No more - only twice a day. That is the proof of my love.”

“How long ago did he leave here?” asked Mr. Poopendal.

“Over a year.” She began weeping. “Right after I caught that Italian bitch making eyes at him.” Her head suddenly shot up and the tears stopped. “Merde alors!” she snarled. “That black-eyed putain of an Italian bitch. That’s where he went. That bitch snared that poor innocent darling.” She jumped to her feet, seized a vase of flowers, and sent it smashing to the floor. An ash tray went next, then half a dozen bottles of perfume, a chair which shattered her vanity mirror, a slipper against the door, and finally a jar of cream out through the window.

The three solicitors sat perfectly still on their chairs, not even blinking as each missile flashed by. That was quite understandable as La Flamme’s robe had fallen open and they were not about to miss one centimetre of the most enjoyable floor show of their lives.

Finally, La Flamme fell onto a sofa, weeping with frustration and rage.

“What was the girl’s name?” asked Mr. Snoddergas softly.

“That putain!” screamed La Flamme. “That Maria Teresca. She stole him.” She raised her head and spat. “She couldn’t do it more than five or six times a day even if she ate the balls of a bull. What could my darling Paul see in that plate of noodles?”

“Where would she have gone?” asked Mr. Snoddergas.

“Gone!” shouted La Flamme. “To hell, I hope. May that Roman whore’s tits dry up and her hair fall out and …”

Mr. Blatherbell stood up. “Thank you, Madame, and forgive us for upsetting you.” He motioned to his partners and they started to leave the room.

“Monsieur,” the call came from behind him. He turned. La Flamme was seated upright on the sofa. “Monsieur,” she begged. “If you find him, please tell him to come back to me. Please, Monsieur. Tell him I will do anything, anything. Just come back to me.”

The three solicitors sighed with envy as they passed through the door.

The Stazione Termini of Rome was more elaborately decorated and vastly more crowded than any the solicitors had seen. Its inner dome rose high in the air, making an excellent reflector for the incessant shouting and screaming and yelling which come naturally to the inhabitants of that strange land when arriving or departing or merely standing about.

Once the solicitors had found a carriage and been seated, Mr. Blatherbell leaned forward and said to the driver, “Ufficio Centrale della Regia Questura.” As they sped through the narrow, winding streets, they saw knots of soldiers strolling among the crowds milling about the squares and in front of fountains of water gushing from dragons’ mouths and women’s breasts and athletes’ penises, and whirled by statues of nobles and generals mounted high on their bright-eyed steeds with sabres in their hands and bird droppings on the tips of their noses, looking arrogantly down on the common herd cluttering up the walks. Bicycles had become the vogue, and the cyclists sped recklessly along the streets, turning their heads to watch a swaying tail wiggle by, crashing bloodily into each other, rising from the wreckage to shake their fists in each other’s faces, shouting and cursing, threatening vendetta to the twelfth generation, and riding off on wobbling wheels before their words were taken seriously.

At the Central Police Station, Mr. Blatherbell approached the first officer who appeared to be of some importance and had a few words with him in a corner. The officer saluted and raced down a musty corridor to a room at the far end, returning soon with a slip of paper which he offered with one hand while holding out the other. His grip remained firm on the slip of paper until enough banknotes had covered his palm, then Mr. Blatherbell, wiping the sweat from his forehead, returned to the carriage and looked at the address he had paid a small fortune to obtain.

It was the Royal Opera House, and as they drove by the Imperial Zoo and then past graceful swans in the lakes of the Imperial Park, he daringly doffed his hat at nursemaids wheeling their charges and saluted members of the Sisterhood plying their wares is broad daylight.

Upon their arrival at the Royal Opera House, they found the doorman unyielding.

Impossible, Signori,” he cried, holding out his hand. “The Prima Donna Teresca cannot be disturbed under any circumstances. She practices for her role tonight in La Traviata, No one,” he emphasized with vast expression, moving his hand nearer to them, “not even His Majesty himself, who would give rubies by the, bucket to meet her, is permitted to enter the building during rehearsals. Not even for two thousand lire would I consider breaking my mortal oath to protect her from interruption.” He eyed the three Englishmen who stood stolidly in front of him and cleared his throat, “Never, fine Signori, not even for one thousand, eight hundred lire.”

Mr. Blatherbell sighed, opened his wallet and counted out a sum of money. The doorman’s hand snapped shut on the bills and, with a flourish he bowed them through the door.

As they stepped into the darkened theatre, the sound of a clear, beautiful voice filled their ears. On stage was Maria Teresca - it could be no other. She was not just a woman, but fire, her raven-black hair piled high on her head, half-closed dusky eyes bewitching all who gazed into them, hand-filling pear-shaped breasts thrusting against the sheer silk of her bodice, long handsome legs spread wide apart as a pivot for her hips to sway in movements so provocative that all on stage and in the audience stared at her vortex, hidden beneath the layers of cloth, but visible in imagination.

Quietly, the three solicitors took seats until she finished her aria, then rose as one man to applaud loudly as she whirled off the stage.

“Come,” said Mr. Blatherbell, leading his two junior partners to the side of the theatre. He asked a stagehand for directions to Maria Teresca’s dressing room and knocked softly on the door. A maid looked out.

“I would like to speak with Signora Teresca regarding a Mr. Paul Sanderson,” he said.

“Paul!” screamed a voice from within, and the door was jerked open. The three solicitors were not completely disappointed even though she still had on her bloomers. Mr. Blatherbell sighed again as he came face to face with two naked breasts bouncing up and down with her excitement. She pushed him aside and looked out into the corridor. “Where is my Paul?” she shouted.

“Signora, please allow me to explain,” said Mr. Blatherbell, his head bobbing up and down with the movements of her breasts. “We are searching for Mr. Sanderson ourselves. We had hoped to find him here?

Maria threw herself on a chair and covered her face with her hands. I knew it was too good to be true,” she sobbed. “He will not come back to me - not from her.”

“From whom?” asked Mr. Snoddergas softly.

“That ... that beast!” she cried bitterly. The three solicitors looked at each other knowingly. Maria sat up with tear-stained face, her arms hanging limply by her sides, unaware that she was naked from the navel up. She sighed. “I curse the day we walked in the park. Until then, he was my Paul, mine to slave for, to caress, to awaken each morning with joy in my heart at seeing him there by my side. Never, never has there been a man like him.”

“Do you know the name of this woman?” asked Mr. Blatherbell.

Maria’s head rose sharply. “What woman, Signor?”

“The one you spoke of - in the park.”

“Pah! You think a woman could take my Paul from me? Never.” Her face fell. “It was a horse.”

“A horse!” shouted Messrs. Blatherbell, Poopendal and Snoddergas together.

“Yes,” she said sadly. “I must admit, it was a magnificent one, that beast. Oh, how I tried to buy it for him, but”, she shrugged, “there are things neither flesh nor money can purchase.”

“Then he went after the horse?” asked Mr. Blatherbell, unbelievingly.

“Yes.”

“Do you expect him to return here?”

Maria’s hands rose and fell in the most expressive language of a defeated woman. “Who knows, Signor, what is in the heart of a man. A year he is gone now. What can one hope for?”

“This horse,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “Where did it go?”

“Poland.”

“Poland!” shouted Mr. Blatherbell. “Impossible.”

“Where in Poland?” probed Mr. Snoddergas.

“Somewhere near Warsaw, on the estate of a Count Greski.”

Mr. Blatherbell drew out his black notebook and wrote down the information. He shook his head as he placed it back into his pocket and got up from his chair. “That man, he is incredible. Thank you, Signora, for your help.” He motioned to the others and they turned towards the door.

“Signor,” came a plaintive call from behind him. He turned.

“Yes, Signora.”

“If ... if you find him, please tell him to come back to me. Tell him I will do anything if he will just take me into his arms again. Please, please.”

Mr. Blatherbell gazed helplessly at the half-naked goddess and heaved a sigh of envy. “If I find him, I will give him your message.”

The Greski estate was a vast empire of forests and farms through which rivers flowed from end to end and streams crisscrossed, rising from or emptying into lakes many miles long, quilted by herds of cattle and sheep and fleet-footed horses, and dark with countless pens of swine. Peasants tilled the fields of cabbages and hay and beet, and Mr. Poopendal, a farm boy at birth, pointed out to his associates how modern were the ploughs and rakes and seeders.

They rode contentedly in a troika drawn by pale white horses, their manes and tails braided and decorated with ribbons, trotting smoothly over the dirt road, the driver flicking his whip idly, not really requiring it to make the trim animals pull steadily but as an ornament like the ribbons.

As they rounded a bend, they saw a cart piled high with hay, and the troika driver raised a horn slung over one shoulder by a leather strap and blew three toots, never slackening speed as his quick-trotting horses bore down on the slow-moving cart, the peasant working desperately to get it out of the way. They whirled past with only inches to spare, the driver raising his whip in salute, not looking back to see, nor caring, that the peasant was shaking his fist at them.

In the forest, woodsmen were cutting logs from huge pine trees, snaking them out by horse to trails running alongside the road and then to a sawmill set back by a stream, surrounded by stack after stack of sawn lumber drying in the sun, the smell of pine leaves and resin filling the air.

A few miles ahead stood a large hill, and on its crest was a vast, silent, grey stone castle. It was a warrior’s fortress, no doubt of that, The walls were solid and fearsomely high, projecting outwards slightly at the top to show their teeth of embedded spikes, and everywhere were narrow shooting slits, even in the turrets that guarded each angle.

The entrance was protected by two heavy steel doors, each ten feet high and six feet wide, and behind these forbidding doors stood two more doors, exactly the same, to doubly fortify the castle’s portal.

Four men waited in the courtyard as the troika drove up. Huge, hard-looking men, with bald pates and close-shaven chins and wide moustaches, carrying thick whips.

The driver spoke rapidly in Polish to the largest of the men, explaining that he was bringing three foreigners from England to speak with His Excellency, Count Greski. The big man eyed them suspiciously, then, without a word, turned and walked into the castle. A few minutes later, he came out and motioned for them to follow him inside.

He led them into a cathedral-sized ballroom and to a thick oaken door at one side, knocked softly upon it, then drew it open for them to enter. The room contained a massive wooden desk standing squarely in the center with four matching, hand-carved chairs lined up in front of it. Two more chairs stood near a huge open fireplace which broke up the austerity of the cold stone walls, and flanking the fireplace were racks of rifles and shotguns. Verily, this was a fighting man’s citadel,

Seated behind the massive desk was a tall, grey-haired noble. From his haughty bearing, his high, thin eagle nose, the narrow line of his lips, the piercing grey eyes, one would not regard him as being a mere human - he was first and last a noble.

He neither rose nor motioned them to be seated. “What do you want here?” he asked, his voice hard and sharp as steel.

“My Lord,” said Mr. Blatherbell, advancing a step, not in the least cowed by the stern figure seated there. “We are seeking an Englishman whom we understand might have come here. His name is Paul Sanderson.”

“I know of no Paul Sanderson,” said Count Greski without a moment’s pause. “Why do you seek him?”

Mr. Blatherbell stretched himself an inch or two higher. “We wish to inform him that he is now His Grace, the Fourteenth Duke of Wesfumbletonshire.”

A faint light kindled in the, cold grey eyes of the Count. “A Duke!” he said respectfully. He waved the solicitors to seats, then leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips. “Sanderson, Sanderson, I know of no one by that name.” He picked up a handbell from his desk and rang it. Instantly, the door opened and the huge man who had led them inside entered the room.

“Yes, My Lord?” he said, bowing.

“Do we have an Englishman named Sanderson working on the estate?”

“Sanderson? We did, My Lord. He was the young man who came from Italy when the Arab mare was brought up from there. He’s the one.”

“Oh, yes, I remember him now,” cut in the Count. He waved out the huge man, who backed out bowing. The Count pursed his lips again. “Your fine Duke is a horse thief!” he snapped at the solicitors.

“What!” shouted the three men.

“Yes, he worked here quite satisfactorily for about a month, then one morning my servants found both him and the Arab mare gone. They tracked them for a week and finally found the mare in a forest. It must have tripped and injured its leg or else my servants would never have caught up to them.”

“And Paul… His Grace?” asked Mr. Blatherbell

“My servants roused the countryside and they discovered his trail not far from where they found the mare. He seemed to have remained behind to tend it. Unfortunately, the next evening someone broke into their horse-lines and stole another animal. They were never able to catch up with the thief, and I am inclined to believe he also was your Duke.”

He broke off as the door opened. In walked a ray of gold, a tall, slim, elegant woman, burnished blond hair flowing to her shoulders, grey-green eyes looking out coolly from under curled lashes and perfectly trimmed brows, an expressive, Grecian nose which would seem haughty on any other woman, and soft wide lips that held their own private amusement. Her shoulders would appear stiff if held so by anyone else, but she made it appear regal, and her small, pointed breasts seemed to fit her exactly right as they pressed against an embroidered blouse. Her long, slender legs and tiny waist could belong only to a fine horsewoman. The solicitors stood up at once.

The Count rose. “My dear, I present three gentlemen from England. Gentlemen - my wife.” Without waiting for them to speak, he stepped around the desk and led her to one of the chairs standing near the fireplace.

Remaining next to her, the Count motioned for the solicitors to be seated. “My dear,” he said, his arm resting on the back of her chair and his fingertips gently caressing her blond hair. “I have just heard the most amusing news. Do you recall that Englishman who worked with our horses? The one who ran off with the Arab mare?”

“We had two or three,” she answered, her voice as light as the flutter of a bird’s wings. “Was he the one with that horrible cut on his forehead?”

“No, I think he had blond hair.” He turned to the solicitors. “A most ordinary looking person, your Duke. It’s actually difficult to remember what he did look like.”

“A Duke?” asked Countess Greski.

The Count gave vent to a mirthless laugh. “Incredible, isn’t it? Could happen only among the English.”

“My Lord,” said Mr. Snoddergas. “Have you any indication as to where His Grace went after the … episode in the forest?”

“There could be only one place – Russia.”

“Russia!” shouted Mr. Blatherbell, forgetting himself. Instantly calming down, he bowed to Count Greski. “Forgive me, My Lord, for my outburst, but Russia is so very distant and so very large. I would not know where to begin looking.”

The Count stopped fondling his wife’s hair. “I could give you a clue.”

“Yes, My Lord,” prompted Mr. Snoddergas.

“I do remember hearing of a discussion between this Duke of yours and one of my horse trainers. My trainer mentioned a group of people who are considered to be the best horsemen in the world, and your Mr. Sanderson said he would go to them even if it took a lifetime.”

“And who are these people, My Lord?” pressed Mr. Snoddergas.

The Count smiled coldly. “The Cossacks. The Don Cossacks?”

There was nothing more to be said. Bowing_; the solicitors took their leave and walked quietly, thoughtfully, to the troika. As they settled themselves in the carriage, the door of the castle opened and the Countess came out.

“One moment, gentlemen,” she called, holding something in her outstretched hand. Advancing to the carriage she showed them a small chain. “I found this after you left. Did any of you drop it?”

Each of the solicitors shook his head. Smiling, the Countess nodded at them. “Pleasant journey, gentlemen,” she called out loudly. Then looking about swiftly, she lowered her voice, “Please, if you find Paul, tell him I love him with all my heart, and to send for me. I will come no matter where he is, even to the end of the earth. Please, please tell him.”

Mr. Blatherbell felt like weeping as he ordered the driver to start off.