Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow by Paul Gallico Page B

magazines. ‘You can borrow some if you like. It’s all illegal but Ivan’s the boy and like I said, Annie – Annie’s what I call her but her name is Anoutchka – knew when not to look. I don’t know how this new bag is going to work if she stays on permanent.’
    Mr Rubin needn’t have worried for the new bag had been briefed to let anything except shooting irons or people go through into 701 for not only was Ivan, the hotel porter, a pillar of the thriving black market but he was also a trusted connection of the KGB which had ordered him to see that Mr Rubin was supplied with anything he wanted to keep him in good temper and quiet until a situation should have resolved itself. The fact that Ivan was compelled to split half of his hard currency take from Room 701 with his KGB contact was neither here nor there, but of none of this was Mr Rubin aware.
    â€˜Cheers,’ he said and raised his glass once again. ‘And what are you two ladies doing in this Godforsaken town?’
    This last phrase increased Mrs Butterfield’sagitation to the point where she took a big gulp of straight gin and went into a splutter.
    â€˜We won it in a raffle,’ replied Mrs Harris. ‘I mean the trip. We wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise. I work as a daily in London and me friend ’ere looks after the ladies in the Paradise Club.’
    Again Mr Rubin raised his glass, the sweet smile once more returned to his face and he toasted, ‘The salt of the earth. Britain’s bulwark. I love you both.’
    Mrs Butterfield’s perturbations now took on a similarity to the ones she had shown in her own apartment down the hall.
    Mrs Harris didn’t quite know how to take Mr Rubin’s last affectionate declaration but put it down to the gin which he was also having straight. She said, ‘And nice of you to say so, Mr Rubin.’ Her glance travelled to the sample books and she inquired, ‘Just what is it you travel in, Mr Rubin?’
    â€˜Aha!’ he said. ‘So you’ve guessed. By the way, you can call me Sol. Sol, Violet and Ada and ’ere’s to the three of us,’ and he took another solid slug. As the gin took effect it tended to eliminate his ‘h’s, and then he said, ‘Paper. I’m the biggest bloody paper concern in the whole United Kingdom.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Ada Harris as her cunning little mind made a lightning calculation. ‘Paper,’ she repeated. ‘And what they ain’t got any of is …’
    â€˜Exactly,’ concluded Rubin. ‘And if they knewthat I was admitting to you or anybody else that such was the case they’d be ’aving seven different kinds of fits or maybe put me away. They got a lot of stinkers running this country and you never know.’
    Here Mrs Butterfield exploded into her pantomimic dance of the bug.
    Rubin threw back his bushy head and laughed uproariously. ‘Oh, them,’ he said. ‘I’ve got ’em all. Nothing else to do to amuse myself. Do you know how long I’ve been ’ere? Eight weeks! While they’re trying to make up their mind. I could give you a guided tour of Moscow off the top of me head. The Kremlin, St Basil’s Cathedral, all that junk in the museums,’ and he went into a guide’s voice, ‘And here on the right you see the beautiful old painted carriage presented to Ivan the Terrible by our gryte Queen Elizabeth the First and after lunch we will visit the glorious Pushkin Gallery of Fine Arts. I’ve seen the old boy Lenin they’ve got laid out in that marble blockhouse over there five times. And let me tell you ’e don’t improve with age.’ The gin by now had taken a firm grip and Mr Rubin’s speech was back amongst the Bow bells, which rather comforted the two women. ‘They’re gonna have to take ’im out and freshen ’im up again pretty soon. When I go out