The Key West Citizen

DANGEROUS SERVICE
by GRACE ELLIOTT TAYLOR

The Characters:
Peter Mallone: Adventurous young journalist.
Petronella: His loyal sister.
Yesterday: Peter is freed and goes to Austria. Aunt Maisie dies, and with her inheritance, Petronella plans to accompany Peter.

Chapter 20
Letter From Russia

Rowden regarded Petronella for a minute. He grunted. Looking back over the years he had known the two Mallones, he had to admit that, up to the present, she had certainly helped, rather than hindered Peter. Perhaps it might be as well to give her a little sound advice on his behalf? She was more likely to listen than he was. She seemed to have her pretty head well screwed on, this slender, gray-eyed girl, whom he was beginning to like so well. She had common sense, combined with imagination, and emotional control. He had discovered her strength, the day she flew to Germany with such determination.
"Since you seem to be serious. I'll hand you the works, Petronella. You must know some of the tips and golden rules for all journalists." He took out a pencil and an envelope. "I shall write them out for you. See that Peter digests them, will you? There are a good many things
"Like throwing away blotting paper, and never saying important things over telephones?"
"Yes, and managing to stay in a country, writing politely little, instead of being chucked out, for one unvarnished home truth! I know they sound like secret service melodrama. But you'll do well to keep them in mind. By the way, I checked up on your Rene Howard, and the Baroness von Cratz. Interesting couple! Your instinct was right, Petronella. Heavens knows how you women do it. Now this is confidential, mind you
You were helped by one of our secret agents!"
"I'm not really surprised"
"The old girl, Frau von Cratz, was a great beauty in her day. A French actress who married into the Prussian aristocracy. She had a lot of friends. But she lost every penny in the time of the inflation. Rene Howard saw the advantages of her connection, her reputation, and her mental simplicity. He adopted her as his 'aunt,' uses her facade as a screen. Lets the world think he is her playboy. Actually he pays her a good salary on the nail every month
Petronella nodded. "So that was it! I couldn't help liking him. Poor Rene! Surely his secret ought to be guarded very carefully?"
"Yes."
"Ought you and I to know?"
"His chief told me. He's a friend of mine. An old friend, Petronella. He let Rene help you, because Peter is my man. But I thought you might like to have the information some time. Rene plays a pretty lonely hand. You may run into him again. He helped you, you may be able to help him. I'm glad you realized, before I explained to you, that his secret mustn't be allowed to stray."
"I may tell Peter but probably not. Certainly no one else."
That's right. When will you leave for Vienna?"
"The day after tomorrow. I wonder how long it will be before we move into the cottage?" she sighed, half laughing. "Where do you think, Mr. Rowdon, we're likely to go next? Peter is terribly keen to get to Russia. He speaks Russian. We have some relations-" Martin Rowdon cocked an amused eye at her.
"He believes in asking for trouble, doesn't he? Later on, perhaps! But not just yet. He is inexperienced. It is a very tricky country: seething with conspiracy."
'Keep Clear'
"It sounds scary. Often, I wonder what my mother's family must have gone through. I have never seen them. My mother's brother and two cousins live somewhere near Kiev. Their mother died soon after the war. They wrote, about four years ago, saying they were coming to England. We answered. Aunt Maisie offered to have the girl and boy to stay. But they never came."
"If I were you, I'd keep extremely clear of any Russian relations," advised Martin Rowdon. But although he did not wish to do so, he found himself pigeon-holing the information she had given him in his mind. It might be useful, at some future date.
"I think you will find it healthier, and much more beautiful in Czechoslovakia," he smiled at her.
They spent the following Christmas in England, at the cottage. Petronella returned home two weeks ahead of Peter. She left him in Yugoslavia. She wanted to put the cottage in order. Her move to their little home at the gate of the re-occupied "Forest House" had been twice prevented. First, by her joining Peter in Vienna. Next, after the operation in London, which had put his troublesome shoulder right again, when he was sent to Madrid. James and Mrs. Randall had had to come to the rescue, and supervise the final redecorations, and the addition of the bathroom. Now she stayed three days with them, while the rest of the furniture was at last moved in. Once more, she spent busy days sewing curtains. She had plenty to engage her mind. Her memories rendered her glad to be at home again. Strange, the way travel changed your idea of travel. When you accompanied a war correspondent, she qualified the thought. Before she saw Spain, the name "Seville" had vaguely suggested sunshine on the old stone of castle walls, white, dusty roads, castanets, the light music of guitars, orange groves. Now it conjured up anxiety for their friends the Mataxas, heat, dust, fear, firing. When she thought of Spain, Petronella saw in her mind a little old woman in black running across a sun-scorched street. She saw her throw up her arms and fall, to lie in a spreading pool of her own dark red blood. She had lain in full view of their hotel window, like that, long after Peter had gone out, to make sure that she was dead.
Before she accompanied Peter to Eastern Europe, she had imagined colorful, comic opera countries. Now, she remembered drab, angry little soldiers in shabby uniforms, shouting absurd insults at one another, across the neck of neutral road between their frontier barriers. She saw a Bulgarian civilian, angrier than the rest, because he found himself compelled to live among his enemies, suddenly whip out an old-fashioned revolver, and fire a wild shot which hit the hindquarters of an inoffensive mule. Sufficient! Thanks to Peter's gift for being in the right place at the right moment, she no longer associated Yugoslavia with music, footlights, and Drury Lane. She remembered how, for five miles, inwardly hysterical, outwardly calm, she had held a sopped handkerchief to the face of a young man, who looked like losing the sight of his right eye. They had driven him in the car to the hospital.
Ransom
A James asked her to spend a week before Christmas, doing shopping in town, and to meet him for dinner, and a theater, in the evening.
She was just about to start the car, to drive herself to the station to catch her train, when she saw the maid from the "Forest House." She was running down the path. She waved: she was carrying a letter. Petronella waited. She had been to dinner with the new people who had taken her old home. Their name was Harringay. They were a kind, middle-aged couple with no children. They had taken Mary on as cook, Hodgson as their gardener. This girl was their new kitchenmaid.
"Good morning, Miss Petronella. This letter come--Look! Cook wondered if she might have the stamps. Russian, she says they are." The envelope was addressed "Miss Morovitch."
Petronella looked at the letter. She took an instant dislike to it. She tore it open, and gave the girl the heavily postmarked stamps. She read. Her first reaction was anger, her second, fear. The Ogpu had arrested one named Boris Morovitch, and were holding him in custody until his relatives in England paid eight hundred rubles ransom. How much was that? What had this cousin done? Why had he been arrested? If they sent the money, would he be allowed to leave Russia? Petronella went slowly into the house again. She telephoned the Daily News office, and was put through to Martin Rowdon. He greeted her gladly.
"Can I come and see you today? I've had a letter I don't like, or understand. It is from the Soviet Government. I'd like to show it to you. It was sent to my aunt."
She heard his exclamation.
"Can't manage lunch. Can you dine at my home? My wife wants to meet you."
"I'm sorry, the fair-haired young man is taking me to the theater."
"Sensible girl. Glad to hear it. You'll enjoy it. Come straight along here, then, Petronella, as soon as you get to town."
Once more she sat in Martin Rowdon's outer office, waiting to see him. But this time, she waited only a few moments. He rose from his desk. He shook both her hands. He sat with the letter smoothed out before him, scowling at it. He raised his rough gray head.
"It's a lot of money. Can you afford it? You've been selected as a sufferer from the Ogpu traffic in ransoms. They simply arrest citizens having relatives abroad, and without accusing them of anything, name the amount of ransom. If you don't pay, your cousin will remain in prison. While you're about it, it would probably be cheaper to pay a little more, and get him out of the country. Otherwise, he may be imprisoned again."
"But it's simply scurrilous!"
"Personally, I should ignore it. It's a pity you gave cook the stamps. It might have been re-directed back 'address unknown.' But the poor wretch would be kept in prison."
"I expect so." I've never seen him, but he is my cousin. His father was mother's brother. We shall have to pay. The trouble is, both his sister and father are living. It may cost us more. I believe my father will contribute as much as he can afford when he hears about it. He was very fond of mother." Martin Rowdon sat looking at the letter for a moment. He raised his eyes again. He had made up his mind.
(Copyright 1939 Grace Elliott Taylor)
Tomorrow: Russia.