“You have helped a prisoner to escape — you are in the forbidden territory where, perhaps, you have seen too much. In any case, you are an hereditary oppressor of the workers, and therefore an enemy of the party — it is enough — be thankful that I have you shot! For Aron I have a very different programme.”
The Duke smiled. He appeared to be perfectly calm as he said, slowly: “You have asked Aron if he takes you for a fool! I most certainly do not, but you will be, if you have me shot.”
“Why so?” asked Leshkin, quickly.
“Because dead, I may be very dangerous to you — alive, I may be of some service.”
“So!” Leshkin shrugged. “This is but talk, you can serve me not at all.”
De Richleau leaned over the table and fixed his grey eyes with their strange, piercing brilliance on the Kommissar. “If you are so sure,” he said, softly, “tell me the name of the third man who sat with Aron and me in the ‘Tavern of the Howling Wolf’ on our second night in Moscow.”
“I do not know — also I do not care.”
The Duke nodded, then he smiled slowly and turned away.
“No,” he said, lightly. “Stalin does not tell everybody everything — why should he?”
At the name of Stalin — the Iron Man — Kommissar of Kommissars, who rules Russia more autocratically than any Tsar, Leshkin stiffened where he sat. There was a brief, pregnant silence in the little room, nothing stirred — save the faint flicker of shadows on the ceiling.