“Where do you hang your onions in the autumn?”
“I grow no onions — when I need them I buy them from Rakov — he is cheaper than the Co-Op.”
“Good little Marie Lou,” whispered the Duke, who lay beside Rex on the floor above.
“She’s a kid in a million,” Rex breathed back. He had picked up just enough Russian in prison to grasp the gist of the conversation.
The long-nosed peasant suddenly went pale — it was a terrible accusation to make in front of a member of the Ogpu. “It is not true,” he protested, fearfully. “I buy myself from the Co-Op.”
The tall man regarded him coldly. “You shall have an opportunity of answering this charge at another time. It is sabotage to sell below the prices of the Co-Op.”
“It is not true,” the peasant wailed; he rubbed his hands together, nervously. “My family eat a great deal — they are always eating — but all that they do not eat I give to the Soviet.”
“I am not satisfied about this roof, Comrade.” The agent regarded Marie Lou with his hard grey eyes. “I will see it even if I have to pierce the ceiling. These men may have rested there.”
“Search then,” she cried loudly, in French, so that those above might be prepared, and reverting quickly to Russian she went on passionately: “Do what you will — pull the house down if you wish — I do not care. I shall go to bed.” With a shrug she moved towards the inner room.
The agent caught her by the arm. “Not so fast, Comrade.” He signed to the police. “Search that room again, there must be some way we can reach the rafters.”