“Well,” Simon hesitated, “I’m a banker, in a way — but I’ll tell you, I do all sorts of other things as well. I’m interested in chemicals and metals and phosphorus.”
“And what do you make ’ere in Moscow?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m not here on business exactly,” Simon continued, cautiously; “I’m looking for a friend of mine; he got into some trouble with the police, I believe.”
She looked suddenly grave. “That ees bad; they are powerful, the Ogpu — was it for politics that ’e got into trouble?”
Simon was in a quandary; he wanted to discover the whereabouts of Rex, but he could not tolerate the idea of lying to this beautiful and charming woman, who seemed to have taken such a liking to him, and in whom his own interest was growing deeper every minute. Honesty, with Simon, was not only policy, but a principle from which he never deviated — it had brought him the confidence and respect of business acquaintances and friends alike.
“Ner,” he answered, “not as far as I know. Perhaps he may have gone somewhere he should not have gone, or got tight or something, but I don’t think he got into a muddle with politics. The only thing I know is that he is in prison, poor devil.”
“But what could you do? Even if you know where ’e was, they would not let ’im out — ”
“We’d get him out,” said Simon, promptly. “If we knew where he was, we’d apply for his release through his Embassy; he’s an American. But we can’t, you see, if we don’t know! That’s the trouble.”
“I will see what I can do,” she said suddenly. “Kommissar Leshkin ’as a great deal to do with the prisons. What ees the name of your frien’?”
“Rex Van Ryn.” Simon spoke the syllables carefully. “Here,” he produced a gold pencil from his waistcoat pocket, “I’ll write it down for you — no, better write it yourself — you’ll understand your own writing better.” He gave her the pencil, and she wrote the name in a large round childish hand as he spelt it out for her.