Natasha's Dream by Mary Jane Staples Page A

shoes, and they shone. He put the cleaning things back into his box. Mr Gibson paid him generously, and in addition invited him to take away the uneaten pastry. Hans went off in delight, though not before assuring Mr Gibson and Natasha that he was always about in Unter den Linden if they ever required him to be of service. It was not until later in the day that his mind took hold of the elusive. The young woman who had been a scarecrow yesterday and a very well-dressed young lady today, had had a photograph taken when a girl. He had seen that photograph. A swarthy man with a scar had shown it to him.
    A few minutes after Hans had gone on his way, Mr Gibson called the waiter and paid the bill.
    ‘Shall we go now, Natasha?’ he said.
    ‘Has that man gone?’ asked Natasha.
    ‘I think he’s still in a shop. Never mind, let’s walk.’
    They resumed their stroll along Unter den Linden, and although Natasha was a little worried about events generally, Mr Gibson’s companionship was a comfort that was reassuring. Mr Gibson, glancing into reflecting shop windows, noted the reappearance of the man in the grey coat. He was behind them, sauntering with other pedestrians at a comfortable distance. Mr Gibson wondered whose footsteps were being dogged, his or Natasha’s.
    ‘Is he following?’ asked Natasha.
    ‘Yes. I wonder, while we were waiting on Madame Tolstoy’s doorstep, did Count Orlov telephone someone? Or speak to someone who was there with him? He took rather a long time to put his hat and coat on. He may, of course, have only been speaking to Madame Tolstoy. She was in the house, I feel.’
    ‘It is all so stupid and so unreasonable,’ said Natasha a little bitterly, ‘people acting as if it’s a disaster, not a miracle, for one of the Tsar’s daughters to have escaped being murdered.’
    ‘Yes, that’s occurred to me too,’ said MrGibson. ‘This afternoon I must write an account of my conversation with Count Orlov. This evening I think I’ll take you out. We’ll dine at one of the fashionable Russian restaurants, one that’s patronized by your more exalted émigrés.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Natasha.
    ‘It doesn’t appeal to you?’
    ‘It will give me bliss. No one has ever taken me out to dinner, no one.’ In her excitement, Natasha lost her worry about whether or not she and Mr Gibson were being shadowed. ‘Oh, you are a man of many kindnesses.’
    ‘At the restaurant, you can point out to me anyone whom I might find it interesting to talk to,’ said Mr Gibson.
    ‘Interesting?’
    ‘Anyone who knew the Grand Duchess Anastasia and has seen the woman would be interesting to me. I’m fortunate to have fallen in with you, Natasha, for you’ve obviously followed events and developments concerning the woman. It’s a very Russian thing, of course, naturally intriguing to all you émigrés.’
    ‘That is why you are going to take me out, so that I can give you information about people who might be there?’
    ‘I shall be grateful for your help,’ said Mr Gibson.
    ‘You are a terrible man, wanting to ask questions of everybody.’
    ‘Not everybody,’ said Mr Gibson. ‘Now, I think I’ll put you in a taxi. Tell the driver to take you to that house where you were given a corner in which to sleep. Is there a back way out?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then leave the house that way, and immediately.’
    ‘I’m to do this because you think I’m being followed?’ said Natasha, feeling there were eyes on her back.
    ‘It’s a way of finding out if you are. Get another taxi after you’ve left the house, and have the driver bring you back to my apartment. Make sure you’re not seen. The point is, if you’re being watched, someone has discovered you’re no longer using that house for sleeping. Don’t let them find out you’re now living at my apartment. You have money, I think, to pay for the taxis.’
    ‘Yes, all that was left over from yesterday,’ said Natasha. ‘But taxis are very extravagant. You