“He knows the people who are involved, from his private life.” Peter inhaled blissfully, then blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. “That much is obvious, but he has too much to lose. He loves this new fiancée of his.”
“New, is she?”
“Yes. She was the Marvins’ secretary, until Richard Marvin assaulted her.”
“I assume she quit?”
“No, sacked.”
Dent shook his head. “That’s a bit of bad luck. Was she hurt?”
Peter put his hand to his neck. “Yes, but not enough to be hospitalized. A day or two in bed, though.”
“And no one thought to file charges for that, either?”
“It never occurred to me. Unfortunately, Marvin had a good story. Impossible to disprove.”
“You do understand that it was secrecy that brought down this hotel’s previous management and reputation over the Starlet Murders of 1922, don’t you? And secrecy will bring it down again. Your family has to learn to work with the police, instead of against us. We aren’t the enemy, criminals are.”
“We live and die by paying guests,” Peter said. “Sometimes our guests are the criminals.”
Dent chuckled. “Then I expect we’re meant to stay enemies. Do I need to order a raid on that nightclub of yours?”
Peter shook his head. “We comply with the liquor laws. No, that’s the least of it. It’s a large hotel, and we have to fill the rooms. All sorts of people stay at a hotel.”
Dent sighed. “After all, it’s the criminal class who has the money. Like those bloody Bolshies. It was like flashing a red scarf at a bull, naming this hotel as you did.” He took one last puff and ground out his cigarette in Peter’s ashtray, then raised his voice to a falsetto. “Bring your foreign intrigue here.”
“It’s named after a ballet company,” Peter said. His brother loved the ballet.
Dent shrugged. “Ballet is French, right? Nothing good can come from that.”
For the next two hours, Peter shadowed the inspector as he moved around the hotel. The fifth floor suite where Emmeline had once lived with her mother was free from explosives. He’d felt his first gray hairs pop out along his scalp, however, when, at six forty-five, a police detective opened one of the lower cabinets in the raised-floor meeting room, which normally held teacups and plates, and discovered cylinders of a paper-wrapped substance.
“Dynamite,” the detective said with satisfaction. “Not wired up yet.”
Detective Inspector Dent checked his pocket watch. “Not leaving much time. Maybe Marvin is supposed to do it when he comes in.”
“He’d blow himself up,” Peter said, horrified.
Dent shrugged. “Some do, you know. Have we searched the Marvins’ rooms yet?”
“They are on the fifth floor, the Chinese Suite,” Peter said.
Dent gestured at a young, uniformed constable. “Get going. Tell them to move two men from the performance space to the Chinese Suite and do a thorough search for the detonator and wires.”
Peter collapsed into Macbeth’s throne. The scenery was still set up there, since he hadn’t wanted to alert the Marvins to the room change.
Dent scratched his mustache. “What are you thinking of, Eyre?”
Peter stared at his hands. “What a fool I’ve been.”
“You’re too young to have been in the war, son. Your experience with man’s inhumanity, particularly the foreign kind, is limited as a result. No, you have to leave it to those of us who know better.”
“Like a Russian refugee whose own parents and sister were shot by firing squad,” Peter said in a low voice.
“Who was that, then?”
“Ivan Salter. His oldest sister was part of a group that tried to assassinate Lenin.”
Dent pursed his lips. “Then he’s unlikely to turn Bolshie. Unfortunate that his sister fell in love with a man who did.”
What? Peter lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not sure I knew he had a sister.”
“We haven’t found her yet. Can I use your phone again? I’d better have Salter brought here soon, so he can identify any other members of the Bolshevik cell who try to come in.”
“Of course.” Peter forced himself to rise, and found his legs would still support him despite the shock.
They went downstairs so Dent could call New Scotland Yard again. Peter went out to the reception desk and stood next to Hugh Moth, staring at the passing parade in the Grand Hall. The smiling, well-dressed throng seemed little more than ghosts to him, and ghosts they would be, if the police didn’t sort this out. He wondered if he should evacuate the hotel, but that would be catastrophic to its future.
* * *
“Lots of police about,” Lionel Dew said, coming into the room behind the reception desk at seven.
“Possible trouble with the Macbeth performance,” Peter explained. He’d been asked to retrieve a sample of the official invitation to the performance so he could show the inspector and his men.
“Is it going to be canceled?”
“No. We don’t want to damage government relations.”
“Bit of sarcasm there, eh?” Dew asked.
Just then, the inspector appeared. Ivan was with him, along with two new men in suits. More Special Branch detectives, most likely.
“We’ll need to send your man downstairs to get into uniform,” Dent said.
“My uniform is at home, except my coat,” Ivan said quietly. He had shadows under his eyes.
Peter wasn’t exactly sorry the night watchman had had a rough day.
“We’ll sort something out,” Dew said. “We’ve extra clothing for emergencies.”
“Go with him,” Dent said, gesturing with his chin toward one of the new detectives.
Anatoly Smirnov arrived in the staff lounge at 7:20. Peter had been lying in wait for him along with the police. He was pulled aside immediately and searched in a bathroom. The constable found the ignitor for the bomb sewn into the lining of Anatoly’s coat. His expression hadn’t changed as he was marched out of the hotel through the basement employee door and into a waiting car. Peter wished he could punch the man, but he could do nothing but watch.
At a few minutes after seven thirty, he went to the fifth floor with Detective Inspector Dent.
“We’ll search everyone you don’t recognize,” Dent said as they rode the lift. “Just in case there are weapons.”
“Do you think the plotters have any idea that their plans were uncovered?”
Peter had taken control of the lift himself so that an operator couldn’t overhear the conversation. “I’m more concerned that we haven’t located this Konstantin yet. We’ve arrested a Sergei Bakunin, and another chap we only know as Pavel right now.”
“Konstantin is the important figure?”
“Yes. He has access to the explosives. From what I’ve heard from the interrogation so far, Sergei is a rather pitiful character, and this entire plan started as a vendetta against the Russian diplomat, Ovolensky.”
“And Pavel?”
“A professional, as is Anatoly.”
Peter frowned as they reached the fifth floor. “I can’t believe we hired him.”
“These Bolshies can be very clever,” Dent assured him. “Good cover stories, excellent forged documents.”
“Does Ivan Salter check out?” he asked as he opened the gate.
Dent went to the left, where the suite was. “His story matches Bakunin’s, although neither of them is talking about Salter’s sister. We need to find and speak to her.”
Peter relaxed. “Then I can trust Ivan, for the most part at least. The sister has never been here asking for work. I know that much.”
“We’ll be using Salter at the door, but don’t think we neglected to check his clothing, too, before we let him into position for checking the performance guests.”
“He could have had something planted on him.”
“That he could,” Detective Inspector Dent said, gaze drifting across the art-covered walls
. “We’ve checked out the man he’s residing with. Jewish, so not much likelihood of a Bolshie there. Assuming Salter’s sister isn’t the true mastermind, Salter is probably completely out of it.”
“Do you think the sister is the mastermind?” His own mother being brilliant, Peter never discounted women.
“All this voting nonsense has women thinking they can run the world nowadays,” Dent said. “Who can say? She’s probably a mere hysterical cook and cleaner for the cell, but until we speak to her I won’t know.”
“Hello, Ivan,” Peter said, arriving at the suite door.
His night watchman, pale but properly dressed in full uniform, nodded respectfully at him. “About half the guests have arrived. The stage is ready and the actors are in the valet’s bedroom of the adjoining suite.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“No, sir. Everyone has credentials and their invitation. Wives too, of course, but they’ve all come with their husbands.”
“Any Russians yet?”
“Neither the party from upstairs nor anyone I recognize.”
“No sign of Konstantin or your sister. Those are the two we are looking for still,” Dent said.
Peter watched carefully, but Ivan didn’t flinch or respond to the inspector’s taunting tone. The man had survived many years of hardship. He was too smart to reveal himself easily. Behind him, Peter heard any number of loud footsteps, a cough, the clearing of a throat. When he turned, he saw the Russian delegation, some dozen men.
Now he saw a response from Ivan Salter. His posture had gone rigid. As Peter watched, he tucked closed fists behind his back. He was glad the man had been searched for weapons.
George Ovolensky was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, with dark bushy hair and a thick mustache. He looked to be impressively fit under his tuxedo, and wore an air of wealth that seemed an odd fit for a Bolshevik. Peter knew instantly that this man had come from the higher ranks of society. Why had he joined the Soviet government? He didn’t look like an idealist. He had the watchful gaze of a predator.
Ovolensky’s eyes widened when he took in the small crowd. Or so Peter thought.
When Dent said, “Invitations, please, gentlemen?” Ovolensky didn’t even glance at him. His black gaze fixed on Ivan.
“If it isn’t young Saltykov,” Ovolensky said in English. He then said something guttural in Russian.
Ivan’s left shoulder jerked, but his face remained impassive.
Ovolensky continued in English. “Where is that beautiful sister of yours? Dear Cousin Vera. Prettiest of the Saltykovs. Catherine had a horse face, as I recall. Better to rid the world of ugly women. Vera’s looks came from your father’s side. Your mother was not a handsome woman, merely wealthy.”
Peter watched shock cross Ivan’s face. He could tell Ovolensky as telling lies about the night watchman’s family.
One of the other delegates snickered as he handed his passport and invitation to a uniformed constable.
Ivan spoke, his accent heavier than usual. “It must be interesting for your colleagues to note that Georgy Ovolensky has family here in London.”
Peter hadn’t thought everyone in the delegation spoke English, but now he realized he might be mistaken as attention went to Ivan.
“Da,” Ivan said, then returned to English. “He is my late father’s cousin. We were gentry, before the war. Georgy’s family was wealthier than mine, better connected. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had my parents murdered, I might have called him cousin.”
Ovolensky’s eyes bulged, and he growled something in Russian.
“My parents had nothing to do with Catherine’s involvement in the plot to kill Lenin, if that was even true. If you had any idea how much Vera hated you, you’d drink yourself to sleep each night. May God have mercy on your soul, for I have none,” Ivan said.
Dent stiffened. Peter wondered if he thought Ivan was going to attack Ovolensky, even though they all knew Ivan had no weapons.
Ovolensky’s expression relaxed and he began to laugh. Stepping forward, he clapped Ivan on the shoulder hard, then pinched his cousin’s cheek. “Such humor, this boy. You ought to be on stage, no? Are you in the play?”
Dent glanced over at Peter, and he wondered what the inspector thought about Ivan’s comment about Vera. Clearly, his sister wanted Ovolensky dead. Would she try anything now? Where was she?
The constable began letting the Russians through. Behind them, Peter saw Alecia Loudon before Ivan did. She wore a black velvet dress and pink shoes. He hadn’t seen her in proper evening clothes since New Year’s Eve. She looked lovely and he smiled at her, but she only had eyes for Ivan, though he registered shock when he saw her.
“I’m afraid I don’t have an invitation,” she said. “Mrs. Marvin invited me.”
“I know her,” Peter said to Dent. “She used to be Marvin’s secretary.”
“We’ll have to check you,” Dent said in a fatherly manner.
“What for?” Ovolensky asked. “Such a beautiful creature should never be molested.”
Miss Loudon glanced at all the men, then slowly handed her coat and purse to Detective Inspector Dent. “I’m happy to oblige.”
He ran his fingers over all the seams, then glanced through her purse. “I’m afraid we’ll have to examine the hem of your dress.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ovolensky watched, fascinated, as the uniformed constable quickly ran his fingers over the dress, careful not to touch any of Miss Loudon’s skin.
“What are you looking for?” Ovolensky said.
“Detonators,” Detective Inspector Dent said with relish. “You have enemies here, you know, Mr. Ovolensky.”
The Russian chuckled, but his compatriots had all entered the suite, save one man who appeared from his great bulk to be a bodyguard. “We are safe nowhere, we Soviets.”
“Your enemies seem to be rather more personal, sir,” Peter said.
Ovolensky raised his ferocious eyebrows. “What an unpleasant remark.”
“Why don’t you go in, Cousin,” Ivan interrupted before Ovolensky could continue. “You can find a seat for my fiancée, on the opposite side of the room from you, of course.”
“Your fiancée?” Ovolensky repeated.
“Miss Loudon and I are engaged,” Ivan said. Peter could hear the pride in Ivan’s voice.
The Russian made a show of shifting his gaze from the girl to the night watchman. “I’ll admit you are a handsome devil, Ivan, but you’ve no position in life. What’s a beauty like this doing settling on you? Did she lose her true love in the war?”
“The war has been over for seven years,” Miss Loudon said.
“Not quite,” replied the Russian. “How old are you, my dear? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-two,” she replied.
Peter could see what it cost her to keep her voice level. Ovolensky was utterly odious. Alecia Loudon was a youthful beauty, and barely looked her true age, much less older.
“I don’t like paint on women,” Ovolensky said. “It ages them, turns them into whores.”
They all froze. Then Ivan broke the stillness by saying, “As loathsome as ever, I see, Georgy. Thankfully, I still remember the spider-leg-plucking, puppy-drowning boy you were, and am not surprised. I don’t think I shall entrust Alecia to you after all. Mr. Eyre, would you do the honors?”
“With pleasure,” Peter said, offering his arm. When she placed her hand on his arm, he tucked his hand over it and squeezed. She smiled at him and nodded, and they went into the room to watch the performance.
* * *
Despite everything that had transpired, Alecia was mesmerized by the theatrical performance. She hadn’t seen many plays, and while she might have lost respect for the Marvins, they were world-renowned for a reason. However, she thought it wise to leave immediately afterward, especially when Ivan, a police constable on each side, caught her eye and tilted his head toward the door as soon as the audience began to clap.
Mr. Eyre put Alecia into a taxicab personally after the Macbeth performance ended. She knew she ought to return to the Plash flat and her duties with her new charge, but the woman would be asleep in the early evening hours. For herself, she knew she would not sleep a wink with all of these worries scampering through her brain like a litter of gamboling piglets. Instead, she directed the driver to take her to Boris Grinberg’s flat.
When she knocked on his door and there was no immediate answer, she began to berate herself. How could she have made such a foolish choice as to come here?
Finally, the door opened. “Miss Loudon!” Boris said jovially. “I’m afraid your young man is not at home.”
“He’s at the Grand Russe.”
Boris nodded. “You look troubled.”
“Do you know what has been going on today?”
He glanced up and down the hall, then gestured her in. As soon as she stepped inside, he shut the door. “I know it all too well, my dear. The police brought me in for a chat this afternoon.”
Hope surged. “But they let you go?”
“They didn’t see me as a conspirator. I helpfully pointed out that Ivan came to me after his sister severed relations with him.”
She blinked at Mr. Grinberg, her brain refusing to form words.
He shook his head. “Come, my dear, remove your coat. You look chilled.”
Slowly, she took off her outerwear and he led her into his parlor, where she had spent very happy hours with Ivan recently. He went to a sideboard and poured from a bottle into two small cups and brought her one.
“It is kosher wine. I think you can use it.”
“Thank you.” She sipped it slowly. “It’s very sweet.”
He nodded. “Small quantities are best, I find. Now tell me what brings you here when you knew Ivan was not here. Do you need a place to stay?”
“No, I started a new position today and it includes a bed.” She finished her wine and set the tiny cut crystal glass on a side table. “Do you know what has been happening? There were so many police at the performance.”
“There was a bomb threat,” Boris said, settling more comfortably into his armchair by the fire. “And Ivan’s sister is mixed up with the group who were trying to set off the bomb.”
If I Had You Page 27