Madame Koska & the Imperial Brooch

by ILIL ARBEL

  “And now,” he said, “ve can eat vhat is called The Holy Supper. If anyone vants to go to church later, vhich is the custom after this meal, it is usually possible to do so until midnight.”

  “Look at him, is he not a veritable Russian bear?” said Wilma affectionately and patted Vasily’s hand. “I would love to go to church after dinner, darling. We should all go!” Could she really like him, Madame Koska asked herself. Vasily was a very pleasant man, with the same charm and kindness that characterised Madame Golitsyn, but he could not be called young or handsome. The nickname Russian bear truly suited him. He was under middle height, with very broad shoulders and a stout, though not really a fat figure. He kept all his thick, grey hair and had a short beard, and while his features were plain, his very frequent, sweet smile illuminated his face. Yes, Madame Koska decided. It was entirely possible that Wilma could like him. Not enough to want to marry him, since he was poor and Wilma would seek money, but enough to spend some time with him and really enjoy his company. The Englishmen she usually dated were probably not as warm and open as Vasily.

  Natalya got up and said, laughing, “I must wash my hands…they are covered with honey. I touched my forehead.” As she walked away from the table, Madame Koska suddenly noticed that Natalya’s appearance has changed dramatically. She wore a cream-coloured, shot silk suit that flowed over her too thin figure, hiding its flaws and giving it elegance. The skirt reached half way between the knee and the ankle, and the coat, also quite long, glided elegantly over it. It was the first time Madame Koska saw Natalya properly dressed, and she was surprised how well she looked. Why, the girl could be almost pretty! She certainly was more stylish in that outfit than Wilma in the vulgar flapper dress… But her neighbour, Inspector Blount, spoke to her privately and she turned toward him.

  “Mr. Korolenko told me about the break into your atelier, Madame Koska,” he said without any preliminaries. “I found it interesting, since nothing, he tells me, was taken.”

  “Yes, the police vere quite perplexed over it,” said Madame Koska. “I think the thieves vere simply interrupted before they got to the safe.”

  “Possibly,” said the inspector. “But I think they were looking for something and could not find it.”

  “Vhat can it be?” asked Madame Koska.

  “I don’t know,” said the inspector. “I was hoping you can think of something.”

  “Not a thing. Ve are a new business, the only valuable things vere the fabrics, and really, who vould vant that…” said Madame Koska. “But I told all that to the police, Inspector Blount.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Madame Koska. I can see you are not one to be frightened into silly hysterics. I believe they will come back.”

  “I hope not while I am preparing for the new collection,” said Madame Koska calmly. The inspector laughed.

  “You are taking it very well, Madame Koska, just as I have hoped. I have put a guard around the area.”

  “And yet you don’t even know vhat you are looking for? I believe you have some suspicions, Inspector, or you vould not go to all this trouble.”

  “Yes, I do, but I cannot prove anything. I must watch someone’s movements, Madame Koska, and she works in your establishment. I would rather we do not mention any names right now.”

  “Of course, Inspector, and as a matter of fact, I rather like the idea of your people guarding the atelier. In utmost seriousness, if my first London collection is interfered vith, I might be forced to go out of business. But still…since vhen does Scotland Yard involve itself in such straightforward, petty crime?”

  “That’s just it, Madame Koska. It may not be a simple petty crime. We suspect the Eurasian gang Mr. Korolenko told you about. But it can be worse. This might have been done by another criminal, and that would be much, much worse.”

  “How can anything be vorse than a gang of murderers who deal with opium and jewelry?”

  “A master criminal who works alone is much harder to catch,” said the inspector. “There is a man, who for the last two or three decades has been eluding us. He steals important jewellery all over Europe and sells it to private collectors who are willing to pay the price and hide the gems. We have reasons to suspect that he is in London now.”

  “But vhat leads you to connect him vith my atelier?”

  The inspector looked at her, as if trying to make a decision before telling her the worst. Madame Koska did not hurry him, and sipped her wine. After a short time, the inspector said, “There is no reason for alarm, but we think he has an interest in your atelier. On the scene of his last job, done in Paris two weeks ago, we found a piece of paper he must have dropped, next to the safe he broke into. Written on the paper was the address of your atelier, Madame Koska.”

  Madame Koska’s fork froze midway between her plate and her mouth. She put it down on her plate, forcing herself to act calmly. “I see,” she said. “Yes, a guard around the atelier vill be highly appreciated, Inspector.”

  “He creeps like a cat, so it would not be easy to notice him. But even though he has been known to elude the police, we think he might be slipping due to his age. He has never made such a mistake before. He cannot be very young now and his system of robbery requires great agility. The good news is that his mistake made our work easier. The note was written in French. This is the first clue we have to his identity, we are now sure he is French.”

  “But it seems that the former break into my atelier was not cat-like at all,” said Madame Koska, recovering. “They made knocking noises, and by the look of the place after they broke in, there vas more than one person ransacking it.”

  “I know. It is highly perplexing, I admit,” said the inspector. “And since we don’t know what he is looking for in your atelier, it makes everything very, very difficult.”

  “This was the most delicious dinner,” said Wilma when they were having their coffee. “So what do you say? It’s not very late, should we let Vasily take us to church?”

  “Why not,” said Madame Golitsyn. “It’s been many years since I went to church. Let’s go.” Everyone agreed, and Natalya, who was extremely quiet during the dinner, hardly saying a word, suddenly said, “Yes, please. I would very much like to go.”

  Madame Koska watched as Natalya put on a small white cloche hat, worn diagonally over one eye, and pulled on her gloves. She definitely looked very nice…people are never what they seem, she suddenly thought. Gretchen, this silly, pretty girl, proving to be a scholar. Natalya, plain, thin, haggard Natalya looking suddenly so elegant… Where did she find the money for such an expensive material, even if she made the suit herself? And the hat, which must have cost a fortune…rather suspicious… Madame Koska shook her head. What next? Who else may do something uncharacteristic? She really did not need all that now while preparing for her first London collection…such bad timing. The thought crossed her mind that she might want to help resolve this mystery, rather than leave it to the police, who seemed to be out of their depth… What could she do? Well, she would sleep on it and then put her mind to work on the problem in all seriousness.

  They left the restaurant and went up the street toward the Russian Orthodox Church. Madame Koska was deep in thought, when suddenly she heard Mr. Korolenko and Inspector Blount talk behind her, rather quietly but clearly. “No, I think they are coming from Constantinople this time, Inspector.”

  “Are you sure, Korolenko? A lot hangs on where they come from.”

  “That’s what I heard. Of course, you can never be certain, they do cover their tracks very carefully. But the opium was definitely delivered there, several months ago.”

  “So they have plenty of money already at hand,” said the inspector.

  “Yes. If it’s their work, and I say if, since I am not at all sure they are involved with the Imperial Brooch, they are ready to strike. They are very well financed,” said Mr. Korolenko.

  “And Constantinople is practically crawling with Russians who are in need of money and who wo
uld allow them to smuggle anything in the shipments to Paris.”

  “Or London,” said Mr. Korolenko.

  “And Orlov is still at large,” said the inspector.

  “Orlov might be dead,” said Mr. Korolenko. “It’s been years.”

  “The likes of Orlov don’t die so easily,” said the inspector. “I am firm in my belief that he is the cat burglar behind the disappearance of the brooch. Remember the affair of the small Dutch piece, the Hans Holbein painting? The technique was the same, exactly the same.”

  “Yes, but it was more than ten years ago, Inspector. It’s a long time.”

  “He lived off the proceeds for ten years, I suppose. Now he needs money again. If he sells the brooch to the right customer, he will be set up for many years. He might even retire, move to another continent, who knows?”

  Madame Koska listened with all her might, but was interrupted by Natalya who turned around from where she was walking with her aunt.

  “Madame Koska, I was thinking we should set up a small room for the ironing,” she said.

  “Vhy do ve need a special room? Ve have three big ironing boards in the main room, are they not enough?” asked Madame Koska.

  “I don’t mean for the dresses, only for the embroideries. You see, you have ordered a large quantity of soft materials for the collection, chiffons, silks…they should be basted to mousseline, Madam Koska. They are too fragile to be embroidered speedily on their own.”

  “But you vorked on the other embroideries vithout it,” said Madame Koska.

  “They were not as soft as some of the fabrics we got, and I was not hurrying. I could stretch and re-stretch the material on the embroidery frames. But if we want to work efficiently, it’s different. Before a very soft fabric, with a pattern already transferred onto it is embroidered, it is best if it is basted onto rigid, chemically treated mousseline. Then, when the work is finished, the mousseline is burned away when pressed with a hot iron. But it cannot be done inside the general work room; the ashes float around the room, making it difficult to breath, and also, the ashes settle on other fabrics and make them dirty.”

  “Aren’t you vorried it might burn the fabric, and then you have to do it all over?”

  “Well, yes, it does happen sometimes,” admitted Natalya. “But rarely, since we test scraps first.”

  “Ve’ll think about it,” said Madame Koska firmly. “I am not sure it’s safe.”

  “They used to do it at the House of Kitmir,” said Natalya. “But it’s true that we sometimes burned our hands…”

  “Kitmir is all very well,” said Madame Koska. “But Countess Maria Pavlovna is not the best manager… I hear she is losing Madame Coco Chanel’s business.”

  “Yes, I heard the same,” said Natalya. “It created a big scandal in the haute couture houses in Paris.”

  At that time they reached the church. To her annoyance, Madame Koska realised she had missed the rest of the conversation between Mr. Korolenko and Inspector Blount. And most annoying, she could never ask because that would show she was eavesdropping. But the conversation with Natalya was somehow comforting. It showed that despite her disconcerting new good looks she was still the same old Natalya, obsessed with her embroidery. Madame Koska laughed inwardly at the momentary awful suspicion she felt against the poor girl. Such nonsense… Annushka’s niece was above suspicion, wasn’t she?

  “Very vell,” she said. “I do trust you know best vhen it comes to embroidery. Ve’ll convert the small storage room at the back, the one vith the vindow, into an ironing room. And by the vay, you look very nice this evening, Miss Saltykov.”

  The next morning, Madame Koska and Madame Golitsyn were strolling in the park. Though a sunny day, it was very cold, and they had the park almost to themselves.

  “So would you please tell me why we could not meet in a café, and have breakfast in a nice warm room?” asked Madame Golitsyn.

  “We will have breakfast shortly,” said Madame Koska, “and plenty of hot coffee. But we must be away from walls, doors, and people; we need a place where no one can listen. In these new detective books I am reading now, people can listen through some devices…”

  “Very well,” said Madame Golitsyn. “So what is it?”

  “Annushka,” said Madame Koska. “Who is Orlov?”

  “Orlov? Which one, the lover of Catherine the Great, or any of the modern Orlovs?”

  “I need to know everything you could tell me about any Orlov,” said Madame Koska. “You see, I overheard a discussion between Mr. Korolenko and Inspector Blount. They think Orlov is a cat burglar who is involved in the theft of the Imperial Brooch everyone is talking about. I would not pay attention to it, since what do I have to do with imperial jewels? However, Inspector Blount told me during dinner that the robbers in the atelier may not be related to the Eurasian gang, but to an unnamed cat burglar. This cannot be a coincidence; two cat burglars mentioned in one evening?”

  “No, of course not,” said Madame Golitsyn. “It has to be the same person.”

  “Exactly. So, who is Orlov?”

  “The Orlovs are a very old, very distinguished Russian family. The patriarch, the first one who was rather well known, was the governor of Great Novgorod. He had five sons. The second eldest, Grigory Grigoryevich Orlov, was educated in the corps of cadets at Saint Petersburg, and rose to distinction as a very young man during the Seven Year’s War. Catherine, at that point only a Grand Duchess and married to the ineffective and repulsive Peter III, noticed Orlov while he served at the capital. He quickly became her lover, and was instrumental, with the help of his four brothers, in the conspiracy that had Peter killed and Catherine declared Empress. She made him a count, an adjutant-general, a director-general of engineers, and a general-in-chief. He became extremely influential and wealthy, and even had a son with Catherine—but she would not marry him for some State reasons. The son, being illegitimate, did not bear the name Orlov. He was known as Aleksey Grigoryevich Bobrinsky, so his descendants, while quite distinguished, were not Orlovs. By the way, Grigory Orlov was extraordinarily handsome…”

  “And a good statesman?”

  “Well, yes, to a point, but his aim, in whatever he did, was to please Catherine first and above all. Still, he was effective and useful in many of the better reforms, and had a liberal and intelligent attitude to social change. His only flaw was his arrogance, which caused the failure of one of his most important projects, negotiating with the Ottomans, who were just as obstinate as dear Grigory.”

  “I can almost see him, handsome, insolent…”

  “Yes… I will show you his portrait; I have it on a postcard somewhere. The portraits were formalised in those days, so they did not do him justice, but the records simply gush about his beauty. He was blond, very tall, athletic, with broad shoulders and a strong build. His clear, light blue eyes were striking and they said his smile was lovely—it would light his entire face. Anyway, he came back to Saint Petersburg without permission, certain that Catherine would protect him, only to find that she had taken another lover, Grigory Potemkin.”

  “It seems that half the men in Russia are named Grigory, and half of these were Catherine’s lovers… Le Cochon has many namesakes he could have been proud of.”

  “Oh yes, it’s a very common name. You won’t find too many families who do not have at least one or two men named Grigory among them.”

  “From what I hear about Catherine, men found her extremely attractive, did they not?”

  “Well… I suppose so; she had many lovers. She liked men and they served to relax her; she was constantly under severe strain keeping her huge empire going. She worked very hard, too. They say she drank coffee as dark and thick as mud, and in large quantities, so she could stay awake half the nights, working.”

  “And what happened to Grigory Orlov?”

  “He tried in vain to recapture Catherine’s heart by giving her many jewels, including what was then considered the biggest diamond in the world, known
as the Orlov Diamond. When he realised she would not come back to him, he left the country and lived in Europe. At some point he returned to Russia and married a young woman who may have been his niece, but they had no children. She died very young, from consumption. He died after a few months of early dementia, I think, or some mental illness anyway. He was only forty-nine years old…”

  “Sad story, such a wonderful man to be thrown away like that.”

  “It seems that Potemkin was rather brilliant and more amusing. I think she got tired of Orlov.”

  “So since the child he had with Catherine was illegitimate and not an Orlov, who, then, continued the Orlov family?”

  “He had brothers, those who helped in the conspiracy; there were five of them altogether, counting Grigory.”

  “Oh, yes, you mentioned them,” said Madame Koska. “So there are plenty of descendants.”

  “Yes, they were a respectable, successful family before the Revolution—except for one of them. From a very young age he was involved in petty crimes, and while still quite young he was caught in a terrible scandal—a failed jewel theft on a large scale. When they came to arrest him, they found that he disappeared. That happened twenty, thirty years ago, I am not sure. No one knows where he is or what he is doing, or even if he is alive.”

  “So Inspector Blount seems to think he is the one who stole the Imperial Brooch. I wonder why he thinks that. For all we know, this Orlov might have died years ago.”

  “Yes, a bit far-fetched,” said Madame Golitsyn. “But Scotland Yard may have some fresh evidence.”

  “Not really, since he also thinks that our cat burglar is French, because of a French note he found near a safe the cat burglar opened.”