by Неизвестный
“And Nikolai had these because he’s your ex-husband?” asked Ben.
“That is correct,” said Tasha. “How did you know?”
Ben smiled benignly but didn’t answer.
The hot water kettle began to whistle, and Vera removed it from the stove.
“Vera, if you don’t mind,” said Tasha, “I could use a shot of brandy in mine to help me sleep. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to get rougher tonight before the sandman comes.”
Vera nodded. “Certainly.”
“How does this help your investigation?” asked Tasha. “Knowing about my private affairs, how does that help you with your murder?”
“The murders of these Russians seem to be revenge driven,” said Alan.
“Murders? There’s been more than one?” asked Tasha.
“So far, we believe we have Pavel Medved and possibly his brother Mikhail. We think Wang Tao’s shooting could also be a murder, but were not sure of the connection, other than Mikhail Medved is the man who’d been following him. Nikolai recommended him to Wang Tao’s jealous lover, Liu Yang.”
“Sounds like a radio melodrama,” said Tasha, “but are you sure the brothers’ names are Medved, not Medvedev?”
“Actually, we’re pretty sure Medvedev is correct,” said Vera.
“So they shortened their names. Well, that’s not all that unusual,” said Tasha.
“Do you know them?” asked Vera.
Tasha sat back in the chair and stretched her legs out, while staring at her feet. “This is not something you would hear about in America, but for those of us who travel in different circles, Russian émigrés, we’ve heard the names of these braggarts who claimed to have killed the royal family. The Medvedev brothers are believed to be part of the bungling firing squad that assassinated the Romanovs.”
“We found a note on one that called him a baby killer,” said Ben.
“Tsarevich Alexei would have been thirteen,” said Tasha, “not really a baby anymore. “Calling him babushka, or baby, would have been something his doting nurse would have called him, with his health being so fragile and all.”
“Do you remember the nurse’s name?” asked Vera.
“Anna Demidova,” said Tasha. “These memories are so sad. They are what keeps me awake at night. How did these assassins die?”
“One died in the fire, trapped inside the casket on stage,” said Ben. “He appears to also have been stabbed in the heart. The other bayoneted repeatedly and possibly shot.”
“How exquisitely appropriate,” said Tasha. “I apologize for this, but this brings a certain closure for me, which is long overdue.”
“So, you’re really Maria Rasputin?” asked Alan.
Tasha sipped her tea and then added a large dollop of honey to it. She nodded. “Until my father’s murder in 1916, I had free access to the royal court. I dined with the grand duchesses. Most of these pictures, I took. That’s why Nikolai finally returned them to me.”
“And by ‘Nikolai’ you really mean ‘Boris,’” said Alan, “isn’t that right?”
“That’s correct,” said Tasha. “Boris Soloviev. After my father’s brutal murder, the Holy Synod chose Boris as my father’s successor. There had already been one assassin’s attack on my father already, leaving him wounded. He knew people were jealous and that he had haters, like most great men. He predicted his death, saw it coming. During his melancholy he apparently endorsed Boris as heir should something happen to him. So the Synod followed his wishes and arranged the marriage on his behalf, for the good of Russia. I had little say in the matter. Boris had studied hypnotism, metaphysics, and tried his hand at séances, but he didn’t have the spiritual gifts my father had. He could pretend with cleverness and sleight of hand, but that’s not the same thing as having divine inspiration, like my father had. It became apparent to me that Boris in fact possesses no conscience. I should have listened to what my instincts were telling me and married the soldier.”
“Divorced in Paris?” asked Alan.
“That’s correct,” nodded Tasha.
“Did Boris come from wealth?” asked Vera.
Tasha shook her head. “No, not wealthy.”
“We have information that when you arrived in Paris you came with jewels and great wealth,” said Alan.
Tasha cocked her head sideways and stared at him a moment. Alan didn’t flinch. She turned towards Vera. “I would like to chase the tea with vodka, if you don’t mind.”
Vera took an unopened bottle from under her sink, opened the lid, and poured a healthy shot into a glass from the wash rack. She handed it to Tasha wordlessly.
Tasha took a large swig and smacked her lips. “I can see it’s time to let the rest of the story out, but I don’t want it repeated anywhere. Even my girls don’t know what I’m about to tell you, and I want it kept that way. Is that understood?”
Nods came from around the room. “Understood,” said Ben. “We only need to know enough to make sure we’re on the right investigative track. Nobody’s going to blab your life’s story to the newspapers or put it on the radio.”
Tasha gazed at Ben a moment, apparently weighing her decision before finally speaking. “Boris and I were in Ekaterinberg, across town from the Romanov family in 1918. The weather had been getting better, so it must have been late spring. We visited with the family at the Ipatiev home, which the Bolsheviks converted into what they called the House of Special Purpose. The rag tailed men guarding the family treated them vilely, as commoners, calling the tsar by his given name, Nicholas Romanov, as if he were a fellow on the street who owed them money. These cretins also drew pornographic pictures on the garden walls to shame the daughters, who were my friends. So Nicholas and Alexandra had great concerns for their family’s safety. They knew these captors didn’t have their best interests at heart. It seemed to me that Alexandra had a clearer sense of the real danger than Nicholas, and so she begged Boris to put together a band of White Russians, loyal to the tsar, to rescue the family from the Red Army. Boris told them that he didn’t have those kinds of resources at his disposal. He said he couldn’t easily put something like that together. It would take plenty of gold and jewelry to convince men to put aside their safety and risk their lives for the royal family. It would take coordination, weaponry, supplies, foreign currency, and transportation for them to flee to a safe harbor, which became the biggest problem of all.”
“How so?” asked Vera.
“No country offered refuge to the family. Despite their bloodline, the ties to Germany and England, neither country would take them because of the war or worries about retaliation if they did. America refused to take them and congratulated the revolutionaries for ‘throwing off the yoke of monarchy.’ And if we were caught, we knew the Bolsheviks would execute everyone who had aided the family. The vengeance would have been most horrific, as an example to others.”
Vera topped off Tasha’s glass.
“Alexandra picked up a pillow she kept near her in the house and tore it open to show Boris the countless number of jewels she had sewn inside, an emperor’s ransom. She urged Boris to take the pillow and all its contents. She said we were her only hope. So we left the house with the pillow full of desperation and left them with an empty promise we had little hope of keeping.”
Tasha took a large sip of vodka and shuddered. “At first, Boris went through the motions, summoning officers he knew and relaying to them what Nicholas and Alexandra wanted. These brave men did not hesitate to risk their lives and put a plan together, but Boris began to have second thoughts. Maybe having all that jewelry corrupted whatever thread of humanity he might have once had. Before long, he imagined keeping the jewels and realized an opportunity to exploit the Romanovs and get more for himself. The tsar gave him a ring he wore all the time, sweetening the pot, so to speak. But Boris gambled with their li
ves, figuring the longer he took the more they would be willing to pay, and pay they did. But unbeknownst to Boris, the Czechoslovakian Legions were headed to Ekaterinberg. Their purpose had more to do with the Trans-Siberian Railway than rescuing the royal family, but the Red Army believed the Czechs were on their way to free the Romanovs and give the White Russians a champion. Lenin ordered the family executed, rather than risk the family being rescued and used to rally support for the opposition. So while Boris counted his wealth and dreamed of much more, the assassins gathered the family in a basement room, shot them, stabbed them, and burnt their bodies beyond recognition, before burying them in a pit, God knows where.”
Vera sat down next to Tasha and held her hand. “That’s awful.”
“We’re still not done,” said Tasha, “and I need to finish this once and for all. I need to quit making excuses for Boris. He is not a good man.”
“Very few people knew what had really happened to the royal family,” Tasha continued. “The Bolsheviks tried to pretend to the rest of the world, even after their deaths, that the family members were still alive but scattered, while on the other hand they caught word that the officers had plotted a rescue attempt that never took place. That’s how we found out that the orders to kill the family had come from Lenin, which scared us. Boris quickly turned the officers’ names over to the Bolsheviks to save himself, and they were executed very horribly, but without their naming other conspirators, such as Boris and myself, who started it all.”
Vera patted Tasha’s hand.
“But still, there is more,” Tasha went on. “After the horrible executions, other noble families were frantic to know where the grand duchesses might be hiding and if they were safe. So Boris saw another opportunity and recruited imposters for the daughters. We traveled around Europe and he passed the imposters off as the grand duchesses, fleecing well-meaning nobles of their wealth. I had to come to terms with the fact that I had married a grifter, not a worthy heir to my holy father.”
“Remind me of the names of the grand duchesses,” said Ben.
“Olga, the oldest, Tatiana, Marie, and Anastasia,” said Tasha. “Technically, you were to address them as Imperial Highnesses, but everyone referred to them as Grand Duchesses.”
“It’s a crying shame what happened to the Romanovs,” said Alan, “and I have to tell you that it doesn’t seem right that Boris—or Nikolai—is running around living in America, in the lap of luxury, spending loot stolen from the Romanovs like that.”
“He squandered much of it in Paris,” said Tasha. “Gambled a lot away, and then someone scammed him out of the bulk of it, or so he claims. If true, it might have been other Russian émigrés, but I doubt it involved blackmail. If it happened as he said, it was probably more a conman’s scam of some kind he fell for. I think he changed his name to make it easier to move about Europe and enter this country, but not to dodge the shame. At any rate, he lost his theater holdings in Paris, dumped me, and moved here to start over.”
“Where does Frederic St. Laurent fit in here, the magician?” asked Alan. “We know so little about him.”
“I’ve been wondering that too,” said Tasha. “I learned French in St. Petersburg, as did many of the noble families, except for the Romanovs. The tsarina didn’t want the girls to have a French tutor. They could read French but not speak it. I never engaged Frederic in a discussion in French, but my ear tells me his French accented English has a Russian ring to it. I don’t think he’s really from France.”
“My French is from Canada,” said Vera, “and I would agree that his accent is a bit different.”
“So who is he?” asked Ben. “And where is he? Why hasn’t he turned up yet?”
“I have no idea, on either account,” said Tasha. “I hadn’t seen or heard from Nikolai until we got this offer to perform with Frederic St. Laurent, with guaranteed dates—at least according to Nikolai. I didn’t even have a chance to really sit down with St. Laurent and ask him why he chose us to perform with him, and then once I met with Nikolai, I recognized him right away of course and forgot all about the other business.”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the expression that ‘this is such a small world’,” Tasha continued. “Well, that’s the first thing I thought. I didn’t recognize Nikolai’s new name, and he says he didn’t recognize mine. Said he hadn’t seen any of our publicity flyers, either. Still, our parting in Paris had not been pleasant, and he truly surprised me with these pictures. This is a kindness I didn’t expect from him.”
Alan reached inside his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of stationery and opened it. “We found this inside a police officer’s tunic we believe belonged to St. Laurent. A transient found the coat in the alley, discarded outside the Paramount Theater. The note inside it reads: ‘Filipp. We are in grave danger. Remember all in your prayers to the Holy Father. Anna.’ Dated June 21, 1918.”
Tasha’s mouth sagged opened and she held out her hand toward the letter. Alan handed the stationery to her, and she read it over and over again, her eyes widening further with each pass. “This has to be from Anna Dimidova, but I’m not sure who Filipp would be.”
“I’ve got this feeling that whatever’s going on with these murders has something to do with the Romanovs,” said Vera. “You add in Alexander channeling a Russian woman’s voice he attributes as Anna, predicting the deaths we’ve had, and it points more and more to the story you’ve just told us. Maybe this Filipp is a relative. That would make sense to me.”
“What’s this about predictions?” asked Tasha. “I haven’t heard about that before, but then I don’t read your newspapers.”
“Alexander Conlin, who bills himself as ‘the man who knows,’ sells out The Orpheum Theater every night. He predicted both of the murders while on stage,” said Alan. “First, in a woman’s voice, he predicted the fire at the Paramount. And you were at the theater, so you know it happened. Then we watched his act the following night, and he predicted another death on stage—a shooting death. We guessed that it might be at The Moore Theater, since they had an act involving firearms, and we were sitting in the audience when the shooting happened—just as predicted.”
“Afterward, Alexander claimed to have no recollection of saying what we heard him say,” said Vera, “and his voice changed while on stage to sound very much like a woman’s. Very convincing. He—or she—spoke in both English and Russian, and when we asked Alexander later about whom he had channeled, he jokingly said, ‘Anna,’ but he didn’t know why he picked that name. Said it popped into his head while talking with us.”
As Vera spoke, Tasha’s eyes widened, and her mouth went slack. “Do you think I could speak to Alexander?” she asked. “Perhaps if it is really Anna he’s channeling, she might speak to me through him. I would recognize her voice and she, mine.”
The three detectives exchanged glances, shrugged shoulders, and finally nodded their concurrence.
“We can ask for an interview,” said Vera, “but there’s no guarantee he’ll grant one.”
“How about if we arrange to have a reporter take a photograph of the meeting?” asked Alan. “The headline could say he’s helping with the investigation into the deaths. That might encourage him to do it.”
“No reporters,” said Tasha, flatly.
“Alexander will want the publicity,” said Alan. “He craves the attention, and maybe we could get the reporter to take a back shot of you, so your face isn’t identifiable.”
“I worry that it could turn our investigation into a circus,” said Ben.
“Could we get the reporter to delay his story until the case is solved?” asked Alan.
Ben shook his head. “They keep their own counsel,” he said. “They’re not much for doing what we want them to do. They’re more interested in selling newspapers, and if they got a juicy story in their grasp, the first one who comes out with it sel
ls the most newspapers, leaving the others begging.”
“I’ll have to think about it, anyway” said Tasha, “but you know, in many ways I have a sense of relief right now. I’ve gotten a terrible burden off my chest. It’s been haunting me for twenty years now. I think I might finally sleep tonight.”
Tasha stood up and walked toward the bedroom, without saying goodnight, leaving the glass of vodka on the kitchen table.
“Very interesting,” said Ben, “I think we’ve got a better idea now of a possible motive, but we still don’t know who’s doing the killing.”
“After listening to Tasha, I’m wondering if there’s not a bigger connection to Ivanovich than the other two who were killed,” said Alan. “If revenge is a motive, he certainly would be one I’d want to drop an anvil on. He should be watching his back.”
“The Medvedevs were assassins,” said Vera. “They died in ways similar to how they killed the Romanovs. Where Ivanovich didn’t actually kill the royal family, he betrayed them and profited from their desperation. He didn’t help them find what they needed when they couldn’t help themselves. Maybe his karmic punishment is financial ruin. Revenge comes to him by destroying his theaters and shows.”
“But that doesn’t seem nearly enough,” said Ben. “I’m with the Champ on this. If Nikolai had acted sooner as he promised the royal family, the Romanovs might’ve been spared their lives. I think that son-of-a-bitch should suffer the most—speaking theoretically, of course.”
“Of course,” said Vera.
22
Ben and Vera waited in the lobby of the Camlin Hotel with Tasha, while Alan went up to the tenth floor on his own. He knocked on the door of 1007 and stepped to the side, as Ben had shown him. He heard voices inside the room and thought he recognized Sylvie’s, saying she’d get the door.
Sylvie opened the door, dressed as if she were about to go out for the day. She smiled at Alan, and her eyes twinkled. She glanced over her shoulder and stepped into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her. “Where were you last night?” she asked softly.