by Judith Gould
Startled by the change in his demeanour, Senda allowed herself to be ushered wordlessly through a series of silent halls to a small salon. She was oblivious to the priceless masterpieces glowing on the walls, the giant Sèvres vases and urns on marble-topped consoles. Her heart throbbed and sang, and she could barely contain her excitement. So Vaslav had gotten her message! So he did wish to see her! Thank God she had had the notion to come today, rather than wait another day or two. Something had told her to come. Five days had already passed since she had been here last.
'If Madame will please wait here?'
Senda nodded. Too nervous to sit, she paced the huge wine-coloured oriental carpet. The wait was interminable.
Finally, her ears caught the distant but unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps. Her skin prickled hotly, and she forced herself to stand still, taking a series of rapid breaths to ease her fluttering nerves. To stifle the painful cough which always threatened.
The door opened and she turned slowly toward it, forcing the same expressionless facade on her face she had used in Russia when her path happened to cross Vaslav's in public. Her 'public face', she had called it.
Count Kokovtsov entered the room.
The moment she saw him, her face drained completely of colour. What on earth! she thought. Where was Vaslav? She stifled the cry of disappointment before it left her lips.
Slowly he drew shut the door and turned to face her, his expression reserved and aloof. 'Madame Bora,' he murmured. He came closer, reached for her hand, and suavely raised it to his lips. The pigeon-blood ruby adorning his long thin finger glowed obscenely. His dark eyes glittered, and she suppressed a shudder. 'It is a pleasure to see you again.' He regarded her inquisitively. 'We . . . were afraid some tragedy might have befallen you. It pleases me to see that it has not.'
She forced a smile she did not feel. All too fresh in her mind was that terrible scene at the railroad yard when the Danilov train had pulled out. The Count had deliberately turned the Princess's attention away from the window so that she could not see Senda, and then he had stared back at her, his smile triumphant and mocking. She reminded herself not to be taken in by any display of sincerity on his part. He was a dangerous man, not to be underestimated.
'And it is a pleasure to see you also, Count Kokovtsov. It has been a long time.'
He nodded gravely. 'Nearly two years. That is indeed a long time.' He motioned to a chair. 'Won't you have a seat?'
Senda tucked her long skirt beneath her before sitting down.
He lowered himself soundlessly into a chair facing hers, his every motion somehow insectile, as if he were a giant, poisonous spider.
'You are looking well, as always', he said mildly. 'You always were beautiful.'
'On the stage it was a marketable commodity,' she said modestly, lowering her eyes. 'Here . . .' Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. Then she raised her head. 'And the Prince?' She was succinct. 'How are he and the Princess taking their exile?'
He was silent for a moment. 'Not well, I fear,' he said slowly. 'It has made for some drastic changes. There is a significant difference between visiting a place by choice and being forced to live there in exile.'
She smiled bleakly.
He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then heaved a painful sigh. 'About the Prince . . .'
'Yes?' she asked sharply, sitting up straighter.
'He told me about your letter and your previous visit.'
She drew a deep breath and waited, her heart hammering, her pulse speeding.
'I have tried to tell him repeatedly that exile does not necessarily mean one has to lock oneself away. However—' He sighed again and shook his head mournfully. A tight sad smile hovered on his thin lips. 'I had hoped that you could be of assistance.'
'Me?' Puzzled, Senda tilted her head to one side. 'How?'
'He is no longer the Prince you . . .' Mordka paused and coughed delicately into a fist. '. . . you once knew.'
'Why?' she asked, suddenly alarmed. 'Is he ill?'
'His illness is not of the body, I fear. We have had a parade of the finest doctors and specialists in all of Europe through here. Their consensus is unanimous. The Prince suffers from a malaise of the spirit.' Count Kokovtsov looked at her. 'He will see no one. No one. I am truly sorry. This comes as a severe shock to you, I can see. But believe me, Madame Bora, it is what he wants. What he has ordered.'
Is it? she couldn't help thinking. She bit down on her lip. He was describing a different man altogether, not the Vaslav she knew. Could the Prince have changed so much? Or was it a clever fabrication, another Machiavellian ploy by this arthropod of a man?
'These are trying times for everyone,' Kokovtsov said with finality. 'The Prince and the Princess . . . myself . . . surely for you, also. You must understand, he will not see you.'
'I don't believe that. I cannot!'
'I have my orders. He will see no one. I will arrange for a car to take you back.' She was hardly aware of Kokovtsov leading her out through the halls, back to the soaring foyer, past the curving marble staircase to the front door.
A million thoughts assailed her mind with hailstorm intensity. Had Count Kokovtsov spoken the truth? Or had she been tricked? And now she was being pushed aside, hustled out— and quickly. Something was wrong at the château. Terribly wrong.
Somehow, she just knew it.
She would have to find a way to get back in there, to confront Vaslav face to face and see for herself. She could not, would not, take the Count's words at face value. He had tricked Vaslav into leaving her behind in Russia. She certainly could not trust him now.
Count Kokovtsov watched her departure from a second floor window. 'The bitch will be back,' he told himself in a low, sure voice. His fingers drummed against the sides of his trousers. 'I only wonder what her next move will be.' Unknown to him, so did Senda.
Chapter 26
Less than two weeks after Senda's second futile visit to the château, the plan she had wracked her brains to create was unexpectedly dropped in her lap.
It was Saturday, and Inge had spent the morning shopping. When she came back from bargaining at the open-air market, her breathing was laboured and her face was flushed beetroot red and glistened with a fine sheen of perspiration from hurrying. 'Hello! hello!' she called, heading straight for the kitchen. 'I've picked up a very intriguing piece of news.'
'Well?' Senda demanded.
'One of the finest homes in the area is looking for part-time help.'
Senda jerked. She turned around slowly to stare open-mouthed at Inge, who was coming out of the pantry. 'You don't mean—'
'You get three guesses,' Inge cut in, her cornflower-blue eyes sparkling brightly.
'It couldn't be . . .' Senda could not bring herself to pronounce the name aloud.
'Now it's down to two guesses.' Inge smiled.
'It . . . it can't be . . .'
'It is,' Inge crowed triumphantly. 'The Château Gemini!'
The following Monday, Senda was back at the château, this time as a part-time maid. Nobody had stopped her because no one had recognized her—not the gatekeeper or the majordomo, not even Count Kokovtsov, who she passed twice in the halls, her eyes and face demurely lowered. She had put all her theatrical make-up tricks to good use. She looked dourly plain, an effect increasingly simple to achieve: her features had become austere and bony from the steady weight loss she had suffered since the onset of her illness. She had powdered her tell-tale hair nearly snow white, wore it pulled severely back, and had added shading to her already too-hollow cheeks. She looked like a gaunt, old woman twice her age. She was virtually unrecognizable.
The following afternoon, she spent lunchtime walking in the parkland in front of the château. Just as she came out of the cluster of trees that hid the château, she was forced to stop and wait. Her path was blocked by an army of strutting, snowy white peacocks crossing the drive, dragging their magnificent plumes behind them. Between their persistent, ear-s
plitting cries of 'Pf-ow! Pf-ow! ,' she could hear an engine up ahead coming from the direction of the gate. The noise grew louder as it approached. Then she saw the source of the noise. A huge open white touring car was rounding the curve, bearing down on the peacocks. Not twenty-five feet away, the car coasted to a halt to let the unperturbed birds by when—was it possible?—or was she hallucinating?
Seated in the front of the phaeton was a tan-uniformed chauffeur, his head crowned by a peaked cloth cap. And sitting in the rear, flanked by Count Kokovtsov on his left and the Princess on his right, was her former lover, her protector!
She couldn't believe her eyes. 'Vaslav!' she screamed suddenly, her voice reverberating with new-found strength. Her hands clapped a rhythmic tattoo on her lips as she jumped up and down. 'Vaslav!'
Hearing his name, he turned his head slowly.
She bore down on the car, racing toward it.
Count Kokovtsov leaned forward, rapping the raised glass divider with his knuckles. 'Drive, you idiot,' he shrieked at the chauffeur. 'Drive!'
The chauffeur twisted around to face him. Even through the sounds of the idling engine, Senda could hear his every word with crystal-like clarity. 'But the peacocks—'
'Never mind the goddamned birds!' Kokovtsov screamed. 'Run the hell over them!'
The chauffeur hesitated, and Vaslav stared at Senda stupidly all the while, as though through an invisible haze. His lips were turned down in a frown as if he should know her, but couldn't remember her name. The Princess appeared to stare at the floor, never raising her head or moving her eyes.
'Vaslav, it's me! Senda!!'
She had reached the car. Her hands clutched the glossy door and she leaned across it, ignoring the Count's baleful face as she searched Vaslav's eyes. They were curiously shiny and unfocused. Her face whitened, and she felt she was going to be sick. Vaslav continued to stare at her . . . through her really . . . as if he was catatonic. What was wrong with him?
Of course. The scarf! Her white hair! How could she expect him to recognize her in this disguise?
With a swift tug of her hand she tore the scarf off her head and in a desperate frenzy began slapping the white powder from her hair.
Still Vaslav Danilov regarded her with that curious far-away look, and the Princess continued to stare at the floor as if in a trance.
'Vaslav!' Senda sobbed. 'For God's sake, why don't you recognize me? It's me! Senda!'
'Drive!' Count Kokovtsov screeched at the driver again. 'Drive, I tell you!'
This time the chauffeur jumped into action. The rear tyres dug tenaciously into the drive, kicking up gravel and spraying it backward. The car surged forward with a sudden burst of speed. Unprepared for its abrupt departure, Senda was still clinging to the door, her feet dragging a deep furrow through the gravel. Then she uttered a cry of dismay as her grip loosened. The breath was knocked out of her as she hit the ground and rolled over twice.
Thump-thump-thump.
She drew in her breath sharply and shut her eyes at the terrible sounds: the car had ploughed through the peacocks. When she opened her eyes again, a cloud of white feathers billowed up into the blast of exhaust before snowing slowly groundward. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the car hurtling around the wide curve, toward the house. The chauffeur had taken the corner so fast that for a moment it appeared as if the phaeton was balanced on its left tyres alone. Then the car was out of sight, screened by the thick foliage of the trees.
Vaslav! Her heart was a triphammer, her blood surging. This was her one opportunity to speak with him—perhaps the only one she might ever have! She had to take advantage of it, to find out what was wrong with him.
Why didn't he recognize her? Or did he?
She struggled to her feet and raced toward the château, cutting across the lawn. She glanced at the blood-splattered carcasses of three prize peacocks, and quickly averted her gaze. It had been a mistake to look, and she had to fight to keep from retching. Nothing could drown out the agony of one mortally wounded fowl's ear-piercing death shrieks.
'Butcher!' she hissed aloud, angrily cursing Count Kokovtsov. Then she ducked through the trees and ran straight into the waiting arms of two guards.
She fought them like a captured banshee, her arms flailing. 'Let me . . . GO!' she. screamed. 'Vaslav! Vaslav!' Then she shouted at the guards: 'You don't understand! Something's wrong!' Squirming like an eel, she nearly eluded her captors, but then they pinioned her arms behind her back and dragged her forcibly to the gates, her heels furrowing the gravel.
'If you value your job, you'll see that this one never gets in again!' one of the guards snapped to the wide-eyed gatekeeper. Then they flung Senda out with such force that she all but flew through the air. She landed painfully on the pavement but, curiously, hardly felt the impact. She only knew that she had to get back into the estate, and that the gate was already swinging shut.
She stumbled dazedly to her feet and rushed the closing gate, but it clanged shut in front of her, locking her out forever with the same loud foreboding clang of finality as a jail door.
Her eyes streaming tears, she grasped hold of the curlicued bars of the gates, clutching them in desperation as she sank to her knees under the iron and gilt coat of arms of the Danilovs.
'Vaslaaavv,' she howled in the keening, unearthly wail of a wounded animal. 'VAAASSSLLLAAAVVvvv . . .'
Chapter 27
Two days after Senda's ignoble eviction from the château, Inge returned from the market with a newspaper folded under her arm. She slapped it down on the kitchen table. 'There, it's all in black and white. No wonder you could never get to the Prince,' she announced.
Senda raised her eyebrows in puzzlement. She had no idea what Inge was talking about.
'It's all there!' Inge pointed a wavering index finger at the newspaper. 'You thought something was wrong. Well, your intuition was right!'
Slowly Senda approached the table and looked down. She sucked in her breath. She could never forget that elegantly evil face, not for as long as she lived.
Count Kokovtsov.
Her blood ran cold as she stared at the bold, page-wide headline: COUNT INDICTED IN MURDER PLOT.
Her lips trembled and her hands shook as she read the second bank of smaller headlines: Russian exile charged with conspiracy, attempted murder
Shaken, she snatched up the page and began to read.
Count Mordka Kokovtsov, the Russian nobleman, was arrested last night on charges of grand larceny, conspiracy, and attempted murder. His intended victims were Prince Vaslav Danilov and his wife, Princess Irina Danilov, Russian expatriates who fled the Bolshevik revolution and live on the outskirts of Geneva. On his attorney's advice, Count Kokovtsov remained silent and refused to respond to police questioning.
Police sources say Kokovtsov, 53, a cousin of the Prince and the Danilovs' chief financial adviser, had been slowly poisoning the Danilovs over an extended period of time. During afternoon tea, a household tradition, Kokovtsov laced the Danilovs' tea with scopolomine.
Police were alerted by Daniel Delauney, president of the Banque Danilov. The bank, headquartered here in Geneva, is privately owned by the Danilovs. Apparently Delauney had become increasingly alarmed as the effects of the scopolomine became more and more evident in the victims.
Scopolomine, a sedative hypnotic which depresses the central nervous system, can kill in large quantities. In small, regularly ingested doses, it causes a weakening of mental faculties and subsequently leads to a slow, often undiagnosed or misdiagnosed, death.
According to Delauney, the Danilovs were becoming increasingly 'idiotic', with a near-total loss of memory. 'It was as if they moved slowly in a dream world,' he told reporters.
Delauney says he first became suspicious of Kokovtsov when the Danilovs signed over or sold to him a number of multi-million franc businesses, including a munitions factory in France and many thousands of acres of timberland, at a fraction of their worth.
Doctors told this re
porter that the Danilovs should slowly regain their health and memory as the scopolomine works out of their systems . . .
The newspaper slid through Senda's fingers and fell to the table. 'So I was right!' she whispered. 'I knew that something was wrong, only I had no idea what! When I saw Vaslav he . . . he seemed to stare straight through me, as if I wasn't there. At least now I know why.'
Dazed, she sank slowly onto one of the kitchen chairs, her face drained of colour. Her temples pounded mightily, and the ever-present coppery taste of blood in her throat, now further tainted by the rancid acidity of bile, turned her stomach. For a long time she stared into space.
Inge stooped down and put an arm around Senda's shoulders. 'Are you all right?' she asked in concern. 'Can I get you something? You look like you're going to be sick.'
Slowly Senda shook her head back and forth. 'I . . . I'm all right. Really, I am.' Then she sat quietly. Almost a full minute passed before she realized she was staring at the newspaper. Savagely, she grabbed it and flipped it upside down. She had had her fill of Count Kokovtsov. Seeing his photograph staring up at her was more than she could bear.
'Well, it's time that evil man was put away!' Inge said grimly, gesturing at the newspaper. 'The few times I saw him, he gave me the willies. Just seeing his picture makes me feel like our home's been invaded.'
Senda nodded. 'At least we know one thing now. When Vaslav's well again, I won't have any trouble seeing him, but it might take some time if these doctors are right.'
'We've waited this long.' Inge shrugged. 'What's a few days or a few weeks more at this point? As long as he'll be healthy again, that's all that matters.'
Eight days later, Senda's renewed surge of hope was dashed once and for all. The Danilovs' names were once again splashed across the headlines: both the Prince and Princess had been murdered.