Watching Eagles Soar

by Margaret Coel

  Several couples still waited inside the door when Molly started to present Mr. and Mrs. David Moffat. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a dark figure moving like a shadow along the railing of the balcony overhead. She glanced up just as a man dressed in black with a black mask across his upper face drew a long-barreled revolver from inside his jacket, leaned over the railing, and trained the gun on Prince Orlovsky.

  “Get down!” Molly screamed. The crack of a gunshot burst the air as she threw herself against the prince, pushing him backward, conscious of the princess caught in the tangle and J.J.’s weight pressing against all of them as they crashed onto the Turkish carpet.

  “Stay down, Mol,” J.J. shouted, the weight of his arm heavy against her head, pushing her cheek against the carpet. Across the floor was a blur of patent leather shoes and satin high heels and the swirling silk hems of the many-colored gowns. The sounds of women screaming and men shouting mixed with dissonant noises coming from the direction of the orchestra. She could imagine the musicians scrambling around the instruments and ducking to the floor.

  “There he goes!” It was J.J.’s voice, and Molly managed to pull herself free and look up. The man in black was running along the balcony, weaving back and forth, as if he expected someone to shoot at him. He yanked open a door and plunged into the upstairs corridor, letting the door slam shut behind him.

  “Are you all right, Mol?” J.J. said.

  “Yes, I think so.” Molly managed to sit up. She turned toward Prince Orlovsky and his daughter, who were trying to right themselves. “Are you hurt?” she said.

  “I believe he has missed his target,” the prince said, pushing himself to his feet. He leaned forward, set his hands on his daughter’s shoulders, and pulled her upright. “Thank heaven, we have survived another assassination attempt,” he said.

  “By thunder! He can’t get away with this.” J.J. was on his feet, heading toward the double doors. “I’m going after him,” he shouted.

  “No!” Molly spun around and tried to grab his arm, but J.J. twisted away, flung open the doors, and ran out of the ballroom. The two doormen plunged after him. She glanced around, expecting the other men to follow, but the beautiful people of Denver stood like statues, fixed in a tableau, gripping Champagne glasses, faces as pale as the linen tablecloths.

  In the next instant, as if the tableau had ended, the guests began swaying and stumbling about. A woman emitted a sharp scream; other women began sobbing. Louise Hill laid one arm across her forehead and swooned into the arms of her husband. Some of the men had started waving and shouting at the waiters hovering in the corner. “Wraps! Wraps! Bring our wraps!”

  Molly tried to fight off the panic rising in her chest. The gala dinner she had planned was dissolving into pandemonium. She tried to concentrate on what the prince was saying, something about adjourning to the anteroom.

  “Oh, but the evening must go on,” she said.

  “Yes, yes,” the prince said, and in that moment, he seemed to become aware of the guests flowing toward the doors, the waiters scurrying about with wraps piled in their arms. Pulling himself to his royal height, he stepped to the middle of the Turkish carpet, which allowed the best view of the ballroom, and clapped his hands. Everyone stood in place, wraps hanging off their shoulders.

  “My dear people of Denver.” The prince spoke in a royal stentorian voice accustomed to obedience. “It appears that the troubles of my own country have followed me to your beautiful city. My daughter and I wish to apologize for this most unfortunate intrusion, but I assure you that the intruder will be apprehended. With Mr. Brown in pursuit”—the prince glanced at Molly—“I expect the culprit is already in hand. I beg you to allow the evening to continue. Please enjoy the dinner and music that Mrs. Brown has arranged. Princess Katerina and I will join you shortly.” The prince then took the arm of his daughter and led her toward the door to the anteroom.

  A second passed, then another. Molly felt her breath lumped in her throat. Finally the guests started moving about, pulling off the wraps and coats that dropped onto the waiters’ arms and making their way around the tables, glancing down at the place cards. One by one they began to take their chairs. Molly walked over to the maître d’—his face as pale as that of the guests—and instructed him to serve dinner immediately. Then she crossed the ballroom, nodding and smiling, as if the evening were going as planned. The orchestra was in disarray; half of the musicians had pulled on their coats, the instruments already stored in cases. “You’ve been hired for the evening,” she told the conductor. “I expect you to perform. Play something lively. A Strauss waltz.”

  “Yes, madam,” the conductor said as she swung about and headed back toward the ballroom entrance. She was beginning to feel slightly ill—the most important evening of her life, and all of her plans tossed about like so much confetti thrown across the ballroom. Oh, Polly Pry would have the story for tomorrow’s Tattler. Everyone in Denver would be talking about the assassin who interrupted the gala dinner party hosted by Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Brown.

  She reached the double doors that still hung open, the way J.J. had left them, stepped out into the corridor, and glanced toward the place where she had spotted the man with black hair in a black suit, half expecting him to materialize. It was the same man, she was certain, who had shot at Prince Orlovsky. Despite the mask, she had recognized the tight, thin line of the man’s mouth, the short, stubbly beard. She forced herself to walk over to the railing and look down into the lobby where uniformed policemen and men in dark suits were hurrying about, barking orders as they shouldered past groups of hotel guests that huddled close together. The clerk at the reception desk was shouting into the crank telephone, his voice rising in waves of alarm. A phalanx of policemen burst into the vestibule, leaving the revolving door spinning like an empty carousel as they rushed toward the elevators. Molly pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from being sick. Somewhere in the dark streets beyond the spinning door, J.J. was chasing an assassin with a gun.

  She turned back toward the ballroom just as the maître d’ came through the doors. “I’ve been looking for you, Mrs. Brown,” he said. “The prince has asked to see you.”

  Molly hurried back inside, down the Turkish carpet to the door to the anteroom, taking in the guests seated at the tables as she went, the waiters bobbing about with plates of food. She rapped at the door. Odors of pungent spices and roast venison stung her eyes, and strains of “The Emperor’s Waltz” rolled through the ballroom.

  A long moment passed, and Molly was about to rap again when the door opened. Prince Orlovsky stood before her, silver hair combed back, and nothing in his demeanor that suggested the ordeal that had taken place only minutes before, except for the cravat slightly askew at his neck.

  “Molly, dear. Thank you for coming,” he said, ushering her inside. The dim lamplight flickered over the Turkish carpets and sofa where Princess Katerina reclined, as if she had folded in a fainting spell. The black diamond lay slantwise against the base of her throat.

  “Should I summon a doctor,” Molly said, wringing her hands, hoping it would not be necessary. She had barely managed to salvage the evening, and now this—the princess collapsed in the anteroom!

  The prince made a clicking noise with his tongue. “This unfortunate incident has sent her heart racing, I’m afraid,” he said, “but she’ll be well in a moment.” He pressed a hand on Molly’s elbow and steered her toward two chairs on either side of a small, gilt-edged table. “I’m afraid I owe you an explanation,” he said.

  “It certainly isn’t necessary.” Molly sat on the chair he indicated, trying not to give any sign that, indeed, it was necessary. An assassin at her gala event! What if he had shot a Russian prince? How would she have held up her head in Denver? An image of the crowded, dusty streets of Leadville burned into her mind. The J. J. Browns would have been forced to move back to Leadville.

 
“Oh, but it is,” the prince said, perching on the edge of the chair across from her. “I’m afraid this is all my fault. I should have anticipated that Baron Pavlovich”—he let the name hang between them as he extracted a monogrammed handkerchief from a pocket and wiped at his brow—“would dispatch the same scoundrel to Denver who tried to assassinate me in New York. Fortunately, as happened this evening, the man failed. I have you to thank for screaming and pushing me out of the line of fire. The sound of your scream must have caused him to miss his mark. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, dear lady.”

  “I saw him lurking in the corridor when we arrived,” Molly said. “Something about him seemed familiar.”

  “Really?” The prince took a moment to fold the handkerchief and slip it back inside his pocket. “Perhaps all ruffians look the same. The man has followed me from Russia, sent by my estate manager, Baron Mikhail Pavlovich.”

  “But why, Your Highness?”

  “Please, call me Sasha.”

  “Why would anyone want you dead?” Molly drew in her breath, then added, “Sasha.”

  “A very simple reason,” the prince said. “He intends to take possession of my estate. Oh, it is a beautiful estate, spread over one hundred thousand acres near Tsarkoe Selo. From the grand staircase in front of the palace, one has an unobstructed view of the Gulf of Finland. It is my hope that you and J.J. will one day be my guests. But first I must retrieve my estate from Baron Pavlovich, a scoundrel more evil than all the devils of hell.”

  Prince Orlovsky shifted his weight about and stared for a long moment at the reclining princess, worry and sadness mingling in his expression. Finally he turned back. Leaning forward, he said, “My poor Kitty has suffered with bad health since she was a child.” His voice was low and confidential. “We were forced to spend the last two years in Baden-Baden so that she could take the waters for her heart congestion. Foolishly, I trusted my estate manager, Baron Pavlovich, to handle my affairs. He did so by stealing the income and neglecting to pay the expenses. As a result my estate is now in debtor’s court and will be auctioned next month to the highest bidder.”

  “How dreadful,” Molly said.

  “That is not the worst.” The prince shook his head and lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “A favorite servant, who served my father before me, has telegrammed me that the baron himself has arranged to place the highest bid. He intends to purchase my estate with the monies he has stolen from me! My only hope is to borrow enough money in the United States to pay the debts so that the estate will be released from debtor’s court before the auction can take place. The Baron intends to see that I do not succeed.”

  “Whatever can we do to help? J.J. and I . . .” Molly glanced back at the door, half expecting J.J. to bound into the room. “My husband is still pursuing the assassin,” she managed, her throat dry with anxiety. “I do hope he is safe.”

  “Your husband is a brave man,” the prince said. “I am sure he will return safely. You and J.J. have already done much to come to our aid. There is nothing more we could ask.”

  “But your estate?”

  “Never fear. I have great hopes that the bankers I have arranged to see tomorrow will loan us the necessary funds, even though, I’m sorry to say, the banks in New York and Chicago turned down my request.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on top of the gilt-edged table. The polished surface reflected his image like a cloudy mirror. “The fact is, my child and I are destitute. All that is left is the black diamond that you see Kitty wearing, her only legacy from her mother who died in childbirth. My dear wife was born in Paris, the great-granddaughter of Napoleon, and the black diamond was passed down through the family. Napoleon himself found the diamond in the ruins of Cleopatra’s palace in Alexandria. There are records that prove the queen herself wore the diamond. Naturally, Napoleon presented the diamond to his own queen, Josephine.”

  Molly found her gaze wandering over to the sofa where Princess Katerina was now seated upright, a pale hand pressed over her heart. The black diamond lay against her throat, larger and more beautiful, Molly thought, than any gem she had ever seen.

  The prince seemed to have followed her gaze. “Some believe that black diamonds are the stars of night,” he said. “They do not come from the earth, like other diamonds, but fall out of the sky. So you see, my poor girl’s legacy is very rare and valuable. She insisted that we offer the diamond to the banks for collateral. Naturally I refused, but my poor girl kept insisting until I acquiesced. Alas”—the prince shook his head and pulled at the tip of his silver goatee—“the bankers still refused. What would they do with a black diamond? they said. Who would take it off their hands? And for what price? No. No. It was too much for the parched imagination of Wall Street and State Street bankers.”

  “But here in Colorado . . .”

  “Yes!” Molly felt the prince place her hand between his palms. “In Colorado, men of finance understand the value of minerals. Why, the mountains are filled with gold and silver and all types of gems.”

  “My necklace is from the aquamarine mine on Mount Antero,” Molly said.

  The prince freed her hand, sat back, and smiled at her. “Then you understand why I have every hope of success when I meet with the Seventeenth Street bankers tomorrow.”

  “Several bankers are here this evening,” Molly said. “Mr. David Moffat and Mr. George Kassler.”

  “Yes, yes.” The prince put up the palm of one hand. “But we must not allow business matters to interfere with the lovely evening you have planned. Tomorrow will be time enough . . .”

  The door to the corridor crashed open. Molly swung around as J.J. strode across the room. She jumped up and fell against his chest, gratitude surging inside her. “You’re all right?” she said.

  J.J. said something about failing to apprehend the culprit, but Molly barely heard the words. She had stepped back and was studying his face, which had never seemed more handsome, trying to reassure herself that he was, in fact, all right. “We went up and down the streets around the hotel,” he said, “but there was no sign of him. The police suspect that he never left the hotel. They are searching every room now.”

  “We know the culprit did not return to the ballroom, and he certainly isn’t here,” the prince said. “I do hope the police will not cause any more disturbance for your guests.”

  J.J. lifted one hand, as if to halt any concern the prince might have. “I’ll inform the police that these rooms are clear.”

  “But the assassin is still on the loose.” Molly heard the alarm sounding in her voice. She turned to the prince. “He knows where to find you. He could wait until after the dinner, then come to your suite. You must not stay at the hotel. You and the princess must stay with us.”

  “Molly’s right,” J.J. said. “You will be safe in our home. It’s unlikely that the culprit would guess your whereabouts.”

  “Assassin,” Molly said, looking up at J.J. “He was sent from Russia to kill the prince by a villain who intends to take control of the prince’s estate. He will stop at nothing.” She looked back at the prince. “You must stay with us.”

  “You’re very kind.” Prince Orlovsky removed his handkerchief again and patted the dots of perspiration that had blossomed on his forehead. “My daughter and I would welcome a secure night’s rest. We have meetings scheduled tomorrow at three banks,” he said.

  “His Highness must arrange the finances to retrieve his estate,” Molly said, waving away the explanation. Any mention of finances could prompt endless questions from J.J. that would only keep the royal guests from rejoining the gala event. She hurried on: “It’s settled, then. You and Princess Katerina will come to our home tonight. Tomorrow evening we shall have a small soiree with a few important guests to celebrate what will certainly be a successful arrangement with the banks.”

  Prince Orlovsky dipped his head in a graceful bow, lifted Molly’s hand,
and brushed his lips over the top. “You are too kind,” he said. “Everything your friend Mrs. Beltran said about you has proved to be true.”

  “I suggest we return to the party,” J.J. said.

  * * *

  “Well, Mol, you have quite a success on your hands.” J.J. opened the glass door on the mahogany console in the parlor. Light from the Tiffany lamp on top of the grand piano reflected the red wallpaper, casting a suffused red glow over the room. The wall clock chimed twice. J.J. lifted a crystal decanter half-filled with amber liquid. “Sherry?” he said. He poured the liquid into two crystal goblets.

  Molly dropped onto a leather chair, took the goblet he handed to her, and allowed herself to drift with the sense of peace that always came over her in the formal parlor. She had dreamed of such a room all of her life, it seemed. The marble fireplace with the carved wood mantel, the blue horsehair sofa, the grand piano made of inlaid wood, the fine oil paintings and white marble statues—all like a fairy tale. Beyond the paneled doors that J.J. had slid open, she could see the vestibule with lamplight dancing in the stained glass windows and shining in the polished wood of the staircase. From outside came the muffled clip-clop sounds of a buggy. J.J. had sent the driver, Stanton, back to the Brown Palace Hotel with the buggy for the prince and princess. They should arrive at any moment. She held her breath, expecting the sounds to stop, but they continued, fading into a muffled noise at the end of the avenue. She could hear the upstairs maid moving about, readying the guest rooms.

  Apart from the dreadful appearance of an assassin, the evening had matched her dreams. Why, the beautiful people of Denver had practically lined up for a turn on the dance floor with royalty. And the prince, so handsome and attentive to the women—he had danced with her twice! Not wanting to monopolize his attention, Molly herself had led him over to Louise Hill, whose eyes had followed them on the dance floor with such longing that Molly felt she could do no less. The princess had been even more popular, unable to sit out a dance. A waltz was still playing when David Moffat of the First National Bank had tapped J.J.’s shoulder and taken the princess into his arms. For a woman with a fluttering heart, the princess could have been mistaken for the heartiest woman in the ballroom.