Riviera Gold

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Riviera Gold Page 24

by Laurie R. King


  At the end, Holmes reached out to move his cigarette case around on the table, but he did not pick it up. “You were playing a dangerous game, Russell. Zaharoff is out of your league—he may well be out of my league. I trust you do not intend to make further use of his capacity for amusement?”

  “I might get one more chance at him, before he tires of me and has his bodyguard throw me out.” One could only hope not out of the window.

  He bit back his immediate reaction, and took a moment to think. “I will admit, one chance is more than anyone else seems to have on offer. The Monaco police themselves are more concerned with protecting the man’s privacy than with asking him questions.”

  “Is that how you heard that I’d been to see Zaharoff? Jourdain told you?”

  “He did.” And without my prompting, he described his conversation with the Monaco detective, the man’s fury and threats, and beneath those, his air of frustration, even impotence, at the curtailment of his official powers in this, his native country.

  “I’m sorry that’s how you had to learn of it, Holmes. Did he happen to mention how he knew, himself?”

  “Interestingly enough, he did not.”

  This time, we both sat and thought. Had Zaharoff sent a complaint up the Monaco chain of command? Did the police pay one of the hotel staff for information? Feodor the bodyguard?

  “Is it possible,” I said slowly, “that the police are watching Zaharoff, but do not want it known?”

  “The police—or Inspector Jourdain, on his own? It is possible.”

  “Your speculation?”

  “The Inspector’s exaggerated show of aggression at being kept under rein is suggestive. And if he is keeping up an unofficial, unsanctioned enquiry of his own, all the more reason to be upset when someone from outside threatens to walk through it with hob-nailed boots.”

  “I was not walking through—”

  “He could not have known of Zaharoff’s unaccountable fondness for young and impertinent questioners in flowered dresses.”

  “Would you suggest that we consider Jourdain a potential ally? If, that is, we can find him sufficient cover to duck beneath?”

  “Don’t think of him as a coward,” Holmes said sharply. “He loves his country, even if he does not love everything it does, or all it requires of him.”

  “Fair enough. But can we trust him?”

  “Only so far.”

  Since we seemed to be past the flash-point of Basil Zaharoff and his possible, would-be protector in the Monaco police, I turned to my own day’s and night’s involvement with Rafe Ainsley, from fetching wine and glasses from Cannes, to packing up his plaster moulds in Antibes, then on to midnight conversations between him and the Russian Count. Eventually, I reached the morning’s demonstration in the foundry and my talk with Pablo Picasso.

  “He says your son is well, by the way.”

  He ignored that. “I should like to meet this Ainsley person.”

  “As it happens, the Murphys are hosting a gathering tonight,” I said. “Though I can’t guarantee there won’t be someone who recognises you.”

  “A collection of Americans, in the South of France? I can’t imagine we share much in the way of acquaintances.”

  Four hours later, we walked into the garden of Villa America.

  Thirty seconds after that, I paused to let my husband greet Sara and Gerald Murphy, and found him gone.

  Holmes was on the road outside of Villa America, looking at his watch.

  “Holmes, what on earth—”

  “As you said, the chances of meeting someone who recognised me were small, but not impossible. The ill-dressed man in the group just inside the terrace. What name do you know him by?”

  “You mean Rafe Ainsley?”

  “Your sculptor.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Several people, or so it would appear. I came across him some ten years ago in Blackpool. I fear he will remember my face, since I was present during his arrest. A case of forgery.”

  “You’re kidding. The forger in the forge?”

  “Russell, I—”

  “Sorry. And never mind the party, I don’t need to go to—”

  “No, you should stay. You may pick up something of interest.”

  “All right, but not for long. I’ll come back to the hotel and we can have dinner.”

  “I won’t be there.” He was studying a shrub with scarlet flowers on the other side of the road.

  “Oh, Holmes, not again.”

  “I did tell you, some days past, that I lacked the familiarity with Monaco to recognise its various soils. The same would appear true of its various characters. I require information, and need to send some telegrams, but I cannot do it from here. I shall go into Nice.” He looked again at his watch.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No need, although after this it may be better to use the Hermitage as our base of operations rather than your rooms here. I will go back to Monte Carlo once I have replies from the cables. Probably mid-day tomorrow.”

  “All right. But can you give me an idea—”

  “Russell, the approaching tram may be the last one before morning. I shall see you tomorrow. Just don’t—” He caught himself before he could finish the sentence.

  “Don’t do anything you wouldn’t do?” I asked sweetly. “Or were you about to order me not to do something stupid like bearding an arms dealer in his den?”

  “I merely ask that you proceed with caution, Russell.”

  As I watched him trot off, it occurred to me that for the past few minutes, he’d avoided meeting my eye.

  That meant he was trying to keep something from me. And the only things he tried to keep from me were either news that he was stepping into danger, or the fact that he was in touch with his brother.

  Which suggested that the telegrams were going to London, to make use of Mycroft’s connections within the government, and Holmes did not wish to open that discussion with me. I was tempted to chase him down—but in the end, gave a mental shrug and went back to the party.

  Rafe had moved off, leaving Terry in his place—a Terry who looked as if he’d been in a fist-fight. “Was that your husband?” he asked.

  “It was. He remembered a prior commitment.”

  “Should I be offended?”

  I laughed. “Terry, have you ever in your life known someone who wasn’t happy to see you? But my good man, why do you look as if you’d walked into a door? And is that actually a sun-burn?”

  His hand came up to prod his swollen nose, gingerly. “It sure felt like a door—who’d have thought water could be so dashed rock-like?”

  “Ah—you found a boat, and tried out your new water-skis?”

  “Did you meet Patrice’s gent with the wall-eye?”

  “I don’t believe I have.”

  “Name of Bumpy. His racing boat’s got a motor twice the size of my Runabout’s—at one point we hit forty-five knots. Not with skis behind, naturally, but I did think it was going to pull my arms right out of their sockets. It’s as much as I can do to pick up this glass.”

  “I’m glad to see you have the strength for that.”

  “Mary, you have to come drive us one day. You have the knack of starting off gently.”

  “Try changing places with the boat’s owner. To illustrate precisely what’s involved.”

  He brightened at the thought of a reciprocal dislocating of shoulders. “I’ll suggest that. We’re going out again—not till Friday, luckily enough. Tomorrow we have a date with Patrice’s other chappie, the one with the sea-plane. Johnny—you met him, Johnny Perez. Loads of fun. Say you’ll join us?”

  “Terry, I’m not too keen on aeroplanes, thanks all the same.”

  “You don’t need to come up, just come along. He’s invited us f
or lunch after—he has the most amazing house. Got a cave for a cellar.”

  The final phrase caught my attention in a way that “sea-plane” had not. And although I had no particular reason to hunt down another cellar, at the same time, Mrs Hudson didn’t want to see me, and Holmes was off hatching plots with his brother. If I didn’t actually have to go up into the heavens, well…

  Terry saw me give way and whooped his pleasure. Which attracted the attention of the identical Russian dancers, and one of them—either Misha or Vitya—asked for explanation. As Terry set off on an enthusiastic, if clearly baffling speech on the glories of sea-based flight, I took the opportunity to slip along the terrace before he concocted the sport of airborne skiing.

  The next group included both Murphys, Rafe Ainsley, and several visitors from the demonstration—though none of the Russians. Sara moved back, by way of invitation, so I eased in to the circle beside her.

  Rafe was talking about his technique, and what came after the pour. How he would do the finish work in the States, since he had to ship these off soon. Gerald was looking interested; Sara, polite but bored; the others, somewhere in between.

  “It was good to see Mr Picasso this morning,” I said to her, keeping my voice low so as neither to interrupt Rafe’s flow, nor attract his attention.

  “Such a vital man, isn’t he? You’ve met him before?”

  “In Paris, a few months ago.”

  “He hopes to spend more time in Antibes. The Grimaldi family may offer him one of their houses as a studio.”

  “Part of Princess Charlotte’s drive to bring the arts to Monaco?”

  “I suppose so.”

  I lowered my voice further. “I imagine Mr Ainsley has mixed feelings about that.” She laughed, conspiratorially. “Still, his gallery owner friend looks pleased.”

  “They were talking just now about a one-man show in New York this winter. That’s making Rafe happy.”

  “Combined with his Russian friend’s commissions. Where is Count Vasilev, by the way? I’d have thought he’d be here.”

  “He has some business meeting in the morning. He sent his regrets. Mary,” she said, her voice returning to a normal volume. “Have you met Mr Rosenberg?”

  The evening continued, with introductions to people ranging from the gallery owner to an experimental artist working in broken vacuum tubes to the wife of the Antibes mayor. Drinks on offer ranged from astringent white wine to cloying green cocktails, with food that ran the gamut from the mundane (sliced figs, melons, and cheeses) to the peculiar (aspic salad with bits of marshmallow; sweet corn boiled and served on its cob), while everyone carried on conversations about art, politics, art, child-rearing, travel in Europe, art, fashion, the problems of finding uncrowded corners of Venice/Rome/Paris/London, art, money, wine, and art.

  I don’t remember making my way back to the hotel, other than my having been amidst a large and rackety group.

  The next thing I knew there was a pounding on my door, far too early.

  “Mary!” a voice shouted, sounding as if it had called several times before.

  I replied with a jumble of syllables. This time, I perceived the voice outside as Terry’s, and the words as saying, “The car leaves in half an hour.” My response seemed to satisfy him—at any rate, he went away, leaving me blinking at the dawn through the windows. And it truly wasn’t much after dawn. Car? Why…?

  Ah: Monaco. Sea-planes. Cellar lunches.

  I ran the bath-tub full of cold water to shock myself into consciousness, then stuffed a bag with a disparate collection of clothing that I might need in Monaco. Would I require a costume suitable for roulette? Water-skiing? Spelunking in the pilot’s wine cellar?

  Eventually, I joined the other yawning residents of the hotel downstairs.

  Terry, inevitably, was as cheerful as a man who’d actually had a night’s sleep.

  Sherlock Holmes glowered at the dark gap between a fishmonger’s and a newsagent. In its recesses was a doorway. Unlike many of those he had walked by in the past twenty minutes, this one was neither stinking of urine, nor occupied by a femme de nuit and her client. He considered pulling out the telegram that had been waiting for him at the Hôtel du Cap that morning, but there was nothing wrong with his memory. Whether the telegraphists had inverted the numbers was another question.

  He found the bell and rang it twice, listening to the jangle die away, then pulled it again, as per Mycroft’s instructions. To his surprise, considering the hour, the inside bolt scraped almost immediately. The door opened, revealing a man in an old-fashioned suit.

  “I am a friend of Mr Mycroft, in London,” Holmes recited.

  The man retreated, inviting Holmes to step through the door on to a carpet so thick, it felt like a well-maintained lawn underfoot. The door closed, the bolt slid. The air smelled of furniture polish and cigars.

  “This way, sir.” The clerk, or butler, ushered him through a series of quiet halls to a well-appointed office with no occupant. The room looked like a private club, with a Turkey carpet, heavy mahogany bookshelves, and several square metres of polished desk. The only thing on its mirror-finish top at present was a telephone, a boxy instrument far too modern for its setting.

  The clerk settled him into the desk’s leather chair, asked if he preferred tea or coffee, returned in two minutes carrying a silver tray laid with fresh coffee, and left him alone.

  He did not know why Mycroft had insisted on a telephonic conversation for this. It did save on time, to use direct communication rather than telegrams, yet the process of coding telegrams was simple compared to keeping one’s spoken words cryptic enough to get past the ears of the Exchange operators. Secretive telephone conversations were, in his experience, both frustrating and inadequate, generally requiring a series of cables anyway, to confirm what appeared to have been decided.

  Halfway through the coffee, the instrument gave a ping. He picked up the handset and pressed it to his ear. “Holmes here.”

  “Hello, Sherlock. Do you hear me all right?”

  So, real names were to be permitted. “Good morning, Mycroft. Yes, this is a remarkably good connection. How many exchanges is it passing through?”

  “Very few. And all of them supervised by our people.”

  Holmes frowned at the enigmatic black shape on the polished desk. “Do you mean to tell me this call is reliably secure?”

  “Completely.”

  “Well. That is technological advancement, indeed.”

  “You asked me for information about Count Yevgeny Vasilev. What has brought him to your attention?”

  “I find him in a web of social and financial ties here on the French Riviera. My former—Mrs Hudson appears to have become entangled in some way, which means that we, too, are entangled. You no doubt are aware of some of the unsavoury types who are living in this area.”

  “You mean Basil Zaharoff.”

  “Mycroft, you are completely certain about this line?”

  “I am.”

  “Very well, it’s your neck. Yes, I speak of Basil Zaharoff. I don’t know if he is actively involved, or if it is simply difficult to find any part of life here that does not bear his finger-prints, but I am concerned. He appears to have no part of this…whatever is going on here, but I have to wonder if he could be making a show of having his hands clean, while using the man Vasilev to carry on behind the scenes. Any White Russian with money, particularly one living in a small country controlled by an arms merchant, is a suspicious figure.”

  “Vasilev has been of interest to us for some time. This was a man with both the ear and the cheque-book of the late Czar, and there is no doubt that during the chaos of the War years, he was out of sight at several key times. Our man Reilly worked with him briefly, but when that idiotic attempt on Lenin blew up on us in the summer of 1918, Reilly came back to London and the Count went
east.”

  “Russell is under the impression that Vasilev was in America that summer, when the Czar was killed.”

  “Is she? Hold on.”

  The line was clear enough to carry the sound of turning pages over the inevitable crackles and whines. After a minute, Mycroft came back. “Vasilev was in America, but that was earlier in the year. He has a daughter in a specialised sanitorium in Colorado. Run by and for women. Very expensive. According to our records—which are not absolutely dependable, I will admit—he was back in Russia by August of 1918.”

  “But the Czar was dead by then, was he not?”

  “As far as we know, he and his family were killed in July. But before that, when the Germans were at the gates of Petrograd in 1915, Vasilev was one of those who oversaw the transfer of the Czar’s gold reserves into Kazan. The biggest reserve in the world—nearly five hundred tons of the stuff. Said to have filled forty railroad cars. Can you imagine? And we think Vasilev was also involved in moving it a second time, when the Bolsheviks were pushing east in October, 1918. Ultimately, about half the gold did fall to the Communists when they took Siberia, two years later.”

  “And the rest?”

  “Now, there’s a pretty mystery for you, little brother. No one knows. Rumours abound: secret passages under the central bank in Omsk; buried on the grounds of an agricultural college, beneath the bodies of the soldiers who put it there; sunk by train wreck into Lake Baikal; fallen into the bay in Vladivostok. There’s even a rumour, a fairly strong one, concerning a document with the coordinates in code, locked away in a Communist vault. Two hundred tons of Imperial gold, out there somewhere. His Majesty would prefer it not fall into the wrong hands. If you are in any position to ensure—Sherlock, what is that noise?”

  Holmes dropped his cigarette case onto the desk. “Just me, tapping this machine. Mycroft, if Vasilev had two hundred tons of gold, he would not be bothering with Mrs Hudson and Lillie Langtry.”

  “Lillie Langtry? What does the Jersey Lily have to do with this?”

 

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