The Lost Mata Hari Ring

by Elyse Douglas

  Trace waited, eagerly.

  “Let me preface her response by telling you that Constance believed in astrology and the occult. She believed that old things have power. I thought it was silly, but I never told her so. Constance was a wonderful woman, Ms. Rutland. I am not a sentimental man, but she often made me so.”

  Trace smiled. “It sounds like you had a very special relationship. It’s rare these days.”

  Cyrano smiled, pleased. “I hope so, and I believe so. Well, anyway, when I asked her to wear the ring she said, and these are her exact words, ‘The invisible world lies all around us like a shadow. There it is, the still present past, only a breath away.’”

  Trace thought the words were moving and provocative.

  Cyrano leveled his half-hooded eyes on her, measuring her. “Do you want to put the ring on, Ms. Rutland?” Cyrano asked.

  Trace stepped back from it, now self-conscious. She was firmly back in her body, and once again perplexed and troubled by that peculiar feeling of having been lodged between two worlds.

  “No…No, I don’t want to put it on.”

  “You know, the ring was lost for a time. There were two photos of it, and many collectors spent years trying to track it down. I’m still not entirely certain how it came to auction. I was told by a reliable source that an old lover of Mata Hari’s owned it. The story goes that he sold it to a jeweler in Paris when times got bad, and then it was locked away for years, only to be sold again sometime in the 1960s to a private, anonymous collector. Our auctioneer didn’t know or didn’t tell me how he’d come by it. But it has been authenticated. I saw to that. The initials MH are etched inside the band, small, but they are there. In one of her letters, Mata Hari mentioned receiving the ring as a gift, describing it in detail. A man she called Maurice H gave it to her. Maurice H was most likely Captain Maurice Herbaux, an officer in the French Army, who was from a wealthy family, and who had fallen in love with Mata Hari as early as 1912. He was killed in 1915, at the Battle of Neuve Chapelle.”

  Trace studied Cyrano. She thought him a handsome man, a virile man, even in his 70s. He did not seem threatening or condescending, as she had imagined he’d be.

  “Well, take your time looking Mata Hari’s things over, Ms. Rutland. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “Not at all,” Trace said. “Again, I’m truly grateful you let me come by.”

  Cyrano turned to leave, then paused. “You said you are an actress?”

  “Yes… I’m an actress, dancer, singer. A triple threat, as they say.”

  Cyrano nodded. “You look like a dancer. Do you sing well?”

  “I’m a fair singer. Not exceptional.”

  “Dancer?”

  “I love to dance. I started when I was four.”

  A slight smile formed at the corners of Cyrano’s mouth. “Are you performing now?”

  “I start rehearsals for a new Broadway show next month.”

  “A lead?”

  “The second lead. The part requires a lot of dancing. Some singing, and some good scenes, I’m told.”

  “It sounds like a good part. Perhaps I’ll travel to New York to see you. What is the show called?”

  “Daydreams.”

  “Ah… interesting. Over the phone, you had mentioned a role as Mata Hari.”

  Trace dropped her gaze. In a small voice, she said, “I lied about that, Mr. Wallace, and I’m sorry.”

  “And why did you lie, Ms. Rutland?”

  “I was afraid you’d turn me down unless I came up with some direct connection… Some compelling reason for wanting to see your Mata Hari collection.”

  “Well, you’re honest. That’s refreshing.”

  “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Oh, it’s of no importance, really. Oddly enough, Ms. Rutland, you could have said most anything. I liked the sound of your voice. I’ve always been a good judge of people, often by just the sound of their voices. I detected great tension in your voice, Ms. Rutland. I also detected something else—a certain passion for Mata Hari.”

  Trace turned toward the collection. “I do love the collection, Mr. Wallace.”

  Cyrano turned to leave, then stopped and turned back to her. “Ms. Rutland, why don’t you stay to dinner.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble. And I should probably get back.”

  “We could discuss the collection, and I can tell you some interesting things I’ve learned about Mata Hari. I think you might enjoy it. I guarantee dinner will be excellent. My chef is one of the best around these parts. I eat rather early, about six o’clock. What do you say?”

  Surprised by his offer, she took a minute to respond. This was not the man she thought he would be. He possessed an ineffable quality of the familiar. She felt at ease, comfortable in his presence.

  “Are you sure I won’t be interrupting anything, Mr. Wallace?”

  “Not at all. Meanwhile, I’ll have Andrew bring you some tea and snacks to hold you over. Now, you just take all the time you want with the collection, and if you need anything at all, you let Andrew know.”

  Trace nodded.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Rutland.”

  “And you,” Trace said, with a slight bow.

  “I’ll see you at six then. Good afternoon.”

  After Cyrano was gone, and the library was loud with silence, Trace turned her attention back to the ring. It flashed in the light. It seemed to beckon her, and she moved closer to it.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cyrano Wallace was already seated when Trace arrived, feeling grossly underdressed in fitted designer jeans, a blue top, white sweater and boots. She’d worn her hair up and swept back from her forehead, revealing her yellow gold, hooped earrings. They were her favorites, a gift from her father last Christmas.

  It was a formal dining room, with mauve colored walls, richly patterned oriental carpet, and a long mahogany dinner table, with matching chairs and custom wood paneling.

  Andrew held the chair for Trace as she sat to Cyrano's right, under a crystal chandelier. The walls held 18th-century landscapes, and portraits of 18th-century women looking out with cool, placid eyes, dressed regally, with stylish, elaborate hairstyles. The room was understated elegance; good taste at its best. Trace noted the pleated pearl-colored draperies drawn back from French doors, revealing a dormant fountain and private garden beyond, illuminated by soft patio lights.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Cyrano said.

  “Yes, I am a bit hungry,” Trace said, sitting stiffly, looking about. “This is a lovely room.”

  “Constance decorated it. She was good at design and decoration, as she was with most things. She had plans to design a Mata Hari room, but she became ill, and it never happened. So, did you enjoy the Mata Hari collection?”

  “Yes, very much. I found two books about her in the library. I hope you don’t mind that I removed them and read parts. I replaced them carefully.”

  “Not at all, Ms. Rutland. I’m glad you made yourself at home. Do you prefer red wine or white? For dinner, you have a choice of sea bass with fennel salad, parsnip puree, and orange beurre blanc, or grilled guinea hen with celery root fregola—fregola is a kind of pasta—and black truffle vinaigrette, if that helps you decide.”

  “Red please.”

  “Pinot Noir, from Burgundy?”

  “Yes, fine.”

  After Andrew opened the wine and decanted it, he poured Cyrano a taste. He smelled, swirled, tasted and nodded his approval. Andrew poured for Trace, finishing with Cyrano. Trace took a sip and was pleased by its lively cherry fruit and dry finish.

  “Do you like it?” Cyrano asked.

  “Yes, very much.”

  “It was one of Constance’s favorites. I hope you’ll forgive me for speaking about Constance so much, Ms. Rutland, it’s just that I still feel somewhat lost without her.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Wallace. Most people never find that kind of love.”

  After the veg
etable/ginger soup arrived, Cyrano talked about the house, which he’d purchased in 1981; about his New York City condo on Fifth Avenue, and about Constance’s love of the theatre and opera.

  “We stayed in New York much of the time during the opera season,” he said.

  After a brief pause, he lowered his soup spoon and said something that surprised Trace.

  “We had a daughter just about your age, Ms. Rutland. Her name was Allison. She was the outdoors type, who loved skiing, white water rafting and hiking. She was a risk taker, not unlike myself when I was a young man. Sixteen years ago, while on a hiking trip with friends in Hawaii, Allison slipped on a narrow path and fell to her death.”

  Trace stopped eating. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wallace.”

  He waved a hand to dismiss it. “The only reason I mentioned it is—well, it’s been a long time since I had dinner with a pretty, young woman. My daughter was quite pretty, you know, and though Constance hoped Allison would become a singer, Allison could barely carry a tune. She was more interested in environmental things. She had a real thirst for life. Are you married, Ms. Rutland?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “And where are you from? Somewhere in the South, I think?”

  “Originally, Lexington, Kentucky. I’ve lived in New York for a little over eight years.”

  “Yes, I hear a slight southern accent. Did you enjoy your childhood?”

  “Yes, it was fairly normal. We lived in a big old house with big rooms, winding back staircases, and deep closets I used to hide in. I would spiral down the circular banisters, play with the Ouija board—or the talking board as I called it. I loved playing in the attic, my favorite place.”

  Trace swirled the wine, and stared into it, reflecting, comfortable talking about herself with Cyrano, and there were few people she ever discussed her childhood with.

  Cyrano sipped his wine, his eyes sparkling with pleasure, a pleasure he had not felt in a long time. “Go on, Ms. Rutland. Please continue.”

  The wine had made Trace a little high, and she was enjoying herself.

  “That old attic seemed endless. There were boxes filled with musty old books, diaries, newspaper clippings and letters, and heavy trunks in the corner, packed with old clothes. But the creepiest, and most fun of all, were the wide-eyed antique dolls that sat on an old, lopsided table. They had been my grandmother’s, and some dated as far back as the early 1900s. They had these dull, milky eyes that gazed out like death, and I knew they watched my every move as I crept along, stooping under the low-beamed ceiling.”

  Andrew removed the soup bowls, and then refilled their glasses with more wine before leaving the room.

  “Well, anyway, I’m babbling on here. I don’t usually talk this much.”

  “I’m enjoying it, Ms. Rutland. May I call you… is your first name Tracey?”

  “Yes, but I go by Trace. My father used it when I was a kid and it stuck.”

  “Trace is a good stage name,” Cyrano added.

  “Yes, there aren’t many of us.”

  After Andrew served Trace the sea bass and Cyrano the hen, they ate for a time in silence.

  “Trace, why did you want to see the Mata Hari collection? Was there some burning reason, I mean, if it wasn’t about using it as research to play the role of Mata Hari?”

  Trace chewed, thoughtfully, considering her answer. Could she tell him the truth? She probably could have told his wife, Constance, but she didn’t feel comfortable mentioning the hypnotherapy session she’d had with Dr. Hopkins to Cyrano Wallace. He seemed too much the pragmatist. She also didn’t want to lie.

  “I heard about Mata Hari and became interested. It’s a strange and moving story in many ways. Certainly tragic.”

  Cyrano reached for his glass of wine. “Constance thought that Mata Hari was innocent of the French espionage charges, believing she was a scapegoat of sorts.”

  “According to what I’ve read,” Trace said, “Mata Hari made some bad choices. She shouldn’t have returned to France in 1917.”

  “Yes, that’s true, but she was an impulsive woman. She also claimed to be the daughter of a British lord and an Indian princess, which, of course, was a complete lie. And then she was the lover of the Crown Prince of Germany, and the German spy chief. That didn’t help her any with the French military authorities.”

  Trace nodded. “But in some ways, I think she was a prototype of a 20th-century liberated woman—like Madonna or Lady Gaga.”

  Cyrano nodded, pensively. “Yes, perhaps. But the fact is that she was executed for passing military secrets to the Germans.”

  “Do you think she was guilty of that?” Trace asked.

  Cyrano laid his fork aside, steepled his hands and leaned back. “Well, I always like to look at the facts. Constance and I often kicked the facts around. It became a kind of game with us, especially when we commissioned the Mata Hari opera. Okay, so, what do we have? Mata Hari was arrested twice and questioned by M15 and Special Branch in 1915 and 1916.”

  “That was the British Secret Service, wasn’t it?” Trace asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. Among other things, Mata Hari was accused of betraying the existence of the British secret weapon, the tank. Tanks were new in those days. Tanks took the Germans completely by surprise when they were first used on the Somme in the autumn of 1916. Her French accusers also claimed that she’d delivered allied shipping into the hands of the U-boats, or German submarines, who sank them, thus directly causing the deaths of at least 50,000 soldiers. What is interesting, however, is that none of these accusations came up at her trial.”

  Trace was riveted. “Why not? It’s just weird. I read that one of the stories they included was that she often bathed in milk. What did that have to do with spying?”

  “Yes, that's right,” Cyrano said. “But you must realize the time and place when all these events happened. The world was at war. The First World War. It was a time when there wasn't enough milk for children, so it would have seemed callous and heartless for this famous and indifferent woman to have taken milk baths. But the French military was interested in painting her as a German spy, so this false story would have quickly turned the French public against her. It was the worst kind of publicity for her. But there is no evidence, whatsoever, that Mata Hari ever did take milk baths. What is perfectly clear is that she did love to live in style. When she was briefly arrested by the British in 1916, she was traveling with ten trunks of luggage, containing, among other things, eleven pairs of shoes and thirty-three pairs of stockings.”

  Cyrano lowered his hands, his eyes filled with thought. “As you may have read, Trace, Mata Hari had a particular liking for men in uniform. Military men. It was a weakness, I’d say. If you’ll pardon me for saying this, Trace, she once said that she would rather ‘sleep with a poor officer than a rich banker.’ I think this weakness—along with her curious lack of practical worldliness, and an incredible naiveté —helped lead her to her death.”

  They resumed eating, and Andrew entered and poured the last of the wine. Trace reached for her napkin and blotted her lips.

  As Cyrano was speaking, Trace had begun feeling the intrusion of unwanted memories. They arose from some dark place deep within, and flashed across her eyes, like old dreams—some in shadow, some sharp and clear—faces appearing, fading. It was disconcerting, and she began to perspire.

  Cyrano noticed her sudden change of mood. “Is everything all right, Trace?”

  Trace stared ahead at nothing, eyes still. “Yes…It’s just that I remember some things, but they get all mixed up and I can’t put it all together. Just pieces here and there, like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  Cyrano saw the faraway look in her eyes, as if she were lost in a memory. “What are you trying to put together, Trace?”

  He noticed that Trace’s eyes seemed to glaze over. Her back stiffened and she raised her head, shifting her posture.

  “Well, you see, I separated from my husband in 1902 and I was granted custody of li
ttle Non, our daughter. But then he refused to pay the legal allowance, and I had no money and so few choices. I didn’t want to give her back to him, but I didn’t know what else to do. So, I reluctantly returned Non to her father and left for Paris. I thought that all women who ran away from their husbands went to Paris.”

  Cyrano’s eyes sharpened on her. She had changed. She seemed peculiar and oddly distant. Her voice had deepened, and she had a slight accent, but it wasn’t a southern accent.

  Cyrano sat rigidly still. He found her behavior bizarre and perplexing. Why was she suddenly speaking in the first person, as if she were Mata Hari? Was she performing? Acting? He couldn’t help but be captivated.

  Trace continued in her new, lower voice. “When I finally settled in Paris, I yearned for my Nonnie. My husband wanted to reconcile but I couldn’t go back to him. He was so abusive, you know. One Sunday afternoon, crazed and deranged, he came close to murdering me with a breadknife. I owe my life to a chair that fell over and which gave me time to find the door and get help. You see, my husband suffered from what one doctor called tropical frenzy. Others called it sadism.”

  Cyrano watched her turning her hands, her eyes moving, searching the ceiling and the walls. She didn’t seem to see him, or even be aware of him. Then who was she speaking to? She was an incredible actress—or was she? Was the girl unbalanced? Was she on medication, and the alcohol was affecting her adversely?

  Cyrano hesitated. Should he stop her?

  Trace gazed ahead, sightlessly. “You see, without Nonnie, I felt lost. I could get by well enough in Paris, but I wanted my child. I tried to earn money by giving piano lessons and teaching German. I applied to work as a lady’s companion and as a model in a department store. I did all that, yes. But I couldn’t make enough money, so I did what was less respectable but more lucrative. I sat as an artist’s model for Montmartre painters such as Edouard Bisson and Victor Guillonnet. I made important theatrical contacts.”

  Cyrano didn’t stir. He watched. Trace was a beautiful young woman, with an aura of magnetism. He’d seen it right away. Now her eyes glowed in a strange, detached way, as if she were looking off into distant worlds.