by Myers, Amy
‘Meant the lights had to go off.’
‘Higgins,’ they both said in unison.
‘Maman, it is too much. The Grand Duke must do without a cook—’
‘Would you let the Grand Duke go without his Easter luncheon on the jour de Pâques?’ Madame Didier cunningly pleaded.
‘Then I will prepare it, Maman, and not you.’ Thus resigned, on Saturday the 9th Auguste found himself once more in the kitchens of the Villa Russe.
It was strange without Boris rumbling around. The police were all gone now, and the villa was licking its wounds. But with no trace yet of the Petrov Diamond, and Boris’s murder still not solved, there was a feeling of unease in the air. Tomorrow morning Egbert would return, and then perhaps all would be well once the murderer was arrested.
Meanwhile he had seen little of Natalia, and nothing of the Tuckers. The case was almost over, but why did he not feel the same sense of combined exultation and relief as he had before?
The Easter cake was ready for the morrow. How Boris would have approved. He offered up a silent apology for having suspected him of being a murderer and in propitiation had prepared the Russian Easter specialities of kulitch and pascha himself. He could do no more, barbarous though they seemed. Doughy, heavy and solid. Was this fare for Provence? True, the cardamon was an interesting touch. He had won the approval of the kitchen staff at any rate by the time he was ready to go. The real food, the lobster, the faisan, were as perfect as his professional eye could demand. Voilà, tomorrow he would meet Rose, and the case would be settled. Then he could enjoy his holiday.
He unlatched the gate of the tradesmen’s exit and went out into the quiet velvet night. With a sudden lurch of horror he realised he was not alone in the chemin de Montrouge. Dropping from the wall on to quiet feet not far in front of him was a familiar figure, cloak, hat and mask. This couldn’t be a ghost. This was flesh and blood, and he intended to find out whose.
But startled at first, the other’s reflexes were quicker, as he sped away on quicksilver feet. How so quietly? pondered Auguste even as he ran. Perhaps it was not a man, not a ghost, but a hallucination. Despite a nagging irrational fear that when he reached him his arms would enclose empty air, he ran on in pursuit, up towards the grounds of the Villa Nevada and the fir woods. Would he turn right towards the woods, seeking safety among the cypresses and pines? No, he was going into the grounds of the Villa Nevada. Auguste hauled himself up slowly over the high wall, but the other had the advantage and had disappeared by the time he got there. Breathing heavily, Auguste stood indecisive. Where now? He must not lose him again . . .
Bushes loomed dark at him in the night, trees rustled gently. Not a sign of human movement. Then he saw the folly, an English eccentricity of a summerhouse. He must be in there. He crept up to it, out of sight of the door, entering only to see his quarry disappearing through a window.
That settled it. No ghost! he thought grimly. Auguste ran out of the door and through the grounds like an eel, brushing past huge eucalyptus trees and palms. His prey was making for the far wall. Ten seconds later and he was over it.
Cursing, shins already barked from the last encounter with a wall, Auguste flung himself over, falling heavily on the other side. He picked himself up, to see just ahead of him his quarry, who had stayed for a moment to look back at his pursuer’s mishap.
Staggering after him Auguste ran on, through the carpet of pine needles. Perhaps his own cuisine gave him strength, perhaps his quarry half-halted in indecision, but he gained on him, until he was but a hand’s stretch beyond Auguste’s grasp. A superhuman effort, and the cloak was in his hand.
A sudden lurch of terror lest nothing be beneath it, lest it were a ghost after all. Then throwing himself at his quarry’s back he brought him to the ground, tumbling together until the wiry body lay struggling beneath him. With his last ounce of strength, he ripped off the mask.
It was Natalia Kallinkova.
Chapter Twelve
‘Alors, Auguste, ce n’est pas amusant, ça.’
Natalia stalked round the room, a caged leopard, while Auguste watched grimly.
‘You will tell me what you were doing. It was to protect Bastide, perhaps? And he is the real thief, not you?’ he inquired, desperately wishing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
‘Non,’ she said scornfully. ‘Yesterday, and the other evening, yes, to show Bastide could not be a thief. But the rest – Ah, you will never understand.’
‘I understand very well,’ Auguste said loftily. ‘It is you who do not. Ma mie, I have no choice. I must hand you to Inspector Rose, who is bound to tell Inspector Fouchard, or even Chesnais.’
She sat down, folded her arms and glared. ‘Naturellement. You have no imagination, no délicatesse.’
‘It is not delicate to be a thief,’ he hurled at her. Then pleadingly: ‘Natalia, there must be some reason. Please tell me.’
She glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece and laughed, which infuriated him even more.
‘Non,’ she said simply.
‘Then I stay with you here, until I can get word to Inspector Rose tomorrow morning.’
‘You will not come to my room. I don’t want people who don’t trust me in my bed.’
‘And I do not want you escaping from the window. You are almost certainly a thief and perhaps a murderess.’ They glared at each other, the small lithe figure in black, and the slim, tall cook.
‘Ah, Auguste, you cannot believe that.’ Tears filled her eyes. Were they genuine? Almost he relented.
‘Of course I do not. I cannot. But when you refuse to give me an explanation, what else can I do?’
‘Tomorrow morning all will become clear, Auguste. And now I go to bed. I am your prisoner. Very well, I will sleep in my bed. You shall lie across my threshold like the Imperial guards.’
Auguste felt his eyes closing, closing; he could not stay awake all night. She wouldn’t try to escape, would she? She was his Natalia. How could such things be? It was a nightmare. ‘Tomorrow,’ she had said, but suppose in the morning she had vanished? He wrestled with the probability that his angel was nothing but a common thief, or rather an uncommon thief, with this ridiculous charade of a ghost. And perhaps a murderess too. No, that was impossible. He refused to believe it. Yet all night he tossed and turned restlessly on the sofa drawn across the entrance to her room. She, not he, had insisted on it, a glint in her eye.
It was not until one o’clock on Easter Day that Egbert Rose appeared in response to Auguste’s summons on the telephone. The morning had passed in tense silence, and to a tired, worried Auguste the sight of Egbert was a shock, for despite the seriousness of the situation, the inspector was trying hard not to grin as he came in. Kallinkova, demurely clad in light blue, her hair dressed in girlish curls, bore little resemblance to the panther struggling in his arms last night, thought Auguste grimly. How was he going to persuade Rose that last night had really happened? But he didn’t need to. Auguste’s words hadn’t made any sense at first to Egbert Rose. But a lot had happened since then, and now it did.
‘Didn’t I say, Auguste, that there was someone around throwing dust in our eyes like that Puck? I don’t say I approve, but it’s you, isn’t it, Miss Kallinkova? You and those eggs . . .’
‘Eggs?’ echoed Auguste, an awful foreboding creeping over him.
Not long before, an interesting scene had taken place at the Villa Russe.
The day had not started well. In the absence of Boris, the Grand Duke had been reduced to painting the traditional red eggs for the table himself, and had covered himself in red dye, making himself look more like Sweeney Todd than a Grand Duke.
The red-painted egg labelled The Grand Duchess, left by the Grand Duke overnight on her breakfast table, proved hard to open. Very hard. And no wonder.
Deep in conversation about the political situation in Bulgaria, the Grand Duke peered round the enormous palm adorning the table as he heard his wife say, ‘Igor!’ in a str
ange voice. She was staring fascinated at her egg.
‘Off, is it? It’s that blasted police sergeant we’ve hired as a cook.’
‘No, Igor. It’s the Petrov Diamond.’
She raised her eyes, and gazed thoughtfully at her husband.
He turned brick-red. ‘I didn’t put it there,’ he said inexplicably.
‘I’m sure you did not, Igor. But is it not interesting that the thief returns not only all the jewels, but the diamond too? What an unusual thief. Especially since the Sûreté Générale tells us he is in their custody in Paris?’
The Grand Duchess remained thoughtful as, following the traditional custom of Easter Morning, they went into the gardens to watch the servants hunt for their Easter eggs in the grounds, which contained small gifts from the Grand Duke and Duchess. This morning was to provide a most unusual surprise. Instead of the familiar rouble in a painted wooden egg, six lucky recipients found themselves blankly staring at a Fabergé Easter Egg, each of which contained a large ruby.
The Grand Duchess’s face grew more thoughtful still, the Grand Duke’s even redder, as his wife’s accusing eyes fell on him. The six eggs were rounded up firmly but politely by the Grand Duchess, despite a noticeable desire by one small scullerymaid to hold on to this strange present, and offer of restitution quickly made. Collecting her trophies, the Grand Duchess sailed back to the villa, the Grand Duke trailing disconsolately behind. She spread them on a table and studied them carefully, especially the miniatures of her husband.
‘These look to me, Igor, uncommonly like Fabergé eggs, and resemble that worn by a lady in yellow. Igor,’ she paused, ‘I feel there may be something about which I have been kept in ignorance. Do you not think the police should be summoned?’
Igor clearly did not, but the question had been merely rhetorical as she moved purposefully towards the telephone.
‘Igor is a delightful, though mean grand duke, Inspector,’ Natalia said soberly. ‘He has no one to blame for his discomfiture but himself – though I am afraid he will not see it that way.’ She sighed. ‘I will try to cheer him up,’ she added. ‘He is generous to begin with, he hands out Fabergé eggs to his former loves, and tells his friends of his generosity. Then he makes a big mistake. He grows mean. There are too many ladies. So he gives not Fabergé eggs, but common copies with inferior rubies. Fakes. Then he makes a bigger mistake. He gives a fake to La Belle Mimosa. Imagine such foolishness! And,’ she dimpled, ‘he then makes a bigger mistake still: he gave a fake to me! To me, Natalia Kallinkova, prima ballerina in St Petersburg, in Vienna, in London, to me!’ Her eyes flashed at the indignity.
‘But I knew La Belle Mimosa,’ she continued, ‘and I persuaded her not to face Igor with his bêtise, but to make a plan to humiliate him. His Imperial Majesty the Tsar helps – without knowing, naturally. He demands of Igor that he get the eggs back; no one but the Tsar shall give these gifts. So Igor asks me for my poor little fake back too, lest I or La Belle Mimosa should boast of having a Fabergé egg.’ She looked scornful. ‘So I worm the truth out of him, and, voilà, the plan is made. I will steal the eggs for him, I tell him, and give them to him back. All for the sake of the love we used to share. And he believed it! Such is the vanity of men! But once I give them to him, I plan to steal them back at the masque in order to expose him publicly for his meanness. So either all the ladies will get their eggs back or gifts to compensate them. And this is what I did.’
‘And why this Man in the Iron Mask?’ asked Auguste suspiciously.
Her eyes danced. ‘It is fun, yes? When you are a woman, you cannot roam the streets alone at night. You are not supposed to know the freedom of breeches. It is not ladylike! Huh! But I like it, it is fun. And what better way to burgle than when people run away from you? So I take this way. I thought I would experiment, haunt the tower, take advantage of the old legend – and then I saw Auguste. Oh what fun to tease.’
Waves of fury vibrated in the air.
‘If you are a ballet dancer, acrobatics are easy; to scale a wall quickly, to climb a tree, pouf, it is nothing. You are gone in a second – and so the ghost of the Man in the Iron Mask walks, in plenty of time to practise for the burglar. When people are afraid of ghosts, they expect to see them, even when they are not what they seem. The rumours were all round Cannes in plenty of time for the ball. I had a bedroom on the second floor to change in for the ball, where of course I change to Iron Mask, and as soon as the lights went out—’
‘Helped by your accomplice,’ said Rose grimly.
‘Précisement. I made my way along the balconies to the Petite Bibliothèque, go in the window, change my cloak to the phosphorus-coated side, and when the gendarme comes in to see all is well, pouf, he is so scared, running out into the corridor again, I change the cloak round, take the box and simply walk along the corridor to my room.
‘My second accomplice is waiting. I hand over the box and change at my leisure. The box is taken downstairs, the lights go up, and my accomplice removes the box in front of you all. Later I remove the eggs and the Petrov Diamond, and return the rest of the jewels to the supper room later. Ah, Auguste, your lovely Misha. She looked so pretty with the jewels.’
Auguste glared.
‘This accomplice wouldn’t happen to be Mr Higgins, miss?’ asked Rose resignedly.
‘But of course, Inspector. He is so very good with electricity.’
‘And your second accomplice would be Muriel, I suppose.’
‘Mrs Higgins. Just so. And that dear old man also. He was so helpful.’
‘And why,’ said Auguste quietly, ‘were only six eggs found – I believe you said that, did you not, Egbert?’ Rose nodded.
Natalia made a face. ‘Ah, dear Mimosa. Not the best of accomplices. First, she chatters, and I believe it is through her that Lord Westbourne told you he had proof of my identity. And then she agrees to cooperate on her terms only. She does not trust the Grand Duke to give her a real egg or valuable jewels, so she insists that when I steal the eggs she has one of the real eggs in place of her fake, right away. So I have to forge an invitation – not difficult – and poor Muriel Higgins must run to the belvedere, snatch the fake and give Mimosa a real egg, all in the dark. And how pleased Mimosa was, and what a performance she gave then. Igor must make it up to her generously now.’
‘And the Petrov Diamond?’ said Auguste still suspicious of her motives. ‘What need of that?’
‘Eh, Auguste, you think you are clever, huh? I make a better criminal than you detective. I want the Grand Duke to call in the police; if I just steal the eggs, who knows about it, eh? Igor will not tell. We need the police there, lots of them, so everyone knows when the eggs are found again.’
Rose looked grim.
‘But how does everyone know?’ asked Auguste. ‘Only the servants at the Villa Russe—’ he stopped, and nodded.
‘Yes,’ said Natalia. ‘Mr and Mrs Higgins and the old Cannois will make sure the whole of Cannes knows – especially the ladies Westbourne and Tucker.’ She chuckled.
‘Do you realise the amount of public money Scotland Yard has spent on this?’ said Rose grimly. ‘Not to mention the Comte de Bonifacio being locked up? What’s Chesnais going to say?’
‘I could not have guessed how stupid Inspector Chesnais would be,’ she said with a frown. ‘I appeared as soon as I could to show that Bastide could not be the ghost of the Man in the Iron Mask.’
‘Egbert, you will not tell Chesnais the whole story?’ Auguste was horrified now all was clear. ‘You cannot mean this? No harm has been done. The Grand Duke cannot complain as he in effect stole the eggs himself. And in Kallinkova, see what the world would lose if she went to prison.’
There was a terrible moment of silence. Then: ‘You’ve a point,’ said Rose. ‘Chesnais would hardly want to arraign the Grand Duke . . .’ He frowned. ‘I’ve no authority here of course. All in all, provided the ladies are compensated, and provided we can get Bastide freed, I think it had better remain an unsolved c
rime.’
A relaxation, a sigh of relief from Auguste.
‘But it wouldn’t, mark you,’ Rose went on, ‘if it weren’t for the fact we’ve got two murders to clear up.’ He paused. ‘It’s done now, thanks to you, Auguste.’
‘To me?’ Auguste felt a glow; he had not failed. Rose’s Paris trip had yielded fruit.
‘You have discovered something about Mr Tucker?’ he asked eagerly.
‘You were quite right, Auguste. Not only has the gentleman very substantial holdings in the Royal Niger Company but it was quite difficult to establish the link since he was holding them under a false name. Obviously it wouldn’t look too good for a gentleman in his position at the Colonial Office to have such a great personal interest in the Niger question, when he’s supposed to be briefing the conference objectively. It all hinges on the interpretation of the international treaty of eighteen ninety. The British Government, no doubt partly through the mouth of Mr Tucker, claim the treaty gives them absolute powers in the hinterland west of the Niger and north of the ninth degree of Latitude, which is the area the French are disputing. But apparently this treaty is open to question, and Westbourne was inclined to compromise. Now if he’d found out about Tucker’s interests and was threatening to reveal them—’
‘Yes,’ said Auguste, his reputation restored. ‘Of course, that would explain what we heard Westbourne suggest.’ He glowed.
‘Chesnais is set on making an arrest this afternoon. He’s none too sure, but is going to play along with it.’ Rose glanced at the clock. ‘Three o’clock at the Villa Russe. The last party.’
Except for Lady Westbourne and Mrs Tucker, Fouchard had had difficulty in persuading everyone of the importance of their attendance at the Villa Russe, and various gendarmes had been dispatched in pursuit of those who were enjoying the delights of a visit to the hermit on St Cassien hillside, or the Observatoire, and it was thus nearer four when the last of the group arrived at the salon in the Villa Russe.
Rose had filled in the time constructively. ‘Well, Higgins?’
