by ILIL ARBEL
Chapter Five
Throughout the usual busy day at the atelier, Madame Koska could think only of Solange’s murder. She went mechanically about her business, accomplishing her tasks with her usual efficiency, but she kept waiting for a call from M. Danilov. She assumed the impresario would continue with his plans, particularly since poor Solange was not part of the Icarus ballet, but she felt she needed to discuss the matter with him. He did not call. Madame Koska did not want to intrude by calling him so soon, and decided to wait a day or two, but as she was going over the accounts, as she did every night after everyone was gone, she could not concentrate. Finally she gave up, put the papers in the safe, and called Madame Golitsyn.
“Annushka, I need your advice,” she said when Madame Golitsyn picked up the telephone.
“Would you like to come over and have dinner?” asked the hospitable Madame Golitsyn.
“That would be lovely,” said Madame Koska. “Thank you. I am in a quandary about the murder, and I don’t want to ask anyone else.”
“Heavens, Vera, wouldn’t Mr. Korolenko be the right person? He is much more experienced in such matters than I am,” said Madame Golitsyn, surprised.
“Especially not him, Annushka. He works with the police, and it is much too early to involve them in the matter I have in mind. I was requested to keep it a secret, but I must have your opinion.”
“Very well,” said Madame Golitsyn. “I’ll start dinner.”
Madame Golitsyn’s drawing room had a calming effect on Madame Koska whenever she visited. The way her friend had turned the modest apartment into a haven from the old Tsarist world never ceased to delight her. The piano, covered with its golden silk scarf whose long fringe reached the floor, the intricate and colourful floral embroidery on the black woollen shawl draped over the large sofa, and the old watercolours on the wall, all lent an air of comfort and security. The rose potpourri in the alabaster bowl gave its ever-present scent, and the brass samovar, gleaming softly over the white lace tablecloth, sang its timeless song. Madame Koska sank into a chair and felt herself relaxing.
The wonderful aroma of Madame Golitsyn’s delicious chicken fricassee and potatoes au gratin drifted into the room from the kitchen, overpowering the potpourri. It was served with the perfect light wine, and followed by a small green salad. Over the coffee and cake, Madame Koska finished her story – recounting to Madame Golitsyn everything Galina Danilova had told her about her own illness, her need to go to Switzerland for treatment at the sanatorium, the possibility of her retirement, and the unusual relationship between Victor, Danilov, and herself.
Madame Golitsyn thought for a few minutes, sipping her coffee. “This is all quite serious, Vera, but I don’t see the connexion between this story and the murder,” she finally said.
“I don’t understand the connexion either,” said Madame Koska, “but I have a strong hunch that there is one.”
“Then you must suspect something, Vera. Otherwise there would be nothing to attract anyone’s attention. Yes, this is a strange relationship, though not quite a ménage à trois, and it is sad that Galina must stop dancing, but Solange was not involved with any of them.”
“Yes, I do suspect something, but it’s vague. The living arrangement of these three was a very straightforward relationship of convenience, and Solange was not part of it; it’s something else altogether. It may be a wild conjecture on my part, but could it be that the murder was a mistake? That the killer’s intended victim was not Solange, but someone else?”
“But it is well known that only the girl in the ballet smells the rose!” said Madame Golitsyn. “How could anyone make a mistake?”
“The poison could have been dripped on the rose by accident. There may be another object that has the poison on it.”
“Hmmm,” said Madame Golitsyn. “If so, someone else might smell it by accident, whatever it is.”
“That is why I am concerned,” said Madame Koska. “For one thing, I think every rose on Victor’s costume should be carefully checked.”
“Vera, are you thinking that the intended victim was Victor?”
“It’s more logical that someone is Victor’s enemy than Solange’s,” said Madame Koska. “He is a star of such magnitude, that no doubt someone hates him. Revenge, jealousy, who knows? I’d like to know if there is a young, good male dancer waiting in the wings…”
“That should not be too difficult to find out.”
“But I can’t just go and talk about it to the police, or even to Dmitry, because I promised Galina Danilova that I would keep her secret. I strongly feel that this secrecy is a mistake, and that all the facts should be available to the police. What do you think? That is what I wanted you to advise me about.”
Madame Golitsyn was again silent for a few minutes. Madame Koska waited. She knew that her friend valued discretion very highly; it was part of her nature and her upbringing, and the trust of a secret weighed heavily with her. But this was murder and the rules were changed. Madame Koska lit a cigarette, placed it in a long ebony holder, and watched the grey smoke curling up to the ceiling.
“I think you should talk to Galina as soon as possible, tomorrow morning if you can, and ask her to talk to the police, even if Sasha Danilov feels it’s going to affect his sales,” said Madame Golitsyn finally.
Madame Koska sighed with relief. “I will do so,” she said.
The next day, however, was so busy that Madame Koska did not find the time to call Madame Danilova. It was late afternoon before she managed to extricate herself from a whirlwind of fittings, orders, deliveries, and requests for appointments. Thank goodness Gretchen is still here until September, thought Madame Koska. But I must hire another vendeuse before she goes to the university…. She sat down to look at the accounts when the doorbell rang. She opened it and to her surprise, it was Mr. Korolenko.
“Dmitry, how nice to see you! I was not expecting you. Come in, sit down.”
Mr. Korolenko sat on the chair across from Madame Koska’s desk, leaned forward, and looked at her with some amusement in his brown eyes.
“Come on, Vera. You know more than you are telling me, I can see that.”
“About what, Dmitry?”
“The murder. Don’t try to look so innocent….You’d better tell me all you know, because someone you like may be in deep trouble.”
“Who is in trouble?”
“Madame Galina Danilova. Inspector Blount suspects her of the murder. He did not say so yet, but he will, and very soon, too. I can see he takes the route of ‘aging ballerina murders the young one who is about to replace her.’”
“Inspector Blount is an idiot!” cried Madame Koska.
“No, he is not an idiot. He may not see through walls, the way you do, my dear, but he is a good, solid policeman. And there is plenty of evidence against our Galina.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the fact that she was the last one to be near Solange on her way to the stage, and in addition, she handed her the rose.”
“But why? What was she doing there?”
“She often stays at the theatre and supervises for Sasha, seeing that everything is going well. She was probably giving a hand to the wardrobe lady.”
“Anyway, that does not mean a thing,” said Madame Koska. “There is plenty of evidence to show Madame Danilova did not have any reason to kill Solange.”
“Evidence? What sort of evidence?”
“Well…” said Madame Koska, hesitating.
“Come on, Vera. What is the secret?”
“You are right, I must tell you. I did not want to since I was sworn to secrecy, but there is no choice.”
After hearing the entire story, Mr. Korolenko said, “I tend to agree with you. In my mind, she is cleared. So who? And why? Solange was so harmless and no one would gain from her death.”
“I believe no one wanted to kill Solange. I think whoever put the poison on this rose intended to have Victor smell it and die on stage. I can’t te
ll how he or she planned to make Victor smell the rose, since the Spectre never holds it, but that is less important than the motive for the murder.”
“So we must find out who would gain from Victor’s death.”
“I have no names, but I suspect a certain group. Young male dancers do not have as many opportunities for advancement as female dancers. Look at all the ballets. One male to twenty, thirty females? Many ambitious male dancers never make a name for themselves. Is there someone at the Ballets Baikal who could be close to the position of principal male dancer if Victor was not there?”
“We must ask Sasha.”
“This is very delicate, Dmitry.”
“I know. We must navigate between Sasha’s secret promotional designs, Galina’s mysterious disappearance into a nameless sanatorium, Victor’s terror of being murdered if he finds out, and a murderer who may or may not be dancing with poison in his hands.”
Madame Koska laughed. “Not any worse than the previous case we handled, Dmitry. At least this time, I am not personally involved.”
“I certainly hope not,” said Mr. Korolenko.
~~~
To Madame Koska’s surprise, Sasha Danilov received them calmly. She expected volatile emotions, drama, anger, fireworks, but nothing like that happened. M. Danilov conducted them to a private room that was almost an office, where Madame Danilova was waiting. He closed the door and looked at them sternly from under his bushy brows. After a few seconds he said in French, as always, “I know my wife told you about her illness, Madame Koska.”
“I hope you don’t hold it against her, M. Danilov. I am entirely to blame,” said Madame Koska. “You see, she noticed that I was puzzled about making two identical costumes for herself and Solange. It seemed very strange and I am afraid I was not discreet about it. Of course she knew I could be trusted.”
“Technically you broke your trust, Madame Koska, by telling Dmitry, but I realise that you had no choice. Everything must come out into the open now… The Ballets Baikal will lose a great deal of money, but if the police really suspects my wife of murder, we have no choice but to make the whole situation public. The police will then leave her alone, I assume.”
“Not necessarily, Sasha. Forgive me, Madame Danilova, I am not hinting that you are guilty! But the police do not usually think with great subtlety. Their line of thought will be that just because you are ill does not mean you were not raging against your successor,” said Mr. Korolenko.
“So what is to be done?” asked Madame Danilova. “I really hope they will let me go to the sanatorium… I am very ill, Mr. Korolenko.”
“They will certainly let you go to the sanatorium, but someone will be guarding you day and night, and because they suspect you, much time will be lost that should be spent on catching the real murderer.”
“It’s because of the rose, Madame Danilova,” said Madame Koska. “If you had not handed the rose to Solange, they would have never suspected you.”
“I do it so often, Madame Koska. Had I wanted to kill Solange I would have had so many opportunities. But where would I get poison? I know nothing about such things.”
“We realise that, but to make the police agree with us, we may have to find them a more suitable suspect. You see, we don’t think Solange was the intended victim. We think it was Victor. We believe the poison was actually used on his costume, or something else he owned, and it got on the rose by accident,” said Madame Koska.
“I would like to send the costume to the laboratory for investigation,” said Mr. Korolenko. “Can you get it for me?”
“Yes, of course. It may have been washed, though,” said Madame Danilova.
“Traces would remain, enough to identify the poison, if it is there, Madame Danilova,” said Mr. Korolenko.
“I will go to Wardrobe for the costume myself, at once,” said M. Danilov. “I don’t want anyone taking a chance.” He left the room and Madame Koska said, “Is there a young male dancer who may be jealous at Victor, Madame Danilova? Someone who might want his position so badly that he would be willing to commit a crime?”
“I doubt it,” said Madame Danilova. “Leonard Bassin is the new protégé Sasha had recruited. He is very good, but he needs much training. We can call him, if you wish.”
“Yes, please,” said Madame Koska. “We will say nothing to alarm him.”
M. Danilov came back with the costume, which was wrapped in a clean cloth and put in a bag. He handed it to Mr. Korolenko. “You can keep it as long as you like, Dmitry. Naturally we won’t have Spectre on again this season.”
“Would you send Leonard Bassin here for a minute?” asked Madame Danilova.
The impresario started at the mention of the name. “Why?” he said. “What does he have to do with it?”
“Nothing much,” said Mr. Korolenko. “We just want to be sure of that. Do you have any objections?”
“No, no… go ahead,” said M. Danilov. But Madame Koska could see he was uncomfortable with this new development. Silently, he went out, and came back with a young man in training costume, obviously dragged away from a rehearsal.
Madame Koska looked at the dancer. He was almost a boy, probably eighteen or nineteen, and very handsome. He seemed to be shy and looked at the group with big blue eyes, round like those of a small child. Too innocent, she thought, noticing that M. Danilov was rather protective, keeping his hand on the boy’s shoulder reassuringly. Hmm… she thought. This is no longer a ménage à trois…more like a ménage à quatre…. Could that be it? Jealousy between the impresario’s favourites?” Involuntarily she glanced at Madame Danilova. To her surprise, Madame Danilova was watching her with a slight smile on her face. As she caught Madame Koska’s eye, she nodded very quickly. No one else noticed, as far as Madame Koska could tell, but she was quite sure that Madame Danilova guessed her thoughts and confirmed them.
“M. Leonard Bassin, we are collecting information from everyone at the Ballet Baikal, regarding the death of Mademoiselle Solange,” said Mr. Korolenko.
“But I was not there, Monsieur,” said the boy. “I was not dancing that night.”
“But you could tell me a little about Mademoiselle Solange, perhaps? Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to kill her?”
“She was very nice,” said Leonard. “Always helpful to me. I am rather new, and so was she, so we were friends. I can’t think of anyone who did not like her.”
“So did you socialise? Did you go out together, maybe to eat or have coffee?” asked Madame Koska.
“Yes, we did. The night before she died, we went to have supper after the show. Victor came with us. They wanted to help me plan for the trip.”
“Trip?” asked Mr. Korolenko.
“Yes, I am going to Monte Carlo to train with our school there. M. Danilov wants me to improve my technique, because even though I get much help from Victor, he has little time between shows and rehearsals. I am supposed to leave next week, and accelerate my training.”
Madame Koska and Mr. Korolenko looked at each other, surprised.
“Why do you have to accelerate your training, M. Bassin?” asked Madame Koska.
“Because of Victor, Madame Koska,” said M. Danilov. “Surely you know he wants to divide his time between dancing and choreographing? He is anxious to have Leonard improve to the point of being able to take his place in several ballets.”
“No, I had no idea,” said Madame Koska, and looked at Madame Danilova.
“I never thought to mention it, Madame Koska,” said Madame Danilova. “I suppose I can’t see what difference it makes, so it did not cross my mind. Does it matter?”
“Very greatly,” said Mr. Korolenko. “Well, M. Bassin, you have been most helpful. We took too much of your time, but we are grateful.”
“I can leave now?” asked the boy.
“Certainly,” said M. Danilov, smiling at him. The boy left.
“He is clearly innocent,” said Madame Koska, “and if necessary, we can communicate with hi
m easily while he is in Monte Carlo.”
“Of course,” said M. Danilov. He seemed relieved. “Anyone else you wish to speak to?” he asked.
“I can’t think of anyone right now,” said Madame Koska.
“I’ll take the costume to the police laboratory,” said Mr. Korolenko.
“Wait,” said Madame Koska. “M. Danilov, did you also bring the cap and the slippers? And the arm bands?”
“I brought the cap and arm bands, but he did not wear slippers,” said M. Danilov. “He is dancing the Spectre role barefoot.”
“Strange,” said Madame Koska. “I remember pink slippers… no, wait, maybe I remember them from the first time I saw Spectre. In Paris, you know, with the original dancer.”
“You might have also seen them when you came to the performance here,” said M. Danilov. “Victor decided to dance barefoot only a few days ago, to get used to the way it feels, since he will be expected to do so in Icarus.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Korolenko. “Then I’ll just take the package to the laboratory.”
Chapter Six
Madame Koska and Mr. Korolenko were having a pleasant tête-à-tête dinner at her apartment when the telephone rang.
“Madame Koska, I am sorry to bother you at such a late hour,” said the voice of Inspector Blount, “but I am desperately in need of reaching Mr. Korolenko. Is he with you? He is the only Russian translator I have.”
“No trouble at all, Inspector,” said Madame Koska graciously, despite her annoyance at being interrupted in the middle of dinner. She was the first to admit that a connexion with the police was quite helpful, especially when she had had to deal with the affair of the imperial brooch, but sometimes they were rather intrusive. She handed the receiver to Mr. Korolenko and left the room discreetly.
After a few minutes Mr. Korolenko joined her. “I have to leave right away, Vera,” he said. “This is very, very bad.”
“What happened?” asked Madame Koska, alarmed.
“Victor is in the hospital. They say he had tried to kill himself,” said Mr. Korolenko bluntly.
