He thought for a moment, then put on a good-natured smile. “Well, you seem to have found me. I’m very glad I didn’t accidentally shoot you. Although I imagine Feodor took the bullets out, he generally does. Feodor is my secretary.”
The presence of his “secretary” behind me made the skin of my back constrict, but I made an effort and did not turn around.
I did not think that gun was empty. I did not imagine any servant of this man would dare to disable his weapon.
Still, two could don a mask of charm. And I did have the frock and spectacles going for me. “I quite understand, these are hazardous times.” I dredged up another smile. “I wouldn’t think of bothering you, were it not for Miss Hudson’s troubles. The police actually imagined that she was responsible. That she shot him. Can you believe it?”
“Young lady, I can’t see that this is anything to do with me.”
Friendly or not, it was interesting that his first reaction was denial. Or perhaps that was merely habit. “It isn’t, I suppose. But the police want to know where she was when he died. So I thought I might just clear things up by asking you: she was at Mrs Langtry’s until you and Count Vasilev left, wasn’t she?”
“Miss Russell—is it Miss?”
“Mrs, in fact.”
“Mrs Russell, I have no idea how long Clarissa stayed, after the Count and I left. She and Lillie are old friends, and the ladies do like to gossip. However, shouldn’t the police be asking these questions?” His dismissive tone suggested how very unlikely a police interview of Basil Zaharoff would be.
“They should be, yes. But I believe they’re rather afraid of you, sir.”
For the first time, the old man looked at me rather than at the problem I might represent, studying me with as much attention as I’d ever seen Holmes give a problem. At the end of the examination, he startled me for the third time in as many minutes. He smiled.
This smile was genuine. Warm, amused, and personal. He dropped into the chair behind the desk, and gestured me towards the unoccupied one. I obeyed, perching on the very edge of the seat.
“A police inspector is afraid, and yet a young woman is not?” I had not mentioned Jourdain’s rank, but then, a man like this would know everything that went on in the Principality. He might even know the true identities of Mr and Mrs Sheldon Russell.
I chose my words with care. “I think you are a businessman. I think you have spent your life balancing profit against risk, and that you tend not to act rashly. I think you would not choose to…act against a young English woman who comes to you with questions. I think you would find it simpler to give her answers, and not threats.”
He sat back, threading his fingers together over his paunch, eyes sparkling. “Ask.”
“Thank you. As I said, Miss Hudson is a friend. I need to know how much trouble she’s in, before I can continue with my travel plans.” Which was nonsense, but I wore a face—and a dress—for innocence.
“I, too, regard Clarissa Hudson as a friend,” said the old monster. “I have known her since we were young and carefree, although I have only seen her a handful of times since she arrived in Monaco, some weeks ago.”
“I think you also knew the man? Niko Cassavetes?”
His Father Christmas veneer went thin for an instant, then returned full strength. But not from surprise. Anger? “Is that who died? The Cassavetes boy?”
“You knew him?”
“I knew of him. I may even have come across him, once or twice. He did some small jobs for one of my friends, nothing too demanding. Mostly filling in for others.”
Smokescreens require large quantities of smoke: the longer the explanation—such as this one—the greater the deceit.
“Jobs on boats?” To actually use the word “smuggling” might be pushing my luck.
“So I understand.”
“Could I talk to this friend of yours who employed him?”
“How would that help Miss Hudson?”
“Certain…elements of Niko’s life appear to be less than legal,” I said. “If he had an argument with some criminal associate, it could remove Miss Hudson from suspicion.”
The old eyebrows rose. “Are you suggesting that my friend knowingly employed a criminal? Or perhaps you suggest that I killed the boy myself?”
The edge in his voice made my organs cramp. “Sir, I doubt there’s a man in Monaco less likely to shoot Niko Cassavetes dead than you.” With his own hand, that is.
“I am relieved you think so,” he said, the jolly old elf. “Now, young lady, amusing as this has been, I have a busy day.”
I forced a last question out of my tight throat. “Niko did some work for you, too, didn’t he? He seemed to work for pretty much everyone in Monaco, at one time or another.”
“This and that. But not in a while, and nothing illegal.” He made a show of getting laboriously to his feet. “Do I need to have Feodor show you the door?”
Hearing his name, the hired brute looked inside. For a moment, I was tempted to see whether his muscles, or my skills would win out—but that would involve a lot of smashed furniture and yet another set of clothing, so I thanked the monster politely and with a final glance out at the spectacular view this man all but owned—harbour, Palace, town, and the Mediterranean beyond—I straightened my shoulders and took my flowered artificial silk out of the luxurious suite, down the stairs, and out of the hotel itself.
I managed not to break into a run, or even turn to see who was following me, all the way to the train station at the foot of the Casino.
But I can’t say I took an easy breath until the train doors rattled shut. When the cars jerked into motion at last, I eased my head back against the rest and waited for my racing heart to slow.
The Riviera train line had one other stop inside Monaco, but once the rails left the Principality, they were allowed to emerge above ground and become scenic, travelling at the coastline as far as Nice, then meandering in and out.
I did not notice much of the glorious view. My mind was working harder than the engine that pulled us.
Basil Zaharoff. A man in his late seventies, Greek-born, but Russian-named, due to his family’s period of Russian exile. He learned his early lessons in criminality with the Istanbul fire service, setting houses aflame that they might be saved and treasures “recovered”—for payment. A lifetime in crime, bigamous marriages to wealthy women, sales of disastrously inadequate military hardware to both sides of conflicts—conflicts he had helped to create—coupled with industrial sabotage, let him compile a truly stupefying fortune during the Great War. He made friends in high places, and took care to purchase respectability with huge donations to worthy causes. His deft manipulation of newspapers, banks, and elections helped ensure an Allied victory, leading to high honours in France, England, and Greece—though whether those were meant to reward his service, or to ensure his silence, was a matter of debate. He had recently married his long-time lover, one of the richest women in Spain, a woman who had used her position to further his business interests. And then he had bought himself a principality, for the comfort of his later years.
Those eyes of his, switching so instantly from deadly to congenial. I felt as if I’d just tip-toed through a nest of scorpions.
What was Zaharoff’s link to Niko Cassavetes? The richest man in Europe and a young homme à tout faire made for unlikely colleagues, and even less likely friends. Oh, I could well imagine that Zaharoff had his busy hands in the smuggling trade, but any direct tie between the two would be like a friendship between King Edward and an apprentice gardener.
Yet I’d have sworn that Zaharoff had reacted to the dead man’s name. That he not only knew who Niko was, but knew that his death could be a problem.
His uneasiness had lasted only a moment before his face had resumed its unconcerned, even faintly amused expression. Because he knew he was un
touchable by the likes of me? Even Sherlock Holmes had not been able to put a stop to the man.
Or was it merely that he knew we would find no evidence against him? Zaharoff himself would never have stood in Mrs Hudson’s sitting room and pulled a trigger. If Niko was a threat, or even an inconvenience, Zaharoff would have sent someone to do it for him—someone like a large, scarred bodyguard. Feodor’s immediate impulse had been to tackle me as an intruder, but he no doubt knew how to use the gun he wore. A gun that, unfortunately, I hadn’t seen closely enough to see what size bullet it would fire.
And where did Mrs Hudson come in to this? She and Zaharoff were near-contemporaries who had known each other—possibly quite well—back in their wild youth. They could have met since any number of times, in Monte Carlo or elsewhere. Still, I couldn’t help feeling that any actual friendship (or yes, hard as it might be to imagine, any physical attraction) had long since been buried under the weight of his sins. I could see her being forced to put up with his presence as the price of living in Monaco—but like her friend Mrs Langtry, I could also see her stifling an impulse to pull away from his presence.
Were he any less of a power here, Mrs Hudson would treat the man with the sort of polite distraction that makes even an eminent victim feel small. I’d seen her do it, often enough.
Or was I creating a pleasing story around a woman I loved, to convince myself that I really did know her true nature, deep down?
And what about the mysterious Count Vasilev of the manicured facial hair? Loyal friend of the last Czar, but also of Monaco’s own Merchant of Death. Intimate of a ruling family, employer of a possible smuggler, patron of the arts, and a friend to visiting Americans—whose country he wished to make his own, because of an ill daughter.
Round and round went this cast of characters, as the train paused in Nice and Antibes and places along the way. I nearly missed Juan-les-Pins, hearing the repeated name at the last instant and hurling myself through the train’s door before it jerked into motion.
Taxis waited outside. One of them took me to the Hôtel du Cap, the driver speaking over his shoulder all the time in an accent so heavy as to be incomprehensible. I made a noise of vague agreement whenever he paused, hoping to encourage his eyes to stay on the road ahead, and was grateful when we reached the hotel without mishap to ourselves or any of the bicyclists, dogs, trams, beach-goers, or wandering goats along the way. My luck held, in that I got my dress through the lobby and to the safety of my room without having run the gauntlet of astonished stares and ribald comments.
I bathed, happily putting on my own clothing—beach-suitable garments, with no flowers, frills, or the other fillips beloved of 1910’s parasolled and be-flowered ladies—and went downstairs again, stopping by the desk to let them know that I might be gaining a husband.
Then to join the denizens of La Garoupe.
It was a more subdued gathering than the carefree sun-bathers of previous days. The children were down the beach with Mademoiselle Geron, while the adults, instead of sprawling about on the bamboo mats, were all sitting upright, either talking intently or staring over the little bay. Sara greeted me, Terry said I’d missed a nice evening, and Gerald handed me a full glass—which I accepted, to take the taste of Zaharoff from my tongue. The others gave me distracted smiles before continuing their talk.
They had heard about Niko, and were reacting to the brush of death against their golden lives. Not that many knew him well enough to be actively mourning. He was a charming, handsome, friend-of-friends who had been to a few parties at Villa America, but it turned out that the only member of the Murphy circle who knew him more than casually was Rafe Ainsley.
“Where is Rafe?” I wondered aloud.
“His bronze pour is tomorrow, at the Antibes foundry,” Gerald replied. “He was counting on Niko to help him set things up, but…Anyway, he’s now racing around like a crazy man, trying to do it himself. I gave him the car so he could pick up the drinks and whatnot.” He noticed my puzzled look, so explained. “Rafe has people coming down from Paris for it—one or two sculptor friends, an American gallery owner, a few others. They’re taking tonight’s Train Bleu, which means Rafe can’t change the day because everyone’s already setting off, and the foundry can’t give him another day until next month.”
That made more sense. I couldn’t picture Rafe Ainsley moping around his studio, mourning a friend.
One of the women—the young film actress I’d met before—broke in eagerly. “I’d love to go, if it’s an open invitation.”
“You just want to watch men at work, stripped down to their vests,” said a friend, also from the movies. They giggled, then looked around guiltily.
Sara disabused them of the notion. “Rafe does that sometimes, to show off, but most of them wear heavy layers of wool and leather, to guard against splashes. And yes, Rafe’s pours are usually open to anyone willing to put up with the heat. Just don’t wear anything you care about—with the smoke and dirt, it’ll never be the same.”
The thought of Rafe Ainsley resentfully doing errands up and down the Côte d’Azur gave me an idea. “Where is this foundry of his?”
“Just off the Nice road, a quarter mile or so after the gare in Antibes. Enough out of town so if the place burns down, it doesn’t take the city with it.”
“That makes sense.”
“I don’t think he’s there until later this afternoon. He was grumbling at how long it would take him to pack up those form things. Hoping that Gerald would volunteer.”
“What is that guy doing?” The voice of the actress, halfway between curious and alarmed, broke into our conversation. As one, we turned to look, and saw an aeroplane headed straight at us.
To my surprise, Terry leapt to his feet to dance about, waving his hands in the air. The plane kept on, its engine noise building. And on. Several of us were on our feet, edging to one side as the plane grew closer, louder—and at the last minute, its nose tipped sharply up, presenting its belly as it passed directly over the beach…leaving an explosion of oversized white feathers drifting down in its wake.
Terry and the girls raced to gather them. The three Murphy children came splashing out of the water to see what the excitement was.
Flyers, advertising the Juan-les-Pins casino.
The glum mood vanished. Nobody noticed when I slipped away.
Back at the hotel, I threw on more practical garments, scribbled a note telling Holmes I was at Villa America, and caught the tram up to the Murphy compound.
A gardener pointed me to the guest cottage across the road. In a previous life this had housed a farming family in an orange grove, but the buildings had been turned into a combination living quarters–studio by Gerald and Sara. To my good fortune, Ainsley was there, looking both hot and cross as he wrestled a bulky plaster object out of the door and towards the waiting motorcar.
I trotted over to help, lifting the lower edge of the thing to help settle it onto the backseat.
“Hullo,” I said, brushing the white powder from my hands. “Mary Russell. Friend of Terry from the other day.”
“Ah yes. Thanks.”
“Gerald said you were doing a load of chores, so I wondered if I might lend a hand.” I bent closer to the resting plaster object. It was the size and shape of a small bucket, and the smooth plaster top of it was broken by a funnel-shaped indentation and four small holes. “Is that a mould? For a sculpture?”
“Yes,” he said, and walked off. Naturally, I followed.
“I’ve never seen bronze poured before,” I confessed, putting a bit of girlish gush into my voice. “It must be really fascinating—I hope you don’t mind—Sara said I could come tomorrow?”
“Plenty of room,” he said.
“Ooh!” We had left the bright day to enter into what looked like old stables, and I stopped dead, eyes appropriately wide. “Look at those!”
Ainsley might only have been in Antibes a few months, but he’d been busy. There were at least a dozen finished bronze sculptures and as many in the early stages of work. He had also taken time to create a series of pieces illustrating the craft of bronze. One shelf, seven objects, following a single work from its beginning waxy sculpture to its end point—which in this case was a splendid head of Sara Murphy some eight inches high, burnished and elegant and capturing not only her surface beauty, but the gleam of humour beneath.
I walked down to the beginning of the series: Sara’s head lovingly carved from a dark brown wax—although actually, I realised, there was an eighth step beside it, a plaster lump somewhat smaller than the finished head.
“Is this a sort of filler that goes underneath?” I asked.
“The core,” he confirmed, but then continued, showing that a minor prompt was all he needed to begin a lecture. “The first stages differ depending on the medium of the original sculpture, but for demonstration purposes, I show a wax original. Over a core, since a bronze sculpture is rarely solid.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
My ignorance pleased him. He picked up the third object in the series, a weird bit of Surrealist art showing nails driven through Sara’s brown wax face and what looked like a wax octopus coming out of her scalp and base. “Sprues,” he said, tapping one of the octopus legs.
“Spruce?” It did not look in the least like wood.
“A sprue is a channel. Bronze in, air out.”
“And you make them out of wax because—ah! Cire perdue. Lost wax.”
Riviera Gold Page 19
