Riviera Gold

by Laurie R. King

  “So far as I know, nothing, apart from being old friends with Mrs Hudson.”

  “Good Lord. I hadn’t realised she was still alive.”

  “Very much so.”

  “Heavens. I remember seeing her in—”

  “Mycroft, focus. Could Vasilev be sitting on the gold, somewhere between here and Siberia?”

  “Well, someone must know where it is. Why not Vasilev?”

  Why not, indeed? It would explain the White Russian’s association with Basil Zaharoff—one of the few men in the world with the resources to retrieve that much material, then conceal it, and finally transform it into a usable currency. For a fee, naturally.

  “Are you still there, Sherlock?”

  “Yes. I need to know about Vasilev—his movements, his business contacts, his property and investments. I’d also like you to confirm any of your less-certain information about his daughter. That she is in fact ill, and is in Colorado. Your friends in the American agencies ought to be able to help you.”

  “I shall ask.”

  “Then, an English sculptor who calls himself Rafe Ainsley. I encountered him a decade ago forging art in Blackpool, of all places, under the name of Ralph Ashton. His movements since then, please.”

  “A professional beauty, an arms merchant, a Russian Count, and a Blackpool forger. Does this cast of disparate characters actually have anything to do with one another?”

  “That is what I need you to tell me. Also, several young men. A Greek named Niko Cassavetes, a Monégasque named Matteo Crovetti, and an American, Gerald Murphy. The last is the only one whose name I am relatively certain of.”

  “And the common denominator between them?”

  “Smuggling.”

  “I see. Anyone else?”

  “None at the moment.”

  “Priorities?”

  “With an investigation as wide-ranging as this one at the moment, it is impossible to know which of the threads will unravel it. Although if you have anything to hand tying Zaharoff with Mediterranean smuggling operations, that could be helpful.”

  “I imagine you want this yesterday. Telephone to this number again in twelve hours, I will give you what I have.”

  “Mycroft? Russell is in the centre of this. Make it eight hours.”

  The knock came at half-past eight in the morning, less than an hour after Clarissa Hudson had let herself out of her friend Lillie’s house to walk through the morning streets to her Monaco home. A home missing a carpet, and with a scrubbed-out patch on the sitting room floor, but whose air smelled only of cleaning fluid and lemons. When the knock came, she put down her butter-smeared knife and walked down the hallway, opening the door to find her landlady.

  “Madame Crovetti, good morning, I—”

  “Gentleman on the telephone for you. We will need a line installed here, if this continues,” she grumbled. “I’m not an answering service. Welcome home.”

  “Oh, thank you, just let me slip on my shoes.”

  “You’ll need to hurry or I’ll be late to open the shop.”

  “Of course. Did they say who it was?”

  “A man with an accent,” the messenger called over her shoulder.

  Since a native Monégasque would consider nine out of ten people in the Principality to speak with an accent, that did not narrow things down very much. She followed her landlady inside, then waited for her to disappear up the stairs before picking up the earpiece.

  “This is Clarissa Hudson.”

  “Good morning, Miss Hudson. Vasilev here. I have some excellent news for you—for us both!”

  “The money?”

  “It has come through.”

  “No! Really? Oh, Count—I did not quite believe it was real.”

  “It is very much real. However, my Paris associate recommended that we keep it outside of Monaco. It is difficult to remain anonymous in this place, is it not?”

  “I suppose that’s true. So, where is it?”

  “In an office of his bank in San Remo.”

  “San Remo? Why not Nice?”

  “San Remo is a less obvious choice. And it has so many English visitors, one more will be invisible.”

  “I see. Very well, when can I go?”

  “We shall need to go together. For the paperwork, you understand? And why not now?”

  “Sir, that is the most charming invitation I have had in many years. Train, or motor?”

  “Neither. Madame, our friend Zedzed wishes to help us celebrate our partnership, and has created a small party around it. Only a few intimate friends. Those already—how do you say?—‘in the know.’ ”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Oh, he does understand the need for discretion—so we shall use his yacht. And his champagne, which he wants me to tell you is already on ice. A leisurely cruise over to San Remo, you and I will sign the papers, then a pleasant lunch, and back to Monaco by the evening. When you step off the boat tonight, Madame, voilà! You will be a wealthy woman.”

  “Count Vasilev, I would have preferred something less…”

  “Naturally, I understand. However, I do not think either of us would wish to affront our mutual friend, would we?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “How about Lady de Bathe?”

  “What about her?”

  “She was an active part of your project, was she not? We should invite her, as well.”

  “She…no. I wouldn’t call her at all active. All Lillie did was to introduce us. She knows nothing about the details, not at all.”

  “Your reticence is wise. And your sudden financial independence will be a grand surprise for her.”

  “That it will. Do you wish to send a car?”

  “Perhaps you could make your way down to the harbour? We are already here, and will leave as soon as you arrive.”

  “All right. I’ll dress and walk down, I should be there within the hour. And Count? Again, thank you.”

  “The pleasure, my dear lady, is all mine.”

  I kept falling asleep on the train into Monaco, though my fellow passengers seemed as energetic as kittens. I parted from Terry and his pack of aeronautic enthusiasts at the Casino station, making my way to the Hermitage while the others tumbled off to the harbour. Not that I imagined Holmes would actually have returned to the hotel—and he had not—but I was able to stow my valise in the wardrobe, and drink a large pot of coffee to help prop up my eyelids.

  At half past ten, I was standing with Patrice, Solange, and the others watching Terry and Johnny-the-pilot do things to the machine.

  “Hello? Mrs Russell?” I turned, to find Lillie Langtry hurrying down the promenade faster than a woman in her eighth decade should.

  “Good morning, Mrs—er, Lady de Bathe.”

  “I’m so glad I caught you—oh dear—out of breath—sorry. The hotel said I would find you down here.”

  “Would you like to sit—oh, perhaps not,” I said, looking at the sea-bird stains on the nearby bench. Instead, I pulled her gently out of range from interested ears, while she took out a fan and waved up a breeze. “Mrs Langtry, what is it? Mrs Hudson? Is she all right?”

  “Have you heard from her this morning?”

  “I thought she was with you.”

  “She wanted to return home, and left my house before I rose this morning. Mathilde woke me at nine, since I had made an arrangement to see a friend for coffee, but just before I left, a boy arrived with a note from Clarissa. It was rather enigmatic. Which by itself is not worrying, but then as I was walking to the restaurant I saw—oh dear, I can see I’m making no sense.”

  The next bench had fewer white streaks on it. When we were seated, I touched her arm. “Tell me what has happened. Maybe start a little closer to the beginning.”

  “Th
e beginning is a long way off, when she and I were younger than you are now—but more to the point, when Clarissa arrived in May, I began…helping her in the problem of income. For one thing, many years ago, she’d left a very nice diamond necklace with me, to keep safe. As soon as I knew she was coming, I arranged to sell it for her. That got her started nicely, but there was another matter that required more, shall we say, professional assistance. Something she had that required more specialised knowledge, when it came to converting it into cash.”

  My mind had caught briefly on the idea of Mrs Hudson with a diamond necklace sparking around her wrinkled throat—but I went after the word cash instead. “Something illegal?”

  “No. Well, perhaps. But if it was, time has taken away all sin.”

  I nearly asked outright: Does this have anything to do with the fortune that Jack Prendergast held between thumb and finger? Holmes was going to be furious if I did not pursue the scent, but I first needed to know if Mrs Hudson was safe.

  “Then what was the problem?”

  “Frankly? Your husband was the problem. He has something of what they call an ‘obsession’ over Clarissa’s behaviour. She—very sensibly, to my mind—prefers to keep her affairs as private as she can.”

  “His obsession is not without basis,” I pointed out. “But that’s an argument for a later time. What is going on?”

  “The note Clarissa sent said that she will be spending the day with Sir Basil Zaharoff on his yacht, to make the final arrangements on her, er, monetary negotiations. She said he planned to hold a small celebration on board, for her and a few friends.”

  “I had the strong impression that she would prefer to have nothing to do with Basil Zaharoff?”

  Mrs Langtry sighed. “It is…problematic. As you might imagine, avoiding him entirely is impossible. And as I believe you know, they were once well acquainted. He cherishes the belief that she is still as fond of him as she once seemed to be, all those years ago. When he heard she was here, he offered to support her, but she convinced him it would be inappropriate, considering that he is married.” My imagination stuttered on the idea of a woman of nearly seventy and a man even older…but then, why should she not be…interested. After all, Holmes—

  I cleared my throat. “And then, you sold the diamond necklace for her.”

  “That helped. But still, he insists on giving her little gifts, from time to time, and making introductions to people he thinks will be of help to her. The sorts of friendly gestures that to refuse would be…awkward.”

  “I see.”

  “But that is not the point. The problem is, I saw Sir Basil myself, not twenty minutes ago, in the Café de Paris. And yet when I had come past the harbour, I specifically noticed that his boat was missing. As you can see for yourself.”

  “Which one is his?”

  “The big one.”

  I looked at the space where the gleaming yacht had previously moored. “What, the Bella Ragazza? That’s his?”

  “That’s right. Oh, he doesn’t own it outright, but he’s leased it for the past couple of years. He and his wife use it to entertain, and they lend it to friends, sometimes. And I also understand that he finds it convenient as a place to hold certain kinds of business meetings.”

  So as not to be overheard by competitors or witnessed by the police, I thought. I shaded my eyes, studying the forest of masts. “Couldn’t its crew simply have it out for some reason?”

  “Yes—but in that case, why the note?”

  “What did it say?”

  “Here, I stuck it into my bag as I was going out the door.”

  I unfolded the page to see Mrs Hudson’s dear and familiar handwriting.

  29th, 9:00

  Dearest Lillie, our little project is about to come to its conclusion! Sir Basil wishes to host a very small celebration, just him and the Count and perhaps Mrs Z. I told him we needn’t invite you, since you know nothing at all about my business matters, and all you did was provide an introduction. You and I shall have our own celebration later, when I return from San Remo.

  C.

  San Remo was a town across the Italian border, an easy day’s trip, to be home before dark. Popular with English people, for some reason.

  “Perhaps she wanted to save you the discomfort of sailing with the men?”

  “It’s possible. But to say that I knew nothing about it? That is simply not true. I…well, it’s not true.”

  I studied the words, that emphatic underscored phrase. “You think that’s a hidden message?”

  “I think she wanted to let me know who she’s with, in case she doesn’t come back.”

  “Surely that’s a touch alarmist,” I began, but she cut into my reassurances.

  “My dear child, please stop thinking of Clarissa as your housekeeper! She is a woman who knows full well what a dangerous man looks like.”

  “Mrs Langtry, I agree that Basil Zaharoff would not be a person I would care to board a yacht with, but Count Vasilev? He’s…an art collector.” And a smuggler, perhaps. But also a man with a sick daughter he loved and a ridiculously fussy beard.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Before he was friends with Basil Zaharoff, the Count was an intimate of Czar Nicholas, a person the Czar depended on to keep his business affairs out of sight. That is no task for a man with a fastidious conscience. Long before the Bolsheviks closed in, the Romanov treasure was secreted away, everything from Ottoman swords and Fabergé eggs to jewellery and plate. Unimaginable treasure, hidden and buried and scattered to the wind.”

  “Some of which you think Count Vasilev kept?”

  “He has more funds than any White Russian I know. He would certainly have been in a position to send things into hiding. He was conveniently outside of Russia when the Bolsheviks came for the Czar. And he has been in a number of business partnerships with Sir Basil. The Count is…not as transparent as he seems.”

  The Count was also a man who uncharacteristically befriended Niko Cassavetes—a young man who lived in rooms owned by a family of smugglers. I frowned out over the harbour, and muttered to myself. “I need a closer look at those dratted sculptures.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. How long has she been gone?”

  “The boat was not in the harbour when I came by at ten minutes before ten.”

  I turned and looked at the large hole in the scenery. And at the white sea-plane…Oh, damn. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “How can I help?”

  “You can go back—no, wait. Go back to the Hermitage and leave a note for my husband telling him everything you know.”

  “Everything?”

  “Whatever you’re comfortable with. But certainly about the boat, and leave him the note she sent you. Oh—and tell him I said to have his pet policeman stop the sculptures from being picked up. He’ll understand what I mean. Beyond that, I don’t know. I suppose he’ll find me—or at least word from me—around the harbour. Thank you, Mrs Langtry!”

  I launched myself off the bench and ran. Down the promenade, dodging amblers and dogs, pounding around the harbour and up again to where I had last seen the Hon Terry.

  “Stop!” I shouted with the last of my breath. “Wait, not yet!”

  He saw me, rather than heard. At first, he waved merrily, then paused as he noticed the urgency of my gestures. He caught at the arm of the man who was about to board the sea-plane.

  I was nearly as out of breath as Lillie Langtry had been when I finally caught up with them, causing Terry to look concerned, and the pilot to look at his watch. “Change of plans,” I stammered out. “Save a life. Full of petrol?” I jabbed a finger at the sea-plane, to make it clear that my question regarded its tank.

  “Don’t I know you?” the man asked.

  “What life?” Terry demanded.

  �
�Mrs Hudson. Been kidnapped. In danger. Probably. No time. I’d guess they plan. On dumping her overboard, once they. Reach a current to take her body away. From the coast. How far out do you suppose they’ll go?”

  “Miss Hudson?” Terry, rightfully, sounded appalled.

  I looked past him, and stuck my hand out at the pilot. “Johnny Perez, right? We met briefly, the other morning. Mary Russell. You know the Bella Ragazza?”

  “Three decks, diesel-converted, gyrocompass-stabilised? Yes, I know it.”

  “I need you to head out to sea and try to find it. Her. Once you’ve located it, you need to circle around overhead as long as you can. That’ll make it clear to the people on board that you’ve seen them. They won’t dare do anything while you’re watching.”

  “Even with a full tank—wait, this is idiotic. Do you know whose boat that is?”

  “Yes, but I know for certain that he is not on board.”

  “So, who—no. I’m not getting involved with this.”

  “Terry?” I looked at him. He thought about it perhaps two seconds, and turned to the other man.

  “I’ll pay you double. If you find her, and circle until you absolutely have to come back to shore, I’ll double it again.”

  Hard cash put a different colour on matters. Johnny shrugged, settled his hat, and prepared to climb up.

  “Wait,” I said, thinking hard. Those tide charts I’d amused myself with on the Stella Maris. The Western Mediterranean was a series of enormous slow whirlpools, mostly counter-clockwise. One of those was formed by the triangle of Riviera coastline, Corsica, and the Balaerics, and although I couldn’t remember just how wide the west-bound current along the coast was, I was pretty sure that a few miles out from here, the flow grew more leisurely before circling back eastward in the direction of Corsica and Sardinia. If one wanted to dispose of an object, but did not want it to come to shore a few brief miles along the coast, one would take it some distance out to sea first. On the other hand, if the inert object was still on her feet and alert, she would surely notice that the boat was headed due south when the goal was a town to the east.