Blackstone and the Endgame (23 page)

And then she backed out of the room and disappeared down the corridor.

‘He's certainly got a lot of clothes,' said Ellie Carr, who had already opened one of the wardrobes.

‘Some men are like that,' Patterson answered, going across to the bed and checking the bedside cabinet.

‘All the clothes have English labels,' Ellie said.

There was nothing in the cabinet drawer but a comb, a box of matches and an empty cigarette packet. Wishing he'd got to the wardrobe first – and so left Ellie with the next job – Patterson lowered his substantial frame awkwardly on to the floor and peered under the bed.

‘So his clothes are English,' he grunted. ‘What does that prove? Max must have entered this country illegally, which probably means he couldn't bring much luggage with him.'

There was nothing under the bed – not even a speck of dust. Patterson levered himself up again and ran his hands over the mattress.

‘The thing is, I don't think all the clothes
are
new,' Ellie said, clearly puzzled. ‘Everything's very well looked-after, but I'd say that a couple of the jackets are at least two years old.'

‘I've got jackets that are much older than that,' Patterson replied, deciding he'd better turn the mattress over. ‘He probably bought some of the stuff from a good second-hand shop.'

‘I don't think we can quite equate your clothes with the ones that Max might own,' Ellie said hesitantly.

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘Well, I don't want to sound rude, but the only time anybody might mistake you for a snappy dresser was if you were standing next to Sam. But it's clear from the photograph that Max takes a real pride in his appearance, and I can't see him ever buying something second-hand.'

‘Then maybe the clothes are not as old as you think they are,' Patterson said, grabbing the corners of the mattress.

‘I'm a forensic scientist,' Ellie reminded him. ‘On one of my better days, I can tell you how old a piece of snot is, so don't you go questioning my judgement on clothes.'

Patterson grinned. Ellie had a rare talent for making you grin, even when it felt that, any second, your head might explode from all the pressure you were under.

‘Yes, some of this stuff is definitely at least two years old,' Ellie said, in a tone that was definitely not to be argued with.

Patterson gave the mattress a heave. It was full of flock and was both surprisingly heavy and awkward to handle.

‘Some of these clothes just don't belong in the wardrobe of a man who's only been here for a couple of months,' Ellie persisted.

‘Then maybe they belong to a friend of his,' Patterson suggested, as he struggled in his efforts to teach the mattress who was in charge.

The mattress fought valiantly, but as so often happens in a battle between the inert and the dynamic, it was eventually forced to capitulate and allow itself be rolled against the wall.

‘When your clothes are as important to you as they seem to be to Max, the last thing you're prepared to do is share your wardrobe with anyone else,' Ellie said infuriatingly. ‘For someone like him, it would be almost as bad as sharing his wife with another man.'

But Archie was no longer listening, because now that the mattress was out of the way, he could see the spoils of war – and they were greater spoils than he would ever have dared hope for.

‘Look!' he said, holding up his prize for Ellie to see. ‘What do you think this is?'

‘It's an attaché case,' Ellie replied, puzzled.

‘It's
the
attaché case,' Patterson said. ‘It's the one that Special Branch stuffed full of money and Sam took down to the docks.'

‘Are you sure?' Ellie asked dubiously.

‘I'm certain,' Patterson replied. ‘After he'd bought it from Harrods, Sam made a nick in the leather, just below the handle, so he'd recognize it again. It wasn't a big nick – you'd never notice if you weren't looking for it – but it was distinctive, and this bag is nicked in exactly the same way.'

‘Is there anything inside the case?' Ellie asked.

‘I haven't looked yet,' Patterson said evasively.

‘Why not?'

Patterson sighed. ‘Because, I suppose, I'm still summoning up the strength to handle the disappointment when there isn't.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Archie, open the bloody case,' Ellie said.

‘All right,' Patterson agreed, ‘but I'm warning you now, we've already had more luck today than any two people are entitled to.'

But, as it turned out, fate had decided to throw in a bonus and at the bottom of the case they found a cancelled railway ticket from London to Brighton.

When his friend had phoned from London to say that he couldn't make the rendezvous after all, Max had first put on a display of anger, then rapidly switched to a tone of bitter disappointment. He had not, in truth, really experienced either of these emotions, but it was his policy to put his friends at a guilty disadvantage whenever the possibility presented itself.

In point of fact, he was quite glad that this particular friend – who could be both tiresome and demanding – wouldn't be coming, because that left him free to do exactly what he liked.

And so it was that, after dinner, he set off on a walk along the promenade in search of new friends – who he hoped would be both younger and more amusing than the one who had let him down.

He decided to avoid the Royal Pavilion – he had learned recently that it had been turned into a hospital for limbless soldiers, and that somewhat diminished its charm – and instead headed in the opposite direction, towards a rather amusing cocktail bar, where he was very much in demand.

There was a cold wind that night, and the only people who appeared to be on the promenade were two drunks, who were advancing slowly towards him in an erratic zigzag.

For a moment, Max contemplated crossing the street to avoid them. Then, noticing that the drunks were very well dressed – and probably had fat wallets which could be easily lifted – he changed his mind.

He stopped walking, took out his packet of cigarettes and patted his pockets as if he was searching for his matches.

‘Excuse me, do you have a light?' he asked the first drunk.

At first, the man did not seem to understand what he was talking about, but then he said, ‘Light … wanna light a shigarette?'

‘That's right,' Max agreed.

The drunk turned to his companion. ‘Man here wants to light a shigarette,' he said.

‘Why don't you give him a light, then?' the second drunk asked.

‘Good idea,' the first drunk agreed.

He reached into his overcoat pocket, clumsily pulled out its contents and immediately dropped them.

‘Fallen on the ground,' he said, bemused.

‘I'll pick them up for you,' Max said, bending down.

He quickly surveyed his potential haul. There was a handkerchief, a pocket watch, a penknife, a bunch of keys and – yes – a nice fat wallet.

It would be a mistake to pocket the wallet just then, Max told himself, because the drunk might miss it and demand to search him. A better plan would be to move just a little distance away and collect it later.

He coughed loudly and gave the wallet a good kick. It flew through the air and landed ten feet behind them. Then he swept up the rest of the possessions and handed them to the drunk.

‘You don't seem to have a box of matches,' he said.

‘Don't seem to have a box of matches,' the drunk told his companion, as he crammed all the objects back into his pocket.

‘I've just remembered – you gave up smoking last week,' the second drunk said.

‘So I did,' the first drunk agreed. ‘Don't have any matches because I gave up smoking last week,' he told Max. ‘Sorry about that.'

‘Never mind,' Max said. ‘If I can't smoke, I think I'll take in some sea air, instead.'

He walked over to the cast-iron railings and looked out to sea, thus putting himself in the clear if the drunk now realized he was missing his wallet and started looking for it.

But the drunk
didn't
seem to realize it. Instead, he and his companion walked on a few yards, before stopping again.

It might be wise to let them get further away before picking up his prize, Max considered.

On the other hand, the more time that elapsed, the more chances the drunk had to remember the wallet.

He glanced over his shoulder. The two men were standing still, but they were looking in the opposite direction. If he swept the wallet up and walked quickly away, he should be perfectly safe.

It did not occur to him, until he was actually bending down to pick up the wallet, to wonder why the drunk had kept it in his overcoat pocket, rather than the inside pocket of his jacket.

But before he could develop that thought further, he felt a couple of strong arms clamping his own arms to his sides and experienced the unpleasant sensation of having a bag pulled over his head.

V
ladimir looked out of his study window on to the dark street below.

‘The car has arrived, so it is time for us to go,' he said.

Blackstone, who had been expecting to leave much earlier, glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘The middle of the night is a bloody funny time for history to be made,' he said.

‘History happens when it
can
happen,' Vladimir replied. ‘And tonight, it cannot happen before midnight.'

‘Thank you for explaining that,' Blackstone said. ‘As with all your explanations, everything is now perfectly clear.'

‘Sarcasm does not become you, Sam,' Vladimir said.

‘Neither does going out at ten o'clock at night in the middle of a Russian winter,' Blackstone countered.

‘You should put on a warm coat,' Vladimir said, ignoring the comment. ‘We may be sitting in the car for quite some time.'

When they reached the street, Vladimir dismissed the driver and climbed behind the wheel himself.

‘This car is a Renault Frères,' he said, as they pulled away. ‘I am not a great admirer of the French as a nation, but they certainly do know how to make automobiles.'

The streets of Petersburg were all but empty, and Vladimir handled the car with the calm assurance of a man used to driving on snow. They had been going for ten minutes when he pulled up next to a canal. and pointed to the impressive three-storey building on the other side of the road which was bathed in floodlights.

‘That is the Moika Palace, so called because it looks out on to the Moika Canal,' he announced. ‘It belongs to the Yusupov family.'

Out of a policeman's habit, Blackstone found himself counting the number of windows at the front of the palace, and found that there were seventy-eight with a view over the canal.

‘The Yusupov family must be very rich,' he said.

‘What makes you reach that conclusion?' Vladimir wondered.

Blackstone grinned. ‘I don't really know,' he said, ‘though perhaps it might possibly have something to do with the size of their home.'

‘You're easily impressed,' Vladimir said dismissively. ‘This shack is nothing when compared to their palace on the Fontanka Canal, which has a theatre, three ballrooms and an art gallery. And let us not forget their palace in Moscow.'

‘No,' Blackstone agreed, ‘let's not forget that.' He paused for a moment. ‘Why are we watching this palace, Vladimir?' he asked.

‘Because this is where the history I spoke of earlier is about to be made,' Vladimir replied.

‘That seems rather vague,' Blackstone pointed out.

‘Perhaps it does,' Vladimir agreed. ‘But now our young friend is here, I am sure everything will become much clearer.'

He was pointing to a tall, handsome young man who had appeared at the palace gate and now began to cross the road with the obvious intention of talking to them.

‘Who's that?' Blackstone asked.

‘Ah, of course, you have never seen him without a dress, have you? That, Sam, is Prince Felix Yusupov.'

The prince drew level with the car, and Vladimir opened the door to speak to him.

‘I really have been most awfully clever, Count,' Yusupov said enthusiastically. ‘You must come and see my preparations.'

‘I appreciate your kind offer, but I would prefer to observe matters from a distance,' Vladimir said.

Felix Yusupov's mouth twisted into an expression of disappointment and petulance.

‘Well, if you won't take an interest in it, I don't see why I should bother myself,' he said. ‘Perhaps I'll just call the whole thing off.'

Vladimir sighed. ‘Very well, if that is your wish, I suppose I could take a quick look,' he said.

The petulance was gone, and now Yusupov was beaming with pleasure.

‘I really have been
very
clever,' he repeated.

‘Rasputin thinks he is coming to the palace to meet my wife, Princess Irina,' Yusupov said, as the three of them crossed the snow-covered courtyard, ‘but, in fact, she is staying at our palace in the Crimea.'

‘Ah yes,' Vladimir said to Blackstone, ‘when we were talking earlier, I forgot to mention their palace in the Crimea.'

‘What was that you said?' Yusupov asked.

‘I was just briefing my colleague,' Vladimir said. ‘Where are your servants tonight?'

‘I've given them strict instructions that they are to remain in their quarters at the back of the palace,' Yusupov said. ‘The fewer people who have suspicions there might be a conspiracy afoot, the better.'

Blackstone and Vladimir followed Yusupov down into a two-roomed basement.

‘This is where Rasputin will spend his final moments,' the prince said, with some relish.

So that was what it was all about, Blackstone thought. He should have guessed, but coming from a country where people did not talk casually about assassinations, it was not entirely surprising that he hadn't.