If I Had You (24 page)

“That he could,” Detective Inspector Dent said, gaze drifting across the art-covered walls. “We've checked out the man he's residing with. Jewish, so not much likelihood of a Bolshie there. Assuming Salter's sister isn't the true mastermind, Salter is probably completely out of it.”

“Do you think the sister is the mastermind?” His own mother being brilliant, Peter never discounted women.

“All this voting nonsense has women thinking they can run the world nowadays,” Dent said. “Who can say? She's probably a mere hysterical cook and cleaner for the cell, but until we speak to her I won't know.”

“Hello, Ivan,” Peter said, arriving at the suite door.

His night watchman, pale but properly dressed in full uniform, nodded respectfully at him. “About half the guests have arrived. The stage is ready and the actors are in the valet's bedroom of the adjoining suite.”

“Anything suspicious?”

“No, sir. Everyone has credentials and their invitation. Wives too, of course, but they've all come with their husbands.”

“Any Russians yet?”

“Neither the party from upstairs nor anyone I recognize.”

“No sign of Konstantin or your sister. Those are the two we are looking for still,” Dent said.

Peter watched carefully, but Ivan didn't flinch or respond to the inspector's taunting tone. The man had survived many years of hardship. He was too smart to reveal himself easily. Behind him, Peter heard any number of loud footsteps, a cough, the clearing of a throat. When he turned, he saw the Russian delegation, some dozen men.

Now he saw a response from Ivan Salter. His posture had gone rigid. As Peter watched, he tucked closed fists behind his back. He was glad the man had been searched for weapons.

George Ovolensky was somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, with dark bushy hair and a thick mustache. He looked to be impressively fit under his tuxedo, and wore an air of wealth that seemed an odd fit for a Bolshevik. Peter knew instantly that this man had come from the higher ranks of society. Why had he joined the Soviet government? He didn't look like an idealist. He had the watchful gaze of a predator.

Ovolensky's eyes widened when he took in the small crowd. Or so Peter thought.

When Dent said, “Invitations, please, gentlemen?” Ovolensky didn't even glance at him. His black gaze fixed on Ivan.

“If it isn't young Saltykov,” Ovolensky said in English. He then said something guttural in Russian.

Ivan's left shoulder jerked, but his face remained impassive.

Ovolensky continued in English. “Where is that beautiful sister of yours? Dear Cousin Vera. Prettiest of the Saltykovs. Catherine had a horse face, as I recall. Better to rid the world of ugly women. Vera's looks came from your father's side. Your mother was not a handsome woman, merely wealthy.”

Peter watched shock cross Ivan's face. He could tell Ovolensky as telling lies about the night watchman's family.

One of the other delegates snickered as he handed his passport and invitation to a uniformed constable.

Ivan spoke, his accent heavier than usual. “It must be interesting for your colleagues to note that Georgy Ovolensky has family here in London.”

Peter hadn't thought everyone in the delegation spoke English, but now he realized he might be mistaken as attention went to Ivan.

“
Da
,” Ivan said, then returned to English. “He is my late father's cousin. We were gentry, before the war. Georgy's family was wealthier than mine, better connected. If it wasn't for the fact that he had my parents murdered, I might have called him cousin.”

Ovolensky's eyes bulged, and he growled something in Russian.

“My parents had nothing to do with Catherine's involvement in the plot to kill Lenin, if that was even true. If you had any idea how much Vera hated you, you'd drink yourself to sleep each night. May God have mercy on your soul, for I have none,” Ivan said.

Dent stiffened. Peter wondered if he thought Ivan was going to attack Ovolensky, even though they all knew Ivan had no weapons.

Ovolensky's expression relaxed and he began to laugh. Stepping forward, he clapped Ivan on the shoulder hard, then pinched his cousin's cheek. “Such humor, this boy. You ought to be on stage, no? Are you in the play?”

Dent glanced over at Peter, and he wondered what the inspector thought about Ivan's comment about Vera. Clearly, his sister wanted Ovolensky dead. Would she try anything now? Where was she?

The constable began letting the Russians through. Behind them, Peter saw Alecia Loudon before Ivan did. She wore a black velvet dress and pink shoes. He hadn't seen her in proper evening clothes since New Year's Eve. She looked lovely and he smiled at her, but she only had eyes for Ivan, though he registered shock when he saw her.

“I'm afraid I don't have an invitation,” she said. “Mrs. Marvin invited me.”

“I know her,” Peter said to Dent. “She used to be Marvin's secretary.”

“We'll have to check you,” Dent said in a fatherly manner.

“What for?” Ovolensky asked. “Such a beautiful creature should never be molested.”

Miss Loudon glanced at all the men, then slowly handed her coat and purse to Detective Inspector Dent. “I'm happy to oblige.”

He ran his fingers over all the seams, then glanced through her purse. “I'm afraid we'll have to examine the hem of your dress.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ovolensky watched, fascinated, as the uniformed constable quickly ran his fingers over the dress, careful not to touch any of Miss Loudon's skin.

“What are you looking for?” Ovolensky said.

“Detonators,” Detective Inspector Dent said with relish. “You have enemies here, you know, Mr. Ovolensky.”

The Russian chuckled, but his compatriots had all entered the suite, save one man who appeared from his great bulk to be a bodyguard. “We are safe nowhere, we Soviets.”

“Your enemies seem to be rather more personal, sir,” Peter said.

Ovolensky raised his ferocious eyebrows. “What an unpleasant remark.”

“Why don't you go in, Cousin,” Ivan interrupted before Ovolensky could continue. “You can find a seat for my fiancée, on the opposite side of the room from you, of course.”

“Your fiancée?” Ovolensky repeated.

“Miss Loudon and I are engaged,” Ivan said. Peter could hear the pride in Ivan's voice.

The Russian made a show of shifting his gaze from the girl to the night watchman. “I'll admit you are a handsome devil, Ivan, but you've no position in life. What's a beauty like this doing settling on you? Did she lose her true love in the war?”

“The war has been over for seven years,” Miss Loudon said.

“Not quite,” replied the Russian. “How old are you, my dear? Twenty-six, twenty-seven?”

“Twenty-two,” she replied.

Peter could see what it cost her to keep her voice level. Ovolensky was utterly odious. Alecia Loudon was a youthful beauty, and barely looked her true age, much less older.

“I don't like paint on women,” Ovolensky said. “It ages them, turns them into whores.”

They all froze. Then Ivan broke the stillness by saying, “As loathsome as ever, I see, Georgy. Thankfully, I still remember the spider-leg-plucking, puppy-drowning boy you were, and am not surprised. I don't think I shall entrust Alecia to you after all. Mr. Eyre, would you do the honors?”

“With pleasure,” Peter said, offering his arm. When she placed her hand on his arm, he tucked his hand over it and squeezed. She smiled at him and nodded, and they went into the room to watch the performance.

* * *

Despite everything that had transpired, Alecia was mesmerized by the theatrical performance. She hadn't seen many plays, and while she might have lost respect for the Marvins, they were world-renowned for a reason. However, she thought it wise to leave immediately afterward, especially when Ivan, a police constable on each side, caught her eye and tilted his head toward the door as soon as the audience began to clap.

Mr. Eyre put Alecia into a taxicab personally after the
Macbeth
performance ended. She knew she ought to return to the Plash flat and her duties with her new charge, but the woman would be asleep in the early evening hours. For herself, she knew she would not sleep a wink with all of these worries scampering through her brain like a litter of gamboling piglets. Instead, she directed the driver to take her to Boris Grinberg's flat.

When she knocked on his door and there was no immediate answer, she began to berate herself. How could she have made such a foolish choice as to come here?

Finally, the door opened. “Miss Loudon!” Boris said jovially. “I'm afraid your young man is not at home.”

“He's at the Grand Russe.”

Boris nodded. “You look troubled.”

“Do you know what has been going on today?”

He glanced up and down the hall, then gestured her in. As soon as she stepped inside, he shut the door. “I know it all too well, my dear. The police brought me in for a chat this afternoon.”

Hope surged. “But they let you go?”

“They didn't see me as a conspirator. I helpfully pointed out that Ivan came to me after his sister severed relations with him.”

She blinked at Mr. Grinberg, her brain refusing to form words.

He shook his head. “Come, my dear, remove your coat. You look chilled.”

Slowly, she took off her outerwear and he led her into his parlor, where she had spent very happy hours with Ivan recently. He went to a sideboard and poured from a bottle into two small cups and brought her one.

“It is kosher wine. I think you can use it.”

“Thank you.” She sipped it slowly. “It's very sweet.”

He nodded. “Small quantities are best, I find. Now tell me what brings you here when you knew Ivan was not here. Do you need a place to stay?”

“No, I started a new position today and it includes a bed.” She finished her wine and set the tiny cut crystal glass on a side table. “Do you know what has been happening? There were so many police at the performance.”

“There was a bomb threat,” Boris said, settling more comfortably into his armchair by the fire. “And Ivan's sister is mixed up with the group who were trying to set off the bomb.”

The wine had warmed her, but her chest hurt. “Was Ivan arrested? Will he be deported?”

“I don't think so. He's an honest man, our Ivan. He was never involved in the plot. Justice will serve, eh?”

“You are from Russia, and Jewish besides. You don't really believe that, do you?”

“It is hard for any man with the wrong accent to come out ahead, I'll give you that. But I've made a comfortable life for myself here and I don't see why he cannot do the same, with you.” He patted his stomach.

Alecia was exhausted, but she'd come here to learn. “What about his sister?”

Boris shrugged. “She has made her own choices. Vera is very strong willed. I don't believe a man has led her astray.”

“You wouldn't consider her a victim?”

“Of course I would, but she can choose peace or violence, and according to Ivan she chose violence. She wants revenge more than a future, for herself or Ivan.”

“That's terrible.”

“Don't judge her too harshly. Her family was murdered. Her life as she knew it, as she expected it to be, ended in fear. I wish she had chosen to cling to the one family member she had left, even though she lost her lifestyle, but she's gone down another path, as so many have before her.”

“My parents died in the war, but it doesn't make me want to hunt down Germans and kill them.” She shivered, thinking about her grandfather's sermons during the war, about peace. Maybe they'd had more of an impact on her than she'd realized.

“The difference,” Boris said gently, “is that she has a face to put to her sorrow: this Georgy Ovolensky. Would you do nothing if faced with the person who'd given the order to kill your parents?”

“You are not the first to ask,” Alecia said. “But I could never risk innocent lives in the process of gaining revenge.”

“That is where you and Ivan are different from Vera and her fiancé,” Boris said. His gaze took on a haunted air, then he bobbed his head several times as if to clear old thoughts. “Why don't you rest in my study? Ivan will likely not be home until his shift is over in the morning.”

“I shouldn't, but I will anyway,” Alecia said. She suddenly missed Ivan. Would the pillow smell like cucumbers and birch oil? She wanted something of him. “I'm too frightened to go away and not know what is happening.”

Boris patted her hand. “Mazel tov. I foresee a happy future for you and Ivan. Don't be afraid.”

* * *

Ivan climbed out of the taxicab at one thirty in the morning. The icy-cold air and frost on the windows proved the point that it was January. The streets, deserted except for parked cars, were somnolent.

He walked up to the entrance to Boris's block of flats. Mr. Eyre had told Ivan to go home instead of working through his shift when he'd caught him leaning against a wall in the lobby, staring blankly ahead. He'd protested and pointed out that the hotel had lost the services of Anatoly as well, but Mr. Eyre said he wouldn't be able to sleep that night, so he might as well double as night watchman himself.

Ivan rubbed at his eyes as he went up the stairs. A part of him was still shocked that he had his liberty, after the events of the evening. He wouldn't have expected the Metropolitan Police to understand that he, a Russian immigrant, really had not been a part of the plot to bomb the Grand Russe, especially when the lead inspector himself saw the animosity between him and Georgy Ovolensky.