The lost symphony, p.10
The Lost Symphony, page 10
‘I suppose a little notoriety doesn’t hurt?’ said Jack, grinning.
‘It certainly doesn’t, and the Ritz has been – how do you say? – a magnet for notoriety. And much of it is due to Mademoiselle’s wonderful book, which has certainly put the Ritz on the literary map, non? Centre stage.’
‘You are too kind, Louis,’ said Darrieux, patting Aubert on the back of the hand.
‘Just last week, we sold over a hundred copies of Scandal in Place Vendôme in our gift shop alone,’ continued Aubert. ‘That reminds me, we have to order more copies.’
‘You’ve made my day, Louis.’
Aubert, a busy man used to reading people and their moods, sensed in Jack a certain impatience and purpose that had nothing to do with a social occasion, which had brought most of the guests to the fashionable Bar Vendôme that morning, so he decided to come straight to the point.
Aubert turned to face Jack. ‘You have already heard about our famous ledger, I believe?’ he said.
Jack nodded. ‘I sure have. Mademoiselle Darrieux seems to know every intimate detail about the Ritz; even its secrets.’
Darrieux looked at Jack and beamed.
‘She’s not only a Ritz expert, but our celebrated historian,’ said Aubert loud enough for all sitting close to their table to hear. ‘I have already examined the entries, Mr Rogan,’ he continued, lowering his voice. ‘And you will be pleased to hear that Countess Bezukhova was provided with a strong box – number thirty-three – in November 1942.’
Jack smiled at the countess as a familiar feeling of excitement made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He took a deep breath, reached into his pocket and took out the key. ‘And could this be the key to open the box?’ he asked, sounding hoarse.
Aubert picked up the little key and held it up. ‘Certainly looks like it,’ he said. ‘But why don’t we find out?’
‘Let’s do that,’ said Darrieux, delighted to be once again the centre of attention.
Aubert stood up. ‘We’ll go first to my office and I’ll show you the ledger. Then we can go down into the basement and inspect the safe …’
‘How exciting,’ said the countess, ‘I can’t wait!’
‘Why don’t you put Countess Bezukhova’s great-grandson out of his misery, Monsieur Aubert?’ said Jack, falling in beside Aubert as they walked to the lifts. This was a shrewd remark, as it signalled Jack’s standing and entitlement in the matter to Aubert.
‘And how could I do that?’ asked Aubert, well aware of both the question and the answer.
‘By telling him if box thirty-three is still in the safe? That would be an excellent start.’
Aubert stopped at the lifts, pressed a button and then slowly turned around to face Jack. ‘It is, and it doesn’t appear to have been opened since the war,’ he said, holding the lift door open for the ladies.
Aubert’s office was a palatial room full of antiques and paintings, and overlooked the square. Furnished entirely in Empire style, it radiated Napoleonic charm and class.
‘This is it here,’ said Aubert and pointed to a large, leather-bound book the size of an atlas on his desk.
‘Looks impressive,’ said Jack, barely able to contain his excitement.
Aubert opened the ledger at a certain page that had been previously marked. ‘There were one hundred active strong boxes in the safe during the war,’ said Aubert. ‘Coco Chanel had her own box, of course. It was number five as you would expect, after the famous 1921 fragrance in that iconic bottle. And then there was Marlene Dietrich’s box, number eight, her lucky number signifying action, change and movement. Reichsmarschall Goering had two boxes, number twelve and number one – his birthday. He was born on the twelfth of January 1893. The Duke of Windsor and Wallace Simpson shared a box: number forty.’
‘I understand that von Stulpnagel, the German military commander of occupied Paris also had his own box,’ Darrieux cut in. ‘I wonder what he kept in there? Cyanide, just in case it all went wrong? And then there was Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, the German intelligence offices in Paris. He too had his own box, I believe. Perhaps he kept his most important dossiers in there, about the guests staying at the Ritz? Who knows?’
Aubert smiled at Darrieux. ‘But the one that interests us right now, is this one here,’ he said. Then he pointed to an entry – a single line written in German in neat handwriting – and ran his finger along the line as he read the entry aloud: ‘Graefin Marya Bezukhova; Schluessel thirty-three. Twenty-five November 1943. That’s the date the key was handed over and the strong box became Countess Bezukhova’s property, so to speak. There was also a password that was recorded elsewhere,’ added Aubert, but he didn’t elaborate.
‘A password, you say?’ said Jack. ‘How intriguing.’
‘Yes. The password was chosen by the guest and had to be provided every time access to the box was requested. For security purposes, I suppose. Guests often sent their maids to fetch something for them. As you can see, after the date here,’ continued Aubert, ‘there is space for another entry after the word geschlossen – meaning closed in German.’
‘I see,’ said the countess. ‘But there is no entry. It’s been left blank,’ she observed.
‘Precisely,’ said Aubert. ‘And that tells us that the box is still active. Shall we go and have a look?’
The countess reached for Jack’s arm and squeezed it. ‘Yes please,’ she said and followed Aubert to the lift.
They caught the lift down to the basement. ‘It’s stairs from here, I’m afraid,’ said Aubert. ‘The safe is further down where the old air raid shelters used to be, in case the place was bombed ... Please follow me.’
Aubert led the way down a narrow set of stairs and then through a heavy fire door and along a dimly lit corridor smelling of rising damp, which came to an abrupt end. ‘This is it here,’ said Aubert, and pointed to a massive steel door set into a concrete wall. This has been here since the 1920s.’
‘I’ve only heard about this place,’ said Darrieux, ‘but I have never been down here. How wonderful!’
‘Please give me a moment,’ said Aubert, fiddling with a set of large keys he had brought with him. ‘The mechanism is quite old-fashioned and complicated, but it works.’
‘How about this, Jack?’ said the countess. ‘Definitely up your alley, wouldn’t you say? Following the breadcrumbs of destiny?’
Jack didn’t reply. Instead, he watched Aubert intently as he went through the necessary steps to open the safe door. Finally satisfied, Aubert turned two keys simultaneously, the locks clicked into place and the heavy door opened. ‘Always a good feeling when it works,’ said Aubert. ‘Let me turn on the lights.’
‘Wow!’ said Jack, stunned, as he stepped into the small room. ‘This is amazing!’
Illuminated by a crystal chandelier dangling from the centre of the high ceiling, the elegant space looked more like an intimate dressing room fit for the Sun King than a walk-in safe in the bowels of a large hotel. Set deep into solid concrete along one of the walls were the one hundred strong boxes Aubert had mentioned, most of them disused long ago and empty. Arranged in neat rows and with only their square, polished steel opening doors visible, they looked like letterboxes in an exclusive Paris apartment block, their shiny black enamelled numbers reflecting the light from above.
However, the most striking feature of the room by far, was the amber panels surrounding a large mirror that almost covered the entire wall facing the strong boxes, making the room appear much larger than it was. Amber panels also covered the rest of the walls and the vaulted ceiling, giving the room a magical glow, like a pirate cave filled with stolen treasure.
‘So, this is where it ended up,’ said the countess. She was joking, of course, and pointed to one of the spectacular amber panels next to the mirror. ‘The mysterious Amber Room reappears in the Ritz in Paris, presumably brought here by the Germans from the Catherine Palace in Tsarskoye Selo near St Petersburg during the war.’
‘Looted, you mean,’ interjected Jack. ‘To make Goering feel at home, I suppose. He was obsessed with gemstones.’
‘Yes, one could be forgiven for thinking that,’ replied Aubert, smiling. ‘It does look a bit like the legendary Bernsteinzimmer, the Amber Room, only much smaller, of course, and without many of the features of the Russian original.’
‘This is incredible!’ exclaimed Darrieux, taking in the stunning features of the room. ‘The original Amber Room was given by the Prussian King Frederick William to Tsar Peter the Great in 1716.’
‘And looted by the Germans during the war. All six tonnes of amber dismantled and removed,’ said Jack. ‘Sent back to Germany only to disappear along the way ... Present whereabouts unknown.’
‘One of the great mysteries of the war,’ said the countess.
Aubert turned to Jack. ‘May I have the key, please?’ he asked, changing the subject.
Jack handed him the key.
‘Before we try to open the box, I have to tell you something,’ said Aubert, looking serious. ‘As you would have expected, I have, of course, discussed all this with senior management and the Board of Directors.’
‘Naturally,’ said Jack.
‘It has been decided that as the original guest key appears to have surfaced in rather exceptional circumstances, supporting a claim by Mr Rogan, we should, if possible, open the box and examine its contents.’ Aubert paused, searching for the right way to continue. ‘It may be empty, of course, but then again it may not. In any event, I am not at liberty to hand over the contents right now. That would have to wait and be cleared by the directors and their lawyers. I’m sure you understand. Mr Rogan’s entitlement will have to be examined and verified before that can happen, and that may well take some time.’
‘Understood,’ said Jack, who had been expecting something like that.
‘Well then, let’s see,’ said Aubert, relieved, and turned to face the wall of strong boxes. ‘This is it here, number thirty-three. To open the box works like this: There are two keys. One belongs to the hotel, this one here.’ Aubert held up a key. ‘The other one belongs to the guest.’ Aubert held up Jack’s key. ‘Both keys are needed to open the box. One without the other cannot operate the lock. I will insert the hotel key here, and Mr Rogan can insert his key next to it here. All right? Let’s do it.’
Aubert inserted the hotel key and turned it in the lock. Then he handed the other key to Jack and stepped back. Slowly, Jack inserted his key, turned it, and held his breath. Everyone in the room stared at the door of the box. Then a soft click broke the silence as the key engaged the lock, pushing the door open like an invitation to enter a long-forgotten world of secret memories and hidden treasure. A message from the long-departed to the living, prepared to listen.
‘There’s a metal tray inside the box you can pull out to make examining the contents easier,’ said Aubert.
Jack opened the door fully and then pulled out the metal tray covered in red velvet. The countess and Darrieux stepped forward for a closer look.
There were only two items in the strong box. A bundle of what looked like letters with a white ribbon neatly tied in a bow around it, and a cube-shaped blue box, a little larger than Jack’s hand. The countess’s eyes went straight to the gold crest on top of the box, the corners of her mouth creasing into a knowing smile as she recognised the familiar logo.
‘Why don’t we see what’s inside the box?’ suggested the countess, her voice quivering with excitement.
Jack looked at Aubert standing next to him. ‘May I?’
‘Please, go ahead.’
Jack carried the tray over to the small marble table in front of the mirror, put it down and then lifted the little box carefully off the tray. It was quite heavy for its size, and he ‘Before I open this, let’s take a step back,’ said Jack, a seasoned storyteller who knew how to make a point and let the excitement grow.
‘This strong box was allocated by the Ritz to a guest, Countess Bezukhova, in 1942 and has apparently not been opened since the war. A key was provided to her, the one we’ve just used to open the box with, and has not been returned. According to the hotel’s ledger, the arrangements between the hotel and the guest – Countess Bezukhova – regarding the strong box have therefore been active and on foot ever since, and have remained so to this very day.’ Jack looked again at Aubert. ‘Am I correct?’
‘Yes, you are.’
Jack reached for the box and, taking a deep breath, slowly lifted the lid. Suddenly, all four sides of the box separated and opened up like the petals of a flower, exposing the unique treasure within.
The countess gasped.
‘Good God!’ Darrieux exclaimed, tears in her eyes. ‘Do you think it could be?’
‘Oh yes, I think so,’ said the countess.
Aubert stared at the box for a while in surprise and disbelief. ‘Congratulations, Mr Rogan,’ he said. ‘I believe we are witnessing another astonishing chapter in the hotel’s exciting history. Don’t you think so, Mademoiselle Darrieux?’
‘Definitely,’ said Darrieux, barely able to contain her excitement as her glowing cheeks competed for attention with the theatrical makeup covering her face like a mask.
16
Frieda Malenkova’s study: 25 January 2017
Hands folded behind her back and squinting through her thick glasses, Malenkova stood in front of a large whiteboard next to the window overlooking the garden. It was getting dark and the open fireplace behind her was radiating a pleasant, welcome warmth on that freezing winter’s evening. Her father had always used whiteboards when he worked on a difficult case that really excited him. As far as Malenkova was concerned, the ‘Petrova Letter’, as she called her latest project, was just such an endeavour.
As a seasoned veteran of many challenging projects, she had developed a sixth sense that rarely let her down when it came to following the trail of long-forgotten secrets and hidden treasure. And the key to following such trails and finding that treasure always came down to two simple things: information, and people.
Malenkova’s father had been very resourceful when it came to obtaining information in imaginative ways and Frieda had been an attentive pupil. Many would say she had surpassed her father in tenacity and ruthlessness, which were often the key to success. She never hesitated to go where others feared to tread, and was prepared to take risks that would have made a fearless tightrope walker pale.
Just like her father, Malenkova was a master manipulator who knew how to use people and bend them to her will. How she did this was both subtle and clever. Based on instinct and an intuitive understanding of human nature, behaviour and emotions, she carefully tailored her tactics and approach in ways that would have impressed even the most practised psychiatrist. She also believed in destiny and followed her instincts with the certainty of a somnambulist.
Malenkova had read Darrieux’ The Darling of Swan Lake – Madame Petrova’s biography – cover to cover in one session. This had allowed her to create a picture in her mind of Madame Petrova’s fascinating personality, her times and her remarkable life, which she then used to interpret the information about the Petrova Letter case as it unfolded.
As more information came to light, she added it to the whiteboard. Just like in criminal investigations, she concentrated on plausible, often hidden connections, motive, and opportunity based on facts and meticulous, rational deduction. At the same time, she carefully eliminated blind alleys, and rejected irrational conclusions hanging by the fragile thread of hope and speculation, rather than logic. While many would have considered such an approach old fashioned, too laborious and out of date, it had produced remarkable results for Malenkova over the years.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature of her methodology was the fact that she rarely, if ever, left her home. She used carefully chosen ‘operatives’, as her father used to call them, sourced from all walks of life and backgrounds to carry out her sometimes dirty and dangerous work. This had allowed her to distance herself from anything that could implicate her and bring her to the attention of the authorities. Her father had told her early on that staying in the shadows was the best way to stay alive.
Malenkova attached another extract from the Petrova biography to the whiteboard, limped over to her desk and rang the bell.
Zuzanna entered almost at once. As Malenkova’s dedicated personal assistant and confidante, she was privy to most, but not all of her boss’s plans, and also some of her secrets. She knew what was expected of her.
I am very lucky to have her, thought Malenkova, watching Zuzanna out of the corner of her eye, yet I hardly know her at all. She still couldn’t quite understand why a sophisticated, cultured young woman like Zuzanna had accepted her invitation to join her and become her personal assistant two years earlier, and then, even more surprisingly, had decided to stay. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Malenkova still felt somewhat uneasy about that. Instinct had told her to be cautious, but she dismissed those feelings as nonsense, as Zuzanna had not only demonstrated her dedication and loyalty time and again, but had become almost indispensable to her, especially after Celine’s tragic death.
Malenkova had met Zuzanna Badowski, a young Polish woman, at an auction in Paris. At that time, Malenkova was still attending auctions and doing all the bidding herself. As one of the items going under the hammer was a rare painting by the Chan Buddhist painter Liang Kai, which she just had to have, Malenkova – an experienced tactician when it came to bidding at art auctions – only entered the bidding at the pointy end when most of the bidders had thrown in the towel. As part of her tactics, she dramatically raised the bids using amounts that were intended to intimidate and give the remaining bidders cold feet and make them stop.
Usually this approach worked, but not that time. One bidder was left who stubbornly stayed with her and continued the bidding until the amount had reached stratospheric heights well above the reserve. As the bidding continued, the crowded room fell silent and all eyes were on the two women bidding against each other.
‘It certainly doesn’t, and the Ritz has been – how do you say? – a magnet for notoriety. And much of it is due to Mademoiselle’s wonderful book, which has certainly put the Ritz on the literary map, non? Centre stage.’
‘You are too kind, Louis,’ said Darrieux, patting Aubert on the back of the hand.
‘Just last week, we sold over a hundred copies of Scandal in Place Vendôme in our gift shop alone,’ continued Aubert. ‘That reminds me, we have to order more copies.’
‘You’ve made my day, Louis.’
Aubert, a busy man used to reading people and their moods, sensed in Jack a certain impatience and purpose that had nothing to do with a social occasion, which had brought most of the guests to the fashionable Bar Vendôme that morning, so he decided to come straight to the point.
Aubert turned to face Jack. ‘You have already heard about our famous ledger, I believe?’ he said.
Jack nodded. ‘I sure have. Mademoiselle Darrieux seems to know every intimate detail about the Ritz; even its secrets.’
Darrieux looked at Jack and beamed.
‘She’s not only a Ritz expert, but our celebrated historian,’ said Aubert loud enough for all sitting close to their table to hear. ‘I have already examined the entries, Mr Rogan,’ he continued, lowering his voice. ‘And you will be pleased to hear that Countess Bezukhova was provided with a strong box – number thirty-three – in November 1942.’
Jack smiled at the countess as a familiar feeling of excitement made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. He took a deep breath, reached into his pocket and took out the key. ‘And could this be the key to open the box?’ he asked, sounding hoarse.
Aubert picked up the little key and held it up. ‘Certainly looks like it,’ he said. ‘But why don’t we find out?’
‘Let’s do that,’ said Darrieux, delighted to be once again the centre of attention.
Aubert stood up. ‘We’ll go first to my office and I’ll show you the ledger. Then we can go down into the basement and inspect the safe …’
‘How exciting,’ said the countess, ‘I can’t wait!’
‘Why don’t you put Countess Bezukhova’s great-grandson out of his misery, Monsieur Aubert?’ said Jack, falling in beside Aubert as they walked to the lifts. This was a shrewd remark, as it signalled Jack’s standing and entitlement in the matter to Aubert.
‘And how could I do that?’ asked Aubert, well aware of both the question and the answer.
‘By telling him if box thirty-three is still in the safe? That would be an excellent start.’
Aubert stopped at the lifts, pressed a button and then slowly turned around to face Jack. ‘It is, and it doesn’t appear to have been opened since the war,’ he said, holding the lift door open for the ladies.
Aubert’s office was a palatial room full of antiques and paintings, and overlooked the square. Furnished entirely in Empire style, it radiated Napoleonic charm and class.
‘This is it here,’ said Aubert and pointed to a large, leather-bound book the size of an atlas on his desk.
‘Looks impressive,’ said Jack, barely able to contain his excitement.
Aubert opened the ledger at a certain page that had been previously marked. ‘There were one hundred active strong boxes in the safe during the war,’ said Aubert. ‘Coco Chanel had her own box, of course. It was number five as you would expect, after the famous 1921 fragrance in that iconic bottle. And then there was Marlene Dietrich’s box, number eight, her lucky number signifying action, change and movement. Reichsmarschall Goering had two boxes, number twelve and number one – his birthday. He was born on the twelfth of January 1893. The Duke of Windsor and Wallace Simpson shared a box: number forty.’
‘I understand that von Stulpnagel, the German military commander of occupied Paris also had his own box,’ Darrieux cut in. ‘I wonder what he kept in there? Cyanide, just in case it all went wrong? And then there was Canaris, the head of the Abwehr, the German intelligence offices in Paris. He too had his own box, I believe. Perhaps he kept his most important dossiers in there, about the guests staying at the Ritz? Who knows?’
Aubert smiled at Darrieux. ‘But the one that interests us right now, is this one here,’ he said. Then he pointed to an entry – a single line written in German in neat handwriting – and ran his finger along the line as he read the entry aloud: ‘Graefin Marya Bezukhova; Schluessel thirty-three. Twenty-five November 1943. That’s the date the key was handed over and the strong box became Countess Bezukhova’s property, so to speak. There was also a password that was recorded elsewhere,’ added Aubert, but he didn’t elaborate.
‘A password, you say?’ said Jack. ‘How intriguing.’
‘Yes. The password was chosen by the guest and had to be provided every time access to the box was requested. For security purposes, I suppose. Guests often sent their maids to fetch something for them. As you can see, after the date here,’ continued Aubert, ‘there is space for another entry after the word geschlossen – meaning closed in German.’
‘I see,’ said the countess. ‘But there is no entry. It’s been left blank,’ she observed.
‘Precisely,’ said Aubert. ‘And that tells us that the box is still active. Shall we go and have a look?’
The countess reached for Jack’s arm and squeezed it. ‘Yes please,’ she said and followed Aubert to the lift.
They caught the lift down to the basement. ‘It’s stairs from here, I’m afraid,’ said Aubert. ‘The safe is further down where the old air raid shelters used to be, in case the place was bombed ... Please follow me.’
Aubert led the way down a narrow set of stairs and then through a heavy fire door and along a dimly lit corridor smelling of rising damp, which came to an abrupt end. ‘This is it here,’ said Aubert, and pointed to a massive steel door set into a concrete wall. This has been here since the 1920s.’
‘I’ve only heard about this place,’ said Darrieux, ‘but I have never been down here. How wonderful!’
‘Please give me a moment,’ said Aubert, fiddling with a set of large keys he had brought with him. ‘The mechanism is quite old-fashioned and complicated, but it works.’
‘How about this, Jack?’ said the countess. ‘Definitely up your alley, wouldn’t you say? Following the breadcrumbs of destiny?’
Jack didn’t reply. Instead, he watched Aubert intently as he went through the necessary steps to open the safe door. Finally satisfied, Aubert turned two keys simultaneously, the locks clicked into place and the heavy door opened. ‘Always a good feeling when it works,’ said Aubert. ‘Let me turn on the lights.’
‘Wow!’ said Jack, stunned, as he stepped into the small room. ‘This is amazing!’
Illuminated by a crystal chandelier dangling from the centre of the high ceiling, the elegant space looked more like an intimate dressing room fit for the Sun King than a walk-in safe in the bowels of a large hotel. Set deep into solid concrete along one of the walls were the one hundred strong boxes Aubert had mentioned, most of them disused long ago and empty. Arranged in neat rows and with only their square, polished steel opening doors visible, they looked like letterboxes in an exclusive Paris apartment block, their shiny black enamelled numbers reflecting the light from above.
However, the most striking feature of the room by far, was the amber panels surrounding a large mirror that almost covered the entire wall facing the strong boxes, making the room appear much larger than it was. Amber panels also covered the rest of the walls and the vaulted ceiling, giving the room a magical glow, like a pirate cave filled with stolen treasure.
‘So, this is where it ended up,’ said the countess. She was joking, of course, and pointed to one of the spectacular amber panels next to the mirror. ‘The mysterious Amber Room reappears in the Ritz in Paris, presumably brought here by the Germans from the Catherine Palace in Tsarskoye Selo near St Petersburg during the war.’
‘Looted, you mean,’ interjected Jack. ‘To make Goering feel at home, I suppose. He was obsessed with gemstones.’
‘Yes, one could be forgiven for thinking that,’ replied Aubert, smiling. ‘It does look a bit like the legendary Bernsteinzimmer, the Amber Room, only much smaller, of course, and without many of the features of the Russian original.’
‘This is incredible!’ exclaimed Darrieux, taking in the stunning features of the room. ‘The original Amber Room was given by the Prussian King Frederick William to Tsar Peter the Great in 1716.’
‘And looted by the Germans during the war. All six tonnes of amber dismantled and removed,’ said Jack. ‘Sent back to Germany only to disappear along the way ... Present whereabouts unknown.’
‘One of the great mysteries of the war,’ said the countess.
Aubert turned to Jack. ‘May I have the key, please?’ he asked, changing the subject.
Jack handed him the key.
‘Before we try to open the box, I have to tell you something,’ said Aubert, looking serious. ‘As you would have expected, I have, of course, discussed all this with senior management and the Board of Directors.’
‘Naturally,’ said Jack.
‘It has been decided that as the original guest key appears to have surfaced in rather exceptional circumstances, supporting a claim by Mr Rogan, we should, if possible, open the box and examine its contents.’ Aubert paused, searching for the right way to continue. ‘It may be empty, of course, but then again it may not. In any event, I am not at liberty to hand over the contents right now. That would have to wait and be cleared by the directors and their lawyers. I’m sure you understand. Mr Rogan’s entitlement will have to be examined and verified before that can happen, and that may well take some time.’
‘Understood,’ said Jack, who had been expecting something like that.
‘Well then, let’s see,’ said Aubert, relieved, and turned to face the wall of strong boxes. ‘This is it here, number thirty-three. To open the box works like this: There are two keys. One belongs to the hotel, this one here.’ Aubert held up a key. ‘The other one belongs to the guest.’ Aubert held up Jack’s key. ‘Both keys are needed to open the box. One without the other cannot operate the lock. I will insert the hotel key here, and Mr Rogan can insert his key next to it here. All right? Let’s do it.’
Aubert inserted the hotel key and turned it in the lock. Then he handed the other key to Jack and stepped back. Slowly, Jack inserted his key, turned it, and held his breath. Everyone in the room stared at the door of the box. Then a soft click broke the silence as the key engaged the lock, pushing the door open like an invitation to enter a long-forgotten world of secret memories and hidden treasure. A message from the long-departed to the living, prepared to listen.
‘There’s a metal tray inside the box you can pull out to make examining the contents easier,’ said Aubert.
Jack opened the door fully and then pulled out the metal tray covered in red velvet. The countess and Darrieux stepped forward for a closer look.
There were only two items in the strong box. A bundle of what looked like letters with a white ribbon neatly tied in a bow around it, and a cube-shaped blue box, a little larger than Jack’s hand. The countess’s eyes went straight to the gold crest on top of the box, the corners of her mouth creasing into a knowing smile as she recognised the familiar logo.
‘Why don’t we see what’s inside the box?’ suggested the countess, her voice quivering with excitement.
Jack looked at Aubert standing next to him. ‘May I?’
‘Please, go ahead.’
Jack carried the tray over to the small marble table in front of the mirror, put it down and then lifted the little box carefully off the tray. It was quite heavy for its size, and he ‘Before I open this, let’s take a step back,’ said Jack, a seasoned storyteller who knew how to make a point and let the excitement grow.
‘This strong box was allocated by the Ritz to a guest, Countess Bezukhova, in 1942 and has apparently not been opened since the war. A key was provided to her, the one we’ve just used to open the box with, and has not been returned. According to the hotel’s ledger, the arrangements between the hotel and the guest – Countess Bezukhova – regarding the strong box have therefore been active and on foot ever since, and have remained so to this very day.’ Jack looked again at Aubert. ‘Am I correct?’
‘Yes, you are.’
Jack reached for the box and, taking a deep breath, slowly lifted the lid. Suddenly, all four sides of the box separated and opened up like the petals of a flower, exposing the unique treasure within.
The countess gasped.
‘Good God!’ Darrieux exclaimed, tears in her eyes. ‘Do you think it could be?’
‘Oh yes, I think so,’ said the countess.
Aubert stared at the box for a while in surprise and disbelief. ‘Congratulations, Mr Rogan,’ he said. ‘I believe we are witnessing another astonishing chapter in the hotel’s exciting history. Don’t you think so, Mademoiselle Darrieux?’
‘Definitely,’ said Darrieux, barely able to contain her excitement as her glowing cheeks competed for attention with the theatrical makeup covering her face like a mask.
16
Frieda Malenkova’s study: 25 January 2017
Hands folded behind her back and squinting through her thick glasses, Malenkova stood in front of a large whiteboard next to the window overlooking the garden. It was getting dark and the open fireplace behind her was radiating a pleasant, welcome warmth on that freezing winter’s evening. Her father had always used whiteboards when he worked on a difficult case that really excited him. As far as Malenkova was concerned, the ‘Petrova Letter’, as she called her latest project, was just such an endeavour.
As a seasoned veteran of many challenging projects, she had developed a sixth sense that rarely let her down when it came to following the trail of long-forgotten secrets and hidden treasure. And the key to following such trails and finding that treasure always came down to two simple things: information, and people.
Malenkova’s father had been very resourceful when it came to obtaining information in imaginative ways and Frieda had been an attentive pupil. Many would say she had surpassed her father in tenacity and ruthlessness, which were often the key to success. She never hesitated to go where others feared to tread, and was prepared to take risks that would have made a fearless tightrope walker pale.
Just like her father, Malenkova was a master manipulator who knew how to use people and bend them to her will. How she did this was both subtle and clever. Based on instinct and an intuitive understanding of human nature, behaviour and emotions, she carefully tailored her tactics and approach in ways that would have impressed even the most practised psychiatrist. She also believed in destiny and followed her instincts with the certainty of a somnambulist.
Malenkova had read Darrieux’ The Darling of Swan Lake – Madame Petrova’s biography – cover to cover in one session. This had allowed her to create a picture in her mind of Madame Petrova’s fascinating personality, her times and her remarkable life, which she then used to interpret the information about the Petrova Letter case as it unfolded.
As more information came to light, she added it to the whiteboard. Just like in criminal investigations, she concentrated on plausible, often hidden connections, motive, and opportunity based on facts and meticulous, rational deduction. At the same time, she carefully eliminated blind alleys, and rejected irrational conclusions hanging by the fragile thread of hope and speculation, rather than logic. While many would have considered such an approach old fashioned, too laborious and out of date, it had produced remarkable results for Malenkova over the years.
Perhaps the most remarkable feature of her methodology was the fact that she rarely, if ever, left her home. She used carefully chosen ‘operatives’, as her father used to call them, sourced from all walks of life and backgrounds to carry out her sometimes dirty and dangerous work. This had allowed her to distance herself from anything that could implicate her and bring her to the attention of the authorities. Her father had told her early on that staying in the shadows was the best way to stay alive.
Malenkova attached another extract from the Petrova biography to the whiteboard, limped over to her desk and rang the bell.
Zuzanna entered almost at once. As Malenkova’s dedicated personal assistant and confidante, she was privy to most, but not all of her boss’s plans, and also some of her secrets. She knew what was expected of her.
I am very lucky to have her, thought Malenkova, watching Zuzanna out of the corner of her eye, yet I hardly know her at all. She still couldn’t quite understand why a sophisticated, cultured young woman like Zuzanna had accepted her invitation to join her and become her personal assistant two years earlier, and then, even more surprisingly, had decided to stay. For reasons she couldn’t quite explain, Malenkova still felt somewhat uneasy about that. Instinct had told her to be cautious, but she dismissed those feelings as nonsense, as Zuzanna had not only demonstrated her dedication and loyalty time and again, but had become almost indispensable to her, especially after Celine’s tragic death.
Malenkova had met Zuzanna Badowski, a young Polish woman, at an auction in Paris. At that time, Malenkova was still attending auctions and doing all the bidding herself. As one of the items going under the hammer was a rare painting by the Chan Buddhist painter Liang Kai, which she just had to have, Malenkova – an experienced tactician when it came to bidding at art auctions – only entered the bidding at the pointy end when most of the bidders had thrown in the towel. As part of her tactics, she dramatically raised the bids using amounts that were intended to intimidate and give the remaining bidders cold feet and make them stop.
Usually this approach worked, but not that time. One bidder was left who stubbornly stayed with her and continued the bidding until the amount had reached stratospheric heights well above the reserve. As the bidding continued, the crowded room fell silent and all eyes were on the two women bidding against each other.
