The lost symphony, p.20
The Lost Symphony, page 20
After Darrieux had signed Isis’s book, Jack the storyteller sensed the right moment had arrived to introduce the subject that had brought them all together in the first place: Mademoiselle Darrieux’ ‘coming out’. At a signal from Jack, Isis stood up and introduced him.
‘Friends, there is a more serious side to our jolly meeting here today, and I will ask Jack Rogan, who is a much better storyteller than I will ever be, to let you know what this is all about. Jack?’
Jack held up his hand until the excited crowd fell silent. ‘I feel privileged to stand here before you with two dear friends, Isis and Mademoiselle Darrieux, by my side. Isis’s transgender journey is well known to millions of her fans and as most of you here would know, she struggled early in life with her sexuality and with the fact that she is a woman, trapped in a man’s body—’
‘I couldn’t help it that I was born with a dick,’ interjected Isis, to the delight of the cheering crowd, used to outrageous remarks like that from their idol.
‘Be that as it may,’ continued Jack, smiling, ‘there is someone present here right now whose journey hasn’t been as clear-cut and straightforward.’ Jack turned to his right and pointed to Darrieux. ‘In fact, that journey has been a remarkable struggle with many difficult and tragic twists and turns. What you are about to hear, my friends, will surprise, perhaps even shock you, but please remember that it often takes great courage to face who we really are, and greater courage still, to share that with the world. And that, my friends, is precisely what Mademoiselle Darrieux is about to do right now. The time has come for her to tell you who she really is.’ Jack stepped aside to let Darrieux come forward. ‘Adrienne, you have the floor.’
Taking a deep breath, Darrieux began to tell her story just as she had done two days earlier in front of Jack and Countess Kuragin, in a calm and measured way. She told them about growing up in a rundown shack on the banks of the Mississippi, terrorised by a brutal father and how Maurice Moreau – the teenage boy-prostitute working in New Orleans – first became Estelle Montplaisir after a sex change, and then after some time in jail, Adrienne Darrieux.
By now, the bookstore had become as silent as a grave.
‘There’s a lot more,’ continued Darrieux, her voice by now barely audible. ‘I have prepared a dossier of newspaper clippings for the journalists present that will provide further information and detail about what I’ve just told you. But in a nutshell, this is me, the true me,’ said Darrieux, and for a long, lonely moment, she just stood there, looking forlorn and dejected.
Then Isis, the consummate performer who knew that timing was everything, walked up to Darrieux, embraced her and, turning to face the silent crowd said, ‘This is without doubt one of the most courageous things I’ve heard in years. You can be very proud of yourself, Adrienne.’
Then the room erupted in cheers and spontaneous applause as a tribute to a brave human being who had dared to bare her troubled soul in public and was prepared to face the consequences, however harsh, with humility and grace.
35
Frieda Malenkova’s study: 10 February 2017
Malenkova pushed her breakfast tray impatiently aside and stared out the window. Usually she would have found the view across the valley to the snow-covered hills relaxing, but not that morning. The dense fog and the sensational headlines in the morning papers had seen to that.
Instead of attracting embarrassment and ridicule, Mademoiselle Darrieux and her sensational ‘coming out’ had become the toast of Paris. By meeting the threat of exposure head on, Darrieux had successfully turned a dark secret she had desperately tried to conceal for years, into a shining beacon of courage, admiration and social success. The fact that Isis, an international superstar and transgender social heavyweight had supported her in this in a very public way, had certainly given gravitas to Darrieux’ surprising revelations and elevated her to new, unexpected heights in the social hierarchy of Paris life.
She could never have done this on her own, thought Malenkova. Clever; quite brilliant in fact, she grudgingly had to admit. After having carefully read the articles several times, she was left with no doubt who the architect of that masterstroke had been.
The friendship between Jack and Isis was common knowledge in social circles, and Isis had featured prominently in several of his books. The recent contact between Darrieux and Jack involving the Petrova music box, the Russian letter and the key to the strong box, was a direct link to what had happened at the Ritz. It was apparent to Malenkova that Darrieux must have confided in Jack and told him about Zuzanna and the blackmail.
And what better way to deal with blackmail than to remove the threat altogether? Malenkova asked herself. And that is precisely what had occurred in a rather spectacular and very public way. Malenkova couldn’t suppress a crooked little smile, because what had just happened was precisely the kind of plan she would most likely have come up with to deal with a situation like that.
Malenkova reached for her pen and circled Jack’s smiling face on the front page. The photo captured Jack standing between Isis and Darrieux as he was addressing the crowd in the library at Shakespeare and Company. He’s the one responsible for this, she thought. Look out, Jack Rogan, I’m coming after you!
Feeling better, Malenkova put down the paper and called Victor Sokolov, one of her old contacts she had done business with in the past. Sokolov, who could trace his roots all the way back to the Mongols, was a Russian oligarch close to Putin and worth billions, who had made his fortune during the era of privatisation following the disintegration of the Soviet Union in the 1990s. As a young, savvy entrepreneur during Mikhail Gorbachev’s unprecedented period of market liberalisation, he had begun his career by smuggling personal computers and jeans into the country and selling these sought-after goods on the black market for a huge profit.
By quickly learning the ropes of privatisation and with a few lucky breaks, he built a business empire out of nothing in record time by acquiring contested state property and making shady deals with former USSR officials. Rising quickly, he became the go-between, between the emerging market and the often corrupt but elected government officials trying to facilitate the Russian state’s transition to a market-based economy.
Sokolov was still in bed with his mistress when his mobile rang. ‘Frieda, what a pleasant surprise,’ said Sokolov, and reached for his cigarettes on the bedside table. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Scotland.’
‘Ah, that castle. Is the restoration finished?’
‘Restorations like this are never finished.’
‘Do you get to read the papers up there?’
‘Of course!’
‘Then you would have noticed the story about the Fabergé egg in the Ritz ...’
‘Ah. A spectacular murder in a weird safe, and a daring robbery. I thought you might have had something to do with that,’ said Sokolov, laughing, and lit a cigarette. ‘It has your fingerprints all over it. Was it you?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘I see. What’s on your mind?’
‘The item in question is absolutely spectacular and totally unique. Most likely the last Imperial Easter egg crafted by Fabergé: Easter 1917.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The surprise inside ...’
‘There was nothing in the papers about that.’
‘Of course not. No-one knows what it is.’
‘Except you, of course.’
‘Except me.’
‘Can you tell me?’
‘How about miniature portraits of the tsarina and Rasputin for starters? I can send you pictures if you like.’
‘What? Are you serious? There’s no record of such an egg.’
‘No, there isn’t, but are you surprised?’
‘Is it authentic?’
‘Absolutely! I can even provide provenance.’
‘Provenance? What kind of provenance?’
‘How does a letter written and signed by Alexandra herself sound?’
Inhaling deeply, Sokolov was hoping the nicotine rush would clear his spinning head. ‘Do you realise what you are saying?’
‘Absolutely. This is history! Russian history. That’s why I immediately thought of you, Victor. Interested?’
‘You know I am. What about price?’
‘Difficult to establish in this case. Why don’t we do what we did with The Missing Little Shepherd?’
‘The Nesterov painting? Good idea.’
Rumours that Malenkova had The Missing Little Shepherd – a famous Russian painting – in her private collection, had begun to circulate a few years ago. Sokolov heard about it on the black-market grapevine and expressed interest in buying it. Because the painting had been the subject of a spectacular robbery, establishing a price that was acceptable to both parties turned out to be impossible. To overcome the impasse, Malenkova suggested the icon be put up for auction on the dark web to find out what the market was prepared to pay for a unique, stolen item with no guidelines as to value.
Sokolov was given the right of first refusal and once the bidding stopped, Malenkova and Sokolov commenced negotiations, agreed on a price and Sokolov bought the painting for two million pounds. It now had pride of place in the great hall of his castle in Scotland, next to other choice pieces of Russian art he had acquired over the years.
Sokolov was well known as an avid and shrewd art collector with deep pockets, who didn’t ask too many questions, could outbid almost anyone else and was prepared to buy when other, more circumspect buyers might get cold feet and hesitate. For Sokolov, who craved respectability and recognition and had access to billions, collecting art – especially Russian pieces, preferably of historic significance – had become a passion. It was the way he tried to set himself apart from the despised ‘kleptocrats’, who had made their enormous fortunes by taking advantage of the vast price difference between old domestic prices and world market prices for such sought-after Russian commodities as oil and gas. The principle behind it all was simple enough: buy cheap and sell at a huge profit, look after those who made it all possible and remove obstacles that stand in the way. This accounted for Sokolov’s ruthless streak and reputation as a very dangerous man not to be crossed, who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.
‘Give me a few days and I’ll set it all up. Should create quite a stir, I imagine,’ said Malenkova.
‘It sure will. We probably know all the potential buyers anyway. There wouldn’t be more than a handful, I imagine, who could come up with that kind of money and are prepared to take the risk. Especially in these circumstances.’
‘It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to acquire a piece of history,’ said Malenkova, repeating her strongest point. ‘That’s rarely possible without risk.’
‘You don’t have to tell me; I know.’
‘But that’s not all, Victor, there’s more ...’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t give you any precise details at the moment except for this: I believe there’s something even bigger involved here that may surpass the discovery of the Fabergé egg.’
‘Seriously? A hunch?’
‘It’s more than that.’
‘Based on what?’
‘More letters.’
‘Alexandra?’
‘I’m working on it; that’s all I can tell you for now,’ said Malenkova, evading the question.
Encouraged by the last set of answers provided by Darrieux to her quite precise and pointed questions, Malenkova had been left in no doubt that the letters left behind in the strong box held the key to something big and significant involving the tsarina and her friend, and that Jack was working on that very subject and trying to solve the puzzle.
‘And you are telling me this because ...?’ asked Sokolov.
‘You and I may have to join forces to – how shall I put it? – get to the bottom of this and share the spoils. Interested?’
‘Absolutely. A partnership? Sounds interesting.’
‘It is, perhaps in more ways than you can possibly imagine just now. As you know, I have a good nose for things like this.’
‘You sure have, Frieda,’ said Sokolov, laughing. ‘You sure have.’
Malenkova’s ability to follow leads, uncover unlikely connections and possibilities and come up with spectacular discoveries and deals were well known in the underground art world, and therefore deserved to be taken seriously.
‘Well, keep me informed,’ said Sokolov. ‘And please send me those pictures. I can’t wait to see what Fabergé created as his final Imperial Easter masterpiece.’
‘You won’t be disappointed. Now, go back to your girlfriend.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I can hear her moaning next to you.’
‘You don’t miss much, do you?’
‘I try not to. That’s why I’m still in business,’ said Malenkova and hung up.
36
Gatekeeper’s Cottage, Kuragin chateau: 12 February 2017
Jack pushed a few crumpled sheets of paper littering the large kitchen table aside, and put down the bottle of Scotch he had brought across from the chateau.
‘Looks like you’ll be needing this,’ he said and looked at Dupree. ‘You have been a busy little detective. All I can see are police cars coming and going at all hours. One just left and it’s almost midnight. Any progress?’
‘A little, but not enough. As you know, the first forty-eight hours are critical. After that ...’ Dupree shook his head and shrugged. He had set up his laptop on the kitchen table and was using the cosy kitchen as his makeshift office. He still had problems with his bandaged hands, but was rapidly improving. What he found frustrating and most difficult to deal with, was being unable to leave the cottage and follow the investigation in the field. He had never been a desk man, but that was precisely what he had become. Necessity was a cruel teacher.
Jack pointed to the mountain of files on the table. ‘I can see Lapointe has kept his word, and you in the loop and definitely in the harness.’
‘He sure has, and that’s what keeps me going.’
Jack walked over to the Welsh dresser, took out two glasses and opened the bottle. ‘Nothing new, then?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Dupree and reached for a large photograph on the table in front of him. ‘I am more than ever convinced that the Black Widow has made a comeback.’
‘The mysterious predator in the shadows strikes again? What makes you say that?’
‘If you pour me a big one, I’ll tell you,’ said Dupree and handed the photograph to Jack.
‘Good God!’ said Jack. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He poured two large whiskies and handed one to Dupree. ‘Cheers.’
‘I couldn’t tell you about this before. We kept it under wraps as a possible lead until now. That’s why there was nothing about this in the press briefings.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Jack and gulped down his Scotch. ‘That’s how they found the …?’
‘Exactly as you see it.’
‘Jesus. Who would do a thing like that?’
‘Do what thing?’ asked Countess Kuragin, who had overheard the remark. She closed the front door behind her and put the cheese platter she had brought across from the chateau on the kitchen bench. ‘A late-night snack for hungry sleuths burning the midnight oil.’
Jack put the photograph back on the table and turned it over. ‘Nothing important,’ he said, brushing the question aside and trying to sound casual.
‘Don’t patronise me, Jack! I know you ... So, what is it?’
Jack looked at Dupree. Dupree shrugged. ‘All right. But you may not feel like any cheese after this,’ said Jack, looking resigned.
‘That bad, is it?’ said the countess.
‘It is.’
‘Go on.’
‘Looks like the killer has left something behind in the strong box for us to find.’
‘Oh? What?’
‘It’s gruesome.’
‘Come on, Jack, I’m a big girl. Tell me.’
‘The murderer cut off the victim’s, how do you say?’ said Dupree, trying to come to Jack’s assistance. ‘Just show her the photo!’
Without saying another word, Jack handed the photo to the countess.
‘Mon Dieu!’ she exclaimed. ‘That must have hurt!’
‘I doubt it,’ said Dupree. ‘He was well and truly dead by then.’
‘So, after they cut poor Monsieur Aubert’s throat and he bled to death, they cut off his penis and put it into the strong box? What an indignity! Is that what happened?’
‘Looks like it,’ said Dupree. ‘But obviously there’s more to it than that. My colleagues don’t agree with me, but I’m convinced this is a signature.’
‘The Black Widow?’ said Jack.
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘Making a comeback? Exchanging plastic spiders for ...’
‘Could be. The facts speak for themselves.’
‘Can someone please tell me what this is all about?’ said the countess and began to peel back the foil covering the cheese platter. ‘I can recommend the Roquefort-sur-Soulzon, boys; superb,’ she said, making a point.
‘The king of cheeses,’ said Jack and reached for a cracker.
‘Says who?’ asked Dupree, edging closer.
‘None other than the philosopher Diderot, my friend. And he should know. He clearly gave it a lot of thought.’
Munching happily, Dupree told the story about Le Fantôme, the dramatic death of Celine LeBlanc in Monte Carlo and the Black Widow cold case.
‘So, that’s what you two are doing in here late at night. Raking over shocking old cases like this?’
‘Yes, but with good reason,’ said Jack. ‘I agree with Claude; it definitely looks like there’s a connection here.’
‘I wish you could convince my colleagues,’ said Dupree, laughing. ‘Perhaps this will help.’ Dupree turned his laptop around. ‘Here, let me show you. This just came in.’
