David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘Do you know,’ said Powerscourt, ‘that thought had never occurred to me. How interesting.’

‘Let me tell you, my lord, how I intend to proceed. I’ve earmarked a couple of pages in my new notebook here for each one: Benois, Bakst, Stravinsky and so on. I’m not just going to ask them about where they were on the night in question, I’m going to ask them what they knew of the whereabouts of the others. That way, if they’re telling the truth, we can check all their alibis. Is there anything you’d like me to ask them, my lord, while I’ve got them in the witness box, as it were?’

‘Well, you should remember that Monsieur Fokine, the choreographer, is sort of on our side. He volunteered his help a few days ago and he’s most useful. Get him to give you an impression of Diaghilev at the Palladian bridge in Blenheim Palace. He may need a cane or a poker to make it work, but it’s very entertaining. Now then, I think you should include Alfred Bolm, the man who was supposed to have been dancing that evening.

‘And the reserves, if you like — the girls and the men who were not down to dance that evening, but were presumably acting as understudies in case somebody got ill. Sergeant Jenkins is working his way through the stagehands and so on.

‘You ask, Inspector, if I have any special question I would like to ask these top men from the Ballets Russes. Well, there is. It may seem way outside the scope of our inquiry, but I would like you to ask it anyway. Who were the next great stars going to be? Who were the next people to become as well known as Nijinsky and Anna Pavlova?’

George Smythe, trainee art dealer by day, part-time jewel broker for Anastasia from the corps de ballet and party-goer by night, hated being disturbed early in the morning. The fact that it was a telegram did not register with him at all at eight fifteen in the morning. His long and expensive education had included no training in the question of telegrams. The place of origin, Berlin Central, did not rouse him either. It was only when he saw the figure halfway down the form that he woke up. In excess of forty thousand English pounds. George ran a hand through his hair and sat down in his living room, strewn with abandoned shoes and neckties from the night before, to read the thing properly.

For the attention of: George Smythe, 74 Albemarle Street, London.

From: Elias Killick, of Johnston Killick jewel brokers, Imperial Hotel, Berlin.

‘Delighted to inform you all jewels disposed of at respectable prices. Total of forty-thousand pounds. Would you wish monies sent direct to Moscow Bank or brought back to London? Direct transfer by far the safest option. Please advise by three o’clock this afternoon. Regards. Elias Killick.’

George Smythe hadn’t dressed as fast as this since he overslept in Oxford and almost missed the last paper in his finals. A cab swept him to the Royal Opera House in less than ten minutes. He found Anastasia waiting to rehearse in an hour’s time and dragged her off to a quiet corner of the Fielding Hotel.

‘Look, Anastasia,’ he began, ‘that jewel man Killick has sold the lot. They’re worth about forty thousand pounds. Can you believe it? It’s marvellous news, don’t you think?’

Anastasia shook her head, as if she too had been out late the night before. ‘Tell me if I’ve got this right. The man Killick has sold the jewels? Is that true? For forty thousand pounds? Holy Mary, Mother of God!’

‘That’s right. It’s fantastic!’

‘Where is he now, the man Killick?’

‘He’s in Berlin. The thing is, Anastasia, we’ve got to decide how to get the money. Killick says they can transfer it direct to that Moscow bank you told me about. Nobody will know. You won’t have to hide it in your luggage going back to St Petersburg or whatever you were going to do with it.’

‘We’re not going straight home — we’ve got engagements in a couple of other places before we get back to St Petersburg.’

‘But can’t you see, this is the safest way to get the money back to Russia.’

‘I promised Prince Felix that I would bring him the money myself. It’ll make him love me more, don’t you see? He can’t fall in love with a length of telegraph cable! I promised him!’

‘That’s all very fine,’ said George, feeling that a man might indeed have strong emotions when a beautiful girl arrived on his doorstep with a fortune in her hand, ‘but how are you going to get it back?’

‘I’ll find a way. I promised, didn’t I? What would Felix think if I got back to St Petersburg without the money? I’d be in the doghouse with no supper for days.’

‘We have to give an answer very soon. By first thing this afternoon at the latest. Can’t you see, Anastasia, that the wire is the safest way to do it? I promised the Prince to do all I could to look after his interests and to keep you safe. Won’t you see sense?’

‘I refuse to have the money sent by wire, George. I could ruin my prospects with the Prince. How can I hope to keep him faithful in the meantime if I do not return with the money?’

George Smythe thought that the chances of Prince Felix Peshkov remaining faithful to his beautiful ballerina were slim at the best of times, but he said nothing of that.

‘You’re being absurd!’

‘So are you!’

‘No, I’m not!’

One or two concerned glances were now being made at this young couple arguing so vehemently in French early in the morning. Well, they were known to be excitable people. One elderly Dowager began looking about her for a bell.

‘For the last time, Anastasia, will you let me send word to Mr Elias Killick that he’s to wire the money to the bank in Moscow? Yes or no?’

‘No.’

‘Is that your last word?’

‘Yes.’

‘Damn it all, Anastasia, can’t you see that you’re doing the wrong thing?’ George looked really depressed. His latest possible time for arrival at the picture gallery was but fifteen minutes away. Maybe he could send a telephone message about a relation in distress. Then he remembered that he’d done that at least once already. He began wringing his hands. His sorrow and his concern seemed to touch something in Anastasia. She leant forward and held one of his hands briefly.

‘George,’ she said, ‘there’s something I haven’t told you. Something I promised not to tell anybody.’

‘What’s that?’ asked George petulantly.

‘It’s this. That money,’ she was whispering now and the dowager returned her attention to the coffee and biscuits, ‘it can’t go near any banks. Not under any circumstances. This is what I promised not to tell. Oh, George, I wish I didn’t have to break my promise. But I do, don’t I?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said George. ‘What is it about a bank, for heaven’s sake? One lot of depositors, one lot of borrowers, a lot of people running round in frock coats pretending to be more important than they really are. That’s all there is, isn’t it?’

Even the whispers were getting lower now.

‘No, it’s not.’ The young man had to lean forward now to catch her words. ‘It’s a question of who owns the banks, isn’t it?’

‘I still don’t understand,’ said George, checking his watch again. ‘Who owns the bloody banks anyway?’

‘It’s not the banks plural, George, it’s bank singular.’

‘Singular?’

‘Why is this so difficult? The bank whose details we have, the one we gave to Mr Killick, is owned or part-owned by my friend Prince Felix’s father. He has cut my Felix and his colleague out of all contact with the banks. Any transactions will be brought to his attention within the hour. Felix gave me the details of the bank before he realized how completely he and his friend had been cut off.’