Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

12

Johnny Fitzgerald was meeting a stockbroker in the City of London, one of the money men recommended to him by Sweetie Robinson, who had played cards for money with Richard Wagstaff Gilbert. Two had declined very politely, but the third, Henry Wilson Pollock, senior partner of Pollock, Richards and Cork in Mincing Lane was prepared to talk to him.

‘You’re an investigator, Sweetie tells me,’ Pollock began. He was a small, stout man who looked, Johnny thought, much as Mr Pickwick might have looked when he grew older.

‘That’s right, Mr Pollock. My current case involves a man you know well, I believe: Richard Wagstaff Gilbert.’

‘That old bastard Waggers!’ said Pollock, almost shouting. Johnny was surprised at the vehemence of his reaction. Most people would stick with the pleasantries of politeness for five minutes or so before showing their anger. This tubby little man launched straight in.

‘I gather that you have had a lot of dealings with the gentleman in your time, Mr Pollock.’

‘Gentleman is not a word I would use in connection with Waggers, Mr Fitzgerald, oh no. Definitely not.’

‘Might I ask why?’

‘If you had called ten or maybe even five years ago, I would not have told you. I would have been constrained by professional etiquette and what remains of the rules of society. But now? I am winding down my affairs. I shall keep a presence in the firm, but I shall not be here very often. I intend to spend my days looking after my garden and following the fortunes of Middlesex Cricket Club in the summer and Tottenham Hotspur in the winter.’

‘What a pleasant prospect. I hope you will be able to watch one of the triangular Test matches between England and Australia and South Africa this summer. But for the moment, in a professional sense, you do feel able to talk about Mr Gilbert?’

‘Let me begin with his business affairs. He specializes in new investment trusts and new offerings in general. Part of my business here touches the same areas. Now, I would have to say that there is nothing strictly illegal about what Waggers does. We have all done it up to a point, but not to the extent that he does.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Word gets round every now and then about some new offering. It might be a cleverly constructed investment trust or a mining share or a brewer. The day before the company is opened for business, the men who know let it be rumoured abroad that this is going to be a winner. The recipients of this information make a mental note to recommend it to their clients in due course. Others, especially Waggers, make sure that they buy a large holding, and then sell it a few days later at a handsome profit. That was just the most obvious of his little schemes. The others are only understood by insiders in the City, which Waggers undoubtedly was.’

‘And the cards, Mr Pollock, the cards?’

‘The irregularities at whist only began about eighteen months ago, after he had a losing run that seemed to have gone on since Christmas. I hesitate to use that word beginning with “c”, even in my own office, for fear it might come out and drench us all in scandal, Mr Fitzgerald. After Easter this year, several months ago, it was as if he had decided to take revenge on all those who play with him regularly. He always wins now, sometimes by a lot, sometimes by a little.’

‘I have a little experience in cheating at cards, Mr Pollock, from a terrible case in the officers’ mess at Simla years ago. A young subaltern took to cheating at whist to make amends for his overspending on the horses. He tried a variety of methods.’

‘I would be most grateful for your inside information, as it were.’

‘A pleasure, Mr Pollock. Tell me, what does the fellow wear?’

‘I’ve often wondered about that, now you mention it. He always wears long jackets — smoking jacket, Norfolk jacket with very deep pockets, that sort of thing.’

‘And is there a certain amount of fiddling about with handkerchiefs, cigar lighters maybe, helpings of snuff?’

‘There is sometimes, not all the time. Why do you ask?’

‘If you’re quick-fingered, you could whip the pack of cards you’re about to deal into your right-hand pocket and substitute another one from your left. Do you see?’

‘I do indeed.’

‘Then there’s the handkerchief on the floor midway between your chair and the chair next to you, either on the right or the left. You might be able to see your opponents’ cards — only for a second, but long enough if you have a good memory.’

‘He has an excellent memory, but I don’t recall seeing that one in action.’

‘Well-polished cigarette cases, perhaps?’

Johnny produced a handsome cigarette case from his breast pocket and gave it a quick polish.

‘Do you have a pack of cards anywhere about the place, Mr Pollock?’

Mr Pollock did. Johnny was still polishing his cigarette case.

‘Now then, Mr Pollock, this is my best bet — it’s what brought down the man in Simla in the end. It only works on my deal, you understand, one hand in four. You keep up a flow of information as you go. And you place your cigarette case, which you have been fiddling with all evening, more or less in the centre of the table.’

‘I see. Off you go.’

‘J. Hobbs, W. Rhodes, R. H. Spooner,’ Johnny began a recital of the England Test team due to play Australia at Lord’s in the next few days, dealing the cards as fast as he could, but looking not at Mr Pollock or imaginary partners to the left or right, but at the reflection in the heavily polished case, ‘C. B. Fry, P. F. Warner, F. R. Foster, nearly at the end now, F. E. Woolley, J. W. Hearne, E. J. Smith.’

Johnny pocketed the cigarette case with a flourish. ‘I can tell you, Mr Pollock, you have four spades to the king, three small clubs, two diamonds to the ten and four clubs to the ace, king, jack and two.’

Henry Pollock picked up his cards. They were exactly as Johnny had said. ‘My God, Mr Fitzgerald, you’re a miracle worker. So that’s how he did it! I remember a well-polished silver cigarette case from the last time we played.’

‘Buy yourself a well-polished one, Mr Pollock, and play him at his own game. Maybe all four players should have polished cases and do the same thing each time a hand is dealt. It could be a sweet revenge.’

‘I’m obliged, Mr Fitzgerald, it’s more than useful in my profession to know how a man cheats at cards.’

‘I’ve just come back from Blenheim Palace, Lord Powerscourt! It’s fantastic! Amazing!’

Michel Fokine burst into the Powerscourt drawing room before Rhys had time to announce him.

‘The stage for the orchestra is nearly finished. They’ve been laying long floorboards down on top of a whole series of staves sunk into the bed of the lake. There’s a couple of musicians going up tomorrow to test out the acoustics.’

‘Is Monsieur Diaghilev there in person, Monsieur Fokine?’

‘He’s there every other day, I would say. He cheered them all up when he told them the Venetians sank one million piles into the Grand Canal to build Santa Maria della Salute after some plague or other. I think there are two major churches in Venice built to commemorate victims of two different plagues. I sometimes think he’s back in his beloved Venice, organizing for a troupe of dancers to perform in the middle of the Grand Canal. They’re even going to have a bridge of boats to carry the performers onto their stages, like they do at the Feast of the Redentore when the great and good walk across the water to the church. The steward fellow is in charge of the whole thing. He seems to have even picked up a couple of words of Russian. He can say thank you very much and please don’t drop that on my toe.’

‘And all the rest of it? The caterers and so on?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Fine, just fine. They’ve organized the local printers in Oxford to print little advertisements to go all over the place. Diaghilev suggested that they print a short guide to the ballets on the lake, so the audience can work out what’s happening on stage. Only one person has fallen in so far — and he was carrying a very heavy beam — but he’s all right.’

‘And the seating?’

‘That’s going according to plan,’ said Fokine, abandoning his seat by the fire and pacing up and down the room again.

‘The people of Woodstock, my lord, have entered into the spirit of the thing with a vengeance. The hotels have ordered extra caviar from Paris and lashings of vodka. One of them is planning to roast a couple of wild boar in their courtyard. The bakers have got hold of recipes for blinis, those little Russian pancakes, and are selling them in hundreds — a trial run, perhaps, for the big day. And beetroot for borscht, that Russian soup. I’m told you can’t buy a beetroot within a fifty-mile radius from Woodstock.’

‘And the big event in the evening in the Great Hall? I hope nobody’s forgotten about that.’

‘They wouldn’t be able to, my lord. The Duke himself is taking a great interest in that, and in the affair by the lake.’

‘Well, he is paying for it.’

‘True enough, but every time he goes out on a tour of inspection, Mrs Duke — that’s what the steward calls her when she’s out of earshot, my lord — is by his side, urging him back to the big house. She spends a lot of time looking around — one of the dancers said she’s checking to see if any photographers have arrived yet.’

‘And have they?’

‘We had a couple of enterprising ones yesterday, hanging so far over that Palladian bridge you’d have sworn they were going to fall in. One of them, a young fellow from the Illustrated London News, says his master at the magazine always believes the preparations are more interesting than the real thing.’

‘He might well be right.’

‘Indeed so, my lord. One thing they have done is to cut down the numbers inside the Great Hall. The steward, after a lengthy conference with Diaghilev himself, cane tapping regularly on the antique chairs, said that fifty to sixty would be the maximum number permitted to attend, and even that’s a squeeze. Mrs Duke looked sad for a bit until the Duke himself rallied to the cause and told her it would be even more exclusive and even more highly prized.’

‘And what of Diaghilev’s finances, Monsieur Fokine?’

‘Ah yes, the finances of Monsieur Diaghilev, my lord, I haven’t forgotten. Where should I begin?’

The young man was now at the King’s Road end of the Powerscourt drawing room, about to turn towards the fireplace end.

‘The first thing I should say is that Diaghilev himself is not in the ballet business for money. Far from it. So what is he after? Glory, I think, fame certainly, but fame accorded to one who has changed the nature of ballet for ever. He wants to go down in history as the greatest impresario the world has ever seen. There is no limit to his ambitions. He wanted to conquer Paris and he has. They say there is another ballet being written by Stravinsky now that will change the whole nature and appreciation of ballet. And what does this mean when it comes to his finances? Total chaos is the answer. He does not distinguish between his own personal expenditure and the monies needed for the dancers and the stage sets and the artists who decorate them and design those fabulous costumes.’

‘Are you saying that his personal account and the company’s accounts are the same? No difference at all?’

‘I am, my lord. Take the money he is getting from the Duke of Marlborough up there at Blenheim. That could go on paying the carpenters of the theatre in Paris, or the hire of theatrical costumes here in London, or on paying the bill for his last trip to Venice. And there’s another thing. He is very successful at persuading the rich to sponsor his work. I bet Lady Ripon has had to put her hand in her pocket more than once on this trip to London. They give him cheques or banker’s drafts. He then forgets he has them. Only recently he trotted into the accounts department with a huge cheque some rich backer had given him six weeks ago in Paris.’

‘Is it therefore impossible to say at any given time whether he is bankrupt or not?’

‘Quite impossible. One of the accounts people says they should turn him upside down every now and again and shake him vigorously to see what money falls out. People don’t last very long in the accounts department, those young men with mathematical training from St Petersburg. There are a few who have stuck the course. One of the young men who has lasted longest claims he stays because of the excitement. He says it’s like going over Niagara in a barrel all the time and hoping you’re still alive at the bottom. Not necessarily what you’d expect to hear from an accountant. The other one also uses a watery metaphor. He says it’s like keeping track of the flood before Noah decided to shove off in his Ark.’

‘So there is no answer to my original question?’

‘I’m afraid not. I know there’s enough money to pay everybody till the end of next week. The Blenheim money may already have been spent paying bills in Paris or even St Petersburg. In two weeks’ time, my lord, we all climb into the barrel and go back over Niagara again.’

George Walker the docker, Albert Smith from the railways, the brothers William and Thomas Baker and Arthur Cooper were packed into Arthur Cooper’s front room. His wife and children had been packed off to her sister’s round the corner.

‘Comrades, thank you all for coming. I have to report what our enemies would call a miracle. A miracle indeed. The long arm of Comrade Lenin has reached out across Europe to visit us here in Pentonville.’

He held up a very large envelope with pages sticking out of the top. ‘This was put through my front door, and not by the postman, the day before yesterday.

‘This is what the money is to be used for. Comrade Lenin wants us to print five hundred copies of his latest masterwork in English and five hundred in Russian.’

‘How do you know that the work is from Lenin? That it isn’t from our enemies, trying to trick us into printing literature that will not help our cause?’

William Baker was always suspicious. That, he often told his wife, was how he kept out of the authorities’ files all this time. ‘The courier who brought it gave very definite proof that it came from Cracow. He himself did not bring it all the way, he merely collected it from its temporary resting place elsewhere in London. I believe he is a courier acting for Lenin.’

‘This isn’t like the old days when you could print anything you liked and send it wherever you liked,’ Albert Smith put in. ‘They could have us all locked up for breaking that Official Secrets Act, so they could.’

‘I do not see how the laws of the decadent bourgeoisie should be allowed to stand in the way of the advancement of the revolution, comrades.’ Arthur Cooper felt that the revolutionary spirit seemed to be in short supply this evening.

‘If you are opposed to this plan, I will proceed on my own. Anybody who refuses to agree with my proposals will face reprisals from the party.’

‘I think it’s all very suspicious,’ put in George Walker. ‘A man arrives who says he is a colleague of Comrade Lenin. He gives you a sign. That’s good enough for me. But that pamphlet, won’t it have to be translated as well? That’s another risk we are all taking.’

Arthur Cooper was growing more and more irritated.

‘And can you not see that Comrade Lenin has thought of everything? He toils away in his lonely library and sends the next pamphlet to forward the cause of world revolution. All you can do is worry about some ridiculous law.’

‘It won’t be ridiculous if we end up in jail.’

‘Comrade Lenin expected better from his colleagues in London. I was not meant to tell you this but I will. He thought you would agree to his wishes and carry them out without complaint. It seems he was wrong. He had given me the name of a translator and the name of a printing firm in Clerkenwell that will carry out the work. Comrade Lenin expected obedience. Do I have it?’

Reluctantly the revolutionaries agreed. Even then they weren’t finished.

‘What happens when they’re all printed off? What do we do with them then?’ asked William Baker.

‘When the pamphlets are done, I will take full responsibility for their distribution. That matter is not for discussion either here or later.’

A rather different meeting was taking place upstairs in Markham Square. Lady Lucy, returned from nursing a sick aunt, was to be brought up to date by Natasha Shaporova, Inspector Dutfield and her husband.

‘I don’t think we have made much progress, really,’ Powerscourt began. ‘We are no nearer to solving the central problem of the case — who was the victim? Bolm or Alexander Taneyev? Personally, I have no idea. Inspector?’

‘Well, my lord, my lady, I have to say, speaking as a policeman with some experience in these cases: statistically, it has to be Bolm.’

‘How did you work that one out, Inspector?’ Lady Lucy felt that she had made insufficient contribution to the case so far, even though she had the excuse of having been away.

‘He’s been around longer. He must be in his forties. He’s had years and years to make enemies in the highly charged atmosphere of a company like the Ballets Russes. Maybe there’s been some dispute about roles in the company we know little about.’

‘There could be another reason you don’t seem to have considered so far. Cherchez la femme. Jealous husbands, maybe jealous husbands come all the way from Paris to take their revenge on the man who took their wife. Is that possible, Natasha?’

‘It certainly is. In Paris and London the women go mad for the ballet, possibly because it’s not here for very long and the time for conquest and pursuit is short. Look at the way Lady Ripon and all the other Lady Ripons pursue them for afternoon tea and a spot of dancing after the muffins. I bet they have something more in mind. Maybe they don’t do anything about it, but the dancers could become trophies, conquests to be shown off to your less or more fortunate friends.’

‘And how do we find out if this is going on, or, perhaps more realistically, if it has been going on at Covent Garden?’

‘I shall ask the corps de ballet,’ said Natasha, ‘though the gossip there might not be one hundred per cent accurate. I suggest you ask Sergeant Jenkins, Inspector. I believe he has good contacts now among the stagehands and the scenery people.’

‘And what,’ said Powerscourt, ‘do we make of this story of the duel and the vow of revenge?’

‘I think it should be taken very seriously indeed,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Natasha is even now corresponding with her relations in St Petersburg. There may be more news yet to come.’

Lady Lucy did not care to mention it but she thought Natasha’s network of contacts and relations in St Petersburg might be the equal of her own here in London.

‘I find it all very strange,’ Natasha said. ‘The original duel must have happened fifty or sixty years ago. It could even have happened at the same time as the poet Pushkin’s unfortunate end. But the authorities have always been very strict about duels and vendettas caused by duels. They have been known to send people to exile in Siberia for it.’

‘But would those strictures apply if the revenge killing took place outside Russia?’ said the Inspector. ‘Suppose you are a male descendant of the victim. You come away on holiday. You carry out your killing. You go back home. Did you have a good time, the relations ask. London is a wonderful city, you reply. You expound on the changing of the guard or the shops on Oxford Street or the plays in the theatres. You don’t mention the murder to a single soul, except your parents, if that.’

‘There’s one other thing that troubles me,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘You remember the Cossack dance in Thamar, the one where all the knives are hurled into the floor? Could the girls or one of the girls in the corps de ballet have become expert in those lethal instruments, so that she too would know how to kill Bolm or Taneyev, whichever was the victim.’

‘Now I think about it,’ said Natasha Shaporova, ‘I think you’re probably right. I suspect any of those girls could have done it; except, of course, that they were on stage at the time of the murder.’

‘I shall make enquiries,’ said Inspector Dutfield. ‘Circus people, they’re always throwing knives about. They should probably know.’

‘I’m confused,’ said Powerscourt. ‘We just seem to have established a whole fresh lot of lines of enquiry, as if we didn’t have enough already.’