severely made bed was Nick bowing to the king of Albania, Nick saluting the Italian ambassador, Nick in fancy dress, Nick’s portrait in profile, in full face, Nick with some comedian—both of them sporting a fez—with Gigli, with Nellie Melba. Nick in half a photograph that cut one of his arms off, presumably because it had lain around the shoulders of a pretty woman—Melba was the only female represented in the gallery; maybe her size disqualified her as a rival. Prince Nick winning a Grand Prix ...Nick presenting a check to char ity (a rare one, that, but Olga had noted and kept it).
The strips of newspaper had stirred as Esther opened the curtain— the untidy flapping of a prayer wheel. To a god who’d never noticed.
It was like being a Peeping Tom. Quickly, Esther closed the curtain. Then opened it again to begin tearing the pictures down.
I’m so sorry, Olga. Sorry I saw this. I’ll never tell.
Keeping Olga’s secret was the one thing Esther could do for her.
Before she left, she slipped one of the portraits in her handbag. It would go into the coffin.
She’d hoped that perhaps the policeman in charge of the case would be the one who’d attended the Green Hat. It wasn’t. An Inspector Bolle assured her, “We’ll catch him, Fräulein, don’t you worry,” but he sounded dispirited and echoed Boris’s despair at what was happening to Germany, citing cases of old men and women being attacked for their pensions, housewives robbed on their way home from market, a milkman kicked to death by the man who stole his horse.
“Too many foreigners coming in,” he said, oblivious of whom he was talking to. “It was never like this in the old days.”
Were those the old days when there’d been a world war? Esther won dered. When you were fighting England? France?
Apparently Nick had been able to exert influence, even from the South of France, and both autopsy and inquest were to be expedited. The body would be released ready for burial the following Wednesday.
At the undertaker’s, Esther ordered the most expensive casket avail able, to be drawn by black-plumed horses—the bill to be sent to Prince Nikolai Potrovskov personally. Still vengeful, she went on to the florist’s and arranged for enough late roses to cover the entire coffin lid.
“That’ll teach him to pay her peanuts,” she told Natalya when she got home. “I’m going to see he walks behind that cortege with his bloody hat in his hand.”
“Bit late to do Olga much good,” Natalya pointed out.
“It’ll do him good,” Esther said. “And me.” She went to her desk to put the date and time in her diary in order to make sure Nick kept to them.
Natalya heard her whimper. “What’s up?”
“It was him.” Esther was looking at the diary as into the face of the gorgon. “He killed her.”
“Nick killed her?”
“It was him. It was the sixth weekend. Oh, God, oh, Jesus, it was him. ”
Natalya led her to the sofa. “Put your head between your knees. I’ll get you a drink. We got any brandy?”
Esther didn’t hear her. That’s when he comes, every six weeks. Jostling for notice behind Clara’s voice, other statements, other disregarded facts, were accumulating and joining up.
Boris: The police reckon either he was waiting for her or he followed her home.
Waiting for her. Followed her home. Déjà vu.
Natalya came back with a glass of schnapps. Esther clutched at her. “Where’s Anna?”
“In bed. As usual.”
“He was after her. That’s who he wanted.”
“Who did? Is this the Cheka we’re talking about?”
“He waits and follows, that’s what he does. It wasn’t money he wanted from Olga. She didn’t have any; he didn’t even look for it. Her suitcase—it wasn’t opened, not a drawer out, nothing disturbed. He didn’t want money, he wanted Anna’s address—that’s why he tortured Olga.” She took a breath. “I’ve got to tell the police.”
Natalya was still holding the schnapps,
The strips of newspaper had stirred as Esther opened the curtain— the untidy flapping of a prayer wheel. To a god who’d never noticed.
It was like being a Peeping Tom. Quickly, Esther closed the curtain. Then opened it again to begin tearing the pictures down.
I’m so sorry, Olga. Sorry I saw this. I’ll never tell.
Keeping Olga’s secret was the one thing Esther could do for her.
Before she left, she slipped one of the portraits in her handbag. It would go into the coffin.
She’d hoped that perhaps the policeman in charge of the case would be the one who’d attended the Green Hat. It wasn’t. An Inspector Bolle assured her, “We’ll catch him, Fräulein, don’t you worry,” but he sounded dispirited and echoed Boris’s despair at what was happening to Germany, citing cases of old men and women being attacked for their pensions, housewives robbed on their way home from market, a milkman kicked to death by the man who stole his horse.
“Too many foreigners coming in,” he said, oblivious of whom he was talking to. “It was never like this in the old days.”
Were those the old days when there’d been a world war? Esther won dered. When you were fighting England? France?
Apparently Nick had been able to exert influence, even from the South of France, and both autopsy and inquest were to be expedited. The body would be released ready for burial the following Wednesday.
At the undertaker’s, Esther ordered the most expensive casket avail able, to be drawn by black-plumed horses—the bill to be sent to Prince Nikolai Potrovskov personally. Still vengeful, she went on to the florist’s and arranged for enough late roses to cover the entire coffin lid.
“That’ll teach him to pay her peanuts,” she told Natalya when she got home. “I’m going to see he walks behind that cortege with his bloody hat in his hand.”
“Bit late to do Olga much good,” Natalya pointed out.
“It’ll do him good,” Esther said. “And me.” She went to her desk to put the date and time in her diary in order to make sure Nick kept to them.
Natalya heard her whimper. “What’s up?”
“It was him.” Esther was looking at the diary as into the face of the gorgon. “He killed her.”
“Nick killed her?”
“It was him. It was the sixth weekend. Oh, God, oh, Jesus, it was him. ”
Natalya led her to the sofa. “Put your head between your knees. I’ll get you a drink. We got any brandy?”
Esther didn’t hear her. That’s when he comes, every six weeks. Jostling for notice behind Clara’s voice, other statements, other disregarded facts, were accumulating and joining up.
Boris: The police reckon either he was waiting for her or he followed her home.
Waiting for her. Followed her home. Déjà vu.
Natalya came back with a glass of schnapps. Esther clutched at her. “Where’s Anna?”
“In bed. As usual.”
“He was after her. That’s who he wanted.”
“Who did? Is this the Cheka we’re talking about?”
“He waits and follows, that’s what he does. It wasn’t money he wanted from Olga. She didn’t have any; he didn’t even look for it. Her suitcase—it wasn’t opened, not a drawer out, nothing disturbed. He didn’t want money, he wanted Anna’s address—that’s why he tortured Olga.” She took a breath. “I’ve got to tell the police.”
Natalya was still holding the schnapps,
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