A Thief in the Night (9 page)

Harry put down the journal and read no more. He knew his friend as he had never known him before.

At Richmond Street, Maria de Bellezza had not failed to avail herself and friends of the company of the celebrities in town, and had invited Irina Danova and Paul Dalevy to her next salon. The world knew Irina, but Monsieur Dalevy, the tenor, was a rising star and little known outside France. At two, Mr Danilo Bruzov was admitted into the parlour, followed by his two singers. In minutes they were ushered into the broad, well-lit room and announced. The cluster of guests clapped politely and Maria began to introduce them to her friends.

‘Now everyone, as I promised, we have in the room with us now Mr Bruzov, who is the agent and manager of many famous performers in Europe, and in his care, Miss Irina Danova and Monsieur Dalevy. Mr Bruzov, I rashly promised my friends that we could allow a few questions to your good self and your singers. I hope that is agreeable?’

Both new arrivals were large men. Dalevy was barrel-chested and had a solid, square frame, running to fat even at his young age of thirty. He wore a dark topcoat and shoulder cape and a hat with a wide brim: everything else was a melancholy black and his moustache was waxed and pointed. He did not smile easily, and appeared to be preoccupied, although he was the perfect gentlemanly guest.

Bruzov was an immense man, so broad and solid that he had to make a special effort to turn and address people across the room. He was bald, squat, with a red, pockmarked face, and had to cope with an immense stomach which was held in check by a belt and a cummerbund. Somehow, a waistcoat had been found or made to stretch across his belly. As he spoke, his chin quivered, but his voice was commanding and firm.

‘Of course Madame Bellezza, we are here to entertain. Please ask.’ He waved an arm across the front of the dozen guests who were all standing in adoration. Most eyes were on Irina, who was stunningly attractive, a woman now of twenty-six, in the full flowering of her beauty, dressed in a skirt of creative lines and ruches, with a white blouse, puff-sleeved and laced on neck and cuffs. The first question was for her.

‘Miss Danova, is this your first time in England?’

‘Yes indeed, though I have heard much about London, and Mr Bruzov is a new manager. My former manager met with an illness in Paris last week and had to stay there.’

‘Do you have friends here?’

There was a short pause, as if she was about to answer but then changed her mind. ‘No …, no. But I soon will have!’

The assembled guests applauded. Maria, who was well aware that her female celebrity was the cause of George’s heartache, was by no means merely a hostess. Every party she arranged was also an occasion for gathering information for her contacts in Special Branch, and she had been asked to check on Bruzov. As the big man enjoyed his third brandy, Jemmy Smythe, who was acting as butler for the day, was searching the Russian’s greatcoat on the hook in the hall. Jemmy enjoyed playing the role of servant – being the Society’s eyes and ears, unobserved, when investigations were being made.

When the party dispersed for the day, and everyone had been invited to the Steinway Hall that night, Smythe reported.

‘Nothing definite, Maria, except that I heard the Frenchman say something very odd – that Irina
would do as she was told
. Bruzov has only two days ago taken over as her manager and already he – and apparently the French singer – control her. Why?’

‘I wish we knew. But go on.’

‘There was also a letter, possibly related to why he is really here.’

‘
Really
here?’ Maria asked.

‘He is possibly a known agent. My information is that a person travelling with Irina was for ten years an officer in the Russian army of the East.’

‘The letter merely asked for a meeting but refered to something, not in code but in a very personal phrase. It’s “In preparation for Mannheim” – and that’s very odd.’

‘Why? They’re going to the races!’

‘Dear me, Maria,’ cried the former jockey, ‘you need to know the turf a little … the Derby was last June!’

Maria arranged to meet Smythe with the others at the next Oriental dinner, and sat down to try to work out the Mannheim reference. One thing had to be done though: the other Society members needed to be informed of this letter. Of course, they all knew about Lord George’s service in the East, and so he was told. But, for the time being, it remained a puzzle.

In a small hotel room in Dieppe, Rudolph Glazin was raging, in a sweaty delirium, on the corner bed. He was trying to talk about the London tour. ‘
We shall have to
inform the manager at The Royal Court … that task remains undone, Irina my dear … it remains undone. We have to be … have to be professional!’

Two men sat by his side. One, with some medical knowledge, answered the nervous questions of the other, who was so agitated that he occasionally started with apprehension, looked closely at Glazin, and then to the other man for reassurance. ‘Why has he not gone yet, Piotr?’

‘He has a strong heart. Sometimes they fight far more than is natural.’

‘You … you gave him the right dose?’

‘Of course. Now if you can’t handle this, go and get me a coffee. Go!’

The man was only too pleased to go, and when the door closed the other took a pillow and made a gentle, soothing sound, cooing like a mother about to sing a lullaby. ‘Oh now, my dear man … now is the time for that eternal rest … your pain will soon leave you.’

He placed the pillow over Glazin’s sweat-covered face and forced the weight of his body on top, pressing down with all his force.

‘See, my old friend … the darkness comes and you sleep … no more struggling.’

He remained in position for some time, being sure that beneath him there was no struggling, no fighting for perhaps a last intake of precious air. When all was still, he released the pressure and sat back.

A few minutes later the other man came in, carrying a cup of hot coffee. He looked at the bed and then at his accomplice. ‘Piotr … he has gone then?’

‘Yes. He went quietly in the end.’

In the Septimus Club, Lord George was almost ready for the evening at the Steinway Hall. He had been careful to prepare himself so that he looked entirely different from the army officer Irina had first met in Persia. Harry was accompanying him, and the professor was asked more than once if his friend’s appearance was suitable.

‘Suitable? Why, you are utterly and hopelessly like an adolescent. Still in love with this woman, aren’t you?’

George, now on his third whisky and feeling almost bold enough to talk, said, ‘Harry, make I speak directly … I mean, from the heart?’

‘Well, if you must old boy, but, well, it’s most irregular.’

‘I don’t care one collop of pig’s meat if it’s irregular. Look, for five years I have tried to forget her. She went home, I went back to the frontier and my duty … the years ate away my feelings, or so I thought until yesterday and that note.’

Harry Lacey’s face was bright red. Emotions were something he stayed clear of, and here was a situation calling for the kind of tact he found to be a challenge. Pretending to fuss over his waistcoat buttons, to play for time, he eventually said, ‘The point is, if this is what all those romances are about well, then, speak to her … go to her after the concert tonight and express your feelings old man!’

‘Do you know, you’re talking sense, Harry. The truth is that you
can
talk about matters other than end-rhymes and couplets. You’re a scholar
and
a gentleman!’

At the Steinway Hall in Marylebone Lane, the assembled audience had filled every seat and there was a mood of excitement across the open space as people shuffled with bags and coats, and the crowd whispered their opinions and talked in high praise of Miss Danova. Some recalled that they had seen her in Paris; others marvelled at her Russian beauty. ‘She has such a divine Slavic face … what a dramatic profile!’ they cooed, and ‘I’m thrilled that she’s singing Schubert.’ Then all was silent as Bruzov walked onto the stage and bowed.

George and Harry were in some of the best seats at the end of the second row, and, from behind a pillar, Irina squinted to see if she could make out George in the audience. She could – his tall figure and his nobility stood out, at least for her. She smiled. Behind her the words, ‘Be ready now, Miss, please!’ were snapped out in the French accent she had come to hate.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let us welcome, to first of all sing two songs from Schubert’s
Die Winterreise
, Miss Irina Danova!’ Bruzov flagged one chunky arm towards her and Irina came on to great applause. As Bruzov walked slowly away from view, she looked around and spoke.

‘I will begin with
Gute Nacht
, my personal favourite, which ends with a lover writing “good night” on the gate of his beloved – something I cannot recommend to you in this beautiful city, which should be left unblemished.’

Irina had not the slightest notion that Lord George Lenham-Cawde, who was surrounded by nobility and by the new aristocracy of wealth and so was perfectly aware that he was being constantly scrutinised, felt deep inside him the unsettling disturbances of the bitter-sweet emotions he had known before when in the company of this woman. She had not changed at all, and her allure was more appealing than ever.

George had first had to look at Bruzov, and he hated the sight of him. This fat cur was bullying the object of his affection. Then there was the Mannheim letter, which Lord George was certain now indicated some kind of espionage work in which Bruzov was engaged.

The Schubert songs were finished, and then on came Paul Dalevy to sing two duets with Irina. After loud and long applause, the audience stood and shouted ‘bravo’ as the singers bowed.

The crowd gradually dispersed into the chilly evening, calling for cabs or walking to parties in Manchester Square or to their hotels around George Street and Wigmore Street. Harry waited by the exit as Lord George walked to the side door, announcing his name to an usher. He was asked if he had been invited backstage. His reply was that he was an old friend of Miss Danova’s from years ago. The man was not going to let him in, but Bruzov appeared from behind and when told that it was Lord Lenham-Cawde, he ordered the man to let George in.