A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (14 page)

“Sit down, Miss Ivanova! The Home Office finds it has a problem with your passport and immigration details. A problem frequently triggered by a Russian surname and multiplicity of foreign visas. I expect you are aware of British mistrust of your compatriots? The London streets teem with mischief makers,
spies and crooks, heads stuffed with incendiary ideas and pockets stuffed with incendiaries. I’m sure your difficulty will be sorted out to your satisfaction in the end but it could take some time,” he improvised.

She capitulated with a hard gaze. “Funny … someone told me this was England and you were a gent. Gentleman cop! Huh! What an idea!”

“You’ve been deceived, Miss. Well, where shall we have our little chat? At your place or at mine? Here over tea and angel cake or Bow Street with bread and water?”

“Stop faffing about and get on with it!”

“What’s your monthly salary?”

“It’s twenty quid a month all found. What’s it to you?”

“Generous. Your mistress must value your services highly.”

“She can afford it.”

“On a ballet dancer’s earnings? Not great riches, I understand, even at the highest levels of achievement.”

“True. The girls are never paid what they deserve.”

“And it’s a short working life?”

“With no pension at the end of it. Unless you can find yourself a rich bloke or scrape enough together to run your own ballet school, there’s no future.”

“But it would seem that Miss Kirilovna has found other ways of supporting herself?”

“Natalia’s not stupid. She’s always had an eye to the main chance. What’s wrong with that? She’s invested her money in business. It brings her a good return. And when she’s had enough of dancing she won’t be destitute. Far from it.”

“And, meantime, the mistress is generous to the maid?”

“Will you stop this! She’s not my mistress! And I’m not her lady’s maid. What do you think this is—a scene from
The Marriage of Figaro
?”

“Then how should I characterise your relationship? Tell me.”

“I’m a friend. A friend she pays to help her get through her life.”

“A paid companion,” he noted to annoy her further.

She coloured and her speech became tight and controlled. “You could say that, if you chose to be wilfully obtuse. I deal with travelling, interviews, wardrobe, secretarial services … assignations … The company gives support of course but she needs extra. Heaven knows—she gives
them
extra!”

“How long have you known her?”

“Since we were kids. Eight years old. We met, shivering with nerves, waiting in a corridor with a dozen others to audition for the Mariinsky Ballet School in St. Petersburg. We were smaller and younger than the rest. But we were both accepted. I was a better dancer than Natalia, though she had pushier and richer parents. It didn’t matter. We liked each other. We backed each other up. Even shared our shoes. Two little girls working together are less likely to be picked on than a loner. But there were worse things than hair-pulling and treading on toes. It was a tough, competitive world.”

Quietly evaluating her story, delivered with insouciant brevity, Joe thought he’d wait to hear a bit more before he uttered the word “codswallop!”

“What happened?” he asked.

“This happened,” she said getting to her feet. “Excuse me for a moment.”

She rose with the grace and neat hand gestures of a dancer, pivoted elegantly on one foot, took a deep breath to steady herself and then struck off, hobbling towards Armitage who had settled at a table across the room. The eyes of the other guests turned hastily away in confusion, sliding back briefly to be certain they hadn’t imagined the ugly black surgical shoe with its built-up sole, contrasting shockingly with the neat grey kid court shoe on the other foot. With a rush of emotion, Joe followed her stumbling
and jerky walk, able, only too well, to guess the tragic cause of it. He stood, his muscles tensed, preparing instinctively to dash forward and slide an arm under her elbow or about her waist. The urge to shield her from the embarrassed distaste of the room with his own strength and confidence was almost irresistible. He realised a moment before he made a fool of himself that this was a performance that he was meant to witness, not take part in.

Armitage, however, was decidedly in on the act. There was neither discomfort nor pity in the sergeant’s eyes as he watched her approach. His flinty features softened into a smile of welcome as she moved close to him. He stood to greet her. She leaned across the table and whispered something that made the sergeant shoot a glance at Joe and snort with laughter then she returned to her place.

“Polio happened.” At last she answered his question. “Infantile paralysis, they used to call it. I caught it when I was twelve. I was lucky. I didn’t die. But I suffered muscular atrophy which left me with a withered left leg. I was whisked straight out of the company at the first signs, of course. Someone realised pretty quickly that it wasn’t ’flu I had. All hushed up. No one spoke of it in those days.”

“It’s still a whispered word,” Joe said. “There have been many victims in London. And in the States. Their new president himself has battled it—or something like it—for nigh on ten years.”

She looked at him in some surprise.

“It’s not exactly a secret but it’s not done to speak of it. He manages not to let it get the better of him. Admirable chap!”

Julia appeared unimpressed by the struggles of the great and the good and it was clear that she was not seeking sympathy for herself. So, he wondered—but for no longer than a second—what was behind her little display. The girl was a performer still and performers craved an audience. He could only begin to imagine the distress the foul illness must have caused, robbing her at once
of her skill and the life she coveted under the limelight. Joe turned the conversation. “You managed to get out of Russia before it all turned bad?”

“When was that precisely? It’s always been bad. Things were turning even more sour and my parents decided to get out as soon as travel was possible again and come back to England. This was after the war. Nineteen twenty, that was. I met Natalia again six years later when she was already quite a star. She’d become one of Diaghilev’s squad of young ballerinas and was making a name for herself. I went backstage to see her at Covent Garden. Spent my last shilling on that ticket. She knew me at once though I must have looked like something the cat brought in. I was destitute. Parents dead. She gave me the couch in her dressing room and I’ve never left her side since.”

“Except when she chooses to wander off?”

“They all do it. Ballerinas, actresses, singers. It’s a wild life, Joe Plod. You wouldn’t understand. She runs away. For good reason or no reason at all. Boredom, anger, exhaustion or a new lover. Fed up with me perhaps. Look—she had a row with that American feller, Kingstone. Nasty scene! Screaming occurred, curses were uttered, threats made, shoes thrown. All by her. Tuesday night. She stamped out.”

“What caused it?”

She paused for a moment, looking at him with speculation. Then, with a shrug of a shoulder, decided to confide: “He wanted to know when she was going to settle down and marry him, she said ‘never’ and off they went. If she’s playing the usual game, she’ll be holed up in a small hotel just around the corner, tormenting him. Can’t think why he puts up with it. Really—he deserves better. This chap’s what my ma would have called ‘a diamond geezer,’ he really is, Joe, and she treats him like a gigolo. Silly cow! She’s never known her luck! Anyway—when she’s pulled out of her sulk, she’ll come back and do her Act Three entrance, leaping
on stage and going into a pirouette. And we’ll all applaud. It’s very predictable and very annoying. Have we done? I don’t want to miss the news reel.”

“For the moment. Look—if you don’t want to go alone, why don’t you take officer Armiger with you? Bill’s new in town and I’m sure he’d love to see
King Kong
. He’s due for a few hours off and I can entertain his boss for the evening.”

“What! Go to the flicks with that Yank? Not on your nellie! He’s not my type.”

In sudden confusion, she looked away from Armitage, to whom her eyes had been drawn, her face showing an emotion very like panic and Joe regretted his ill-considered suggestion.

“Oh, Bill’s all right,” he felt obliged to say. “He’s house-trained, you could say.” Joe grinned. “Trained him myself in fact. He has nice manners and most women find him very approachable once they’ve got past the Colt revolver he insists on wearing. In fact, he’s got quite a bit in common with you, I think. You both enjoy a rollicking good tale.”

She shook her head at his misunderstanding. “He’s a stunner!” She looked at him quizzically. “Have you seen
She Done Him Wrong
?”

“Um, yes,” Joe admitted he had. “It was showing at the Plaza in January.”

“Then you’ll know what I mean when I say Agent Armiger looks like a Cary Grant who’s gone three rounds with Mae West. He’s quite a strider—in all senses. Not a man I could ever keep up with, Joe Plod. In any way. It was a kind thought though.” She reached under her chair and picked up her clutch bag. “I’ll kiss you goodnight if you’re still hanging about when I get back. Cheerio, ducks!”

Armitage was looming over him at his table the moment she had left the room, his eyes narrowed, his tone unpleasant. “What the hell did you say to her? She looked upset. Something I should know?”

“I was sweetness and light,” Joe protested. “Better than she deserves considering she’s a naughty little liar! Quick! Do we have back-up here?”

“Kingstone’s in the bar with Superintendent Cottingham, starting on a bottle of Glenmorangie. Cottingham took the afternoon off but he’s got his second wind. They’re yarning together about catching fish.”

Joe rolled his eyes. “Ah! I’d forgotten about the angling angle. I usually manage to. Well, that’s them settled in for the evening then. Grab your fedora, Bill. We’re off on a trailing exercise again. Still up to it? Little Miss Julia tells me she’s going to see
King Kong
but I’m not sure I believe her.”

They watched, unseen, as Julia Ivanova waited for a taxi. The commissionaire hailed one for her and announced her destination: “Leicester Square, cabby.” All Joe could do was tell the driver of the next cab along to follow in her wake. An instruction that always brought out the eagerness and skill of a big game hunter in the London taxi driver. Squad car officers were as keen as mustard, well-trained, and had the reactions of professional racing drivers but if you wanted anonymity, street knowledge, the ability to turn on a sixpence and enthusiasm for the chase, Joe reckoned it was best to do your trailing by taxi.

This driver was young and bright-eyed and, when he spoke, addressed them in an irreverent Cockney accent. “Right you are, Guv. I’ll stay closer up his backside than a stick of ginger up a Derby winner,” he growled and put his foot down.

They drove off east towards New Bond Street but instead of turning right for Piccadilly and on towards Leicester Square, the lead taxi turned left and set off northwards. They threaded their way through the narrow streets north of Oxford Street through a press of traffic and went twice around Cavendish Square.

“Lost? Naw! Shaking us off? Naw!” Their driver set their minds at rest. “I reckon the fare’s not sure where she’s going.”

“What the hell’s she doing in Marylebone?” Armitage wondered.

A moment later, hanging on gamely, their taxi slipped down an elegant street that Joe recognised.

“Stay well back, cabby, and prepare to stop,” he said tensely.

They eased past the grand façades and, with swift reaction, the driver pulled up a discreet thirty yards behind their target and on the opposite side of the road, finding cover and anonymity in front of a small hotel. The fashionable street was crowded with taxis and large, luxurious motors and Joe judged that in the mêlée they’d not been noticed. Julia Ivanova got out, paid off her driver, took a long look to left and right and limped down the pathway to a door which, judging by the gleam of polished plates on either side, was a professional or commercial premises of some kind. She rang the doorbell.

“Bill …”

Armitage was already out of the cab and easing his way along the street, unremarkable amongst home-going pedestrians, soon lost in the flow even to Joe’s eye. Minutes later, Bill climbed back into the cab with a face like thunder.

“There’s two parts to it. The girl disappeared into the commercial bit but I noticed round the back there’s a very discreet glass covered-way linking it with the smart house next door. Looks like a private house or a small hotel. Could be an annexe to the bigger building.” He took out his notebook, scribbled a few words and silently showed the page to Joe. “Address and description.”

“Well, I think we know how to interpret
that
.”

“Shall we wait? Could be here a while.”

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll waste our time. We know where she’s going to drop anchor eventually,” Joe said cheerfully. “Let’s go back to the hotel and relieve Cottingham shall we?”

“It’s looking bad.” Armitage felt the need to convey his
gloomy prognosis. “Don’t know about you, Captain, but I’m thinking the worst.” He tapped his notebook. “I’ve come across establishments like that. Nothing good ever came out of them. Or went in,” he added, glowering. Why are they tolerated? How do they get away with it? If I were in government I’d close them down and put the devils who run them in the dock.”

Joe was familiar with Armitage’s odd puritan streak. A bright, metallic thread of Presbyterian austerity shone out occasionally in the richly-hued skein of his morality. Joe remembered that the sergeant’s mother had been a Scottish girl and—while she lived—must have been as much an influence on him as his rascally old father. Unfortunately, with Bill, the application of strict moral principles seemed to extend to everyone but himself.

“How long do you suppose it takes?” Joe asked vaguely.

Armitage shrugged. “No idea. Not something I was ever involved with, thank God. Personally or professionally. I never volunteered for Vice.”