The Curse of the Singing Wolf (3 page)

“I think you might mean
Lalique.”

“If you say so. What do they
call it? Art Nouve?”

“Art Nouveau. Shall I order us
another
café au lait
?”

The Princess groaned. “Oh, no,
I shall be awake half the night. It’s just as well I will be
staying up late. It is the final performance by the Imperial Warsaw
Opera before they move on to the
teatro alla Scala
. La
traviata is not one of my favourites, but that is the tiresome
thing about seaside resorts – it behoves one to be seen to be
keeping oneself amused. It was lovely to see you, Countess Varvara.
Your late aunt would be proud of how you have turned - Oh, I am
such a stupid old lady! – I have a spare ticket! My god-daughter
has developed an ear infection and has been confined to her bed for
at least the next five days. You simply must come with me tonight.
Don’t say no – I couldn’t bear it!” The Princess’s rheumy old
sparklers lit up and she smiled slyly. “I bet the Singing Wolf will
be there. You can see what I mean about the hideous modern
jewellery for yourself. If not, well, at least you will meet Prince
Anton Orczy and see for yourself how charmless he really is.”

Countess Volodymyrovna accepted
the invitation with alacrity and they agreed to meet at the top of
the stairs on the mezzanine level in the foyer of the opera house
at seven o’clock.

The dining room of the Hotel
Louve overlooked the sheltered courtyard garden with the burbling
cherubic fountain. Pots of orchids clustered together in rare
pockets of November sunshine. Biarritz enjoyed a mild climate and
things that would have been shunted off to a glasshouse anywhere
else still managed to flower at the seaside resort.

The waiter was a handsome
Spaniard called Velazquez. He used to be a toreador but after the
tragic death of a fellow bull-fighter during the annual bull-run in
Pamplona he developed a type of stage-fright which manifested as
violent physical trembling. Everyone took pity on the beautiful
young man and pretended not to notice how his hands shook as he
served at table. He often strummed a lively toque on his guitar
toward the end of a meal when guests were enjoying dessert and
coffee and it was only while he was performing that the tremors
ceased.

“I say, this is the best meal
I’ve had for some time,” declared Dr Watson enthusiastically,
tucking into some mussels in white wine. “Something simple, done in
a simple style, always goes down a treat. How is your paella?”

“Wonderful - the chef really is
formidable!
The menu appears to be an interesting blend of
Spanish and French cuisine. The guitarist is good too.”

“I cannot believe we are the
only two guests enjoying this first rate fayre. The others don’t
know what they’re missing. I shall make it a point to dine-in every
night. I spoke to the concierge while you were out with the Russian
barnacle and he says the
femme de chambre
doing my room who
doubles as a waitress when the dining room is full is also Spanish
and she comes out to do a flamenco dance – oh, here she comes
now!”

Like a true daughter of the
gitanos, the dancer wearing a long, colourful, flouncy garment
carried herself proudly with her head flung back and her back
arched. The provocative flamenco called for a lot of foot-stamping
and robust hand-clapping between interludes of the guitar, a pair
of castanets added to the boisterousness of the performance.

“Bravo!” applauded Dr Watson
when the
baille
came to a breathless halt. “Well, what did
you think of that?” he put to his counterpart.

“Superb!”

“The Hotel du Palais pales in
comparison to the Hotel Louve!”

“I’m glad it has worked out so
well.”

“I am not well-versed with
Spanish culture but I shall make it a point to acquaint myself with
the intricacies of flamenco while we are staying here. I might
start tonight when the dancer comes to turn down my bed.”

The Countess thought how nice
it would be to have Velazquez turn down
her
bed while he
educated her on the finer points of flamenco but the
femme de
chambre
allocated to her room was a thick-lipped,
frizzy-haired, heavy-handed Negress about fifteen years of age. Her
name was Desi and the Countess thought it might be short for
Desiderata. The sweet name was the only thing in the girl’s favour.
She was extremely gauche, bumping into this, knocking into that,
moving as clunkily as a black battleship in a regatta of sleek
white yachts.

Nevertheless, the Countess was
genuinely happy for Dr Watson. After that bad start at the Hotel du
Palais this holiday was turning out rather well. Another day or two
and all his recent worries would start to melt away. It was time to
tell him that she was going to the opera with the Russian
barnacle.

The final performance of La
traviata meant that the best seats were sold out months ago,
however, the Princess Roskovsky having all the right connections
had managed to secure a private box on the second tier. She was
running late and the two women had just enough time to get to their
places before the lights dimmed and the curtain went up on the
first act. They got out their opera glasses at once and scanned the
rows of seats in the stalls then did the same with the boxes on the
first and second tiers.

“There’s Prince Orczy,”
whispered the Russian aristocrat, indicating a flaxen helmet of
hair in the fourth row from the front. “He is escorting an American
heiress – Miss Marjorie Mayflower and her mama from New York. They
are wearing new tiaras. I heard they picked them up this morning
from Bisous on the
rue des pins
.”

The Countess trained her glass
on the prince first and the coronets second. “Oh, yes, I see, very
nice, but not a match for your jewelled diadem, Princess
Roskovsky.”

“This old Byzantine thing,” the
old aristocrat dismissed with an airy wave of her silk-gloved hand.
“I did some asking around this afternoon,” continued the Princess,
“and box 2 on the first tier is permanently reserved for the
Singing Wolf.”

The Countess retrained her
glass. “That must be the vacant box on the other side from us but
one level down. I wonder if she will make an appearance
tonight.”

“I am reliably informed she is
very fond of Verdi.”

The two women gave their
concentration over to the performance. The Imperial Warsaw Opera
was dear to the heart of the Countess for her birth mother, Miss
Irene Adler, had started her career with the Polish operatic
company. Box 2 remained disappointingly vacant throughout the first
act.

During the first interval came
the chance to mingle. French champagne was being dispensed gratis
to opera patrons to celebrate the successful conclusion of the
French tour. The Princess Roskovsky managed to catch the eye of
Prince Orczy. He extricated himself from the Mayflowers and came
straight over, planting a trio of kisses on the crêpey cheeks of
the Russian Princess while running an appraising eye over the
Countess at the same time.

“Let me introduce, Countess
Varvara Volodymyrovna,” said the Princess proudly.

Prince Orczy recognized the
patronymic at once and made a great show of kissing her hand. “I
have fond memories of your step-papa, the Count of Odessos. I
stayed as a house-guest in the summer of 79. I remember a pretty
little girl in the cherry orchard and a basket brimming with
something ripe and juicy.”

“I remember the cherry orchard
but I confess I have no memory of you, Prince Orczy.”

His self-deprecating laugh was
deep and throaty. “Perhaps I can leave a greater impression this
time round.”

“Perhaps you will,” said the
Countess coquettishly – for everything about the charmer from his
dancing eyes to the right royal tilt of his princely chin invited
flirtation, “We are apparently staying at the same hotel.”

Blond brows arched with
mischievous interest. “Ah, that explains your presence in the
foyer…”

The little bell rang,
signalling a return to seats.

“
A bientôt
,” he promised
with a sharp click of his heels, cutting off his own
conjecture.

As the lights dimmed, the
Countess noticed that box 2 was now occupied by three people - two
men and a woman. The female occupant was the same stunning lady she
had seen standing on the balcony of the Hotel Louve. Madly curious,
she nevertheless managed to wait until the curtain went up before
training her opera glass for a closer look.

When she was a young girl
growing up in Odessa, the Countess possessed a book of fairy tales.
One of her favourite tales was Snow White. The striking woman
sitting opposite reminded her not of the insipid main character but
the unrepentantly defiant, vainglorious Queen. She had the same
widow’s peak and the same scandalous black hair, the same dark
flashing eyes and the same sharp raptor’s nose, the same dangerous
red mouth and the same queenly mien. She was, in a word,
magnificent.

Next, the two consorts came in
for some undivided attention. They were both handsome men of
indeterminate age – a quaint euphemism for men who had passed the
age of forty. Both men possessed that indefinable quality that
tells the world they know their own worth down to the last shilling
and that it is substantial – arrogant, proud and rich was stamped
all over them.

The Princess Roskovsky leaned
closer. “I see you have noticed the occupants of box 2.”

“Who are the two men?”

The Princess allowed for a
discrete interval before training her glass, and then another safe
interval before whispering behind her silk fan, “Baron Frederik
Reichenbach and Herr Gustav von Gunn.”

Reichenbach! Now there was name
to make the blood run cold!

When the next interval came the
Countess hurried to the mezzanine, heart beating to a staccato
drum, dragging the old Princess along by the elbow somewhat
unceremoniously, and ran straight into Prince Orczy and the two
Mayflowers – looking a little wilted though the night was still
young. Mama Mayflower gushed about the interior decoration of
Orthodox churches and it was impossible to get away. The Singing
Wolf did not make an appearance though her two consorts could be
seen enjoying a cigar at the top of the stairs.

The little bell rang and it was
a return to seats.

Though it cost an effort, the
Countess did not once glance in the direction of box 2, but her
curiosity screamed to be settled.

“Which man is,” she paused and
cautioned herself from appearing too eager to learn which man was
Baron Reichenbach so she asked about the other, “Gustav von
Gunn?”

“I thought you said you weren’t
after a husband?” teased the old aristocrat.

“I’m just trying to put a name
to a face.”

The Princess regarded her
sceptically over the top of her fan. “Gustav is the one with the
moustache like stunted stalks of golden stubble and a head like a
wheatfield after the harvest. He manufactures munitions or
armaments - or are they the same thing? Governments fall all over
themselves to get on his good side, though from what I’ve heard he
doesn’t actually have a good side. Despite my little joke, you
could do a lot worse than become the next Madame von Gunn. He owns
twelve castles – one for every month of the year.”

“And the other one – what did
you say his name was?”

“Frederik Reichenbach. He is
Prussian and descends from a famous military family. He has the
eyes to prove it – they are Prussian blue – ha-ha…quite mesmerizing
– and that leonine mane of white hair is extraordinary,
n’est-ce
pas
?”

“
Oui
, he lives in
Switzerland?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“There is a place in
Switzerland called Reichenbach Falls, popular with hikers. I went
there when I was at finishing school,” she lied.

“Oh, yes, the Thunder of
Reichenbach. He may have a chalet somewhere thereabouts but I
believe he has a castle in Swabia or Styria or someplace starting
with S. He doesn’t have the same wealth as Herr von Gunn but he has
an illustrious history that goes back to Charlemagne. You could do
a lot worse than become the next Baroness of S.”

The ominous storm that had been
marshalling forces all afternoon was now making rumbling
threatening noises much closer to home. Lurid flashes electrified
the darkness of heaven every now and again, though the claps of
thunder were delayed by several seconds, indicating that the enemy
would not attack until after midnight. Nevertheless, it was a long
queue for a fiacre for the short ride to the Bellevue Casino. The
Princess Roskovsky was partial to a flutter on the roulette wheel
which she said always reminded her of her favourite game.

“I adore when the little wheel
spins one way and the little ball goes the other way and then the
tiny metallic click when the ball falls into place just like the
click of the barrel before one shoots one’s brains out!”

“Do you think the Singing Wolf
will go to the casino?” asked the Countess who did not share the
same fondness for roulette or the same taste for gallows’ humour.
“Half these people are directing their coaches to the ballroom of
the Hotel du Palais.”

“Trust me, Countess Varvara.
The Singing Wolf and her entourage will be at the casino. There she
goes now!” The Princess indicated a black and gold barouche pulled
by two black carriage horses.

Of all the carriages in
existence, the barouche was the most elegant: lightly sprung so
that is seemed suspended on a cushion of air and sensuously curved,
imbuing those who sat inside with an aura of sensuousness to match.
The hood was folded down - a sign the occupants were unafraid of
the god of thunder and his invincible hammer.