“I told you we will have to do our own investigation,” said Madame Koska.
“What am I going to do about Natalya? This situation will destroy her. She was doing so well and now this… I don’t know how to help her.”
“If only she had listened to me last night,” said Madame Koska. “I told her to go straight home. Why did she have to come back with those stupid ironing cloths?”
“She is obsessed with the work, Vera. You know that,” said Madame Golitsyn.
“The only good thing that happened is that Natalya is not the only one who might look bad. It is a little strange that the sisters Plimpton-Anderson came yesterday to the atelier, without making an appointment, and requested to be shown around the premises. And they are such close friends of the Howard family—and of little Gretchen. I must telephone Inspector Blount right away, Annushka; I would like him to be here when Gretchen comes to work.”
Ten
A little before nine o’clock the seamstresses started arriving. One of the first, as always, was Natalya. She seemed quieter than ever, if that was possible, Madame Koska thought as she watched her through the open door. Natalya took off her coat, put on a clean smock, and sat at the table, immediately taking up her work and bending over it.
Madame Koska herself was sitting in her office, perfectly groomed and dressed. She no longer felt any effects from the drug, since after drinking two strong cups of coffee and eating a small breakfast, even the headache disappeared. She knew she had to steel herself to the events of the day, and her weapon, as always, was her professional appearance and demeanour. As she sat at her desk, every hair in place, delicate makeup carefully applied, wearing an elegant mauve suit and tasteful day jewellery, no one looking at her would have suspected the ordeal and the terror she had experienced the night before, and she meant to keep it like that. Upstairs, Madame Golitsyn was waiting for her summons, which would happen very soon, the two ladies surmised, since after telling Inspector Blount the details of the events, he informed them that he would be there at nine-thirty. Of course he knew all about it from the night before, since the officers, and the man he kept in front of the establishment, kept him informed.
At precisely nine-thirty Inspector Blount arrived, accompanied by Mr. Korolenko. The inspector had told Madame Koska on the telephone that he meant to bring Mr. Korolenko, since his presence was necessary when Gretchen was to be presented with the memories of her childhood, to which only Mr. Korolenko had been a witness. They sat quietly in Madame Koska’s office, with the door ajar.
Punctual as ever, a trait much appreciated by Madame Koska, Gretchen arrived a few minutes before ten o’clock. She was expected to sit at the telephone at ten o’clock, since many clients liked to call early, before starting their busy days. Gretchen always went to the wash room to fix her hair and reapply her lipstick, and then would sit at the front desk. They let her do so, and then Madame Koska called her to come into the office for a moment.
Gretchen came immediately, and seeing the company, stood at the door, immobile, staring at them and saying nothing. Madame Koska could see the fear in her eyes and felt sorry for the child. “Come in, Miss Van der Hoven,” she said kindly. “Ve need your help.” Gretchen did not move, her eyes darting from one person to the other, her hands clasped together in front of her breast.
“There is nothing to fear, Gretchen,” said Mr. Korolenko. “We must discuss your father.”
Gretchen emerged from her frozen terror enough to be able to talk. “Father,” she whispered. “Do you know anything new about him?”
“No,” said Inspector Blount. “But we were hoping you will tell us. Originally, when he disappeared, your family told everyone that he was dead. However, Mr. Korolenko does not believe it. He has heard that your father is alive.”
Gretchen slipped into a chair and started sobbing. “I don’t know, I don’t know… the man told me he was alive and that they would kill him…”
“What man?” said Inspector Blount, and pulled a notebook and pencil out of his pocket.
“The man I met on the train,” said Gretchen, sobbing.
“Gretchen,” said Mr. Korolenko, “pull yourself together. This won’t do. You have been living a lie and inventing tales and getting yourself deeper and deeper into trouble. Come clean, please.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Gretchen defiantly, seemingly alternating between fear and anger.
“But I do,” said Madame Koska. “A girl who keeps a book by a sixteenth century humanist by her bed for light bedtime reading, cannot pretend forever to silliness and flightiness.”
Gretchen looked at her, amazed. “How do you know…” she whispered.
“Because I vent into your room to spy on you vhen I stayed at your aunt’s and uncle’s house,” said Madame Koska.
“You went into my room… but why?”
“Because Mr. Korolenko told me that during your childhood you vere a little scholar, always at your books. I could not reconcile it with the girl who liked only fashion and dancing. And that same girl was in my atelier when the robbery occurred, so it vas very much my right to check.”
“You had no right to spy on me though…” said Gretchen. “I never suspected you would do that.”
“I was there too, Gretchen, with Madame Koska. We looked not only at Erasmus by your bedside, but also at your other books and the notes you took as you were studying other philosophers,” said Mr. Korolenko. “We had every right to do so, since you were misleading everyone, and your behaviour at work was quite suspicious. Not to mention the fact that your father’s life was at stake, and that a robbery happened at Madame Koska’s, which we strongly suspected was connected to your situation.”
“I never quite understood vhy you vanted to vork at the atelier, and I suspected you lied about something,” said Madame Koska.
Gretchen looked as if she were going to deny everything, stood up, and then sat down again and said, “Very well. I’ll tell you everything. But you must help me. You must help Father.”
“You should have done so right away, my girl,” said Inspector Blount. “It might have saved everyone much trouble, and for all I know, your father would have been released much sooner. You should have told the police.”
“But I couldn’t… They threatened to kill Father if I talked to the police.” said Gretchen. “When I was travelling on the train from school to my uncle’s house, it was rather empty. No one was sitting in my compartment, until a very well-dressed, middle-aged, respectable looking man came in and sat down. When the train was in motion for about ten minutes, he came over to me and said, ‘Miss Van der Hoven, please don’t be alarmed, I have something to tell you. Your father is alive.’ I was so stunned I could barely talk, since I was told he died in a train accident.”
“Did the man give any details about where your father was?” asked Inspector Blount, looking up from his notebook.
“He said he was kept prisoner in London, by an international gang who specialised in jewellery and opium and art theft. He claimed Father had worked with them but decided to stop it and they no longer trusted him. Not that I believe it… Father would not have worked with criminals.”
“Perhaps he was not aware of their crimes at the time,” suggested Mr. Korolenko. “And only found out later.”
“I really don’t know anything about Father’s business,” said Gretchen. “We used to spend our time together reading and studying and visiting art shows and theatres. We never talked about business. He dreamed about sending me to Oxford—you know they opened it to women in 1910, so it was possible… I wanted it too, so much; I keep up with my studies now in the hope that someday I could go there… even though it’s not the same without Father. Still, I feel that if I went to university, he would be so proud no matter where he is. But you don’t care about that.”