Chapter 6
A DANGEROUS GAME
The revelation that Anya had been planning to flee to America rather than France changed everything.
As my cab rattled back toward central London, I found myself reconsidering every detail of the case.
If she'd been planning such an elaborate escape, she would have needed professional help—someone who specialized in booking international passage and perhaps arranging employment abroad.
After a brief stop at the King’s Theatre to return the letters and photographs to their hiding place, I hailed a cab and made my way to Covent Garden, where theatrical agents clustered near the grand marquees of the West End’s busiest playhouses and music halls.
If Anya had been seeking passage to America along with potential work in American dance companies, this would be the logical place to start.
The offices of theatrical agents lined the narrow streets like so many stage doors, each promising fame and fortune to eager performers.
I chose the largest and most established-looking firm: Pemberton & Associates, Theatrical Representatives.
The brass nameplate gleamed with the sort of polish that suggested prosperity.
A young secretary with carefully marcelled hair looked up as I entered. "Good afternoon, miss.”
“Good afternoon,” I offered my brightest smile. “My name is Catherine Worthington. I would like to see Mr. Pemberton.”
“Do you have an appointment?"
"I'm afraid not. I would like information about Miss Anya Petrova from the King’s Theatre. I understand she may have been seeking representation for American opportunities."
The girl's expression grew cautious. "I'm sorry, but we don't discuss our clients' affairs with—"
“Miss Worthington is a private investigator,” came a voice from the inner office.
A distinguished gentleman stepped into view—tall and lean, with silver hair and the kind of clothes that spoke of quiet wealth.
“I’m Mr. Pemberton,” he said. “I heard about Miss Petrova's disappearance. Terrible business."
“Her disappearance is not public knowledge. How did you find out?”
“I have clients and friends in the theatre community. This morning I received a telephone call from one of them.”
Clearly, this was not mere gossip. He had a connection to Anya. “You knew her?"
"She consulted with us several times over the past month. Most discreetly, I might add. She was interested in opportunities with American ballet companies—New York, specifically." He gestured toward his office. "Perhaps we should speak privately."
I followed him into a well-appointed office lined with photographs of performers and posters from various productions. He settled behind his desk, his expression grave.
"Miss Petrova was quite specific about her requirements," he said. "She needed not just employment, but complete arrangements—passage, documentation, even temporary lodging in New York. She was willing to pay handsomely for absolute discretion."
"Did she say why she needed to leave London so urgently?"
Pemberton hesitated. "She mentioned family difficulties. Said there were people who might try to prevent her departure. I got the impression she was frightened."
"What arrangements did you make for her?"
"I was able to secure her an audition with the Metropolitan Opera Ballet in New York. The position came with housing and would have provided her with legal residency papers. We'd arranged passage on the Aquitania, which sails from Southampton this coming Friday."
My pulse quickened. "This Friday? That's only two days away."
"Indeed. Which is why her disappearance is so troubling. She'd already paid a substantial deposit—five hundred pounds—for the arrangements. It's not the sort of sum one abandons lightly."
Five hundred pounds was a fortune for most people. For Anya to have paid such an amount suggested both the seriousness of her plans and her desperate need to escape.
"When did you last see her?"
"Monday afternoon. She came to finalize the details and collect her travel documents. She seemed different that day. Excited, almost hopeful. Said she'd received news that made her certain she was making the right decision."
Monday—the same day Mrs. Whitmore had mentioned Anya receiving the mysterious letter that had lifted her spirits.
"Did she mention what this news was?"
"No, but she did ask an odd question. She wanted to know if our arrangements could be accelerated. If she could sail earlier than Friday."
"What did you tell her?"
"That it would be difficult but not impossible. The Mauretania was sailing today, but securing passage on such short notice would require considerable additional expense." Pemberton frowned. "She said she would consider it and let me know yesterday morning."
Yesterday—the day she disappeared.
“Did she come to see you?"
"No. When she failed to appear, I telephoned the theatre. I left word for her to contact me. She never did." He paused. "Miss Worthington, there's something else. Something that troubled me considerably."
"Yes?"
"When Miss Petrova left on Monday, I noticed a man watching from across the street. Well-dressed, foreign-looking, with distinctive silver hair. He seemed to be observing our building quite intently."
My blood chilled. "Can you describe him more specifically?"
"Tall, military bearing, expensive overcoat." Pemberton's expression darkened. "When Miss Petrova emerged from our building, I saw him follow her down the street."
Volkov. He'd been tracking her movements, learning about her escape plans.
"Did you see this man again?"
"Tuesday morning, actually. Same spot, same watching behavior. Almost as if he was waiting for Miss Petrova to return." Pemberton leaned forward. "I've been in this business for thirty years. I know when someone is being hunted. That young woman was in serious danger."
"Did she give you any other information? Anything that might help us find her?"
"She mentioned she had proof of . . . irregularities involving some members of the Russian émigré community.
Said it was insurance, in case anyone tried to stop her from leaving.
" He opened his desk drawer and withdrew a sealed envelope.
"She asked me to hold this for her, with instructions to open it only if something happened to prevent her from sailing. "
My hands trembled as I reached for the envelope. "What's in it?"
"I don't know. But she was very specific. If she failed to contact me before the Aquitania sailed, I was to deliver it to Scotland Yard immediately."
I stared at the envelope, my mind racing. If Anya had left behind evidence—as insurance—Volkov would almost certainly know. Which meant . . .
“Mr. Pemberton,” I said carefully, “I believe you may be in considerable danger. The man you described—he’s suspected in multiple murders. And if he thinks you’re holding something that could incriminate him . . .”
The color drained from Pemberton’s face. “Good God. What should I do?”
“For starters, you shouldn’t keep this envelope.”
“Take it. I don’t want it.”
I slipped it into my handbag.
“What else?” he asked. “What should I do now?”
“Contact Scotland Yard at once. Ask for Inspector Crawford Sinclair—tell him I sent you. And whatever you do, don’t go home alone, don’t follow your usual routines, and if you see that man again—”
A tremendous crash echoed from the outer office, followed by the secretary's scream. Heavy footsteps thundered across the floor, heading directly for Pemberton's office.
"The back exit," Pemberton whispered urgently, pointing toward a door behind his desk. "Quickly!"
But even as we moved toward it, the office door burst open. Two men entered—one tall and silver-haired with cold eyes and expensive clothes, the other younger and powerfully built. Both wore gloves.
Dmitri Volkov had found us.
His associate shut the door behind them. Whatever was about to happen, they didn’t want the secretary to witness.
“Mr. Pemberton, I presume,” Volkov said in accented English, his voice smooth but laced with quiet menace. “And this is Miss Worthington.” His pale eyes landed on me, sharp and assessing. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”
My mind flicked through possibilities. The back door was too far to reach unnoticed, and Volkov’s companion stood squarely between us and the front office. Flight was not an option. I’d have to keep up appearances.
“No,” I said evenly, meeting his gaze. “We haven’t.”
Volkov smiled. The expression was more terrifying than any scowl. “You are the lady detective who’s looking for Anya, my niece. She’s caused me considerable worry. Perhaps we might . . . collaborate in our search?"
The way he said the word 'collaborate' made my skin crawl. This was no offer of assistance. It was a threat wrapped in politeness.
"I'm sure we both want what's best for Anya," I said carefully, backing slightly toward Pemberton's desk.
"Oh, but of course." Volkov stepped further into the room, his companion moving to flank us. "Family must always come first, don't you agree? And family obligations . . . they must be honored."
I thought of the threatening letters, of Professor Levkin's warnings about blood debts and imperial secrets. Whatever hold Volkov had over Anya, he intended to enforce it—permanently.
"Mr. Pemberton," Volkov continued conversationally, "I believe you have something that belongs to my family. Something my niece left in your care?"
"I'm afraid I don't understand," Pemberton said.
Volkov's smile never wavered, but his eyes turned arctic. "I think you do. Just as I think Miss Worthington understands that some family matters are best resolved privately."
Whatever was in the envelope Anya had left with Pemberton, it was important enough for Volkov to risk exposing himself by coming here personally. Important enough to kill for.
And judging by the way his companion was moving closer, that's exactly what he intended to do.