Swiss Vendetta (Agnes Luthi Mysteries #1)(37)

“Monsieur Mulholland, I am surprised you hadn’t met Mademoiselle Cowell before. In London. Two young people out on the town. She seemed like someone you would know.”

“What does that mean? Someone I would know?”

She looked at him carefully before changing the subject. “I always thought I wanted to live a hundred years ago,” she addressed herself to Arsov, “but this weather makes me think I was wrong.”

“A hundred years ago you would have dressed warmer.” Arsov settled his own blanket higher under his arms. “Even fifty years ago you would have dressed warmer. When I left my village I was fortunate to have my father’s bearskin coat. It is the little things that saved my life.”

“Did you manage to bring money with you?” Mulholland asked, attentive again.

“Money? You think we walked around with our pockets full of coins? What do I tell you?” Arsov called over to his nurse.

“Sew my diamonds into my hems.” She laughed. “As if I have diamonds.”

“Later I wished I had money. That is what they would say after the war, the ones who lived. Carry your wealth with you. Those were the lessons many took away. What I took away was to keep my money in a numbered account in Switzerland.” He laughed a hacking half cough.

“But that came later. I traveled with the British for some weeks. Men at war are strange. They want to hear any news of the outside. News of Stalingrad was of interest, for these soldiers had not seen siege warfare and already we were famous. Because of my father’s work I spoke fluent French and once out of Russia I wanted to join the famous Resistance.”

Agnes covered a laugh with a cough.

“You want to ask how my Russian accent grew back?” Arsov’s eyes closed and a faint smile appeared. “I found that after the war, as I started my business, it was better to be a Russian who escaped Stalin, who struggled through every day, than a man with a Russian name and no connections in France who spoke beautiful French. My father would have despaired as I unlearned my beautiful accent and forgot selected pieces of grammar.” He coughed and motioned for a handkerchief.

“These Brits were a cavalier group despite their serious mission. I think that like many who have seen horror, they were happy to get me to the place I wanted, even if they thought I would probably last only a few days or weeks. After all, we would all probably last only a few weeks.”

Agnes wished she’d met Arsov under better circumstances, wondering if she could introduce her boys to him when the investigation was over. She’d underestimated him, thinking he was born to wealth or had made his money under the harsh Russian regime and retired to Switzerland to enjoy his last days in pure capitalism.

The old man blew another ring of smoke. “After several weeks we reached the Mediterranean. There was a man going ashore; I never learned his name, but he agreed to take me on his dingy. He had only one question for me: if I had a weapon. It seems a stupid question to you, here we are at war, but the British had not armed me. There was a limit to their help. I was a civilian or maybe there were other reasons, maybe it was simple and no one thought to ask me. I showed him my knife and he was disgusted. He reached into his boot and pulled out real weapons. A pair of daggers. The blades were long, each with a razor-sharp edge and beautiful engraving on the blade. Lightweight steel, of craftsmanship I had never seen before.”

Agnes felt the power of the blades he described. Had Felicity Cowell seen the weapon that killed her? The idea of a knife was more frightening than a gun.

Arsov stabbed his cigarette out and smiled at her. “He used one of the pair to slash the side of our dingy to deflate it and we stepped onto the sand in water up to our thighs. Then he handed me the other. The boat washed away and he walked into the darkness leaving me alone in the night.

“I started my new life knowing that France was my destiny with my new Sykes-Fairbairn blade in my grip.”





Eleven

She wore a wool dress and tights colored to match and was unhappy about it, but the nurse had insisted, and Mimi had learned long ago that this was the one adult who couldn’t be swayed by tears (as was the kitchen staff at the Vallottons’), or by mention of her dead mother (which moved anyone in the Vallotton family), or tantrums (which worked with anyone else she had ever met). Only the nurse and Monsieur Arsov were imperturbable in front of these tactics. She tried mentioning her dead mother to Monsieur Arsov when they first met, but he had told her that everyone he had ever loved was dead and she should stop crying about her one sad tale. She had decided right then to like him. He was her best friend here. Everyone else was nice to her—she made a face when she thought of the housekeeper who was too strict to be called nice—but Monsieur Arsov was her special friend. He liked to race her down the long gold corridor of his house, pitting his steel wheels against her short legs, and never letting her win unless she earned it. The nurse had caught them once and objected, but Monsieur Arsov stopped her with a word. Or two words: a raise. Mimi wasn’t sure what it meant but she had remembered the words since they seemed to work well. She liked words.

The police lady with the ugly boots said Mimi was the same age as her youngest boy. The woman seemed to miss her little boy and Mimi had let her stroke her hair, tolerating the affection so she could learn what was happening. They had questions and more questions. The nurse sat beside her with the wings of her hat hiding her face, and Mimi fingered her starched skirt thinking it had to hurt when she sat. Still, Mimi was grateful for the nurse’s presence, for she knew Monsieur Arsov had insisted on it and that he would always protect her.