CHAPTER 14
SPRING 1923 PARIS
The tall, very slim man in the dark blue linen suit, white spats, red carnation buttonhole and broad-brimmed sunhat strolled casually down the Bois de Boulogne, nodding in passing to his many acquaintances. He preferred to walk slowly, as extra effort still tired him. His face, older now, was lined and scarred, his brow furrowed in creases of concealed pain from which he would never be free, and there was a stoop to the once-straight back and shoulders. He held a newly-purchased newspaper under his arm, the gold watch chain on his waistcoat glinting in the Parisian sunshine. Choosing a vacant table, he sat at a boulevard café and ordered a café au lait, then removed his hat, lit a Russian cigarette and settled back in his seat, content to enjoy the sights and sounds of a sunny Spring morning.
When the coffee arrived he sipped elegantly from the china cup, a feeling of well-being relaxing him as the coffee took effect. He enjoyed the atmosphere of post-War Paris, which was filled with young people of many different nationalities, all seemingly hedonistically bent on pleasure, all living for today as though there would be no tomorrow, living to the full every last morsel of life on behalf of friends, brothers or lovers who had died in the Great War and could never again savour the essence of a new Spring.
Count Alexei Mippipopolous casually opened his newspaper and scanned the headlines, then looked through the remainder. When his eyes reached the society column he involuntarily gasped when he saw a picture of a woman. Who was she? Who was that woman? Lisa! She was so like - Lisa. The hairstyle was different, of course, cut in a modern bob, but her face, her beautiful face ... He eagerly read the paragraph, a sudden, unexpected excitement coursing through him. He read:
'Lady Brett Ashley, estranged wife of ninth baronet Lord John Ashley of Cambridge, England, is visiting friends in Paris. When the reporter asked Lady Brett how long she intended to stay in Paris, she replied -'
"Count Alexei Mippipopolous?" a man's voice, speaking in Russian, interrupted his reading. Intensely annoyed at the unwanted interruption, he scowled as he looked up at the man, who was standing against the sun. "Don't you remember me, Alexei?" The man was wearing a brown suit that was a size too big for him, and a black American-style Homburg hat. He moved out of the sun and Alexei was able to see his face. His scowl deepened in puzzlement. "I'm Johan Markanova - from Ekaterinberg." he added softly as an extra reminder.
"Oh! Oh, yes, of course, forgive me, Monsieur Markanova, of course I - remember ..." His voice trailed off as unwelcome memories flooded back "Please - sit down, join me in a coffee. Garçon!" He folded his newspaper.
"I was told I'd find you here, Count. I would have contacted you sooner, but I've only just found out that you are still ..."
"Alive?" prompted the Count with a dry chuckle. "Yes, I'm still alive ..." he stopped as the waiter placed a cup of coffee in front of his guest. "And you -" he gestured, cigarette in hand, "are 'in the pink', as they say nowadays!"
"'As well as can be expected' - as they say nowadays!" responded Johan, smiling. He sipped his coffee. "How did you get on - afterwards?"
"I'd - rather not discuss it, if you don't mind." he replied curtly, as though it were a set reply. Then, reconsidering, the Count looked around. "I suppose I owe you an explanation. Look, we can't talk here." He threw some money on the table then, rising, said "Come with me - it's not far." They strolled in silence, and the Count walked through the gates of a large mansion.
"Is this yours?" Johan asked in astonishment.
"I'm afraid so - expensive to keep, but that is not a problem." He led Johan to a drawing room filled with old books. There was a faint, resinous aroma about the wood-carved room that tugged at Johan's memory. A large samovar sat on a table. The Count opened a drinks cabinet. "Pernod? Absinthe? Please forgive me for not joining you, but I don't drink." He prepared the samovar.
Johan savoured the expensive liqueur and watched as the Count sat elegantly in a lounge chair. He reached into his jacket pocket for his gold cigarette case. "Smoke? They're Russian, you know!" Johan declined and the Count lit his own. He inhaled and studied his unexpected guest with a penetrating look. Then, crossing his long legs, he began. "I have no recollection of the first week afterwards, but Baoudin told me later that, when they discovered that one of the girls' bodies was missing, they searched every house in Ekaterinberg. As you know, the Baoudin house was very old and had a concealed cellar dug deeply below the house. That's where they hid Anastasia and me. The Red Guards knew and trusted Baoudin and did not search too thoroughly. Another soldier, Peter Tchaikovsky, came to take Anastasia away. She was seriously ill, suffering from amnesia caused by the blows to her head. I hear she's still alive, but her relatives will not identify her. Poor woman.
"And me? Your aim was good. Thank you. It was a week before I regained full consciousness, during which time the White Army had arrived and they deported me on a hospital ship to America for expert medical attention. I had no will to live after ..." his voice trailed off, his eyes far away with an unwanted memory. Johan waited patiently. "Anyway," Alexei pulled himself up, leaned forward, elbows on knees, the tips of his steepled fingers on his chin. He was not looking at Johan; instead, he was looking into the distance of his memories. "they kept me alive and I underwent several operations to repair the damage. I was in hospital in Boston for six months. I had nightmares, dreadful nightmares, and I came near to suicide ... Anything, rather than live with the memories of that terrible night..." He breathed deeply, then continued. "They had good psychologists and doctors at Boston General and they helped me get over the worst of it. It helped to know that we had saved Anastasia. But I could never tell them ... what I had seen. Have you?" he looked suddenly at Johan. His hands were visibly shaking.
"No. No, these things are - best not spoken about."
"Indeed." Alexei leaned back, in command of his emotions again. "A few years ago, before the Revolution, I had a business in Swiss chocolates. I had money in American banks and on my discharge from hospital I started to buy up some confectioners' shops, started a chain, selling Swiss chocolates. The rich Americans liked the product and ..." he waved his hand to take in the whole, rich mansion. "I've had this place since before the Revolution and always come here at some time during my business trips to Switzerland. And you?"
"I - did not return to the Ipatiev House after I delivered you and Anastasia to Baoudin. I stayed nearby till the Whites arrived, and I heard they put Yurovsky and Medvedev to the firing squad."
"So they're definitely dead?" asked Alexei, too quickly.
"Yes, definitely. I saw their bodies."
"Hm. Pity. I dislike others - spoiling my fun." His voice was a whisper and Johan felt a chill run down his spine. "And afterwards?" urged the Count, speaking louder.
"I came here, after the War was over. I have a small grocery business in Montmartre, nothing very much, but I earn a living."
"Hm. I owe you - my life, for what it's worth. Is there anything I can do for you? Money? A shop in a better position?"
"No, thank you, nothing. I have a wife and children and am quite contented. You would have done the same for me had our positions been reversed." He stood up suddenly. "Forgive me, Count, but I have an appointment I must keep." He bowed slightly.
"Oh, yes, of course." The Count rose from his chair. "Thank you for letting me know the outcome of the - affair - I often wondered." He extended his hand and Johan shook it, surprised at the strength of the Count's grip. "If there's anything you would like me to do for you, any problems you wish - eradicated - please do not hesitate..." the Count walked him to the front door. "Henri!" he called. "My chauffeur." he explained, as Henri appeared. "Henri, please take Monsieur Markanova to his place of appointment - I have delayed his departure somewhat." The Count never met Johan Markanova again.
---oo0oo---
The Count hurriedly returned to the drawing room where he had left his newspaper. He quickly opened it at the appropriate page, and read on -
'Lady Brett Ashley, estranged wife of Lord John Ashley of Cambridge, England, is visiting friends in Paris. When the reporter asked Lady Brett how long she intended to stay in Paris, she replied: "I'm here to visit some American acquaintances that I met during my time as a nursing auxiliary in Italy. I don't know how long I'll be here." Lady Brett was seen in the company of Mr Jacob Barnes and Mr Robert Cohn.'
Robert Cohn! He was the one who was living with Frances Clyne on the Boulevard St Michel. The Count had known Frances Clyne for some time. She was an expatriate American who collected and dealt with artists' works, and who loved knowing everybody who was 'worth knowing' in Paris. Perhaps it was time to pay a courtesy call on Frances.
He cut out the article and picture from the newspaper and placed it carefully in his wallet, then went out, bought another copy of the paper, cut only the picture out and inserted it in a frame which he placed at his bedside.
Throughout the years he had accepted that he was attractive to women, and many had tried and failed to interest him. He always remained aloof, detached and uninterested in forming a permanent relationship. The only one he had ever wanted had been Lisa. "But now," he thought, as he sat that night on the edge of the bed, staring at Brett's bright-eyed picture, "Now may be the time for me to take a wife. I'm not getting any younger. She looks strong and healthy - she could give me a son, I would take her to America, give her everything she ever wanted ... Ah, God, I want her, want her, want her!"
However, Lady Brett Ashley was not an easy person to meet. A true pleasure-seeker in post-War Europe, she had the money to go where, and with whom, the fancy took her. All the Count could do was to acquaint himself with those who knew her, and wait. When he was finally introduced to her, she would be his, of that he was quite sure.
Over the next few weeks the Count became an habitué of Frances Clyne's house and social circle. Robert Cohn was an American Jew who had won boxing titles in Princeton and, before coming to Europe, had never been faced with anti-Semitism. The fact that many people hated Jews came as a considerable shock and disillusionment to him. He was about 10 years younger than Frances Clyne, whom he had originally met in California in the days just after his divorce. Frances had thought him to be up-and-coming in the literary world, and decided to join him on his ascent, taking him to Paris, where she had previously lived and where she hoped inspiration would be added to the creative processes of his mind.
Frances Clyne enjoyed the Count's company. He had a fund of fascinating anecdotes about pre-Revolution Russia and about Tsar Nicholas, whom he appeared to idolise. Robert Cohn also discovered the violent face of anti-Semitism when the Count told him of the Russian pogroms under Tsar Alexander III, when many thousands of Russian Jews were persecuted, banished or killed. Robert Cohn was glad he was an American.
The Count's obsession about meeting Brett increased. He learned that she was engaged to be married to Mike Campbell, a drunken bankrupt whose only claim to fame was that he was a 'war hero', and that Jake Barnes, an American newspaper correspondent, loved her, too, but they were both just boys, children, thought the Count. He was sure she would prefer a mature man for a husband. However, he suspected, with a considerable pang of envy, that Brett and Jake Barnes were lovers. He met Jake during one of his visits with Frances and Robert and took the opportunity during the course of conversation to casually touch on the subject, but Jake, annoyed at the Count's presumption, merely gave him a cold stare, and the Count backed down, afraid he had gone too far.
It was soon after then that Brett returned to Paris and started making the rounds of the nightclubs with Jake.
Flushed and happy after dancing, they returned to their table in the fashionable basement nightspot. She noticed a man and a woman approaching their table. She already knew Frances Clyne, but her interest was caught by the tall, elegantly dressed, middle-aged man who was escorting her, and she felt a thrill as she realised that his eyes never left her face. "Another conquest!" she thought, conceitedly. He fascinated her. Frances introduced her escort as "Count Alexei Mippipopolous." He bent to kiss the back of her hand, his dark eyes looking searchingly into hers.
"Enchanté, Lady Brett." As she felt the warm touch of his hand and lips a shiver of excitement ran though her. She widened her eyes to match his gaze. Although in his middle years he was still handsome and obviously very rich. She found his strong masculinity and deep voice magnetically attractive. There was something behind his eyes, something unspoken and unspeakable inside him, that intrigued her. She decided she wanted to know him better.
When, during the course of conversation at table, and seeking to impress her, he revealed that he had been very close to Tsar Nicholas and had helped him to stay in power by eliminating the opposition, she realised that she was speaking to a professional assassin. He neither liked her referring to the Tsar as 'Nicky Romanov', nor her calling him an assassin, but he remained polite, mildly correcting her indiscretions. Shocked and fascinated at the same time, she felt again the thrill of danger and the excitement of knowing a man who, by his own admission, was a killer. He assured her that he would have to be seriously provoked before he would kill again. "That " he assured her with a quiet laugh, "rarely happens."
Jake had taken an instinctive dislike to the Count and disapproved of Brett associating with him. He left the table to go home and tried to persuade Brett to come with him, but the Count attracted her and she refused to leave with Jake. When Jake had gone, she allowed the Count to dance with her. He held her close, and all the while his strange, dark eyes drank in her beauty.
Before they parted that night he requested the pleasure of her company the following evening and she accepted. He met her at Jake 's flat, took her out to wine and dine her, then, at her suggestion, returned to Jake's flat. Jake was out at work but, when he returned to find her and the Count waiting, she asked the Count go to out and get some good champagne in order that she could talk to Jake alone. While he was gone, Jake warned her that the Count's intentions towards her were far more serious and long-term than she realised, but she chose to treat the matter in an off-hand way.
The Count returned, his chauffeur carrying a bucket containing a bottle of vintage Mumm's champagne, cooled in a bucket of ice. When she had drunk some of the Count's champagne, she asked him how many people he had killed for Tsar Nicholas and was amazed when, in his quiet voice, he informed her that he had killed "About 38 men, and half as many women." It had never occurred to her that he would kill women. Half to frighten her, half to impress her, he told her "Women wriggle about more than men. You have to stop the screaming. To stop women screaming takes time. Men try not to scream - saves time." She did not like the flat, dispassionate way he spoke, or the look in his eyes, but still the feeling of danger in associating with this man thrilled and intrigued her.
Jake, in front of the Count, tried to persuade Brett not to go out with the Count, but she would not listen. Despite the late hour, she wheedled both men to take her to a nightclub to dance the night away. Jake was unwilling to be in the company of the Count, who had declared himself a rival, but Brett won him round with a winsome "Please, Jake, I need this night."
The Count felt his heart beat faster in anticipation of dancing again with this beautiful, spoilt woman. He would hold her in his arms and they would move in harmony across the dance floor. And later ...
The Count's chauffeur drove them to 'Le Boeuf sur le Tôit', one of the most expensive nightclubs in Paris. The bright, smoke-filled basement room was filled, even at that late hour, with music and people. Some were dancing, others content just to watch, continually replenishing their drinks. Brett was no exception. She drank and danced continuously with any man who would ask her. The Count bided his time and waited for her to flop down at their table for another glass of champagne, then, taking her hand and kissing it, he asked "May I have the pleasure of the next dance?"
"But of course, dear Count!" When the strains of "Whispering" began they rose, and, holding her not too closely, he danced the quickstep with her in the restricted dancing space. He was surprised that Jake had not yet asked her to dance, but she assured him that he was the best dancer there. Four men of her acquaintance sat at a nearby table, watching her dance. The band finished playing "Whispering" and she turned and walked towards their table, giving the Count her glass of champagne and a quick kiss on his cheek. More than a little drunk, she stepped up onto the men's hastily cleared table and started to dance the Charleston to the strains of "Toot, Toot, Tootsie", her red flapper- girl dress showing her admirers round the table a provocative amount of leg. The Count sat with Jake, admiring her verve and vivacity. He remarked to Jake that Jake had lost her to him and, deciding to claim his prize, he rose from the table and walked towards the still-dancing Brett. In his mind the Count considered that she had gone far enough in making an exhibition of herself. After all, this was the girl he was going to marry. It was not seemly for her to be out so late, showing her body in such a manner. Tonight, that would be for him alone to enjoy. He had waited long enough. He would take her home and have her, tonight. When he had loved her once, she would be his forever.
Jake, sitting resignedly beside the Count, did not try to stop him when he went to bring her down, because he knew quite well what was going to happen; knew quite well that Brett was a free spirit and would never belong to anyone, ever - but the Count would have to find that out for himself.
Count Alexei Mippipopolous walked confidently towards the dancing woman and grasped her wrists to stop her dancing.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked angrily.
"Escorting you home."
"You what?" she asked incredulously.
"Escorting you home - my home."
But Brett did not want to leave - she was having too much fun. She leaned down until her face was on a level with his. "Have you gone bonkers? Listen to me, little Count - you're beginning to bore the hell out of me. If you want to go home you can crawl right out, that way." she continued, pointing towards the exit. "And don't forget to split the bill with Jake. And if it's company you want to go home with, there's company here by the crate."
At first he thought she was joking. "I don't want crates - I want you."
"Then stand in line!" she replied haughtily. "I believe you might get to me when you're too old to even remember you're alive! You want me! ME!" She laughed derisively.
His voice was deep and there was cold, controlled anger in his face as realisation crept in. "Only - you."
"Do you hear?" she turned to address the men round her table. "This silly relic says he wants only me!" Then, returning her total attention to the stunned Count, she continued her tirade. "When in God's name did you ever think I would take you seriously? Paris is inundated with you chaps. You strut and posture. You make up tales of murder, revenge and Royal intrigue. You create your own titles and your own legends. There are little toy titles like yours all over Paris, and tall tales to go with them. So go home, Count! Go home, Count, and get some sleep. You need sleep, Count. You're teetering on the border of lechery. And remember, Count, lechery is the prologue to growing old." Again she addressed the men round the table. "Gerald - Lett - give the Count some money to go home."
Cold as ice now, he replied "I believe I can manage transportation, Lady Brett." He had never been so deeply insulted in all his life. The tirade of invective and anger that Lady Ashley had aimed at him, in public, had been deeply humiliating but he had stood and taken it, letting her have her say. She had been signing her death warrant with every word she spoke. With a very straight back and head held high, he maintained his dignity and withdrew from her presence.
Then, with a final show of scorn, she shouted after him "And never tell a Lady what to do - ever!"
He turned to look at the Lady in red one last time, the image burning like a brand in his brain. "A thousand apologies." She continued dancing her wild Charleston long before he collected his top hat, coat and silver-topped cane and walked from the nightclub, leaving Jake to escort his 'Lady' home.
---oo0oo---
He summoned Henri, his chauffeur, and sat, patiently waiting, smoking a cigarette, in his limousine, waiting and watching for Lady Brett's departure. If she left alone, the sword concealed in his walking cane would do its work tonight... He waited till dawn's early light streaked the Parisian skyline, then a group of four men, the same four men on whose table she had danced, emerged, with Brett in their centre. Jake was not amongst them. They started singing a bawdy French song. They continued their carousal down the street, unaware of the patient, frustrated, and very angry, watcher. The Count now knew that she could never be his. But if she could not be his, then she would be no-one's. She had stabbed him to the heart. She had left him no alternative but for him to do the same to her ...
"Shall I follow them, Monsieur le Comte? enquired Henri, breaking into his reverie.
"No. We'll go home for now, Henri. And a thousand thanks for a very loyal evening. Not to worry, Henri - I'll catch her yet." The white limousine purred into the Parisian dawn.
---oo0oo---
The Count's anger burned to the very depths of his soul when he returned home that morning. Before retiring he took her picture from the frame by his bedside and, with the knife he had not used for years, he systematically ripped her picture into shreds. The picture and article in his wallet suffered a similar fate.
He could not sleep, the words of venom and hate that she had spoken kept whirling around in his mind. "Little Count"; "toy titles"; "tall tales of murder"; "you're teetering on the border of lechery, and lechery is the prologue to growing old". Old. Hah! He would ensure that Brett never grew old. She was not worthy of life. She was a torturer, a seductress, he merely the victim of her charms. And it wasn't just him that she had tortured - she tortured all the men in her life - Jake, Mike, Robert - all had suffered under her uncaring cruelty. They all wanted her, longed for her, and she taunted and flaunted herself amongst them, creating rivalry between them. Of them all, he had the most to offer her. Wealth, another title, better than the one she had had before, travel, anything she had wanted would have been hers if only she had let him love her. But that was not to be. Anyone who could think like that, and voice these opinions in public, was no lady. She didn't deserve a title - she was just a common slut, nothing more.
Another dream of love had been shattered and the shards were tearing him apart. He turned his face into the pillow, but was unable to smother the groan of agony that only a spurned lover's total rejection can know.
---oo0oo---
When Jean, the Count's butler, tactfully knocked his bedroom door to awake his master late the next morning, he brought in a coffee and the morning newspaper. "Monsieur le Comte, may I with respect remind you that you must make your decision very soon when you wish to return to America? There is a cable which has arrived from Boston that is marked 'Urgent'."
"Hm. Thank you very much, Jean, but I think it will now be necessary for me to stay a little longer in Europe."
The butler bowed and left his master alone. The cable was from his accountant, informing him of some suspected interference by a large organisation in the prompt delivery of their merchandise to distributors. The Count, reading between the lines, suspected with a qualm of fear that his accountant was referring to the Mafia. That was indeed bad news and demanded his immediate attention, but there was something more pressing to attend to here, before he sailed again for the States ... He prepared a reply. "Will return within three weeks." The Mafia could wait until then. He summoned his butler and gave him the note to send, then he opened the morning paper and, turning to the society column again, was jolted by a paragraph which read:
'Departed from Paris this morning was Lady Brett Ashley. Before returning to Britain she intends to "tour the South of France" she said.'
Hm. South of France. Could be anywhere. Biarritz, Nice, Cannes. Frances Clyne could not help him. She had departed for England two days previously, and he baulked at contacting Jake Barnes again after last night. He would find her, though. He had contacts all over France. She would not be difficult to trace. He would wait, take his time, choose the time and place to lure her away to somewhere quiet, then kill her. Yes. That would be the best way to do it.
---oo0oo---