The Dorich House Mystery (The Ralph Chalmers Mysteries Book 3) Page 10

  “You know, I couldn’t believe my ears when she mentioned Sarah Winton,” said Katie as she spread caviar on the thin slices of toast. It hadn’t taken her long to become addicted to the Russian delicacy. “And if you had given Maria that goofy smile one more time I would have thrownski upski, you chump.” Ralph laughed, thankful that Katie saw the whole thing as a bit of a joke.

  “It shook me too when she mentioned Sarah. Especially after she had told Granger that she was glad to distance herself from the whole affair following her friend Ivan Rabinsky’s death and all of that,” said Ralph.

  “And don’t forget that her husband’s firm owns Scott Secure, or whatever it’s called. Maria said they were expecting him to bid for that shipping contract. And it was his firm that owned the lorry where the driver was killed. It’s all a bit too coincidental for me. Smells fishy.” She laughed as she smelt her spoon and the distinctive odor that goes with eating caviar.

  “I didn’t mention it when we were with Maria, but I read something in the paper that makes me nervous about Grant Richardson’s paintings as well,” said Ralph.

  “Well don’t keep me in suspense, Ralph. Spit it out.”

  “I know you can’t believe everything that you read in the papers, and I don’t remember all the details, but it seems as though some Russian billionaire bought a painting at a London auction that he subsequently thought was a fake. When it went to trial the High Court ruled that it was unlikely to have been painted by the purported artist, Kustodiev, who was a famous 20th century Russian artist. The argument among the art experts working for the two protagonists was over whether or not the signature was a forgery since it was partially disrupted by the cracks in the painting. The provenance was good, but eventually the auction house had to pay the guy back and is now stuck with a painting which someone has dubbed as ‘a bread and butter picture’ done by some unknown artist probably 15 years after Kustodiev died. The auction house was standing behind the attribution they made before the sale. But the ruling was all based on probabilities rather than on certainties.”

  “A nice story, Ralph; but what’s your point?”

  “Well, that even the world’s best experts argue over authenticity. And Grant Richardson’s paintings could be fakes after all. They don’t even have a signature which makes it all the more difficult to tell if they really are 18th century. So the big question is what poor old Rabinsky discovered and who decided that whatever he found out was worth killing for. And what’s more worrying is that if someone put around a rumour that the paintings that we saw this morning could be forgeries, then Grant’s paintings could be worth a fortune if they were the real deal.”

  “The only way we are ever going to get to the bottom of this one is to get our hands on that report that Rabinsky wrote.”

  “Well there is another avenue open to finding out what’s in that report,” exclaimed Ralph. “But it’s a long shot. I’ve just remembered that when I was talking to Inspector Linham he said that he had been able to trace Rabinsky’s calls to Russia through his records with the phone company. He called the number and told me that the person on the other end spoke only a little English and couldn’t tell him anything more than that Ivan called regularly to stay in touch. Just family stuff nothing more. I wrote the number down and had vague intentions of calling and telling them about Rabinsky’s apartment and how nicely it was decorated or something. It all sounds a bit feeble thinking about it now. But if you can look the number up and find the address, maybe we could go and pay them a visit? It seems the decent thing to do. What do you think?”

  “It’s typical of you, Ralph. That’s what I think. You spend your life running around trying to do good deeds, and look where it’s got you. Here you are sitting in the freezing cold in Russia having lunch with an ex convict. You are one sentimental old bugger. What’s that they say, ‘scratch a cynic and you will find a romantic’? After we finish our coffee let’s go do battle with those potential benefactors and get Granger that promotion he’s crying out for.”

  ***

  The afternoon meetings went well. The next morning, refreshed and feeling excited about the latest turn in what Katie had labeled ‘The Dorich House Mystery’, they headed off on a visit that Katie had arranged with one of Ivan Rabinsky’s relatives in a small town outside of St Petersburg. Ralph wondered if it was the same relative who was on the other end of the phone line that Linham and that Miss Banks had mentioned. They were blessed with another bright but freezing cold day as they walked the mile to Pushkinskaya Metro Station.

  “Come on; it’s this way,” Katie shouted above the crowd who were flocking out of the swing doors used to keep the cold winds out of the station. “Don’t go in the ‘out door’ or they will think you are an ignorant foreigner.”

  “We’re on the ‘red line’. It’s the Kirovsko – Vyborgskaya line. Not that we need to know. But we need to go towards Prospect Veteranov, otherwise we’ll find ourselves going in the wrong direction.

  “You may earn your money yet, Miss Eggerton. Between your translating and navigation skills you have probably saved me on at least two occasions already.”

  “And don’t forget my ability to choose wisely from the dessert menu,” she grinned.

  Katie purchased a ten-ticket card for each of them and handed one to Ralph. They each crossed through the turn-style to the escalators and began the descent into what has been described as the bowels of the earth.

  “Gosh these are steep,” Ralph shouted as he gestured at the nearly horizontal position of their fellow travelers..

  “The city was built on a swamp and they had to go really deep before they hit bedrock. It also makes a good air-raid shelter. You never know when danger will strike,” Katie shouted back.

  What struck Ralph most was the beauty of the platforms; marble walls with sculptures and mosaics and huge exquisite art deco lamps between the up and down escalators that seemed to go on forever. He also noticed that there was none of the graffiti that is the norm in other major cities like New York and Paris. The armed policemen in fur hats and polished knee length boots stomping up and down the concourse obviously helped keep things that way. They were soon at Baltikskaya, the exchange station for travellers going by rail to the Baltic and Warsaw.

  When they emerged into the slightly scruffy street, Katie took charge. By now Ralph was happy to be led. Everything seemed to end in ‘skaya’ and he was happy to just follow instructions. He could see that Katie was in her element.

  “There! Along the side of the Obvodny Canal. Look. It’s one of those old style tenement blocks overlooking the water. It must have been something before the German Army started their siege of what used to be called Leningrad. I’m surprised there’s anything left. They shelled it and bombed it for 3 years during WWII.” Katie was in tour guide mode as they located the entrance to the block and climbed up four flights of dark, distinctly grubby and cigarette strewn stairs. There they found the apartment of Olga Rabinsky.

  They were welcomed into a small and incredibly warm room. One thing that the Russians were good at was central heating. In the old Soviet days they built massive boilers for each tenement block and lagged pipes ran from the street to every building. Steam from the melting snow on the hot pipes was a feature of the Russian suburban landscape. Olga was obviously overwhelmed to meet someone who had known ‘her Ivan’. She explained that he was her brother. She spoke very little English, and Katie, having given her the cake that Russian visitors traditionally offer as a gift, they sat down to have tea. Over their protests, Olga insisted on cutting the cake and sharing it with her guests.

  “Olga says that she and Ivan were kids when the Germans attacked. Their parents were killed in the shelling and she and Ivan were separated. She stayed in St. Petersburg with a neighbour and Ivan must have got out with some other children to England via Finland. She only heard of him when he tracked her down a few years back.”

  Olga continued to tell Katie about her life and how Ivan had se
nt her money to live on and how they were planning to go to Israel when he retired. She explained that they could prove that their parents were Jewish, and the Russian government was now letting Jews leave the country to go and live in the Holy Land. But it seemed that Ivan had some sort of problems with his business and they had had to delay the move. She reckons that now that Ivan is dead she will never be able to afford to go on her own.”

  “Can you ask her if her brother said anything about the paintings that he was valuing for Kingston, and Grant’s paintings in particular?”

  “I said I could speak a little Russian, Ralph, but there are limits. I’ll try.”

  After some long exchanges between the old lady and Katie there was a pause as their host went to heat some more water for the tea.

  “She says that he was in some sort of trouble. He had discovered something about the paintings that concerned him and had told some people about it. One of them offered him a lot of money for the report that he had written on the valuation work that he was doing. The condition was that he was to hand over all of his information to this man and keep quiet about it. He wanted Ivan to simply write a report confirming their authenticity and not tell anyone else about it.”

  “That could be Boris Sarovsky or John Weston or any number of others,” said Ralph. “If Rabinsky found out that they were originals, or at least painted by a named famous 18th century artist rather than some unknown person, then they would want that kept quiet. That way they would be able to bid low at the upcoming auction and make a fortune later.” Katie continued to relay what Olga had told her.

  “She said that another man had also asked him to write up a report on his findings, but that he would be told what to say. That man also told him that he would be paid a lot for his co-operation.”

  “That could be Grant,” said Ralph. If Rabinsky had found out something about the paintings that reduced their value then he would want to suppress it. If they were found to be worth more, then he would have been delighted to have the report issued.”

  “She also told me that her brother had refused both of the offers, and a week later someone had tried to break into his workshop where he kept the paintings but the alarms must have scared them off.”

  “That could have been the mafia, or perish the thought, even Paul Scott trying to get paintings that he could swap, assuming his firm got the contract for shipping the Walpole collection over to England.” Katie pressed on.

  “She’s pretty cut up about her brother’s death and wants to help catch his killers.”

  “When she gets back see if she can give us any more clues and tell her we will do our best to help the authorities find the killers.”

  Olga returned with a fresh pot of tea and apologized for taking such a long time. Katie asked her some more questions about her brother and she showed them some letters that he had written to her. Unfortunately they were all dated months before the fatal incident. Then the old lady surprised them. She told Katie that she trusted them and that she had something to tell them that was strictly confidential and she didn’t want the police to know. They agreed.

  She told them that about a week after she heard about her brother’s death from the local authorities, two men knocked at her door. They were Russian and told her that they were from the police. She didn’t believe them but pretended that she did. But she thinks they were criminals. They had asked her about Ivan’s phone calls and if he had written to her or said anything about doing some valuation work on some paintings in England. She lied, telling them that he only phoned once or twice a year and that she hadn’t heard from him for more than 6 months. They seemed satisfied and went away. She was sure that they were not from the police and more likely were Chechen mafia.

  Katie relayed that Olga remembered the last call Ivan had made. It was the day he was planning to attend a chess tournament in London. Ralph realised that was the day Ivan was murdered and that he had seen the poster advertising the match when he was in Ivan’s flat. She told them that he had called at around 9 pm which was unusual, as he usually called around 4 pm Russian time which was 4 hours ahead of London in the winter. She knew this because she told them that she had a clock on the side set at London time because it made her feel closer to her brother when she looked at it. She recalled that Ivan seemed upset. She wanted him to go to the police and get some protection from whomever was threatening him over his valuation work. Then he said the door bell was ringing and he had to go. That was the last that she heard from him before the authorities called her and told her he was dead. Ralph froze as he calculated that Ivan must have phoned at around 5 in the afternoon and that ring at the doorbell could have been his killer. Ivan never made it to the chess tournament.

  Ralph and Katie decided that they should leave before they wore out their welcome with their questions and promised to find out if Ivan’s belongings could be returned to her once the police had finished their investigations.

  Olga had managed to maintain her composure throughout the visit but as the door closed they could hear her quietly sobbing. They walked in silence back towards the Metro station. It had been quite an emotional visit even though until that afternoon the woman had been a complete stranger.

  ***

  It was starting to snow again

  “Let’s get a cab, Katie. I just can’t face up to those throngs of people in the Metro during rush hour.

  “Sure,” said Katie. “You know me. I’m always up for a bit of pampering. Speaking of which, maybe we can try out the sauna when we get back to the hotel.”

  I think we’ve earned it,” he said as he walked toward the curb to hail a taxi.

  Just then a car pulled up and asked if they were tourists and needed a taxi. They had read in the Eyewitness Guide to St Petersburg that it was not at all unusual for ordinary people to offer to taxi people around to earn a few extra rubles.

  As the car pulled away, the two men in front began to speak to each other in low whispers.

  “Ralph I think we’re in big trouble here. Those guys are talking about going out of town to some park or other. I picked up the words ‘quiet park’ and ‘nobody around as the weather is turning bad’. Don’t show it, but I think they are either planning to rob us or worse, we’ve been grabbed by the M A F I A,” she said as she spelled out the last word. “The buggers must have been watching Olga’s apartment. They may even be the duo that called on her pretending to be the police.”

  “Look, why don’t we wait until they stop at a traffic light then we can both open our doors and jump out. They don’t have a central lock or if they did it rusted out years ago by the look of this heap,” Ralph whispered. “If we don’t make a move soon we’ll be out of the main town and then they will probably jump any red lights. Stand by to bail out.”

  “You always promised me a good time, Ralph and you’re proving true to your word.”

  At the next light they took their chance, and running and dodging through the traffic and slush crossed the road and jumped onto a bus that was just closing its doors. It was packed with shoppers, large babushkas, and men who seemed to be smoking old rope.

  “Any idea where this is going, Katie?”

  “Our relationship you mean, Ralph?” She quipped.

  “No, you idiot. The bus!”

  “Not a clue. But it’s bound to be preferable to whatever destination our mafia friends had planned for us,” Katie shouted at him as the crowd surged and the bus swung crazily around a tight corner.

  They were soon back at the Hotel and luxuriating in the dimly lit sauna.

  “Let’s talk some more about our relationship,” Katie teased as she surfaced from the steaming water.”

  He could see that she had recovered from their near miss and was back to her joking ways. But Ralph was afraid she might be halfway serious and struggled to change the subject.

  “You know Rasputin, the Mad Monk drowned in the Neva near here during WWI. He got too close to Nicholas II’s wife, the Tsarina Alexan
dra. They say that some of the aristocracy along with the help of the British MI6 bumped him off. The conspiracy brought down the Romanov dynasty. Just thinking of getting thrown into that freezing river makes me shiver.”

  “Okay, Ralph. You can return to the land of the living. Don’t worry, I’ll let you off the hook this time.”

  “I just thought you might be interested in a bit of Russian history,” Ralph replied. Damn that Katie, he thought. She could always figure him out.

  “Seriously, Ralph,” she said. “You really do need to lighten up a bit. If it’s not work or solving a murder, than it’s a history lesson. It wouldn’t kill you to switch off occasionally, you know.”

  “We need to think about getting out and getting ready for supper. We need to be up bright and early to catch our flight back to Heathrow and we should probably make an early night of it.” Ralph climbed out and grabbed two of the plush white terry cloth robes. “So you’re a gentleman as well as a scholar,” she grinned as he helped her on with hers.

  ------------------------------------

  Chapter 7

  An early morning 6 mile run put Ralph in a good frame of mind for what was going to be a busy day. He showered, had a light breakfast and made the call to Sarah Winton that he was not looking forward to. He called her office at the Knights Park campus which was the location of the Faculty of Art, Design and Architecture. She sounded brusque, which was not unusual, but this time he detected a note of something that sounded to him a bit like fear. After some protestation she agreed to see him in her office at noon when her morning classes finished.

  He then called Granger and gave him the good news about the offers he had received from the executives he met in St Petersburg. For once the Dean sounded delighted and told Ralph that he had done well. Ralph found that strangely comforting, although his cynicism told him that this new found bon homme would not last long.