“A note from whom?” he asked, thrusting out his chest manfully. “If it was another man, I will kill him.”
“There is really no call for that,” I told him firmly. “It did occur to me that perhaps Yelena was summoned by the princess.”
Something like hope kindled in his eyes. “You think so?”
I shrugged. “It is possible. We still do not know where the princess is. It is conceivable that she had need of Yelena and sent for her with instructions not to reveal anything of the matter to anyone.”
He thought, stroking his moustaches as he pondered. “This is possible,” he said. Then he shook his head, slowly and from side to side, like a buffalo. “But I think it is not true. Yelena would have told me.”
I considered Yelena’s mildly extortionate activities and groped for a tactful way to raise the matter with Durand. Stoker had no such scruples. “Did you know she is a blackmailer?” he asked suddenly.
Durand guffawed. “A blackmailer! That is a harsh word for a little harmless exchange of monies.”
I gaped at him. “You knew?”
“Of course I knew. My family will—what is the English phrase?—cut me up when I marry her.”
“Cut you off,” Stoker corrected.
“Yes, thank you,” Durand replied. “They will cut me off. I will have no monies of my own except what I earn as captain of the princess’s guard. Yelena and I like nice things,” he finished blandly.
“So you conspire with her to extort money from people?” I asked, still aghast.
He shrugged. “It is easy for a man in my position to see things. It is natural for me to tell them to my fiancée. But Yelena is her own woman. What she does with such knowledge is not for me to say.” He turned to Stoker. “You understand, no? You cannot control your woman either.”
“I am not anyone’s woman but my own,” I returned hotly. Stoker slanted me an oblique look but said nothing.
“Will you help me find her?” Durand asked piteously.
“Certainly,” I told him, baring my teeth in a savage parody of a grin. “I think you quite deserve one another.” More than that, I had just realized that Durand carried keys to all of the rooms. It would not be necessary to pick the lock of the lumber room, thus making up for the time we had spent listening to his romantic woes.
Either Durand’s grasp of English was too poor to comprehend sarcasm or he did not care. He slapped his thighs. “Good! We will begin now, please.”
“I will require your key to the lumber room,” I said, putting out my hand. “Mr. Templeton-Vane and I will begin there,” I added, omitting the fact that we had business of our own in that location.
Stoker spoke then. “I think Yelena’s room should be searched first. If she left in anticipation of going to the princess for any length of time, she would have taken a few things with her—nightdress, money, that sort of thing.”
“A perfect task for you, Captain,” I agreed.
“I am not a woman,” he protested. “I will not know if lady things are missing.”
“Lady things?” I asked, staring hard at him.
He flushed, the most brilliant incarnadine shade, and I realized then what he was speaking of.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I muttered. “Very well. I will look through Yelena’s things. Stoker, come along, please. Captain, you can at least keep watch and make certain the others have not returned. We will rendezvous in the lumber room in a quarter of an hour.”
I did not expect it would take long to search Yelena’s meager possessions, but I intended to be thorough. While Stoker looked on, I examined the contents of the dresser, counting six chemises and sets of petticoats as well as underdrawers, each neatly embroidered with a day of the week in a whimsical pattern with lovers’ knots and daisy chains. A full complement of menstrual rags were tied into a bundle and stowed beneath the undergarments. A small enameled watch lay on the washbasin, and her purse, fat with coins and notes, was where we had left it.
“Nothing appears to be missing,” I said at last. “There are four dresses hanging in the wardrobe and the only things gone are those she was wearing today. Her money is here, as is her watch—” I broke off suddenly as Stoker turned from where he had been making his own inventory of the wardrobe. “What is it?”
He thought a moment, then opened the wardrobe again. “Didn’t Yelena give the princess her cloak to wear on the night she disappeared?”
“Yes,” I said, noting the toothbrush and tin of tooth powder resting on a washing flannel on the top of the dresser. A tin contained a cake of soap, a little worn and smelling of violets.
Stoker pointed to the wardrobe. “She gave the princess her cloak, and yet here is a coat, long and warm, and a thick scarf tucked into the collar. Surely she would have worn it if she went out today. And look.” He reached down and lifted out a pair of stout overshoes. “Her warmest things are still here. And if she did mean to go out, she would never have neglected to wear overshoes.” He straightened, his expression grim. “Money and warm clothes still here? Yelena never left the hotel.”
“Then where in the name of Priam’s petticoat is she?” I demanded. He replaced the shoes and we left. There was no sign of Durand as we made our way to the lumber room. To my surprise, the room was unlocked, the gasolier burning.
“Durand must have already searched in here,” I mused as we surveyed the room.
“Then why give us the key and not mention it?” Stoker asked in a distracted voice.
I shrugged. “It is possible he is responsible for Yelena’s disappearance,” I said. “He is a moustachioed man,” I reminded Stoker. “Just like the fellow on the mountain when Alice died. J. J. thinks it was Douglas Norton, but what if it was Durand? He might have had a hand in Alice’s death and Yelena knew too much to be trusted.”
“He is going to marry her,” Stoker protested.
“All the more reason to dispose of her if she proves a liability,” I said. “She is a nasty little blackmailer.”
“Your opinion of your sex is chilling,” Stoker said.
I said nothing as I turned my attention to the various impedimenta of travel in the room. I detected the baroness’s meticulous hand in the orderly piles of trunks and stacks of baggage. Everything was neatly labeled and arranged according to the importance of the owner. A single carpetbag bearing Yelena’s name was perched on a shelf in the corner.
“You are quite right. She did not leave,” I told Stoker. “Not without her bag.”
I went and opened it, expecting to find the usual odds and ends that accumulate during travel. Instead, I reared back in horror as I saw the face of a man staring up at me.