Afternoons in Paris by Janice Law

Author:Janice Law
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2016-11-28T17:22:57+00:00

Chapter Nine

“Alexi tried to kill me,” Uncle Lastings said heavily.

“Why would he do that?”

My uncle took another sip of whiskey. His color was returning as if the great northern cure-all was doing its work. “Greed, my boy. A serious vice, one of the Seven Deadly. You might not believe it, but I got part of my education from a curate.”

I was afraid that my uncle’s mind was becoming unfocused, maybe conveniently so. I cut off his reminiscences of the curate, a man devoted to foxhunting, pheasant shooting, and single malts, to ask, “Alexi. What is he? What does he do?”

Uncle Lastings studied the rose-patterned stripes as if seeking inspiration. “He does this and that,” he said.

“Besides attempting to kill you with a leaking gas line.”

My uncle sighed. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Not good enough.” I was beginning to lose my temper. “What’s he doing in France—besides whatever you two have going—and what’s his relationship to a man named Bogdan Anoshkin?”

Well! Talk about the magic word. Uncle Lastings sat bolt upright. “What do you know about Anoshkin?”

Now the shoe was on the other foot. Now my uncle was desperately interested. Now I was the one considering the wallpaper and checking the technique on the roses: three tones of pink for the flowers, two of green for the leaves. I was thinking that they were not up to Armand’s standard by any means, when my uncle, reviving by the minute, lunged over and seized the front of my shirt.

“Anoshkin!” he repeated.

I put my hand on his wrist. “I know something, but I have a friend in need. Maybe you can help.”

He wasn’t pleased at this appeal for mutual assistance, and I think he would have walloped the information out of me if he’d felt at all like himself. As it was, we went back and forth for a few minutes before he thought to ask why I was interested.

“Alexi has a hold over Inessa, and as she is part of the troupe of Les Mortes Immortels—”

He flapped his hand, dismissively. Not good enough.

“A friend of mine is in love with her.”

“Romantic fool,” said my uncle. “And more fool you to get involved.”

Although I had to agree with him, I said, “You’re lucky I did. If I hadn’t come by today, you’d be in the Paris morgue. So what’s Alexi’s real business?”

He sighed and took another drink. “Alexi is ex-military, a political official whose real loyalties are uncertain. My best guess is that he’s an assassin. The NKVD sends them out after dissidents, czarists, and old Bolshies who fall afoul of Comrade Stalin. Alexi fits the picture, and today confirms it. He’s a professional.”

Nothing that sinister had crossed my mind, but the idea did open possibilities. “He must have plenty to keep him busy in Paris,” I said, thinking of the Cossacks and the murky political currents in the exiles’ favored cafés. “Why bother with some scam with you?”

My uncle shook his head. Now it was my turn to contribute. “Anoshkin,” he said and waited.

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