The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [153]
Stevie looked quickly away from the chest and back to the pines. She nodded. ‘My guess is yes. He won’t let a killer in the woods put a spoke in his wheel. He seems to have that curious dictatorial mix of arrogance and paranoia, all wrapped up in one evil little package.’
She turned back to Henning, a silhouette. ‘Tonight, we improvise. We get close to Dragoman, we see what we can find out. Is Anya here somewhere? The sanatorium’s massive and there are any number of places he could hide a girl. Especially since he has a controlling interest in the place.’
‘Short of breaking into his rooms, we could start combing the place, but that could take forever.’ Henning affixed his cufflinks. ‘And there’s no guarantee we’ll find her.’
‘Something tells me in my bird bones that we don’t have a lot of time.’ Stevie bit her lip nervously. ‘I’m frightened for Anya, Henning. Really frightened.’
Henning held her gaze a moment then reached out to put his hand over hers.
Stevie got to her feet and rallied herself. ‘Where are my ballet shoes? You never did tell me what happened to them.’ She went to fossick for clothes. ‘Why is the toe all singed?’
‘Never mind that,’ he replied quickly. ‘We’re going to be late to the axe murderer’s ball if we don’t get a move on.’
Stevie emerged from the cupboard. ‘Well, what do you think?’
Henning stopped, then smiled.
Over her leather trousers, Stevie had pulled on a low-cut black V-neck and a gilet of brilliant green feathers. They shone in the low light with flecks of gold. Her eyes were lined with indigo, her face as pale as ever. The knife was hidden, as usual, on the inside of her calf.
‘I think you look simply glorious, Stevie, like the world’s most exotic bird.’
She actually blushed. ‘Well, let’s get going—you look very smart by the way.’
Henning grunted. His velvet smoking jacket was ancient—it had belonged to his grandfather—but in the darker light of evening he hoped no one would notice the small moth hole on the sleeve. Underneath, his cream silk shirt was as soft as milk.
Together, arm in arm, they made their way to the ballroom.
Although it was called the ballroom, it was unlikely the room had seen any dances for the last fifty years—certainly not since frivolity had become unfashionable in health resorts. It was, however, vast, with walls and a ceiling of intricately carved chestnut. A massive chandelier, lit up with real candles, hung from a wooden rose.
In the centre of the room, directly below the chandelier, there was a round table covered in a white tablecloth that fell to the floor. It was set with crystal glasses for water, wine and champagne, and the plates were printed with small butterflies and rimmed with gold. Stevie was pleased to note the amount of cutlery—all gold—hoping it indicated many courses and copious amounts of food.
The guests stood to the right of the table in a group, drinking champagne and looking a little uncomfortable. Indeed, the ballroom was made for three hundred and they would have been a party of only twenty.
Stevie paused a moment and took stock of the group. The coarse-boned Germans were there, all four of them, looking placid and immutable in evening wear built for comfort rather than elegance; the three women from Lebanon had turned up wearing what had to be the entire contents of their jewellery boxes and incredibly high heels. They had obviously spent the afternoon in the Sonnenbad as they were an even darker shade of tan—almost leather by candlelight.
There was the French grande dame in her reams of pearls, standing a little to one side and looking rather sour. She was obviously trying to avoid being dragged into the ponderous and no doubt well-meaning conversational orbit of the Germans to her left.
Gunnar Gobb was there, looking as spruce as new pine. He headed towards the grande dame, conversation ready, the template of politeness and cleanliness.
Heini and his group stood at the centre of the guests. He had managed to collect four women in tight satin playsuits—crimson, yellow,