“Tell me more.”
Field turned around and looked up toward the top floor of the Fraser’s building. “Natalya Simonov was Natasha Medvedev’s older sister. She changed her name once she started work as a prostitute, but their father found out anyway and shot himself. He’d been a general of the tsar and couldn’t cope.”
“So Natalya was also one of Lu’s girls?”
“I think so, yes.” Field realized that he had never asked Natasha.
“Why doesn’t the boy go live with his aunt?”
“I don’t know.”
“He kidnaps the boy so that he has a hold over Natasha.”
Field thought of his last exchange with her.
“Can she help us find him?”
“She seems to have gone to ground. I can’t find her. I—I thought she might have gone to Lu, or perhaps been taken by him. I’ve tried her apartment, her friends. Where could someone like Natasha hide in this city?”
“Perhaps she is not hiding.”
Field frowned.
“I hope she is, Dickie, and that she turns up alive. For your sake, I hope so.”
Field walked the short distance to the Majestic. He climbed the stairs and scanned the stage and the dance floor. They were almost deserted this early in the evening.
He made his way to Mrs. Orlov’s office and knocked once before he heard her sharp command to enter. She was still sitting at her desk, as though she’d not moved since his last visit.
Examining her more closely, he thought she seemed older, more tired and frayed. She looked weary and cynical, her eyes hooded. Field wondered if this was just a reflection of his own disillusionment.
“I’m looking for Natasha Medvedev.”
Mrs. Orlov shook her head.
“Will she be in later?”
The woman maintained her studied disinterest. “I haven’t seen her—not for at least the last few nights.”
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“You know where she lives.”
“She’s not there.”
“You know where she might be found.”
Field felt his face reddening. He took a step back, into the doorway. “Do you know of any associates or friends she has in the city?”
Mrs. Orlov shook her head, her manner still frosty.
“Did Natalya Simonov ever dance here?”
She shook her head again.
“Natalya Medvedev?”
Her frown deepened.
“Irina Ignatiev?”
“I do not know these girls.”
Field looked at her for a moment. “Thank you.” He moved to close the door.
“Would you like me to give her a message?”
“No.”
“Shall I say you called?”
“No, it’s . . . No.”
Field ran down the steps, the old anger starting to burn within him.
At Crane Road, Penelope opened the door. “Soldier,” she said as she stepped back, very slightly unsteady on her feet. “How nice.”
Penelope gently coaxed him over the threshold, leading him through to the drawing room, an arm draped over his. She pushed him onto the long sofa in front of the Chinese dresser. It was uncomfortable and, like the room as a whole, felt unlived in. “Geoffrey is out at meetings, but you must relax. You look like you’ve been working too hard.”
Field had told himself he’d come to see Geoffrey and he was therefore, he assured himself, disappointed.
The Chinese servant came in carrying a silver tray with two empty glasses. “This will do,” she said. She took a full bottle of whiskey from the sideboard and poured two drinks.
Penelope was wearing a low-cut silver dress, a long string of pearls hanging around her neck. She looked as if she was about to go out.
