Page 10 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
"When did you last see her, Mrs. Whitmore?"
"Tuesday morning, it was. She left for the theatre as usual, carrying that little valise she always took to rehearsals. Seemed a bit agitated, now that I think on it. Kept looking over her shoulder as she walked down the street."
"Had you noticed any changes in her behavior recently?"
Mrs. Whitmore's eyes lit up—clearly she enjoyed a good gossip. "Oh, indeed I had. The past month or so, a visitor had come calling. Late at night, he came too. I don't normally allow gentlemen callers after ten o'clock, but he claimed to be her uncle.”
My pulse quickened. "Can you describe this man?"
"Distinguished looking, foreign accent. Silver hair, expensive clothes. Always wore gloves." She leaned forward conspiratorially. “There was something about him that made my skin crawl. Cold eyes, you know? Like looking into a winter pond."
"How often did he visit?"
"Three or four times in the past month. Always at night, never stayed long. But after his visits, Miss Petrova would pace her room for hours. I could hear her footsteps overhead, back and forth, back and forth."
"Did you ever hear what they discussed?"
"They spoke in a foreign language—Russian, I assumed. But once, when I was in the hallway . . .” She lowered her voice. "I heard her crying and him speaking very sharply. In English, hesaid something about 'family obligations' and 'the photographs must be returned.'"
The same phrases from the letters. "Did she ever mention being afraid of this man?"
"Not directly, but . . .” Mrs. Whitmore hesitated. "The morning after his last visit, she asked me about ship schedules to New York. Wanted to know the fastest way to book passage to America without drawing attention. Said she might need to visit relatives there very suddenly."
"America, not France?" That was a surprise.
"Oh no, definitely America. She even asked if I knew any American phrases that might be useful for travel." The landlady's expression grew troubled. "But then yesterday morning, she seemed different. Excited, almost hopeful. She'd received a letter the night before—foreign postmark, though I couldn't make out from where."
"Do you still have the envelope?"
"I'm afraid not. She took it with her when she left for the theatre." Mrs. Whitmore paused. "But there was something else. She'd been selling her jewelry, piece by piece. I saw her coming back from the pawn shop on Great Russell Street several times over the past few weeks."
“She was raising money for travel.” There was no other explanation.
"That's what I assumed. Though she seemed to have plenty of money otherwise—always beautifully dressed, ate well, never seemed to want for anything."
I made careful notes, my mind working through the implications. "Mrs. Whitmore, did she leave anything behind in her room?"
Well, that's the odd thing," Mrs. Whitmore said. "When I went up to check on her this morning, the room was completelyempty. Not just her clothes and personal items—everything. As if she'd never lived there at all."
"Someone cleared it out?"
"Must have." A frown deepened between her brows. "There were no signs of forced entry. Nothing else in the house was touched. Whoever it was knew exactly what they were about. They took only her things."
"You don’t think it was Anya herself?"
"Hardly. She might’ve packed a trunk—taken her clothes, shoes, maybe a few keepsakes. But not every stick of furniture that marked the room as hers."
A professional job, then. Someone with the skills and tools to gain entry without detection. "Did you see anyone suspicious around the building yesterday or today?"
"No, but I was out most of yesterday afternoon visiting my sister in Hampstead. Could have happened then."
I thanked Mrs. Whitmore and left, my mind churning with new questions. Anya had been planning to flee to America, not France. She'd been systematically selling her possessions to raise money. And someone—almost certainly Volkov or his associates—had professionally cleaned out her room, removing any trace of evidence she’d ever lived there.
But the timing troubled me. If Anya had received a hopeful letter on Monday night and seemed excited Tuesday morning, what had changed her plans so dramatically? And why had she disappeared before she could execute her escape?
As I walked back toward the main road to hail a cab, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing something crucial. Anya hadn't just vanished—she'd been taken or forced to run before she was ready. Either way, her carefully laid plans for escape had gone terribly wrong. And with each passing hour, the likelihood of finding her alive grew smaller.
CHAPTER 6
