Page 12 of The Case of the Missing Dancer
"No, but she did ask an odd question. She wanted to know if our arrangements could be accelerated. If she could sail earlier than Friday."
"What did you tell her?"
"That it would be difficult but not impossible. TheMauretaniawas sailing today, but securing passage on such short notice would require considerable additional expense." Pemberton frowned. "She said she would consider it and let me know yesterday morning."
Yesterday—the day she disappeared.
“Did she come to see you?"
"No. When she failed to appear, I telephoned the theatre. I left word for her to contact me. She never did." He paused. "Miss Worthington, there's something else. Something that troubled me considerably."
"Yes?"
"When Miss Petrova left on Monday, I noticed a man watching from across the street. Well-dressed, foreign-looking, with distinctive silver hair. He seemed to be observing our building quite intently."
My blood chilled. "Can you describe him more specifically?"
"Tall, military bearing, expensive overcoat." Pemberton's expression darkened. "When Miss Petrova emerged from our building, I saw him follow her down the street."
Volkov. He'd been tracking her movements, learning about her escape plans.
"Did you see this man again?"
"Tuesday morning, actually. Same spot, same watching behavior. Almost as if he was waiting for Miss Petrova to return." Pemberton leaned forward. "I've been in this business for thirtyyears. I know when someone is being hunted. That young woman was in serious danger."
"Did she give you any other information? Anything that might help us find her?"
"She mentioned she had proof of . . . irregularities involving some members of the Russian émigré community. Said it was insurance, in case anyone tried to stop her from leaving." He opened his desk drawer and withdrew a sealed envelope. "She asked me to hold this for her, with instructions to open it only if something happened to prevent her from sailing."
My hands trembled as I reached for the envelope. "What's in it?"
"I don't know. But she was very specific. If she failed to contact me before theAquitaniasailed, I was to deliver it to Scotland Yard immediately."
I stared at the envelope, my mind racing. If Anya had left behind evidence—as insurance—Volkov would almost certainly know. Which meant . . .
“Mr. Pemberton,” I said carefully, “I believe you may be in considerable danger. The man you described—he’s suspected in multiple murders. And if he thinks you’re holding something that could incriminate him . . .”
The color drained from Pemberton’s face. “Good God. What should I do?”
“For starters, you shouldn’t keep this envelope.”
“Take it. I don’t want it.”
I slipped it into my handbag.
“What else?” he asked. “What should I do now?”
“Contact Scotland Yard at once. Ask for Inspector Crawford Sinclair—tell him I sent you. And whatever you do, don’t go home alone, don’t follow your usual routines, and if you see that man again?—”
A tremendous crash echoed from the outer office, followed by the secretary's scream. Heavy footsteps thundered across the floor, heading directly for Pemberton's office.
"The back exit," Pemberton whispered urgently, pointing toward a door behind his desk. "Quickly!"
But even as we moved toward it, the office door burst open. Two men entered—one tall and silver-haired with cold eyes and expensive clothes, the other younger and powerfully built. Both wore gloves.
Dmitri Volkov had found us.
His associate shut the door behind them. Whatever was about to happen, they didn’t want the secretary to witness.
