Free Requiem for a Mezzo by Carola Dunn Page A

uneasily. Better than that Yakov Levich was a Russian Jew and a Bolshevik spy, she acknowledged to herself. Had Bettina really tried to spoil her sister’s romance?
    â€œPretty reason, yes! Pretty damn good. You tell big policeman. He believe you better. To policemans I do not talk.”
    â€œMr. Marchenko?” Piper was back. “If you wouldn’t mind, sir.”
    Marchenko looked at him blankly.

    â€œPLEASE … COME … SIR.” Piper obviously subscribed to the opinion that if you speak to a foreigner loudly enough, he’s bound to understand. In case his voice wasn’t loud enough to penetrate, he beckoned, too.
    Pretend as he might that he understood no English, Marchenko had to respond to the gesture. He heaved himself to his feet and went off muttering into his beard.
    Alec was going to have a tough time getting anything out of him, or so Daisy hoped as her suspicions crystallized. The first two or three might have been coincidence, but Marchenko was the last straw. Every time Piper came in he summoned—presumably on Alec’s orders—whoever was with her.
    The rotter was trying to stop them talking to her!

6
    W hen Marchenko lumbered into the office behind Ernie, Alec was speaking on the ’phone. At last his Superintendent had rung him up to say all was squared with the local division and the case was his.
    He wasn’t at all sure he wanted it.
    For a start, Daisy’s involvement was cause enough for qualms, though at least he’d be on the spot to save her from herself.
    As for his suspects, so far he might as well have interviewed a flock of sheep for all the information he had got out of them. The artistic temperament prophesied by Daisy had been absent—except in the flamboyant Spaniard—unless it was manifested in a certain Bohemian cast of mind which made them wary of the police.
    He couldn’t even say they were lying, since none of them told him anything.
    No one was aware of any reason why anyone should have poisoned Bettina Abernathy. No one had ever had anything to do with cyanide. No one had seen anyone interfering with the decanter or glass. All but Mrs. Gower had been far too occupied preparing their thoughts and recruiting their energies for
the second half of the concert to concern themselves with anyone else’s whereabouts.
    And those who did not belong in the soloists’ room all had acceptable reasons to go there, including Mrs. Gower. She had gone to congratulate her husband on his performance. Miss Blaise confirmed the usher’s report that Muriel had promised to bring a sheet of music she’d left at the Abernathys’. Levich, not finding Cochran in the conductor’s room, had gone in search of him to ask something technical about the second part of the Requiem. Alec was sure Cochran would have an equally musical explanation, and his wife, of course, had been looking for him, while Abernathy had wanted to see his wife.
    All perfectly reasonable, and utterly unhelpful.
    Nor did Marchenko look promising. His face impassive, as far as one could tell through the luxuriant black beard, he stood stolidly in front of the desk, his gaze fixed on the wall behind Alec. Alec almost turned to see what held his attention, but he knew there was only a plain office clock of no conceivable interest.
    â€œPlease sit down.” The only response was a blank stare. Alec waved at a chair. The Russian bear sat.
    Alec looked at Ernie Piper, who shrugged. He’d been told to fetch whomever Daisy was talking to, so presumably Marchenko had managed to communicate with her.
    â€œI must ask you a few questions, sir.”
    â€œNye ponimayu,” growled the bear.
    â€œVous parlez français?” He knew a lot of Russian exiles spoke French, as did any decently educated girl of Daisy’s class.
    â€œGovoryu tolko po-russki.” The deep bass voice made his every word weighty.
    â€œIt seems we need an interpreter.