Danilov pushed open the door of the cafe. Everything appeared as usual. On the left, two chess players were enjoying a game. He noticed white was winning quite easily, but black had a chance with his queen. The smell of fresh baking flooded his nostrils, making him realise he hadn’t eaten. He often forgot to eat; there was little pleasure in it. At the back, the large brass samovar bubbled and steamed.
The only thing missing was the Princess. She wasn’t there to greet him.
The large man, the cook of the cafe, bustled past, shouting in Russian.
He’s asking if the Princess has returned, Danilov translated for Strachan.
The waiters simply answered. ‘Nyet, me ne videli yeye.’
‘I guess that means she hasn’t,’ said Strachan.
‘Well done, we’ll have you speaking Russian in no time.’
Danilov questioned the large man, Sergei. He translated as quickly as the cook spoke. ‘She was last seen late last night. They left early while she closed up. They have checked her apartment; she hasn’t slept there. Also, none of her girls has seen her.’
‘Her girls, sir?’
It pained him to say this but Strachan needed to know. ‘The Princess runs brothels in the French Concession, all high class but not strictly legal. The French authorities turn a blind eye…’
‘Like Nelson, sir.’
‘Just so, Strachan, except the Princess deals with a more refined clientele than sailors.’
The large man began speaking again. As he did so, he pointed to a blackboard hanging on the wall.
Written on the board were the same words they had seen at the undertaker’s:
‘ A Princess from the Ice did roam,
A new city to find a home,
Her ladies despite their tears
Did become her little ears
A sporting circle is her suggestion
Unquiet meals make ill digestion.’
‘The second time we have seen this, Strachan. Our killer is desperate to make sure we receive this message.’
And then it hit him. He knew exactly what it meant and where the Princess was being kept.