“But it red.”
Not wanting to give a formal examination standing next to the dance floor, Wynn gave the spot a once-over to ensure the man wasn’t suffering a lethal mole, then gently tugged the shirt back down.
“I see no cause for concern. However, if you’re distressed about its appearance, you may come to Hôpital du Sacré-Coeur tomorrow. Give my name, Dr. MacCallan, and one of the physicians will attend you.”
Frowning dubiously at being put off, the man went back to poking his side with his cohorts as audience. Wynn moved quickly through the crowd before another potential patient required medical attention. It never failed. Attend a party and before long he ended up in a side room taking consultations without even a glass of punch to remind him why he’d come in the first place.
At last he arrived at the circle of sidearm-strapped men guarding Sheremetev’s private booth. “Evening, gents. I see you haven’t moved since last I saw you.” It wasn’t uncommon for a club, hotel, or fancy restaurant to have discreet crowd control should the need arise, but the stipulation was always discreet. These men made no bones about their inclusion and intent to the establishment. An unsettling insight into the owner himself.
One of the guards grunted and peeled back an inch of the velvet curtain that sectioned off the private table. A few words of Russian and the curtain pulled back as a man wearing a thick coat and a tall wool hat like many of the émigrés he’d seen in the Alexander church basement slid from the booth and slunk away. The guard grunted for Wynn to enter.
“Our own savior. Come in. Come.” Managing to surround himself with his own atmosphere, Sheremetev assembled himself in the center of the booth with his bulbous belly pushing against the table. He was dressed in immaculate evening clothes that were too fine for wartimes with the same double-headed eagle stickpin glistening from the folds of his white ascot. Like a drop of blood on snow. A ruby that size could feed the entire 8th Arrondissement for a month.
Wynn stepped into the cordoned-off space and remained standing. “Forgive the intrusion.”
“Never could you intrude. Our business at conclusion.” The folds around Sheremetev’s eyes twitched as they followed the man out of the club. “Heat addling him.”
“Perhaps he should have taken off his wool hat. It’s nearly thirty-three degrees Celsius outside.”
“Russians these days wear all worldly goods no matter temperature wherever go. One never know.”
The unspoken fear hung in the air, like a basin suspended on a thread. A word, a shift could tip it from the precarious balance to rain panic on their heads. Was this the anxiety Svetlana lived each day? Never knowing one hour to the next if she was in danger. Always one eye hunting ahead while the other searched behind for threat.
“But you’ve found safety in Paris. The troubles of your country can’t touch you here.” It was not with naivety Wynn made such a statement, rather one of earnest conviction. One he was fervent to see unbroken.
“You thinking no? It presumed surface of safety. One we vigilant protecting at all costs.” As with the precarious basin of fear, Sheremetev, too, held his own balancing act. A manner of ease and affability as a mask to the ring of steel within. A ring of steel that grasped tightly to the reins of control. Woe to the one standing in defiance of such a claim.
Danger lurked as Wynn’s constant companion in the operating theater, but it was a danger he understood, one he could defend against to the best of his learned knowledge. Sheremetev pulsed a peril of incurability. Like a heart beating at its own time, but a closer examination detected an erraticism of the rhythm from its fixed course.
Wynn shifted the medical bag in his hand, eager to conclude his own business and be on his way. “Is Leonid about? I found a note saying to meet him here for a short exam.”
Sheremetev snapped his pudgy fingers and one of the guards appeared, silent as an apparition. A quick command in Russian and the guard disappeared, presumably in search of the prodigal patient.
“Death of me that boy will be. Much play and work not enough. He on the mend, da?”
Wynn nodded, grateful he’d picked up the minimal Russian word for yes and even more grateful that his Russian hosts spoke enough English to communicate, otherwise there would be a lot more hand gestures. He was terrible at charades.
“I’m preparing to remove the bandages tonight. Fresh air does wonders for a wound after the initial phase of recovery has passed. Any chance of finding who did this to him?”
“I know already.”
“The authorities have apprehended them? That’s a relief. The people of Paris have enough to trouble themselves over without back-alley ruffians.”
“No need authorities. This Russian matter. Deal with as such.”
Chipped with ice and weighted with ominousness, the words sank deep into Wynn’s unsettlement. The plush booths, gold trim, bejeweled women, and titled lords were nothing more than an opulent smokescreen wafted over nefarious means. He could venture a good guess to those means exactly, but he’d rather not dwell on the implications. Best to treat his patient and move on before he became embroiled in this underworld of Russian dealings.
“Do you understand meaning, Dr. MacCallan?” Despite his eyes being hidden in rolls of fat, Sheremetev watched him closely.
“My understanding goes to my patients and their medical needs only. All else I leave to others and their expertise.”
“Wise. Often noses sniffing around business not their own. Some easily pushed back with little tap. Others requiring more knocking.”
“Good way to earn a broken nose.”
“I no broken nose. Only bruised knuckles and shoulder.” Leonid loomed in front of the table. His hair was askew, and his black jacket was draped around his wounded shoulder. His infectious grin was in sharp contrast to his father’s menacing one.
Grateful for the distraction, Wynn turned his full attention to his patient. “It’s that shoulder I’ve come to see you about. Shall we find a quiet corner?”
“No, here. I wish see our fine physician at work.” Sheremetev poured himself a dram of vodka, then signaled for the thick curtain to conceal them in muffled privacy. “While asking few things from son. Where have been?”
Leonid shrugged out of his jacket, then sat on the edge of the seat to unbutton his shirt. “Around.”
“Around gaming tables.”
“Da, and kitchen, and stage. All smooth running.”
“No doubt including dancers. One particular with black curls.”
Leonid reddened. “Da.”
“If caring one day take over family business, you need present more attention to entirety of operation and not ongoings of backstage. Sheremetev name one of success. First in Moscow and now Paris.” Sheremetev swallowed his vodka whole and plunked the crystal glass on the linen tablecloth, glaring at his son.
“Fifteen years White Bear serving as relaxation place for Russian nobles touring Europe capitals, comforting taste of home many thousand miles away. Now it sanctuary for nobles finding themselves cut from homeland. A venture no taken lightly.”
Silence pulsed between father and son. From the vein throbbing in Leonid’s neck, he was anything but silent internally.
Still standing, Wynn set his bag on the table and took the opportunity for a diversion as he examined the injury.
“The entry and exit have scabbed over nicely. You don’t require the bandage any longer, but keep the area clean and try not to put pressure on the shoulder. You should regain full use of it soon, as long as you stay away from scrapping.”