But she couldn’t leave. She didn’t have time. All she could do was tighten her clasp on her bobby pin.
The door opened.
Cora braced herself for seeing the surprised, and then suspicious, gaze of a police constable. She braced herself for a sober looking detective, no less dangerous because he was not in uniform. She even braced herself for seeing a hotel staff member, and she prepared herself to murmur some nonsense about being in the wrong room.
Instead, she saw a maid, and Cora’s shoulders relaxed. The maid was taller than her, and heavily made up.
The maid gasped.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Cora said hastily.
The maid gave a tight smile and then shrank back.
“Er—thank you,” Cora said. “I was just coming back to my room. This is good timing. It—er—looks very clean.”
The maid didn’t turn back and hurried away, her tight blue dress and white ruffled apron swaying from her sudden speed.
Cora sighed. That’s what she had come to—scaring the staff.
At least she was inside though. She placed her hairpin back in her hair and moved methodically through the room.
The room was clean. Cora had not had to lie about that, but it was not entirely empty, and Cora’s heart thudded.
She’d have to work quickly. At some point the police would discover Mr. Tehrani’s identity, and at some point after that, they would discover he was staying at this hotel, in this room.
Fortunately, that hadn’t occurred yet.
Cora opened one of the drawers, ruffling through underwear and shirts. She’d never touched male undergarments before, and guilt rushed through her.
He’s dead. He won’t mind.
Somehow her stern words did not utterly alleviate her worry. Well, she’d never developed taskmaster skills. That was another type of job the employment agencies wouldn’t send her on.
She opened the next drawer. The clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d put them in himself and not made use of a valet. He had a sufficient variety to make it evident he’d intended to make the most of his time in the capital. Evening clothes and more casual attire touched, and when she opened a wardrobe, she found rows of smart jackets and blazers.
Her chest tightened. What events had he planned to go to? What had he already done, not realizing it would be the last thing he would do?
She searched for the jewels, but they weren’t here.
Hmm... Perhaps someone had stolen them.
She searched for other clues. Unfortunately, the clothes were no help.
What had she expected she would find? Perhaps she’d been naive to think Mr. Tehrani might have kept a calendar or notebook with an appointment scrawled on it that would lead her to the killer.
There was nothing of that sort here, only a few books that seemed to be fiction, given the colorful images on the cover, though Cora couldn’t read the strange looping Persian letters.
A guidebook on London made her heart sink. Had this been his first time here? Had he looked forward to visiting?
She picked it up. There was much in London that she still hadn’t seen. Some pages were folded down.
How curious.
She turned to the folded pages quickly. The British Museum. She smiled. Well, that place seemed to be on the top of many people’s list. The other folded page though was about Bloomsbury, and she frowned slightly, reading a short description of her square.
Had Mr. Tehrani intended to read about Bloomsbury because of its proximity to the British Museum? Or had he known he was going to visit that square? There would be no reason to visit Miss Greensbody at her home, and though the square was pleasant, it also lacked the monuments and historical importance that would have made it a natural priority for a visitor to London to see.
Perhaps... Cora frowned. She hadn’t checked the pockets of the man’s blazers. This was a hotel, and one in a new city. The man wouldn’t necessarily have done dry cleaning.
She returned to the wardrobe and checked the pockets of the man’s blazers. The first two ones were empty, but in the third one, she came to a glossy paper. It seemed sturdier than normal paper, and her heartbeat quickened. Was it a business card? The shape seemed wrong, and she removed it gently.
Most likely it was some flier for an art exhibit.
But when she looked at it, it definitely was no flier. It was a photograph.
Of Bess.
What on earth was Mr. Tehrani doing with a photograph of Bess in his pocket? Had he met her? Was he one of the wealthy gentleman Bess liked to go out in the town with?
Voices sounded in the corridor, reminding her that she should leave.
She slipped the photograph back in the jacket pocket.
Evidently, Miss Greensbody was not the only person in the building who had a connection with the dead man.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The streets and people blurred as she returned to her flat. Bess had known Mr. Tehrani. In fact, Bess had known Mr. Tehrani so well he’d carried a picture of her in his jacket pocket.
Had he snapped the photograph of her? Or had Bess given the photograph to him?
The photograph had been glossy and the background had been neutral. It was the sort of photograph that might be taken at a studio, the sort of photograph only Bess could have given him.
Her heart tightened.
Perhaps Mr. Tehrani and Bess had known each other. That didn’t mean she’d tried to murder him.
But Bess’s room was opposite Cora’s.
She headed up the steps leading to the building and nearly bumped into someone. Cora gave a slight scream.
“Though the vivacious greeting is flattering, I don’t fancy the hint of terror,” a voice said. The voice was silky and smooth and sent a smile soaring up her lips.
She stepped back. “Randolph!”
“’Tis I.” He grinned. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming. I had some spare time, and there’s no one with whom I would rather spend it.”
“How lovely,” she breathed.
“Now,” Randolph said, “how are you?”
Her smile wobbled, and Randolph’s eyes softened. “I’m quite happy to whisk you away from here.”
“There’s been...a lot,” she said. “The police came to visit Pop’s club last night. They insisted on interviewing him, even though he was performing.”
Randolph raised his eyebrows.
“Pop just called an impromptu intermission,” she said hastily. “It was fine.”
Except...
It hadn’t truly been fine.
If it had truly been fine, there would have been no police constables scattered in the audience.
If it had truly been fine, Vinny wouldn’t have implied the presence of the police was unwelcome.
If it had been truly been fine, the detective wouldn’t have questioned Pop at all.
“How did they connect Pop to the body so quickly?” Randolph asked.
She shrugged. “It seems Pop is not an expert at the disposing of bodies. He dropped the body off at a crematorium.”
Randolph raised his eyebrows.
“It seems the crematorium’s instinct on discovering the body at their doorstep was to call the police, rather than simply burn it,” Cora said.
Randolph smiled. “It was sensitive of him to leave it there rather than in the Thames for some poor child to discover and for some poor constables to haul up.”
“You sound like him,” Cora grumbled. “Unfortunately, some passersby remembered his vehicle, and even more unfortunately, they traced it back to him.”
“I suspect he has a nice car.”
“Yes, he likes the good life.” Cora hoped her voice didn’t sound bitter. When she looked up, Randolph was assessing her. Sympathy definitely seemed to be in his eyes.
Golly.
“Pop’s surrounded by a lot of burly Italian-Americans.”
“How odd,” Randolph said.
“And one of them told me
he hoped any unfortunate incidents didn’t happen,” Cora continued, wincing at the memory.
“Perhaps he was saying he didn’t want your father to be arrested, in a collegial sentiment sort of way.”
“Perhaps,” Cora said, but Randolph must have heard the doubt in her voice, for he squeezed her hand.
“It will be fine,” he promised. “He probably didn’t mean he would cause anything unfortunate to happen to your father.”
Cora nodded. “I know.”
The thing was, she wasn’t entirely certain.
It was all very well acting confident when she didn’t want people to worry about her, but she’d spent long enough on sets to know that how one acted and how one felt were two entirely different things.
She raised her chin. The last thing she needed was to waste time dwelling on her worries. They were huge and gnawed at her with surprising consistency.
“Cheer up,” Randolph said. “If you’re worried, we can go to another one of your father’s performances tonight. You’ll see there’s nothing to be concerned about.”
We?
“You wouldn’t mind meeting my father?”
“Naturally not,” he said. “In fact, I’d quite like to meet him.”
“But he might think—”
Randolph raised his eyebrows, and Cora’s cheeks warmed.
“It’s just that,” she continued, “generally it’s considered a sign of being serious when a man meets a woman’s parents.”
“Is that so?” Randolph asked, with a smile.
Cora nodded. “I thought you should know.”
Randolph clasped her in his arms. “Cora, sweetheart, I am serious. You have a surprisingly thick skull for such a delicate creature.”
Cora tilted her head up. He was all strength and splendor. The light glinted over his tousled hair, and she reached up to touch it, still unused to the fact she could do this, that he was hers.
In the next moment their mouths met, and Cora’s thoughts quieted, indulging only in the sensation of Randolph’s lips, Randolph’s tongue and Randolph’s hands.
She pulled away. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Anything, sweetheart.” He tucked a lock behind her ear. “Particularly if you’re going to suggest a weekend break somewhere.”
She stepped away, and her cheeks flamed. “Er—right. I wanted to know if the policemen found Mr. Tehrani’s jewels.”
“His jewels?” For some reason, Randolph’s lips turned up. “You’re right that is a much less romantic contemplation.”
“I mean, obviously maybe you don’t have access to that sort of information. But if you did, it would be most helpful.”
“Normally it would be difficult for me to receive that. But since Mr. Tehrani was a foreigner, I suppose I could make inquiries. Some people in Britain worry that the Shah has too many financial links to Germany, though the main worry is their border with the Soviet Union.” Randolph pulled her closer to him, as if sensing her discomfort. “I’ll check,” he promised. “And then I’ll pick you up in my car, and I can meet your father. Good?”
“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” she murmured.
His eyes twinkled. “I’m rather an expert at making wonderful plans.”
“You’re an expert at many things.”
He winked. “That’s true too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
For the first time, the coat check girl did not narrow her eyes when Cora appeared. Her gaze was decidedly on Randolph.
Cora didn’t blame her. Her gaze tended to be on Randolph too. It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he fit his clothes well and his facial features were chiseled, but his entire bearing was one of strength and competence.
Club Paradiso was undoubtedly no stranger to important guests, but the coat check girl was evidently not immune to Randolph’s considerable charms.
“Go right inside, Miss Clarke,” the coat check girl gushed, keeping her gaze on Randolph.
Cora smiled and entered Club Paradiso, Randolph at her side.
It was almost time for Pop’s performance, and everything in the club sparkled, waiting only for the final onslaught of guests.
It should have felt odd striding in with Randolph, but it felt only natural, and for a while she forgot this was a monumental moment.
Pop must have finished rehearsing for the stage was empty.
“We can check backstage.” Cora strode authoritatively past the curtain and led Randolph to her father’s dressing room. She knocked, and the door soon opened.
“Hi, honey bunny!” Pop flashed a customary smile at her, though it soon changed to a rather less customary frown. Pop looked far less pleased to see Randolph than the coat check girl had been. “Who is this?”
“I’m Randolph.”
Cora clasped his hand, and Pop’s gaze dropped to their linked hands.
“Hmph,” he muttered. “I preferred Archibald.”
“Randolph has his good qualities,” Cora said.
Pop continued to frown. “So you’re the sweetheart.”
“Yes.” Randolph flashed his own perfect smile, though it did nothing to inspire Pop to replicate it.
“So what are you in? The police force? Scotland Yard? The Secret Intelligence Service?” Pop narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you work for another country.”
“Pop!” Cora exclaimed.
“Sorry. He just has that look about him,” Pop said. “You have to be careful about these government workers. Not to be trusted.”
Cora frowned. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard statements like this from her father, but they’d typically been said with such lightheartedness, she’d thought he was joking or had simply watched too many James Cagney or Humphrey Bogart films, a definite hazard for people her father’s age.
“Speaking of the government, Pop,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Have you heard more from Mr. Darby-Brown?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “False alarm.”
“I hope so,” she said. “You shouldn’t have dropped Mr. Tehrani’s body at the crematorium.”
“It looked quiet,” Pop said defensively.
“It was around the corner from the British Museum!”
“Then the tourists should all have gathered there,” Pop said sullenly. “Far more interesting.” He shrugged. “Besides, do you know what it’s like to drive around with a corpse? It’s the sort of thing that might affect the seat cushions.”
“Not to speak about if you’d gotten pulled over,” Randolph said, interjecting himself into the conversation.
Pop narrowed his eyes. “That is a most unhelpful comment. Obviously, I’m far too good a driver to ever get pulled over.”
“Even driving on the other side of the road?” Cora asked.
Pop raised his chin. “Even then.”
“What sort of car do you drive?” Randolph asked, perhaps attempting to steer the conversation into something Pop might find less controversial.
“Are you going to run a trace on it?” Pop asked.
“No,” Randolph said. “Of course not. Er—probably not.”
“It’s a 1937 Jaguar SS 100 3.5-litre Roadster,” Pop said, and Cora’s gaze wandered as the conversation shifted to cars, despite Pop’s obvious pride.
It hadn’t been necessary to learn how to drive in Hollywood, and she’d always been so busy she’d never had the time to dedicate to learn anyway. A car would be a liability in London. The tube functioned fine, though Cora would always prefer to walk when given the choice, despite London’s propensity to rain.
Murmurings sounded from the hall, and piano music wafted through the room. Evidently the performance would start soon.
“We should take our seats,” Cora said quickly.
“Nice to meet you,” Randolph said.
“Er—yes.” Pop gave a tight smile.
A hostess soon led Cora and Randolph to a table. The club was filled with people. Women in slinky dresses wearing their hair in elaborate u
pdos sat beside men wearing dinner jackets and bow ties. Waiters flitted about regally, moving silently, as if practicing for a role as a specter in the local theater production.
Pop appeared on the stage a few seconds later. He beamed at the audience and then his smile wobbled. His eyes darted from side to side, and then he inhaled and gave his customary smile. “Well, hello folks. I’m thrilled to see you all here. I have a special announcement to make. My daughter is going to sing with me.”
Cora widened her eyes.
This was news to her.
She’d just seen Pop, and he certainly hadn’t mentioned it then.
“Let’s give her a hand,” Pop said, and the audience applauded. “Come on, Cora!”
Cora swallowed hard. She didn’t leave her seat. She wasn’t supposed to sing. That hadn’t been planned, and she certainly hadn’t rehearsed. Her voice felt tight, as her heartbeat quickened, as if pounding against her diaphragm.
Pop looked around the room. For some reason, he had an anxious glint in his eyes and he soon descended the steps from the stage and stood before her. “Come on, honey.”
Cora shook her head. “I haven’t practiced...”
Pop waved his hand dismissively. “So you’ll have that raw sound. It’s fine.”
Cora raised her eyebrows. Her father had never enthused about the virtues of not rehearsing before. In fact, he took rehearsals seriously, devoting hours each day to practice the songs that seemed so effortless to everyone he impressed in the evenings.
Cora looked at Randolph. This hadn’t been exactly a date, but she hadn’t expected to abandon him.
“It’s fine,” Randolph said. “I’ll watch.”
“Well, I suppose I could do it...” Cora pressed her lips together.
“Good,” Pop said. “You know the songs.”
“Not the Italian ones.”
“Then we’ll cut them.” Pop waved his hand. “Easy-peasy. Let’s go!”
She followed him, even though she was astonished. Normally, Pop would insist she get into a pretty dress and that she do her hair and makeup. She’d walked through London, and she had the decided impression her makeup was rather more faded, and her hair rather less pristine, than when she’d started out.
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