Sadie shook her head. “I only took my first position a few weeks ago.”
“Stop protesting and keep working,” Olga advised. “At least until you have some money put away, where no one else can find it. There are things that can go wrong in life, and money can fix many of them.”
Sadie nodded. “You are wiser than me. I know that. But I want more hours in the day. I want to be young. Living in a vicarage was no fun.”
“You chose your life, your marriage.”
“Events took over my better judgment. It was only a second date,” Sadie said. “A second date that took me to Hull for the day. Once I put my foot on that train, everything changed. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d have been working here a week or more earlier, and perfectly content.”
“But you did. See, even in England, things can change so very quickly. I don’t think you should regret putting your foot on that train. If you hadn’t, your Mr. Rake would have died on that dock. Is that what you would rather have had happen?” Olga opened the door and stepped out, leaving Sadie to imagine the could-have-beens.
No, she would not have wanted Les to die. What she wanted was for them both to live. She took a look around the room and decided she’d finished with it for the day. After she picked up her box she opened the door and went into the corridor, checking her list for the next room to be tidied.
Her hip bumped something. She reached out to steady it and grazed a still burning cigarette with her finger. She put her finger to her mouth to soothe the burn, and pushed the ash can into place. A wad of paper was wedged between the can and the wall. She bent down and reached for it, finding more paper. Banknotes. Pound notes, and quite a few of them. She rifled through the stash. How strange. There were more than fifty of them, and she’d discovered them in a most unusual place. Around her, the hallway was silent. She had no way of knowing how long the banknotes had been there or who had left them. Staring at the money, she knew this could be the nest egg Olga said she needed, and no one would ever know she had it if she kept the money. However, she would lose her job if someone reported the money missing and it was discovered she’d kept it. Since Les considered her job to be so important, she’d better turn it in.
Chapter Thirteen
Les yawned and checked the alarm clock. Seeing it was ten A.M., he set his paperwork aside, a made-up and crossed-out fantasy of an organizational chart, just in case Sadie asked what he’d been doing. He’d particularly enjoyed making up names. While it was common in intelligence work for agents and supervisors alike to have nicknames, they didn’t sound like they came out of Dickens. Douglas Childers was called Glass in the Secret Intelligence Service, but Les had called him Dentition Chilblain in his chart. Not much of a joke but it amused him. Besides, it could be said that Glass had both perfect teeth and a chilly demeanor. If you crossed him, you could end up with scars from the encounter, as German Intelligence agents had discovered during the war. Glass’s exploits as a young officer a decade ago were legendary.
Les wasn’t sure if Sadie would come up to the suite during her lunch break, so he decided to listen to the most recent surveillance disks while it was still safely mid-morning. He hoped she didn’t return during her work hours, as he wasn’t sure how much contact he could handle with his beautiful wife.
Sleeping, or not sleeping as it were, next to her had been torture. He’d been too aware of that curvy body underneath a sateen nightgown. She had warmed the sheets and perfumed the air. He’d faked sleep, hoping it would fool his body into slumbering, but that had only worked for a couple of hours. She’d startled him out of his rest when she’d rolled over about two in the morning and settled the toes of her left foot into the hollow behind his knee. That soft, warm touch had given him a raging erection that no amount of mental dousing could quench. By the time her alarm had gone off, his jaw ached from clenching his teeth. He’d faked sleep to keep from engaging her as she readied herself for work, and only then had finally achieved a couple hours of rest.
He had gone through three disks the previous night, so he loaded them, one by one, onto the portable gramophone in the bedroom and listened, relaxed in an easy chair, part of a pair in a breakfast nook in front of the one window. The first two disks were full of Russian-language chatter. He appreciated the practice of listening to native speakers conversing, though they said nothing of interest.
On the third disk, however, someone new entered the room. The conversation changed. Three men were present, two of them very drunk. The newest arrival let out a string of curses as he mentioned the hotel.
Les’s eyebrows raised as the man made fun of the hotel staff, with special venom being directed toward Princess Olga Novikov. The man didn’t seem to know who she was, but apparently he’d propositioned Olga for the night and she’d turned him down. Les made a mental note to let Peter Eyre know about it. She might not like him, but he wouldn’t want her being raped or injured.
Next, the man insulted the food in the Restaurant, comparing the caviar unfavorably to what was available in Moscow. Eyre would want to know that as well.
The next part of the conversation didn’t make a great deal of sense. They’d been talking about what passed for Russian food in London, then the sober man said something about macaroni pasta, hardly a Russian delicacy. Les frowned and moved the needle back. Something about the accents on the radio? What did that have to do with pasta?
He sat up straight when he heard the name “Konstantin.” Was someone in Ovolensky’s party in cahoots with the bomber? He needed surveillance on the door so he could see who was going in and out of Ovolensky’s suite.
He lifted the gramophone needle and scratched notes on his pad. Macaroni pasta, or rather, noodles, which is what the man had actually said. Konstantin the bomber. The radio.
He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. There was something just outside his thoughts, something trying to make a connection. Macaroni. Pasta. Noodles. Maca. Roni. Marconi.
His eyelids popped open. Marconi House. On . . . the . . . Strand. Noodles. Pasta. Strand?
He knew about Marconi House. The BBC had once made their broadcasts from that location. They still had radio transmitters on site. Was Konstantin going to bomb it? Were Ovolensky’s men, Bolsheviks all, in cahoots?
Les pushed back his chair, energized, and removed the disk from the machine. He slotted all three of them into paper holders and tucked them into a Gladstone bag, then put on his shoes. While he had hours before Glass would be in the Marylebone flat, he had other ways and means of contacting Secret Intelligence. A telephone call to a certain number would send a courier to pick up the disks from a dead drop in Hyde Park. He’d call from downstairs. Another set of ears needed to listen to the third disk, and they needed to have a man on the seventh floor by evening.
Before he left, he put a cup to the wall. No sound of anyone. That was another reason they needed surveillance. He didn’t know when to record. Unless he stayed in the room every minute. Maybe he should do that. Fake a cold and tell Sadie he needed to stay in bed. He’d still need a messenger in that case though, to move the disks through town. Glass would have to decide what he wanted to have Les do.
* * *
“Where did the money come from?” Emmeline Plash asked. She poured tea from a plain white china pot, dribbling liquid onto the table without noticing.
Sadie smiled, glad they were at the boarding house and not damaging a Grand Russe Hotel tea table, and tucked the bank notes back into her handbag. When she’d gone back to her room on the seventh floor after speaking to Mr. Eyre, Les hadn’t been there. Too excited by her reward to sit around, she’d taken a taxicab over to Montagu Place to see her sister.
Unfortunately, Alecia was busy with Emmeline’s mother, who was having an agitated spell, common at that time of night, but Emmeline had been eager for a chat.
“I found a wad of bank notes,” Sadie said.
“And you kept them?” Emmaline frowned at the table and swiped at the tea puddle
with her handkerchief, then dropped it next to the teapot.
“No, I took them to my supervisor, who sent me to Mr. Eyre. He thanked me for my honesty and gave me ten pounds as a finder’s fee. The rest went into his safe until he can figure out who it belongs to.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Emmaline pulled the sugar bowl toward her and picked up the tongs.
“My supervisor would tell me to tuck it away for an emergency, but I want some new clothes. I haven’t had the heart to ask my husband for more money.”
“He doesn’t give you an allowance?” Emmaline lifted a sugar lump toward Sadie but she shook her head.
“No, I’ll have my wages. But he did buy me shoes. He was very generous when we first knew each other. Gloves, a muffler, a Russian doll. One present after another. And loads of housekeeping money since.”
“It’s different with boyfriends,” Emmeline said knowingly, stirring her tea with the tongs. “What do you want to purchase?”
“My nightgowns are a disgrace.” Sadie wondered why the older woman was so absent-minded today. “I have nothing pretty, and, well, I am a wife.”
“Absolutely,” Emmeline agreed. “I know just the place. Very discreet, very French. We’ll find you something that has your husband panting harder than a dog in August.”
Two hours later, Sadie had a beautiful dusky pink lace and satin nightgown in her possession, along with a lace robe and a pair of cream and silk lace pajamas that were the cat’s meow. Emmeline had told her that if she wanted to be truly seductive, she could leave off the pajama trousers and just wear the top. The mere idea had made Sadie blush, and think of what Les could do with the easy access to the most private parts of her body. Emmeline had bought nothing but a new pair of ice-blue step-ins to replace a ruined pair that matched a camisole in her possession, and declared herself in desperate need of bubbly to restore herself.
Sadie separated from Emmeline as soon as they ran across Gerald and Harold in the corridor outside the Coffee Room. The last thing she needed was to drink again, only three days after the last disaster. Her face had only just lost the puffiness. She returned dutifully to her suite on the seventh floor, only to find Les wasn’t even there. At the dinner hour, no less. They were supposed to be honeymooning. Furious, she pulled on the dress she’d worn on her first date with Les, applied a fresh coat of lipstick, combed her hair, and went back downstairs.
The Coffee Room crowd was sparse, given the early hour. Sadie filled a plate and sat in a corner to watch the three couples who were dancing. Before the first song was complete, the tune broke off. The clarinet player in the band played a trill with rising pitch. It sounded vaguely familiar, and as the dancers clapped, Sadie saw Teddy Fortress and Honor Page entering the room, him in evening dress, her mint-green gown covered by a white feather stole. The film star had a glittering silver and gold headpiece and her comedian husband held a lit cigar. He smiled delightedly at the crowd, then tripped, spinning around in a circle then landing, cat-like, at the table of a young couple. The crowd laughed and applauded. Sadie recognized the bit, and the trill, from one of his hit movies.
Miss Page looked bored as she followed her husband to the table. The music began again, the old hit “Avalon.” Gerald came up and held out his hand. Sadie took it, happy to dance, ready to forget her troubles. Still, though, as she followed Gerald through some fast footwork, she wished it was Les holding her in his arms.
After Gerald came Harold. A bass saxophone joined the piano, clarinet and drums as the room began to fill. Even on a Wednesday night the room was popular. Sadie heard the distinctive brays of the Bright Young Things as a scattering of them appeared. By the time Teddy Fortress himself danced with her, the floor was full of a dozen or more couples dancing. A puddle of champagne dampened the corner of the floor and a couple of thin young men giggled hysterically, rolling along the wall.
“I think we missed our dinner reservation,” Teddy said, tightening his hold on her waist. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”
“I’m in the Artists Suite,” Sadie said.
“Ah, yes. You should have lunch with my wife one day. She has a couple weeks respite before her next production begins.”
“That would be lovely,” Sadie agreed, wide-eyed. “Are you filming?”
“That I am, but we stopped early today. Trouble with the backdrops.”
Sadie nodded as if she knew exactly what he was speaking about. Actually, she did know, from reading Les’s movie magazines. “They didn’t look realistic?”
Teddy chuckled and pulled his cigar from his mouth and held it over Sadie’s shoulder. “Made the Eiffel Tower look like a great hulking spider.”
“Oh, dear,” Sadie said breezily, as he twirled her by the band. “They need some new artistic talent.”
“Any good art in your suite?” Teddy asked. “All Russian, I suppose.”
“I’m ashamed to admit I haven’t looked at it much. We only arrived yesterday evening.”
“No artistic eye?”
“Actually, the sitting room has a number of Georges Barbier ballet watercolors,” Sadie said. Olga talked about art a great deal. “But that won’t help you.”
“No, he’s in France,” Teddy said. “But if there is any good art by Russian immigrants working here, well, starving artists and all that.”
“I’ll investigate. I recognized the Barbier work because it is in other rooms as well.”
“Of course. The Ballets Russes,” Teddy said. “Is your husband in the arts?”
“Sales.” She took her hand off his shoulder momentarily to prevent a stray thread on her dress from curling around his shirt button. “He sells movie magazines, or at least, he used to.”
Teddy chuckled and dragged on his cigar. “Trouble, my wee bird of paradise?”
* * *
Les opened the door to the suite at eight-thirty. He had an expensive bouquet of greenhouse roses and a good story about a lorry crash on the Embankment that was actually true, though he hadn’t been anywhere near it. Instead, he’d spent all afternoon and into the evening conferring with Secret Intelligence about the possible threat to Marconi House, instead of romancing his fake wife.
“Sadie?” he called into the darkness.
Nothing. He turned on a lamp. It illuminated a framed watercolor of ballet star Vaslav Nijinsky at his most fey, but no Sadie. He set down his valise and the bouquet, then went to the wall, quickly pulling aside the Firebird painting to show the eavesdropping apparatus. The disk had long since stopped spinning. He put his ear to the wall. Nothing. Ovolensky and his men were out to dinner as usual at this time of night.
He heard a knock on the door and went to open it. In the doorway stood a tall, rangy Russian in the hotel’s night watchman uniform. Noting hair that was black as night and sensual lips, Les was most arrested by the piercing blue eyes of the man.
“Salter?”
“Rake,” the Russian replied.
Les stepped aside so he could enter. As he shut the door, he said, “One moment, please.” He walked quickly into the bedroom, to make sure Sadie wasn’t there. Was she kidnapped? Drunk again?
He went back into the room. “I apologize. I just arrived home to find my wife missing.”
“She’s in the Coffee Room,” Salter said in a heavy accent.
“Have you met her?”
Salter shook his head. “I have seen her portrait. Alecia has it framed.”
“I see. Is she with Emmeline Plash?”
“She was dancing,” Salter said. “Miss Plash is in the room.”
“Wonderful,” Les muttered. “What do you think of Miss Plash?”
Salter’s eyelids drooped. “She is my wife’s employer.”
“I’d have said that was Peter Eyre.”
“He pays her wage,” Salter agreed. “However, she answers to Miss Plash. A complicated woman, but under the circumstances I cannot say more.”
Les forced himself to return to his main interest. His
work. “Eyre has told you we need to keep an eye on Ovolensky and his men?”
Salter’s upper lip curled. “That goes without saying.”
“Your fellow countryman,” Les said.
“My cousin,” Salter added. “Did you know that? He had my parents murdered.”
Les had read the dossier that afternoon, had learned the full story of Salter’s revolutionary sisters and hapless parents, how he’d fled with one sister from Russia after the murder of another, and ultimately arrived in London. But he didn’t want to reveal more than he had to. After all, that sister was now missing, and she had been part of the plot to bomb the hotel. Les didn’t trust the man nearly as much as Peter Eyre did. “What do you know about me?”
Salter shrugged. “You are with the government, are part of the investigation. I am on your side. I want Ovolensky gone.”
Les nodded. “We need to know when the suite is occupied, so we can listen. We have a microphone in the wall, but we have to know when to record. Manpower is limited and we can’t keep a man here all the time.”
“Does your wife know?”
“She does not.”
“If she’s as bright as Alecia, you won’t be able to keep that a secret for long.”
“The more people who know a secret, the less of a secret it is.”
“I don’t believe in secrets,” Salter said. “Secrets destroy.”
“Are you going to tell Sadie the truth about me?” Les asked.
Salter met his eyes, then shook his head. “What do you want the watchmen to do when they see people going in and out of the suite?”
Les pulled a sheaf of newsprint from his bag and handed it to Salter. “Have the watchman slide a Daily Mail under my door when they enter. Then send a note to the reception desk that the newspaper has been delivered. They will know if no one is in the suite here and have a telephone number they can call.”
“Why don’t you simply stay in?”
“I will as much as I can, but we’re stretched paper thin. There will be another man here. McCall. He’s Special Branch. You can trust him as you trust me.”
I Wanna Be Loved by You Page 18