Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  ‘Listen, I only know about the arts because my old man was an actor. And you’re doing fine. You just need to swot up and learn a handful of impressive short quotes. Then everyone will think you know more than you do. That’s how I manage it. So, let’s have your morning report.’

  Henri had noticed that Charlie’s tie was crooked and his glasses were slightly askew but he’d decided to let it pass. If his wingman’s sartorial standards had lapsed, something must have gone bump in the night.

  Charlie said flatly, ‘Client in 241 claims his wallet was stolen from his room and so he can’t pay his bill. I found the debutante in 37 face down on the carpet at four am in a pool of vomit. A near-death experience. Doc Ahearn had trouble bringing her round. She swore her drink was spiked at a Soho nightclub but Doc reckons she’d been sampling various drugs.’

  Henri inspected his cuticles. ‘This is not optimal.’

  Charlie sighed. ‘It gets worse. One of Mrs Brown’s girls was mauled by the alcoholic bigwig in 117. And there were some infractions of the house rules in the Premier Wedding Suite but I’ve got it under control. They were using the bathroom for nefarious purposes.’

  A middle-aged politician waddled past the desk with a morose underage blonde wedged under his armpit. Anyone could see that she was not his wife. The politician waved merrily and tipped his hat. Obviously a good time had been had but not by all.

  Henri sadly studied the sunlight refracting off the highly polished surface of the concierge’s desk. Sometimes he dreamt of living in a lighthouse. Just he and Mimi slurping down copious quantities of Château Lafite and watching ships pass in the moonlight.

  Charlie coughed politely and Henri snapped back to reality. ‘Right then, Charlie. I want you to make some telephone calls. Find out if the guest in 241 is the same conman who tried to defraud the Savoy. Then I can brief Jim Blade.’

  ‘What about the doped-up debutante in 37?’

  ‘We get rid of her. Inform her that a chambermaid was bitten by a rat in her bathroom this morning. She needed shots. And we’re bringing in the rat catcher. Be sure to look suitably mortified. Offer relocation to a luxury suite at the Savoy or the Ritz. At our expense. We can’t relocate her here because we are fully booked out.’

  ‘But we’re not. There’ll be a couple of suites vacant in an hour.’

  ‘Charlie, as assistant concierge you must learn to lie through your teeth while oozing empathy and integrity.’

  ‘Sorry, Henri. I’m a bit tired and missed that one. What should I do if she kicks up a stink?’

  ‘Pre-empt her by offering her a large discount on her bill. She’ll agree as she’s been drinking the hotel dry.’

  ‘I know. She just ordered Caterina Anastasia Grande for breakfast again.’

  ‘We don’t need another scandal. What the hell’s wrong with all these rich kids?’

  ‘Beats me.’

  Henri drummed his fingers on the ledger. ‘Who got assaulted by 117? Did the bastard attempt forced sexual congress?’

  ‘Susie. She wasn’t raped but she’s black and blue all over and her left eye is bloody and gashed. Mrs Brown is furious and wants nothing less than castration.’

  ‘That’s our Bertha. No half measures. Tell 117 that here at the Hotel du Barry we do not tolerate molestation of our staff. If he wants to stop the matter getting legal we can discuss financial compensation. Being a High Court Judge, he won’t want the publicity. I know him well and he hasn’t got the balls to scream blackmail.’

  ‘How much loot will you be going for?’

  ‘It’s Susie’s call. But believe me, there’s no reason Judge Weston can’t cough up for Susie’s next holiday. All expenses paid to the Continent.’ Henri stroked his chin. ‘There’ll be no Butlin’s holiday camp this summer for our girl.’

  ‘But what should I tell Mrs Brown? She’s dead keen on bringing in the authorities.’

  ‘Tell her that if Susie wants to press charges I’ll help her every way I can. But let’s hold fire and I’ll find out if she would prefer to settle the matter privately.’

  Charlie nodded and made a brief note.

  Henri adjusted his silk tie and perked up his jaunty pocket handkerchief. Sometimes only elegance and style could ease the pain of man’s inhumanity to man. He assumed his concierge’s face. ‘I’ll now do my usual morning inspection, then I’ve got some important business at Spiro’s. Don’t send the page boys after me unless someone dies.’

  Charlie was looking decidedly more cheerful. He flashed Henri a cheeky thumbs up. ‘Woe, that too late repents.’

  ‘King Lear having a whine to Albany.’

  ‘Impressive. Breakfast, Henri?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Chef’s special today is Angels’ Brains in Hollandaise Sauce, served tidily on a split English muffin with modest parsley embellishment. And may I suggest a pot of Earl Grey tea, with a succulent wedge of Spanish lemon.’

  ‘A sublime choice. Double the order and ask Susie to join me for breakfast in an hour’s time. I need to go over the details with her in private and arrange for the hotel’s photographer to document evidence of her assault. You’ve had a really tough shift, so take an extra two hours off and I’ll cover for you.’

  Charlie grinned and tugged his forelock. ‘Your every wish is my desire, Milord. For as you know, here at the Hotel du Barry, we live to serve.’

  The hotel was so vast that it took quite some time to traverse from one end of it to the other. Henri liked to perambulate slowly in order to ensure that everything under his jurisdiction was tuned to perfection. As he strolled the plush red carpet of his fiefdom, Henri made mental notes as to what needed fixing. The massed flowers in the foyer had to go; they were mundane and unimposing. Henri detested pink flowers, he felt they lacked dignity. I wish to God the widow du Barry would stop interfering with the décor. An opulent palace such as the Hotel du Barry should be knee-deep in savage red blooms and lush palm trees.

  Henri observed that the top rail of a luggage trolley had fingerprints on its polished brass surface. He passed through the revolving foyer door twice and noticed two streaks on the otherwise spotless glass. In most hotels such details would probably be overlooked but Henri liked to set the bar insanely high. Despite his reputation for being a hard taskmaster, he had no trouble retaining staff and their loyalties ran deep.

  Hotel staff greeted him in passing.

  ‘A lovely day indeed, Mr Dupont. How is Mrs Dupont?’

  ‘Top o’ the morning to you, Henri.’

  ‘G’day, Henri. It’s real noice being able to see the bleeding sun at last, innit?’

  This greeting came from Bruce, a Tasmanian pastry chef who’d decided to practise his art in the old country. Despite dodgy etiquette and an impossible accent, he’d impressed Mrs Dupont. She was devoted to Bruce’s Victoria sponge cake decorated with fat hothouse strawberries and cream. Mimi had been known to consume a whole cake in one sitting.

  Henri took the service lift down to the labyrinth. Without knocking, he entered a door marked Room Service Manager.

  Derek Jones was seated at his desk, stamping and filing dockets. His thin, hunched shoulders were snowed under with dandruff and his round glasses almost opaque with grime. When he opened his mouth, his weak chin vanished and he appeared to be speaking from a hole in his scraggy neck. ‘What brings your Lordship down to Hades?’

  ‘A problem. Dylan O’Shea.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I found him taking a kip in the luggage storeroom last week. And yesterday Charlie caught him curled up asleep in the cloakroom. Hibernating in Mrs Winchester’s mink coat.’

  Derek blinked nervously. ‘Dylan’s got an unblemished record.’

  ‘I know that. But what I don’t know, is why is he so knackered? Have you got him rostered on too many night shifts?’

  Derek sneered. ‘Frankly, I don’t think it’s any of your fucking business, Dupont. Now bugger off, as we grown-ups have work to do.’

  Hen
ri sighed wearily. With one flick of his wrist he sent Derek’s teacup and files crashing to the floor and sat down on the desk. ‘I can tell by your surly attitude that you’re hiding something, Jones.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  Henri could distinctly smell gin on the man’s breath. ‘You and I have detested each other for such a long time, haven’t we? I know you’re a coward and violence terrifies you. So you’d better own up, Jones. Before things get nasty.’

  Derek tried to slide out from behind the desk but Henri had judiciously wedged his foot under the chair’s armrest. Derek was effectively pinned to the wall with no room for escape. Henri gave him a lazy crocodile smile and helped himself to the toffee jar, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his prey. The only sound in the office was Henri slowly unwrapping a toffee.

  Henri sucked the toffee thoughtfully, while pointedly gazing at the Swiss Alps oil painting hanging directly above Derek’s head. The silence lengthened.

  Finally Derek caved. ‘All right. Dylan is providing extra night services.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Mrs du Barry.’

  Henri drummed his fingers. ‘She’s voracious. You know damn well she’ll suck him dry, before sacking him on some fictitious charge like theft. Dylan will not be able to get another hotel job in London. How can you fucking well stand by and allow that to happen?’

  Derek broke out in a sweat but said nothing. Henri resumed his perusal of the Swiss Alps. It was a ghastly painting; the snowy peaks resembled dollops of grey blancmange. In the foreground a Swiss trollop wearing lederhosen frolicked with a miserable cow. Or was she making eyes at a surly bull? Artistic sloppiness infuriated Henri.

  Derek fiddled with a paperclip and kept his head down. It was a relief when Henri finally spoke, his voice so dangerously low that Derek had to crane forward just to hear him.

  ‘Let me tell you how we are going to fix this, Jones. You’re going to send Dylan down to our Brighton hotel for two weeks. Tell him we’ve got a staff shortage crisis. He can live in and benefit from some fresh sea air.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not going to idly stand by and watch yet another lad fall into the clutches of our black widow spider. It sickens me to the core.’

  ‘I dunno, Sean Kelly’s been a success. Until now, that is.’

  ‘He’s the exception. Listen, Dylan’s mother raised him on her own, without a red penny to her name. She doesn’t deserve to have him turning tricks as a rent boy.’

  ‘Why send him to fucking Brighton? I need him here.’

  ‘Once he’s out of Madam’s clutches, I’ll sort Dylan a valet job at another du Barry hotel. And you will cooperate. You will no longer charge for your pimping services. And you will stop exploiting our staff and instead start using established professionals. Or I’ll have you hanging off a fucking meat hook in the labyrinth.’

  Derek still refused to look at him, so Henri grabbed hold of his stained tie and twisted it until Derek gagged. ‘All right. Let go of me, you prick.’

  Henri gave one final yank and then released him. Derek collapsed gasping on the desk. ‘Fuck you, Dupont! All right, I’ll do what you want.’

  Henri stood up. ‘That’s more like it. And if you stop playing brothel madam I’ll keep you supplied with French confectionery and top-shelf gin to ensure your compliance. Only hymn-singing Christians sincerely believe that virtue is its own reward.’

  The door crashed shut behind Henri but before Derek could move he was back.

  ‘And for God’s sake, get rid of that fucking awful painting. I’d be depressed, too, if I had to look at that dodgy cow all day.’

  The door crashed shut again and the frosted glass rattled. Derek fished out a grubby handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. With shaking hands, he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a flask of gin.

  Henri made his way back upstairs to street level. He stopped in at the Gents washroom and scrubbed Derek Jones off his hands. He then made good use of a fluffy hand towel and accepted some cologne from the washroom attendant.

  Henri’s mood lifted. Humming cheerfully, he headed down the southern corridor and entered a marbled foyer that led to the hotel’s arcade of shops. Rich women were already hard at work spending their menfolk’s money. The perfumery had several hens gossiping at its gleaming counter and the beauticians were diligently spackling faces and filing away at claws.

  The two Pfizer sisters waved enthusiastically to Henri as he strolled past their fashion boutique. He stopped to admire their new window display and nodded approvingly. The Misses Pfizer blew him sultry kisses from shiny cherry-red lips.

  Henri entered Spiro’s Barber Shop and heaved a sigh of relief. The smell of hair tonic, cigarettes and pomade hung heavy in the air. The combination of dark leather seating, polished mirrors and waxed linoleum, made it austere yet extravagantly macho. Henri recognised it as the sort of barber shop that featured in gangster films, when the director needed a place to film the bad guys getting slaughtered; all those glossy surfaces on which to splatter blood.

  Set against a wall was a well-stocked display case housing hair lotions, nail clippers, combs, brushes and nostril-hair clippers. The only decoration in the joint was a poster advertising imported hair tonic for premature baldness. A perky blonde with magnificent breasts was running her hands through the male model’s luxuriant hair. Her eyes spoke of complete abandonment while his expression was one of complacent entitlement. The message was crude in its simplicity; have hair, will get laid.

  Spiro’s shop was a hive of activity. Three barbers were wielding cut-throat razors. The fourth was studiously trimming an elderly gent’s nostril hair, while keeping a firm grip on the cigarillo between his teeth. Henri paused to admire the barber’s dexterity. Meantime the resident shoeshine boy was applying himself to the gentleman’s footwear as he discussed the day’s sporting fixtures. ‘Nah, you is better orf backing Dream On. The strapper reckons the mare’s gunna be doped to the back teeth with the fast stuff.’

  Henri tapped him on the shoulder. ‘For one so young, you’re remarkably conversant with the corrupt side of horse racing. Take care. In my experience there’s usually tears before bedtime.’

  He slipped some coins to Spiro’s apprentice who was sweeping the floor. ‘I’m just here on business today. Please bring me back a strong black coffee, Lazarus.’

  Henri sauntered over to the waiting area. Sitting on the bench was his closest friend, reading the morning newspapers as he sipped his coffee. Henri sat down beside him. ‘So, has Scotland Yard made any progress?’

  Jim Blade passed the paper over. ‘Nah. Check out the photograph.’

  In bold typeface were the words, Bolivian manhunt as murder suspect flees U.K. Under the headline was a blurry photograph of Sean Kelly. Henri examined it closely. ‘This was taken about eighteen years ago – he looks about sixteen. How do they even know Sean’s left England?’

  Jim’s voice was low. ‘I told them.’

  ‘You dobbed him in!’

  Jim had turned away and was hiding his face. His shoulders shook as he searched his pockets for a handkerchief. Henri was stunned. Why had he betrayed Sean? Had the detectives bribed him? Impossible. Jim must have been tricked into divulging information and was now overcome with remorse.

  He grabbed Jim by the shoulder and spun him around. Jim was laughing and tears of mirth were running down his face.

  Jim wiped his eyes and beckoned Henri closer. ‘Listen, I know where Sean is holed up and it’s not fucking Bolivia. A certain widow of Sean’s acquaintance suggested he buy a fake passport from one of London’s most treacherous narcs and fuck off to Australia. Had Sean done that, he’d already be in the slammer. Admittedly, Edwina wouldn’t have known the forger was also a police informer. I sent Sean to a trusted pal down on the docks instead.’

  Henri sank back down on the bench. ‘Thank God for that. You really had me going, you bastard. I damn near had a heart attack. Where did they get the ph
otograph from?’

  ‘I asked Mary to dig up the oldest, fuzziest photograph she could find. Sean could be just about any Irish lad fresh off the hay wagon. There’s no resemblance whatsoever to our suave lady killer.’

  Henri shook his head. ‘You know, for one God-awful moment I thought you’d knowingly sent Sean to the gallows.’

  ‘Hell, no. I was just winding you up.’ Jim stood up. ‘Back in a minute. Just have to have a quick word with Marcello.’

  Lazarus reappeared, carefully carrying Henri’s coffee. His young face was creased with fierce concentration as he navigated around the barber shop’s chairs and the gentlemen’s briefcases. He successfully berthed the coffee on the bench and grinned with relief at Henri.

  ‘Thanks, Lazarus.’

  Jim returned and they sipped their coffees and watched the passers-by in companionable silence. The detective was the first to speak. ‘You know, the kid is doing just great these days. Have you seen the latest work in her studio?’

  ‘Not yet, but Bertha and Belinda reckon it’s exceptional.’

  ‘My word it is, Henri. Getting all these commissions has taken Cat’s mind off the recent troubles.’

  ‘You mean the widow’s machinations?’

  ‘Yep. The kid was distraught about Sean’s disappearance but Mary filled her in. Cat misses him something awful.’

  Henri nodded. ‘Yeah, I miss the shifty bugger too. I’m hearing that around the traps too, apparently a lot of young ladies are pining for him. According to one debutante, there’s no fox in the hen house to match him. He’s become even more desirable since the press made him out to be some sort of maverick gunslinger.’

  ‘There’s always a high premium on the bad boys.’

  Jim pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Henri, who shook his head.

  ‘Jim, is Cat still trying to track down that woman?’

  ‘I don’t think so. A slippery French diplomat was helping her for a while. I reckon he had ulterior motives. But she’s too smart for the likes of him. And fortunately his investigation came to a dead end.’