Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  Henri nodded. ‘A section of the Hotel du Barry was built on the site of a magnificent old theatre that was burnt down in an arson attack. Maurie got his builders to install this iron grille rather than filling in the tunnel.’

  Cat’s eyes were huge in the gloom. ‘So what was this tunnel used for?’

  ‘It provided passage for actors to move quickly between the two theatres owned and run by an innovative theatre impresario. The other theatre still exists today, a couple of blocks away,’ Jim said.

  Cat nodded. ‘Do you mean Romanoff’s?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Henri pointed at another barricaded door. ‘Back in those days players were sometimes contracted to appear in two plays at the same time. The tunnel allowed them time to finish one scene and then hustle through the tunnel to the other theatre. They’d pop up backstage and dressers would be waiting in the wings with their costumes.’

  Jim said, ‘Rooms were built into the sides of the tunnel to store unused props and backdrops. Over the years I’ve noticed there’s been some unauthorised use of the tunnel for . . . recreational purposes.’

  Mary gingerly stepped over abandoned prophylactics and a dusty pile of empty Guinness bottles. ‘So it seems.’

  Henri flashed his torch at a rodent scuttling past. ‘Recently four actors performing at Romanoff’s told me in all seriousness that they’ve heard ghosts rattling through the tunnel, running up the stairs and appearing backstage.’

  Mary winced but fortunately the only thing that seemed to be moving that night were the rats.

  Jim added, ‘Danny once told me that when he was a kid, he’d seen ghosts making love in one of the storage rooms. In a dusty prop bed from an old production of The Canterbury Tales.’

  Cat smiled wistfully. ‘Yep, he used to tell me great ghost stories. Danny said London’s theatres are crammed with ghosts. He reckoned actors who’d died often didn’t want to give up the limelight and so they refused to leave the theatres where they’d done their best work.’

  Led by Henri they went down the tunnel until he stopped at the third door and selected a long thin key. ‘I put Mary’s trunk in here.’

  Jim knelt down, got two hurricane lamps going and handed one to Henri.

  They entered the storeroom and Cat was fascinated by the play of lamplight on the rotting oilskin backdrops hanging against the brick walls. Paris, Madrid and a lush forest scene were slowly revealed.

  Henri held the lamp over a large wooden trunk. Mary unlocked the padlock and opened the trunk. She rummaged around until she found what she wanted. Two worn leather handles were sticking up. ‘That’s it.’

  Jim reached into the trunk and hauled out a Gladstone bag. Both Mary and Cat shrank away from it.

  Jim said firmly, ‘Ladies, I think we need to get a grip on our emotions. It’s just a medicine bag, which may or may not be of use. I don’t believe in the occult but even I’m willing to trust your fortune teller’s feminine intuition.’

  Cat said, ‘She’s not a fortune teller, she’s a witch.’

  Jim tried to hide his smirk. ‘I guess that makes all the difference, then.’

  Mary poked him in the ribs. ‘Jim, stop being so bloody patronising and get on with it.’

  Jim shrugged and flipped open the worn leather straps. He pinched the clamps holding the bag shut and levered it open. Cat leant over Jim’s shoulder and stared into the dark recesses of the bag. It smelt musty and she recognised the medicinal odour peculiar to pharmacies. The contents of the bag were intact. All the potions, ointments, bandages, tonics and pills were still safely harnessed in their nooks.

  They watched uneasily as Jim released the individual leather bindings and removed some bottles. Taking each one in turn, he sniffed the contents and held the bottles up to the light. Then Jim reached for the ointments and one by one removed their lids, stuck his finger into the jars and stirred the contents. He dumped the empty bag on the floor, groped around the lining and felt the leather casing all over.

  ‘Everything’s in order, there’s nothing secreted in the jars or the bag’s lining. Nor does the bag have a false bottom. If there is any mystery it could be the medicines themselves. I think it’s worth getting the contents analysed by a professional chemist.’

  Cat plucked out a medicine bottle and read the label. ‘What would a chemist look for?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘Not sure. But each item is labelled quite legibly, so I’d be asking him to analyse the contents of the bottles to see if the contents match the labels. I have a few ideas but don’t want to voice them prematurely.’

  Cat’s hand shook as she replaced the bottle. ‘We’ll leave it with you then, Jim.’

  Jim put everything back, snapped the bag shut and rebuckled the straps. ‘And folks, this is crucial – tell no one about this bag. No one.’

  Jules knocked boldly on Cat’s studio door. He entered when she called out, ‘Come in.’

  Cat was sitting at an easel, hands black with charcoal. She hastily covered her drawing. Jules kissed her full on the mouth. ‘What are you hiding?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just a portrait.’

  He held his ground. ‘Show me.’

  Cat reluctantly pulled back the drawing paper and Jules was eyeball to eyeball with a virile young man. The lad was buck naked, posed heroically with muscles flexed. Jules noticed he was supremely fit and extremely well endowed.

  He took a step backwards. ‘Dylan O’Shea. Are you dating him now?’

  ‘No. He’s one of my life models. He was posing for a bronze memorial sculpture commission but unfortunately he’s been transferred to our Brighton hotel.’

  ‘Why this geezer?’

  Cat frowned. ‘When I asked you to pose naked for me, you refused. So I had to ask around.’

  ‘So does he take a kip in your bed when he’s plum tuckered out from all the flexing and posturing?’

  ‘Don’t be so childish. If you keep carrying on like this you can shove off.’

  Jules tried not to stare at Dylan’s physique. Perhaps she’d exaggerated the size of his cock? Either that or the bastard really was hung like a donkey. ‘Cat, I’m sorry. I guess I’m a bit jealous.’

  She studied him thoughtfully. ‘Do you find me even remotely attractive?’

  ‘You know I do. I think you’re stunning. Absolutely gorgeous.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you made any attempt to bed me?’

  ‘Because I adore you.’

  She wiped her hands on a rag. ‘So, what you’re saying is that you only fuck girls you don’t give a damn about. You adore me but you’d rather make sandwiches with Victoria and Becky.’

  Jules reeled backwards. ‘How did you find out?’

  She shrugged. ‘This is a hotel. There are no secrets.’

  Jules tried to catch her eye but she refused to look at him. He stammered, ‘I was tanked on whiskey and when the girls suggested we have ourselves a private party upstairs I couldn’t resist. It only happened once.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe. I’ve read that having sex with two extremely nubile girls at the same time is a common fantasy. Casanova liked nothing better than seducing two women at the same time. Usually after gorging on aphrodisiac oysters and a trough of gin punch.’

  ‘Cat, please don’t.’

  She still refused to look at him and gazed fixedly out the window. ‘You know, I’ve got a very clear picture in my mind of the acrobatics involved. One into two is rife with comedic possibilities.’

  ‘Stop.’

  ‘I was stunned when I was told you’d fucked them both during a party. On a pile of guests’ coats. Classy. The whole hotel is gossiping about it. Don’t you give a shite about how I feel?’

  ‘Of course I do. Look, I fancied them rotten at the time but I could never feel about them the way I feel about you. I was drunk and randy, but I want you to know I used a prophylactic. Or three. I’d never risk getting anyone pregnant.’

  Cat rolled her eyes but said nothing.

/>   ‘Babe, I’m dying here. What can I do to make it up to you? Name it and it’s yours. Anything.’

  She appeared to be lost in thought. The silence was killing him; he wished she’d yell or scream. He was losing her.

  Cat moved closer and studied him carefully through narrowed eyes. ‘Don’t babe me. If you’re truly sorry you can make amends by making love to me. The same way you make love to all the girls you claim you don’t give a damn about.’

  Jules stepped backwards. ‘No. Don’t ask me to do that. I can’t.’

  She laughed but it was cold and mirthless. ‘Really? I’m sure you could manage it. A man like you – who has been spreading himself around like marmalade – must know a thing or two about women.’

  Jules fiddled with his watch. ‘I’ve never made love to a virgin. Ever. It’s foreign territory and I’m nervous as hell. What happens if I can’t get it up? I’d sooner die than disappoint you.’

  ‘I see. Well, this is how it works. I don’t want to remain a virgin. I’m curious. I want to know what it feels like. I’d prefer the first time to be with someone I really like. However, at this point in time I’m also thinking I should review my options.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Why not? I’ve had more sexual offers than I can decently manage. Venetian men adore women. And they’re not squeamish about virgins. But unlike you, I prefer one-on-one intimacy with someone I know and care about. Playing the whore doesn’t appeal to me.’

  ‘You’re really angry with me, aren’t you?’

  ‘You have twenty-four hours to think it over. And now I’ve got work to do.’

  She kissed him passionately on the mouth and then primly resumed work on the charcoal portrait. As he watched, she enlarged Dylan’s cock with a few rapid strokes. A muscle in Jules’s jaw tightened. Cat raised an eyebrow at him and glanced at the door.

  As the door clicked shut behind him, Cat tossed aside the charcoal and smiled dreamily as she walked through to her kitchenette.

  Matthew Lamb was still lounging at the kitchen table reading a back issue of Tatler. He looked bored. Cat rearranged his limbs and he perked up. ‘Well, Mr Lamb, I took your advice and exerted a little pressure. He’s positively seething with jealousy. I think I’ve got him reeling on the ropes. What do you think?’

  Matthew Lamb remained silent but his sapphire eyes glittered with wicked intent.

  The next day Cat received a visit from Jules. She was painting a life-size portrait of Michael and crying as she cut into the canvas to create his moveable limbs. Cat had already finished a hinged, life-size portrait of Daniel but she kept it well hidden from the staff. They’ll think I’ve lost my mind if they see three handsome men in tuxedos; lounging around my apartment, flexing their hinged limbs and sucking down German Schnapps.

  When Cat heard a knock on her door, she hastily covered up Michael’s portrait and wiped away her tears.

  Jules refused to come into the studio and stood awkwardly in the doorway. ‘If you’re still determined to lose your virginity, then I’ll take you to Paris for the weekend. I want to show you around my old haunts. Make it as special as possible.’

  She smiled straight into his eyes. ‘The answer is yes.’

  ‘Fine. I thought we could leave on Friday, see the opera on Saturday night and come back Sunday. We’ll stay at the Hôtel de Crillon. My treat.’

  Cat frowned. ‘Can you afford it? I’d be just as happy to stay in a pension, visit the Louvre and drink rough red in Montmartre.’

  ‘I’ve lived and worked in Paris most of my life. I can call in a few favours. Don’t worry, consider it sorted.’

  She hugged him. ‘Paris it is, then.’

  Jules kissed her and set off down the corridor. She couldn’t help but notice he was strutting like James Cagney.

  Cat closed her door. Paris. Synchronicity. An alignment of desires. I can have another go at meeting that woman. Even if I fail, I’ll be spending the weekend with the only man I’ve ever wanted. Naked in the Hôtel de Crillon bedsheets. The bliss of it all. I’ve been dying to spend some time alone with Jules away from prying eyes. I’d better get organised. This is going to require some major preparation. And new lingerie.

  It was after hours and Jim was hosting a meeting in the labyrinth. Cat, Mary and Bertha sat waiting in his private office. Henri was still upstairs dealing with the latest crisis. Jim checked the corridor before closing the door and the women exchanged nervous glances. He grabbed a bottle and poured everyone a whiskey. Mary downed hers in two gulps and Jim refilled her glass.

  He opened his safe and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘The Toxicology Report is very interesting. It’s technical so I got Doc Ahearn to analyse it. You’re welcome to read it but if it suits, I can tell you what Doc concluded. Yes? All right, it’s this – the medicines in Daniel’s bag do not match their labels.’

  Bertha sipped her whiskey. ‘Why would Daniel have bothered with placebos?’

  Jim passed her the report. ‘There were no placebos. The bottles contain the medicines as labelled but they also contain significant traces of additional elements. There are subtle traces of lead and arsenic, but not enough to cause death. Doc’s real concern, however, is the levels of antimony potassium tartrate present in both the medicine and tonic bottles.’

  Cat frowned. ‘What’s that?’

  Bertha said, ‘It’s a poison favoured by criminals. Such as Dr Palmer – am I right, Jim? He was a monster. Using strychnine and antimony to murder his creditors, children, wife and of course his mother-in-law.’

  Jim glanced at Cat and Mary. ‘Bertha’s right but it gets worse. Palmer also disposed of at least ten of the illegitimate children he fathered. When he poisoned his wife, the insurance company folk were suspicious but they still paid out the bastard.’

  Cat was looking decidedly glum. ‘No way would Danny put poison in his own medicine. It’s illogical.’

  Jim paced up and down the office. ‘Let’s assume someone else sneaked the antimony into the bottles. Doc told me that antimony is not quite a true metal but it’s as toxic as arsenic. Poisoners prefer antimony potassium tartrate because it’s got a mild taste that can be masked by foods or beverages. If you slip someone a big dose they’ll vomit and purge themselves. But if you slip the victim small doses over a long period of time, the antimony levels build up until the victim dies.’

  The women stared at him.

  Jim lit up a cigarette. ‘Doc told me about a Polish chap, George Chapman, who murdered three of his lovers. A side effect of antimony poisoning is that corpses don’t decompose rapidly. When one lover was dug up five years later, her eyeballs were still intact.’

  Mary squirmed. ‘Ugh. Wouldn’t the victims realise they’re being poisoned?’

  ‘Only if the dose was large enough so they could taste it,’ Jim replied. ‘Chapman got cocky when doctors attributed his victims’ symptoms to other illnesses. Antimony poisoning can be mistaken for food poisoning, peritonitis, delirium tremens, TB, consumption, stomach cancer, gastritis and the like.’

  Jim vigorously prodded the coals in the grate. A creaking sound came from the corridor outside. Jim placed his forefinger against his lips and crept towards the office door. Then he wrenched the door open quickly.

  A kitchen apprentice was standing there. He stammered, ‘Mr Blade, I’m, um, looking for the Room Service Manager’s office. I have to give him a message.’

  Jim stared him down. ‘A message? Are you sure about that, Lucio?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. It’s important, Sir. We’ve got a bit of a problem with tonight’s roster, Sir.’

  Jim eyed him steadily and the boy blushed deeply. ‘Go down the corridor and turn left. Last office on the right.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’ He departed at a swift trot.

  Jim pointedly stood in the doorway until Lucio had disappeared from view. He shut the door. ‘There’s something corrupt about that boy. Lucio’s been paid to snoop.’

  Bertha warmed her
hands by the fire. ‘Jim, you’re suspicious of most people. The lad might just be a bit slow.’

  Cat tried not to show her impatience. ‘So, are you and Doc assuming that the person who tampered with Daniel’s medicines knew what they were doing? Why would anyone want to harm him? How about those government lackeys that Danny and Michael exposed for embezzlement? For all we know those crims might have been minor players in an ongoing swindle.’

  Jim sighed heavily. ‘I’ve been investigating those geezers and they keep me awake at night.’ He turned to Mary. ‘What shape was Daniel in before you lot headed off to Venice?’

  Mary lit a cigarette. ‘Danny was run down. The gastro specialist said it was emotionally induced stomach pain. Some days he was chipper and other days sick as a dog. I assumed that conniving bitch was driving him nuts.’

  Cat grimaced. ‘It’s pretty bloody stressful being around Eddie.’

  Bertha spoke slowly. ‘At the risk of sounding stupid, what about Edwina as murder suspect? She’s not the fastest fox in the forest but she makes up for it in cunning.’

  Mary shook her head vehemently. ‘I gave her a lot of thought too. But Sean was adamant that – even though Eddie denied it – he was there with her in the apartment around the time Daniel died. And I figure if she had any guilt in the matter she’d be beating a path to Scotland Yard to confirm Sean’s alibi, instead of flatly refusing to cooperate.’

  Jim was distracted, opening the office door and glancing up and down the corridor.

  Bertha pointedly raised her eyebrows. ‘For God’s sake, Jim.’

  Jim sat down. ‘Mary, what was Daniel’s health like once he was on holiday?’

  Mary dragged on her cigarette and exhaled. ‘Danny got better and had no need for nerve tonics. He was drinking less too. Actually he was in the pink of good health and full of good humour.’

  Cat was sitting very still, staring at her folded hands. ‘I’ve just remembered that Michael was complaining of stomach cramps and vomiting. He refused to see a doctor and was treating himself with Daniel’s medicines.’

  Jim leant over the back of Cat’s chair. ‘How healthy was Michael before he drowned?’