‘He had diarrhoea, vomiting, stomach pains and complained about constant thirst.’
Mary said quietly, ‘Danny kept saying he just couldn’t understand how such a strong, experienced swimmer like Michael could drown.’
Nobody spoke. Jim needlessly poked the fire and Bertha poured more drinks.
Cat broke the silence. ‘You know, Daniel made an appointment with the American doctor but Michael refused to go. He even tried hiding the medicine bag in my room, so Michael would give up and go to the doctor.’
Bertha put her arm around Cat.
Jim quietly opened the office door to check the corridor again. Bertha said, ‘Oh, Jim, stop being so paranoid.’
Jim closed the door and put the Toxicology Report back into the safe. ‘Well, as Michael’s body hasn’t been found, he’s taken his secret to the grave. I’ve got no proof yet but I think the deaths of Michael, Daniel, Mikey Barthe and Chef are linked. The killer is still on the loose so it’s imperative that nothing we’ve discussed leaves this room. We don’t want to scare the killer, or killers, into committing another murder.’
Mary’s eyes widened. ‘What should we do, Jim?’
‘Nothing. I don’t want to burden you all with unfounded suppositions. Just go about your business as usual. I know I can depend on you ladies to trust me unconditionally.’
Cat was downcast. ‘Look, I’m feeling guilty because I haven’t been trusting you as I should have. There’s something I didn’t want to tell you, Jim, but I can see now it might be important.’
Jim was instantly alert. ‘What do you mean, Cat?’
‘There’s another suspect in Daniel’s murder but I didn’t want to tell the police.’
‘Go on.’
Cat stared at her feet. ‘Daniel was seeing a couple of young chaps. They weren’t the usual sort of men he’d choose as intimate friends.’
Bertha chose her words carefully. ‘What sort of men did you think they were?’
‘I got the impression they were criminals but it was just a gut feeling. I went with some college friends to a grubby nightclub in Soho but left quickly because I didn’t want Daniel to know I’d seen him there. It wasn’t his kind of place. He was sitting at a table with them but he wasn’t drinking and he still had his topcoat on. I got the impression he’d just dropped in to talk to them. Three days later I saw the same two men leaving Daniel’s office and horsing around in the lift.’
Jim and Bertha exchanged glances. Jim said, ‘Why do you think they might be suspects?’
‘Because there’s a possibility they might have blackmailed Danny. This sounds awful but that morning, as soon as Danny left his office, I snooped in his personal cheque book. He’d just made a single large payment to a man named G. Smith or maybe C. Smythe. His handwriting was always kind of difficult to read.’
Mary shot a look at Jim. ‘Cat, did either of those louts have a thick scar across his cheek?’
‘Yep, the blond man had an ugly gash across his left cheek. He wore an expensive tailored suit but strutted like a wharfie. He’s finely built but looks really fit. He tried to chat me up when I followed them into the lift. He thought I was a hotel guest and asked which suite I was staying in. I couldn’t wait to get out of the lift, he scared me.’
Mary’s lip curled. ‘That’s got to be Gary Smythe. He’s a psychopath and there’s nothing he won’t do to make, steal or extort money. He’s done a few shorts stints in the slammer but the law’s failed to nail the bastard for any significant crime.’
Jim nodded. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. My Scotland Yard chums call him, the brick with two eyes. He had a short career as a professional lightweight boxer.’
Cat asked, ‘How come you both know him?’
Jim answered, ‘Smythe was a Hotel du Barry valet about three years ago but Daniel had to sack him for theft. Smythe later wound up as a standover man in a racket involving debt collection. He hates me because I was the one who caught him stealing our clients’ valuables. Cat, were you trying to protect Daniel by not telling me or the police?’
‘I didn’t want Daniel’s name smeared all over London. I couldn’t believe he’d get mixed up with men like that. It just wasn’t his style.’
Mary spoke, ‘It could well have been blackmail. I know there were several attempts at blackmailing Daniel over the years. But he always refused to pay and got either his lawyers or Jim to sort it out.’
Jim added, ‘But Daniel never told me about Smythe. This strikes me as decidedly odd. Cease and desist operations was something I did for Daniel when required. To be honest I quite enjoyed tracking skilled blackmailers down. It was like playing advanced chess.’
Cat asked, ‘What did cease and desist entail, Jim?’
‘You don’t want to know, kid. But if it was blackmail then Danny made a huge mistake because if blackmailers succeed the first time, there’s nothing to stop them raising the stakes.’
Bertha looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps Danny’s grief played havoc with his judgement? Because in the past whenever there was a threat or a security problem, the first person he confided in was Jim.’
Cat surreptitiously took several even, deep breaths and her anxiety decreased. ‘What will you do, Jim?’
He smiled grimly. ‘I shall find out from my connections where Mr Smythe hangs his hat and pay him a visit in the midnight hours. When dealing with a scumbag like that, it’s useful to have the element of surprise.’
Bertha flinched. ‘For God’s sake, be careful. I know what he’s like and if you corner him like a rat, he’ll turn on you. Why not get onto Scotland Yard and let them handle it?’
‘Nah. The law has never been able to make extortion charges stick to Smythe. He’s more slippery than an oiled eel. And if he had anything to do with Daniel’s murder, I need to get something that will stand up in a court of law.’
Jim stroked his chin thoughtfully. Gary Smythe, eh? If ever there was a crim who deserved a going-over it’s that fucker. So how will I get Smythe to own up? I’ll rely on terror rather than pain. Terrify him until his mind splits open and his fears turn into burrowing ferrets, clawing and tearing into his flesh. His worst nightmares will do most of the work for me.
But the pleasure will still be all mine.
23
Delicious Torments
Dr Otto Rubens was concerned about the emotional wellbeing of his personal secretary. Mary Maguire seemed to be experiencing mood swings. Some days she had dark circles under her eyes and left her lunch untouched as she gazed out over the city. Other days she hummed happily as she worked and then went shopping at lunchtime, returning with bags bearing the insignia of London’s finest emporiums. Mary’s professionalism never faltered but Otto was so finely tuned to her every emotional nuance that he suspected she’d taken a lover.
Otto had first observed a change in Mary when he walked in on her reading a letter. She was standing in the tearoom in a sleek, body-hugging silk dress and high heels. On her bosom she’d pinned a large, white silk flower. The sunlight illuminated her red hair and made her pale skin seem translucent. Otto wanted to curl up like a dog at her feet and lie there gazing up at her. Luckily, she’d been too engrossed in her letter to even notice him.
When he coughed she’d hastily folded up the letter and stuffed it into her handbag. Too late, for he’d already seen the way her face was suffused with tenderness as she turned the pages. His heart contracted painfully. To his horror he heard himself saying jovially, ‘Ah, I see you have a pen friend.’
Christ. She’d looked at him gravely. ‘It’s a letter from an old boyfriend. He’s living overseas and writes me regularly. He usually sends his letters here.’
Admittedly, Mary had said he was an old boyfriend but she also said the tosser was writing her regularly. Fortunately, Otto had mastered the art of concealing his feelings, so he poured a cup of percolated coffee and added four unnecessary sugars.
‘Is he away for long, Mary?’
‘Indefinitely. He’s in the process
of setting up a business. These things take time.’
Otto took a sip of the coffee. It was vile. ‘That must be difficult. There’s a lot of red tape in foreign countries, isn’t there?’
He hoped she might divulge more information. Instead she answered with a question of her own. ‘Have you had a chance to sign the registration papers I left on your desk yet, Otto?’
‘No, but I’ll do so now.’
He’d left the tearoom and tortured himself all the way back to his office. Who was this man who only had to put pen to paper and Mary melted?
Otto was furious and he spent the better part of the morning trying to imagine Mary’s old boyfriend. At first he pictured him as a renegade type of chap, pirating his way across the high seas. A senseless brute, foul-mouthed and common. At any given moment, the prick might get swept off his ship by a sudden storm. Drowning was one of the worst ways for a man to die. Or perhaps the old boyfriend was a deskbound stockbroker with a fat cigar, lard arse and a dodgy ticker. No doubt cardiac arrest was already on the cards. No. Mary was more likely to be attracted to a man who was physically fit, handsome, educated, cultured and terribly clever. A man who, strangely enough, seemed to resemble Dr Otto Rubens.
At one point Otto decided to hire a private dick to track the bastard down. With shaking hands he dialled the telephone number. He came to his senses and hung up when the detective’s secretary answered. Otto slumped in his chair and studied the sharp paperknife Mary had given him for his birthday. It had an elaborate carved handle and looked like something the Borgias would have used to slice up their enemies. Revenge was not something Dr Rubens recommended to his patients. He usually told them to keep in mind the old Latin proverb, Revenge is a confession of pain.
There was no doubt about it, Otto was suffering considerable pain. He lit a cigarette and meditated on eliminating his pain. And by the time Mary came knocking on his office door, he was sitting with his feet up on the desk, master of his emotions and calmly chewing a breath mint.
Later that afternoon Otto noticed the charred remains of some papers in the tearoom fireplace. Smouldering in the grate were the remnants of a blackened envelope with an American stamp attached. Interesting. Why would Mary burn the letters of an old boyfriend? Maybe the gobshite was still Mary’s lover? Even so, whose secrets was she protecting, her own or his?
It was a glorious balmy spring evening. Mary stood at the Hotel du Barry entrance chatting with Henri Dupont. From their position at the top of the stairs they could see the organised chaos of the foyer. Guests were returning from the racetrack with hats askew and nosegays drooping. Henri was always able to pick those who’d lost money gambling, for they either had a defeated or a defiant air about them.
Hotel guests in evening dress were preening themselves as they bustled out the door for dinner, theatre or the opera. The doormen were in a synchronised frenzy, opening and closing automobile doors, hustling cabs, soothing tempers and trying to keep a pair of homeless drunks in order. One of the winos was trying to take a kip on the busy road and the doormen were taking it in turns to drag him to safety.
Henri noted with approval that his front-of-house staff were shelling the clientele like peas. New arrivals surged around the reception desk, waiting their turn to sign the hotel registry. Two miniature poodles kept attacking the heels of their owner. Madam was luxuriously swathed in dozens of dead minks and her raspy voice indicated that smoky rooms were her natural habitat. She stamped her heels and screamed, ‘Milton! Byron! Stop that. Bad boys, bad!’
The dogs paused briefly before renewing their attacks with increased vigour.
Henri shook his head. ‘Ah, Mary, it’s obvious that those bloody dogs don’t know who the pack leader is. Madam informed me the other day that her darlings are very fussy eaters and only minced pork is acceptable to their refined palates. I suggested she should leave them with me and I’d have them eating cumquats within a week.’
A distinguished party of turbaned Indians and their wives swirled through the revolving door. The colours of the women’s saris were a magnificent flurry of vibrant reds, oranges, greens and blues. Pure gold and precious gems dripped from every throat, ankle, wrist and earlobe as their kohl-rimmed eyes gazed at the chaos around them. Their husbands’ clipped Oxford accents rang out authoritatively across the foyer.
‘Sashi, make haste!’
‘Where is Ayesha’s hand luggage?’
‘What is the hold up? It’s really too much, I’m just dying for a gin and tonic.’
A plump child dressed in a sailor’s suit lay face down in the middle of the foyer yelling, ‘No, no, no, I won’t, I won’t! And you can’t make me!’
His nanny tried to placate him and failed. She’d given up trying to attract the attention of the parents. They’d turned their backs and were pretending the brat wasn’t theirs. A party of trouser-wearing matrons stared pointedly at the distraught nanny, who was close to tears. Valets and porters rolled their eyes at each other as they steered luggage around the boy.
Several heads swivelled as the hydraulic lift doors opened and a celestial being came into view. It was Mrs du Barry, wearing a clinging, backless white satin evening gown. The bodice resembled opened flower petals and Edwina’s long neck was framed to perfection. Her platinum-blonde hair lit up the foyer, chunky diamonds glittered at her throat and her skin was luminescent. Draped over her arm was an extravagant white fur stole. The effect of all the white was almost blinding and every other woman present felt diminished by comparison. A posse of vixen-faced society women tried to ascertain the origin of her magnificence.
‘It’s a Jeanne Lanvin.’
‘Are you insane? It’s obviously by Vionnet.’
‘No, no, it’s Coco Chanel. Only she would be so daring.’
‘You are all wrong, my dears. I know for a fact that Mrs du Barry had it made by Charles James.’
Edwina’s chauffeur walked a deferential three steps behind her. He was a god, resplendent in a white uniform with long, black, shiny jackboots. The Hotel du Barry insignia decorated his peaked cap, while epaulettes visually widened his already broad shoulders. The posse of women simpered shamelessly as he strode past.
As Edwina sashayed across the foyer, the crowd parted and there was a collective sigh of admiration. She dipped her head and smiled graciously, her pretty mouth forming a glistening red bow. Her stately progress was halted by the child’s tantrum. She coolly observed him with barely disguised distaste. The chauffeur raised his arm as though he was about to strike the boy but instead he shot his cuff and checked his watch.
Edwina’s blue, blue eyes bore down on the child and he froze, staring up at her with his mouth open. Spellbound, he scrambled backwards on all fours to get out of her way. As Edwina swept on by, the ends of her fur brushed across his face. He stared after her, tantrum forgotten.
Edwina caught sight of Mary and stopped. ‘Good evening, my dear. And how are you coping with this ghastly business concerning Sean Kelly?’
The corners of Mary’s mouth twitched. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Edwina.’
Edwina turned to the concierge. ‘I must say, Henri, the changes you suggested to the reception area are brilliant. You were quite right in suggesting Macassar ebony for the new desk. It’s moderne but without the vulgarity one so frequently notices at the Dorchester.’
Henri slipped behind his concierge’s mask. ‘Thank you, Madam.’
‘You know Henri, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Toucan Court. I should never have tampered with it and I’m now in the process of restoring it to its former glory. I really need your help.’
Henri hid his smile. ‘I’m flattered you should ask, Madam.’
‘You know so much more than I do about Daniel’s vision for the du Barry hotels, Henri. Daniel told me that the hotel was a living, breathing entity and you and Jim Blade have your fingers on the pulse of its essential being. So naturally I’ll defer to your judgement and renumerate you generously for any overtime a
ccrued. We’ll probably need to take a few business trips to explore the latest hotel developments in Paris and Monte Carlo.’
Henri clicked his heels. ‘I look forward to hearing your proposal, Madam, and I do hope you enjoy Medea this evening. Euripides certainly understood the destructive power of a woman spurned. The Times theatre critic informed me that the actress playing Medea is so convincing, she succeeds in making infanticide a rational choice.’
Mary fought hard to repress her laughter. Gawd. As usual Edwina doesn’t get the undercurrent. Probably because her egocentricity repels any barbs that come her way.
Madam snuggled into her soft white fur. ‘Ah, that’s good, Henri. It should be a riveting production. There’s nothing worse than a dreary theatrical experience. Personally, I’ve never understood Oscar Wilde. All that munching on cucumber sandwiches is so damned tedious.’
Henri judiciously avoided Mary’s eyes and made no further comment. He simply bowed his head slightly as he stepped aside.
Henri and Mary watched Edwina glide down the stairs. A gleaming white Grand Mercedes Cabriolet was parked kerb-side, all polished chrome and gleaming paintwork. Its shimmering curves and arched running board provided the illusion that the vehicle was a metallic stallion straining to unleash its ferocious power.
Several street urchins had gathered to ogle the Mercedes. Edwina’s chauffeur pointed an invisible gun at them and they scarpered. Stretched out in front of the Mercedes’ doors, a wino graciously waved an empty bottle at Edwina. She daintily stepped over him and got into the automobile. The chauffeur kicked the drunk out of the way and tenderly tucked in the trailing ends of Madam’s fur stole.
The drunk yelled, ‘Milady, you is a real treat for sore eyes.’ And passed out cold on the pavement.
Edwina wound down the window and beckoned the doorman. ‘Send for the garage foreman. I want this man carried over to the hayloft in the stables. Tell Dick Carmine to cover him with clean horse blankets. Let him sleep off the booze and then feed and water him. On my return I’ll be checking to see he’s been well treated.’
Hotel du Barry Page 25