Hotel du Barry (17 page)

The two dicks stared at him with slack jaws. Sean blew smoke rings and feigned disinterest in the proceedings.
It looks like they've
gone limp on me.
Johnny tossed his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it out viciously with his heel. ‘You realise we'll be confirming this with Mrs du Barry?'

‘Mrs du Barry is very distressed by recent events and I'd rather you kept her out of it. She doesn't deserve to be dragged through the mud just because she had an unconventional marriage. I don't want to see the gutter press all over her like maggots.'

Johnny picked his teeth with a match. Clearly he'd been watching too many gangster films. ‘Unlike you, Mr Kelly, we can't afford the luxury of behaving like gentlemen. So you can fucking well rest assured that we'll be interrogating the grieving widow.'

‘I see. Well, as you've got no charges and no warrant for my arrest, I'll just fuck off out of here.'

Johnny grandly waved his hand at the door. ‘We'll get back to you soon, Mr Kelly. I've enjoyed our little chat. It's always interesting to hear how the other half lives.'

More sniggering. The ferret added, ‘Don't piss off on any overseas jaunts. We may have further need of your charming company. And will hunt you down if we have to.'

Sean put on his jacket, adjusted the brim of his hat and walked out slowly with his hands in his pockets. Gentlemen should only demonstrate haste on the tennis court and the polo field. He strolled down the steps of police headquarters, ambled around the corner and leant unsteadily against a brick wall. With shaking hands he lit a cigarette and stared down into the fog-bound river.

Being dragged in by the constabulary had not been part of his master plan.

It was driving Jim Blade crazy. Several times over the course of a day, Jules Bartholomew would stop what he was doing and make his way up to the ninth floor. The bastard never took the hydraulic lift. He always used the back stairs, taking them two, sometimes three at a time. Jim was in good shape but he wasn't thrilled about having to repeatedly follow someone up and down nine bloody flights. Each time, Jules took the same route. He'd go up to the ninth floor, stop to look at a hallway photograph of His Royal Highness, and then head back down.

By the eighth day, Jim was pleased to note a change in the pattern. Once he'd reached the ninth floor, Jules was now strolling to the end of the southern corridor. On the tenth day, Jules had reverted to stopping and gazing at the photograph of the King. Perhaps he was contemplating a career as a photographer? Maybe he was a rabid royalist? Maybe this two-bit criminal was casing the joint for a major heist? Jim wanted to grab Jules by the neck and ask him what the fuck he was doing. Instead, he went down to the maids' kitchen and consulted Bertha.

She placed a cup of tea in front of him. ‘It's bleeding obvious, darling.'

‘Not to me. Come on, Bertha, it's after six, do you think your main man could get a real drink?'

She fetched a bottle of cooking brandy and two glasses, then resumed her place at the head of the kitchen table. Bertha picked up one of Jim's red woollen socks, pulled it over a darning spool and narrowed her eyes as she threaded up a needle. Jim knew better than to rush her, so he poured the brandies and gave some serious thought as to why his socks always wore out around the little toe.
Surely they should be springing leaks around the big toe or the heel? God, how I love life's minor mysteries.

Bertha plunged the needle into the sock. ‘Julian's got no interest in His Royal Highness. Cat's new apartment and studio are both on the ninth floor. He's obviously smitten with her. Jules wants to get to know her but he's scared she'll reject him. He's probably hoping to run into her rather than having to knock on her door.'

Jim downed the brandy and reached for the bottle. Female intuition never failed to impress him but this time he was mortified.
How could I have missed something so fucking obvious?

Bertha smiled to herself and kept up a nice, steady darning stitch. The silence lengthened. Jim thought about replacing the worn washer on the kitchen sink tap. Drip, drip, drip. He glimpsed the kitchen cat pouncing on a mouse in the pantry. Madge was taking her time with the kill. Cuffing her prey around the ears, clawing him and dragging the poor bugger across the pantry floor. Just for fun Madge bit his tail and massaged his eyeballs with her claws. Death was slow in coming.

It became impossible to ignore the rodent's protracted agony. Jim leapt to his feet. ‘I can't stand this cruelty! Why can't fucking cats kill quickly?'

He seized a wooden rolling pin and crashed into the pantry. Madge shot out, fur standing on end. Thump, thump, thump. Silence. More swearing. Then Jim came out and dumped a gory
newspaper parcel in the rubbish bin. He flung the bloodied rolling pin into the sink, sat down and grimly poured himself another brandy.

Bertha put down the sock. ‘Whether or not you approve of Julian is unimportant. Cat needs to reconnect with life. She's highly strung, like a racehorse. And she's in danger of mourning herself into spinsterhood.'

‘Why would such a clever, talented, beautiful girl be interested in a gobshite like him?'

‘Listen, we both suspect he's got a shady past and he's probably hiding either from the law or a gang, but I've made a point of getting to know him. And I can tell you right now that Julian is a gifted, intelligent, personable young man.'

‘Give me a break, woman. Gifted? Personable? As to intelligence, the little bastard is as cunning as a sewer rat. He'd have to be or he wouldn't have been able to sweet talk you.'

‘Julian possesses high intelligence, guts, gumption and a certain rough integrity. I've seen the aristocratic git Edwina is trying to foist on Cat and he's the last gasp. Rude, smarmy, with an outsized ego. He's the Oxford rugger player who was recently accused of beating and raping an underage hat-check girl. Cat despises him.'

‘My God. Edwina will stop at nothing to get her hands on a title. And what makes you so damn sure that I disapprove of her bloody butler?'

Bertha raised an elegant eyebrow. ‘Ask Madge.'

Jim finished his drink and stood up. ‘Well, I just hope your trust isn't misplaced. You've always been sucked in by good looks and charm. Frankly, I think your Mr Bartholomew is shiftier than a shithouse rat. He struts like James Cagney but he's really Oswald the bloody Lucky Rabbit. I've met his type many times before.'

Bertha touched his face gently. ‘So have I, darling. He reminds me of you, when you were a lad.'

Jim scowled. He picked up his hat and fiddled needlessly with the brim. ‘Well then, I'm heading off on my evening rounds. There's trouble brewing. The Liverpool crime boss is up himself. Reckons the sauna should clear out when his flunkeys want to use it. That's where they prefer to conduct business meetings. Stupid pricks.'

In the doorway Jim turned awkwardly. ‘Bertha, you do know how I feel about you, don't you?'

She blew him a sultry kiss.

Jules found himself in a state of paralysis outside Cat's apartment door. His knuckles were just inches from the door. He steeled himself and gave a smart, rapping knock. Nothing too serious or ponderous, just a brisk tap that sounded casual, relaxed and informal. It wasn't the type of knock that some sleazy bastard would be inclined to use.
You can tell a lot about a chap by the way he knocks on doors, shakes hands and gets pickled. One of those smartarse shrinks, who hang around Mrs du Barry, should research it. Then they'd have something to do apart from whining about the price of a crate of Château Lafite.

There was no response to his knock. Jules counted quickly to ten, sighed with relief and spun on his heel. He practised his gangster walk back down the corridor. It was a variation of the rolling ship's deck swagger popularised by James Cagney. He'd almost made it past the King's photograph when he heard it. Cat's door had creaked open. She called up the corridor, ‘Sorry about that. I was up a ladder.'

Jules wanted to make a run for it. ‘You're obviously busy. I'll drop by another time.'

She wasn't going to be put off. ‘No, please, I'd like you to come in.'

He turned and tried to resume his cocky strut but it seemed to take forever and his legs felt like lead. Time had slowed and he was
an underwater swimmer, fighting his way up to the surface. He could barely see her at all until she looked straight at him and he was lost in those strange eyes, and immediately he knew that everything was going to be all right. It was in her gaze; she liked him.

The night sky could be seen through tall windows. London's traffic was visible in the distance as it snaked its way all around the Thames River. Cat's enormous apartment was a mess of boxes, paintings, sculptures and furniture covered with dust sheets. Bold, bright, modern colour flashed from stacks of paintings. Jules spotted a Kandinsky and a magnificent Miró.
Christ, she's even got a Picasso and a Klee.
The collection was a kaleidoscope of infinite possibilities. To top it off, an erotic Henry Moore sculpture sat plumb in the middle of the room; the naked woman arched backwards into the man's embrace. Pure distillation of desire.

Jules felt he'd entered a world of infinite possibilities and it wasn't just that the work was so good it would inevitably escalate in value.
You don't usually see such a brilliant collection of avant-garde painters like this in private hands. Caterina's old man certainly knew his onions.
Jules forgot himself and allowed the vitality of the artworks to saturate his being. He was in such a state of suspended awe that he initially failed to notice that she already had male company. Seated in the shadows was an extraordinarily handsome chap. It was only when Jules caught the glitter of sapphire eyes that he realised it was actually a life-size portrait of a young, blond man with hinged limbs.

‘Who is that guy?'

‘Oh, that's just Mr Matthew Lamb.'

She offered no further explanation. He tried to forget about the strange portrait but Mr Lamb's eyes had the uncanny knack of following him around the room. Jules wasn't easily rattled, but there was something about the painting that was unnerving. It didn't help that the chap bore an uncanny resemblance to his employer, Mrs du Barry.

Cat peeled back a dust cloth. ‘Check out this painting. It's by a Russian, Marc Chagall. Daniel met him in Paris.'

Jules felt devoured by the painting. The tumbling horses, upended houses, giddy peasants and staring eyes yanked him into the canvas.
Déjà vu
– he felt he'd seen it someplace before but it hadn't been in a gallery or museum. Maybe he'd seen it in his dreams? The painting spoke to the deepest most primeval part of his being. There was an abstract logic that he could only respond to emotionally and it excited him.

Even Caterina's furniture was interesting. It was a new kind of design, with clean, bold lines and simple structure. Fine craftsmanship and function were revealed in wooden bookcases that resembled tall buildings. Chrome and leather had been shaped into simple but elegant chairs. Instead of overstuffed sofas she had simple, chunky square armchairs and an elegant sofa that was nothing more than two sweeping curves; lean, elegant and superb.

Jules stroked an exquisite violet crystal vase. He couldn't help himself, the shape was so sensual. ‘Is this Venetian, Caterina?'

‘Yep, a wonderful old Murano artisan gave it to me because it matches my eyes. Gregorio mentioned an artist's model who also had violet eyes and it sent me on a wild goose chase trying to track down my birth mother with the help of a French diplomat.'

He hadn't expected her to be so candid. She wasn't being guarded in the least and before Jules could stop himself he'd blurted out, ‘And did he tell you anything of interest?'

‘No. Lucien came across a Parisian actress with brilliant violet-blue eyes but she's only about twenty-four years old. There's no way she could have given birth to me.'

She looked so despondent that Jules thought it would be cruel to ask further questions.
Bloody hell, it must be tough for her now with Edwina being her only parent.

Cat busied herself creating some space so they could sit down. She tried to conceal a pile of books by casually dropping a dust cloth over them. But Jules had already glimpsed
Lady Chatterley's Lover
. He raised an eyebrow and grinned. Cat blushed to the roots of her hair and tried to change the direction of his knowing gaze by gesturing at the room. ‘Most of this furniture was shipped over from Germany. Daniel called it
Bauhaus
design.'

Jules knew that the quickest way to a woman's heart was to treat her as a friend and behave as though he already knew her. Unfortunately, for the first time in his life he couldn't come up with any small talk. And this was a lad renowned for his ability to cold chat married women at the bus stop. If the magic of music was all about the space between the notes, then Julian Bartholomew's genius lay in the moments between initial eye contact with an attractive female and the creation of her desire. Right now however he was tongue-tied, and Cat's steady gaze unnerved him. He had no option left but to play the masterful male. Jules removed his suit coat and nonchalantly rolled up his sleeves. ‘Pass me the hammer, Caterina, and I'll hang them for you.'

‘Gosh, thanks. You know, Daniel's art collection was being held in trust for me but Edwina reckoned I might as well make use of it now.' Cat smiled at him wickedly. ‘As she put it, “Modern art is simply too vulgar. I'd sooner have a decorative flora and fauna painting any day. Something that colour-coordinates with my decor.”'

Jules climbed the ladder. ‘Under those elegant clothes and refined accent lurks a barbarian. Sorry. I shouldn't be speaking that way about Mrs du Barry.'

‘That's all right. I know it. Here, let's hang that one.'

Having fenced truckloads of priceless art objects, Jules knew how to handle the paintings. He tried to wield the hammer in a manly way, hoping that Caterina would notice his well-developed biceps and his strong, capable hands.

She was different from other girls in that she didn't chatter all the bloody time. Instead, she played records on the phonograph as they worked. Jules wasn't to know this but Cat was playing the music Daniel had collected over the years: swing tunes, blues ballads, innovative American jazz and popular movie music and songs.

Afterwards they sat and gazed out at the night sky. Jules self-consciously wrestled with a bottle of Caterina Anastasia Grande Imperial Champagne. He managed to pop the cork without spraying it everywhere and grinned as the bubbles caressed his tongue.

‘What extraordinary stuff. It wipes out all logical thought.'

‘I found a cache of it in our warehouse. Don't tell Edwina.'

‘Don't worry, I'm not in the habit of blabbing to Madam. Your secrets are safe with me. Anything else you'd care to admit? Any boyfriends you'd care to mention? Please tell me you're not dating that snide twat, Hamish whatsisname. The one who looks like a sweaty rodent.'

‘I'm not. Edwina keeps trying to shove him onto me. His mother is dead keen on the match, too. The du Barrys have buckets of money but no titles, so Eddie hopes to burrow her way into the aristocracy by marrying me off to a future Marquis. But I'm determined to finish my course at Slade rather than join the stampede to the altar. The hotel chapel was chockers last weekend, with girls my age, getting shackled to chaps they hardly know.'

Excellent.
Jules kept his face expressionless. He needed to take it slowly, keep things light. Stealth not speed, or he might scare her into the arms of one of Edwina's titled flunkeys.
Caterina is probably still a virgin
. The thought alarmed Jules and to cover his obvious embarrassment, he carefully examined the champagne label.