India Black (17 page)

I pulled out my handkerchief and daintily dabbed my eyes. “That’s why I’m here. I heard Mr. Gladstone was staying at Claridge’s, and I wanted to thank him for leading me to Jesus. You couldn’t let me in for just a minute, could you? To offer that great man my heartfelt thanks for saving my life.”

He shook his head regretfully. “Sorry, miss. I’ve strict instructions, you know. And even if I didn’t, you couldn’t see him anyway. He went out this morning early, and he’ll be gone all day. I heard him tell the desk clerk that he’d be back just in time for dinner.”

Hallelujah. With any luck at all, Gladstone hadn’t seen the documents.

“I so wanted to see him,” I said wistfully. “You don’t think, when he gets back, that you could let me in for just a moment?”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. The manager would have my hide.” The doorman looked thoughtful. “Tell you what. You want to write a note to him? I could deliver it for you.”

“That’s very kind of you.” I sniffed lugubriously. “But I can’t write.”

 

 

 

Having extracted some useful information, I strolled around to the rear of the building for a reconnaissance. I didn’t expect to see French lurking among the dustbins in the alleyway; he’d have swaggered in the front while the doormen snapped a salute and the ladies in the lobby cooed in admiration.

The alleyway was busy with tradesmen delivering crates of vegetables and sacks of flour. A fishmonger’s delivery wagon blocked the alley, exuding a briny odor and attracting a legion of cats. The felines paced cautiously underfoot, sniffing the breeze. The tradesman’s entrance to the hotel was through a set of double doors, open wide to the chill wind. A portly fellow in a striped weskit and shirtsleeves stood at the door, a sheaf of papers in his hand that he consulted with regularity, meticulously ticking off items while he barked commands to the hotel staff and the deliverymen. He looked even less likely than the doorman to succumb to my charms.

The only other possibility of entrance into the rear of the hotel was a second, smaller door twenty feet from the portly fellow in the weskit and the gang of deliverymen. In case I harbored any doubts about the propriety of my entering through said door, it bore an elegantly painted sign advising No Entrance. Now, I’ve often wondered why establishments go to the expense of such absurd prohibitions on ingress; the only people who comply with such directions are law-abiding citizens and Christians. I hadn’t the least concern about trying my luck at the door, but I’d have to wait until the deliveries were finished and the bloke in the weskit had finished his task. I turned and sauntered away down the alley, until I found a niche in the wall half hidden behind a brewer’s dray which provided both an excellent hiding place and an unobstructed view of both the portly fellow and the second door.

Lord, but that fellow was diligent. I wish I had whores half as committed to their work as that man, but alas, it’s difficult to find many strumpets these days who take pride in their occupation. Anyway, he scribbled on his list and bellowed at the hapless youths staggering under their loads of linen and cases of wine, their crates of pigeons and sides of beef, for what seemed hours, while I gnawed a thumbnail and anxiously eyed the darkening sky. I’d wasted too much time jawing with the doorman and watching brawny lads at work. The noon hour had come and gone, and the afternoon was waning. If I didn’t gain access to the hotel soon, I’d miss my chance to toss Gladstone’s room while the old bugger was away.

No doubt you’re wondering why I was loitering in the alley behind Claridge’s in what was probably a vain attempt at snatching back the case of documents from Charles Calthorp. I certainly had time to cogitate over that question while I waited for weskit man to finish with his damned list and go in for his tea. I didn’t think that Dizzy or French would really make good on their threat to ruin my business or harass me personally. Surely they had better things to do than rearrange the life of one insignificant madam, like worry about the Russkis making nice with the Tibetans or Egyptian nationalists taking potshots at British tourists dining on the terrace at Sheppard’s. Not to mention the bloody Irish. No, I was probably well out of things right now, and if I were an intelligent woman, I’d leave things as they were, slip out of the alley and return to supervise the evening’s business at Lotus House.

The flaw in my character is not lack of intelligence, however, but an abundance of obstinacy. The only reason I’d gotten involved in this escapade in the first place was because Bowser had had the effrontery to die in my whorehouse. I was merely an innocent (at least in this instance) bystander. Since then my livelihood had been threatened, I had been blackmailed into performing like a lesbian trick pony for that lascivious bastard Yusopov, Rowena and I had been held captive in the attic of the Russian embassy (ruining a perfectly lovely, not to mention free, dress in the process), and I had narrowly escaped being skewered by a Cossack guard. And then there was that devil French. I’d be damned if I’d let that smug fellow get to those documents before me. I’m not just so much baggage to be picked up when useful, pilfered and plundered and then jettisoned by the wayside when no longer needed. I wanted the pleasure of sashaying up to Dizzy’s office with a black leather portfolio under my arm and presenting him the documents that ensured he’d stay prime minister for at least a little longer. The poor soul needed all the help he could get; any man who’d wear bottle green velvet trousers in public needed a handler, in my opinion. Still, it would be pleasant to receive the heartfelt thanks of the most powerful man in England, not to mention the pleasure of watching French snarl as I performed my patriotic duty. I might even curtsy.

The slamming of a door and the rattle of cart wheels abruptly awakened me from my reverie. The tradesmen were climbing onto their wagons, the chap in the weskit had disappeared, and the double doors were now closed. I clambered out of my hiding place and walked quickly to the second door, glancing around to be sure I was unobserved. The brass knob was cold and sleek to the touch, and I turned it gingerly, willing the door to open. As I’m generally used to getting my way, it was a bit of a disappointment when the door refused to budge.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered. Now what? There were streaks of orange and red in the smut-stained sky. Gladstone might have already entered the hotel and Calthorp turned over the case to him. If Gladstone had the documents in his hands, then there was nothing more that I could do. Dizzy would have to face the press and produce some explanation for spouting anti-Russian rhetoric and threatening war with a British army just large enough to field a few football teams. I’d no doubt he was up to the task; the man did not lack imagination. But I still couldn’t give up without one last attempt to creep into the hotel and find the case, if for no other reason than my own pride.

And then the brass knob turned in my hand, the door opened, and salvation appeared in the form of a short, ruddy-faced fellow with a cherub’s cheeks, neat blond mustache and the handsome uniform of the Claridge’s concierge. He drew back when he saw me, eyes widening in astonishment, but they narrowed quickly and he gave me a frank appraisal from head to toe. It was when he made his occulatory tour of my person that I knew the little angel was going to be my salvation. I recognized, you see, a kindred soul. Apparently, he felt the same degree of kinship. A slow smirk swirled across his face, like cream trickling into coffee. He held an unlit cigar in his pudgy fingers; now he put it between his lips and searched his pocket for a box of matches, all the while conducting his silent inventory of my natural charms.

“Good evening, sir.”

“And a pleasant evening to you, my dear.” He gave me a sardonic little bow, found a match, and scraped it into flame on the door frame. He took his time lighting his cigar, and when it was drawing nicely, he tossed the match in the gutter and gave me a frank stare.

There was a lilt in his voice that might have been the faintest brogue, an accent no doubt intended to charm the lady guests while he smiled obsequiously and catered to their every whim. I’d no doubt that the brogue would disappear and the voice deepen into hearty bluffness when the guest was a gentleman. I’d also no doubt that my new friend was of a most amiable disposition, eager to comply with the wishes and demands of the Claridge’s guests, no matter how outré they might prove. Indeed, if I were a wagering woman, I’d bet my last farthing that the cherubic concierge leering at me over his cigar was exceedingly practiced in the art of procuring all manner of goods and services for his clientele.

“A Montecristo, sir? A stone’s throw away, sir, at the tobacconist’s shop on the corner. But don’t trouble yourself, sir. I’ll send a boy to fetch them for you.” Delivered, no doubt, with an amiable smile.

“Baccarat? There’s quite a nice club a few blocks from here. Very discreet, they are. And the champagne is a superior vintage.” This in a confidential, man-of-the-world tone, while pocketing a sovereign.

“A young lady, sir? I think I can arrange something to your satisfaction in that department. Quality, sir? Oh, of the very highest, I can assure you. I’ll escort her to your room myself, sir. We wouldn’t want any embarrassment, would we?” A circumspect, but nevertheless sly, wink and a furtive exchange of the ready.

That was the kindred spirit I’d identified in the cove when I first laid eyes on him: we were both fixers. Live on the streets of London long enough and you learn to size up a man or woman in a split second. If you guess wrong, well, you might not live to regret your error. Having earned first-class honours in that department long ago, I felt reasonably confident that I’d calculated aright about the concierge. No doubt he had an arrangement with some local abbess nearby. This would require some skillful handling, but all that remained now was figuring how best to play the match.

He opened the batting. “I haven’t seen you around here before, have I? I’d surely remember a ravishing creature such as yourself.”

“You haven’t seen me before. I’ve wandered off my patch.”

He exhaled smoke and nodded thoughtfully. “Thought as much. Mother Nellie handles the business around here, and she hasn’t said a word about a new girl.”

“Nellie Rowe? Didn’t know the old girl was still around. Getting a little long in the tooth, surely.” I cut my eyes at him and smiled, so he could size up my own perfectly formed pearly whites.

He laughed harshly and blew a cloud of cigar smoke in my face. “She may be too sprung to ride, but she keeps a fine stable of fillies. Smart gal, that Nellie. We go back a long way.”

“Always good to have associates you can trust.” I paused, then added, “And it never hurts to make a new friend now and then.”

He looked amused. “Are you my new friend, then? What a fortunate day for me. What’s your name?”

“Rowena Adderly.” Well, the bitch still owed me for running out on me just as I was about to become a kebab on the lawn of the Russian embassy.

He offered me a plump hand, cold as a dead squab, and introduced himself as Frank Netherly. “Rowena, dear, I’d love to stand outside and yarn with you all night, but I’m back on duty in a few minutes. What say we dispense with the preliminaries and go straight to the main bout?”

I do like a man who gets to the point; so many of them don’t, blathering on about wives who don’t understand them and mooning about mothers who neglected them (which is why they need to roger a sixteen-year-old wench in a bustiere, but I digress). At least Netherly was a man of business and through with polite conversation, which was fine by me as I needed to get inside that hotel and locate Calthorp.

I’d decided already that it wouldn’t do to try and play on Netherly’s sympathies. He had as much empathy for his fellow man (or woman) as a puff adder. The best approach was a straightforward appeal to the fellow’s vanity and greed.

“It’s lucky for me that I bumped into you, Frank. You’re just the man who can see me right.”

“Is that so?” He delicately picked a tobacco leaf from his tongue with his thumb and forefinger and examined it idly before flicking it away.

“I’ve an old customer coming into town tonight, with a fondness for make believe. You know, Frank, how some men like tavern wenches and some like governesses? Well, this bloke likes maids. Hotel maids. And not the kind of maids you’d find at your cut-rate establishments, either. He likes to take a room at the most expensive and proper hotels in town and open the door an hour later to find me standing there in an authentic maid’s uniform. Bit of a game with him, you see, rogering his favorite bint in some of London’s finest addresses.”

Netherly was already shaking his head. I put my hand on his arm and opened my mouth before he could open his.

“Frank, I know you’re a loyal friend to Nellie, and I admire you for it. I’m not here to move in on her territory. This is a one-off, so to speak. Help me out tonight and I’ll never darken the door of the Claridge again. In and out in an hour. Nellie need never know.” I squeezed his arm suggestively, and added, “And of course, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You’ll have to cough up a pretty penny, if you want me to undercut my business partner.” Netherly contrived to sound righteous, but the greedy glint in his eye gave him away.

“What’s your usual arrangement with Nellie?”

I could almost see the wheels turning while Netherly calculated how exorbitant a claim he could make and still be believed. I could have saved him the trouble; I had no intention of paying him a ha’penny for his trouble.

After a lengthy pause, he ventured a sum, studying me covertly to see if I’d faint.

“Pish!” I cried. “Is that all the old bag pays you?” Well, it was a decent enough sum, but while I was about my own business, there wasn’t any reason I shouldn’t queer the deal for my competition. “I’ll pay you twice that amount.”

Netherly’s pink cheeks had deepened to a dusky red, whether from anger at Nellie’s churlishness or cupidity at my own generosity, but before he could attempt to negotiate, I seized his hand and wrung it, exclaiming, “We’ve a deal, then. Excellent. Now if you’d be so good as to show me where the maids’ uniforms are kept, I’ll kit out, roger the old geezer and bring you your money before dinner.”