Introducing the Honourable Phryne Fisher (11 page)

‘We haven’t got many rotten apples,’ she observed. ‘It’s a good clean force, on the whole. If you’ve winkled out a bad’un, we owe you some thanks.’

Surprised, Phryne shook hands with Jones, something she would have given good money against ever happening, some ten minutes ago.

‘Can we come out?’ asked Jones through the door, and Detective-inspector Robinson assented, gruffly. Dot, Phryne and WPC Jones emerged to be confronted with an unusual sight. The manager and Robinson were holding a semi-naked constable by the arms, and brandishing a small packet of the type with which Phryne had become wearyingly familiar. Colloidium plaster still hung from the packet in two long strips.

‘You see? He had it attached to his chest by this plaster. And the next time you seek to execute a search warrant in my hotel, Detective-inspector, I shall have every policeman searched before they come in. I never heard of such a thing! Innocent guests have been persecuted and the reputation of the Victorian Police has been fatally compromised!’

Phryne agreed. ‘Yes, what Mr Robert Sanderson, MP, is going to say when I tell him, I can’t imagine. A most shocking thing. My guest and my confidential maid have been stripped and searched in a way only felons usually experience, not to mention myself. What are you going to do about it?’

Detective-inspector Robinson shook his colleague ferociously. ‘Speak up, you silly coot! Who paid you? Why did you do it, Ellis? You violated your oath, you’ll be flung out of the force, you’ve got a wife and four children, how are you going to live? Out with it, man!’

Ellis strove to speak, choked, and shook his head. Robinson struck him hard across the mouth. Dot watched unmoved. WPC Jones sat down, composed. Sasha watched amusedly, as though it were an indifferent show put on for his benefit. Mr Smythe released the arm he was holding and retreated a little. He neither liked nor approved of physical violence.

Ellis spat blood and said, ‘It was a woman.’

‘Old or young? Any accent?’

‘Can’t tell, it was on the telephone. No accent that I heard. She said, fifty pounds to plant the stuff.’

‘Where did you get it?’ asked Phryne, sharply.

‘She sent it. Just the one little packet. I picked it up, with the fifty pounds, from the post office.’

‘What post office?’

‘GPO, sir, she said . . .’

‘She said what?’

‘That if I didn’t do it, she’d kill my wife and kids.’ ‘And you believed it?’ spat Robinson. Ellis seemed surprised.

‘Not at first, sir, but she said she’d give me a demonstration. You recall those children, found with cut throats, dead in the beds, with their mother dead beside them? That was her work, she said, and you know we don’t have a motive or a suspect for that.’

‘Fool,’ snapped Robinson. ‘The victim’s husband did it. He’s down at Russell Street this moment, spilling it all.’

‘You’re sure, sir?’

‘Of course. I told you so at the time, you cretin.’

‘I . . . I believed her . . .’ stammered Ellis, and began to cry.

Detective-inspector Robinson dropped the arm he was holding and turned away in disgust. ‘Christ have pity,’ he exclaimed.

‘Pour the Senior-constable some tea, Dot. Now, take my hanky and blow. That’s right, now drink this,’ and Phryne administered tea and a small glass of Benedictine. The young man drank and blew.

In a few moments, he was recovered enough to speak.

‘So I got the packet and I was going to plant it. I did believe her, sir. I needed the money, my wife has to have an operation . . . please, sir, don’t sack me. We wouldn’t be able to live.’

He was now crying freely. Phryne took the Detective-inspector aside. He accompanied her, still fuming.

‘Need this go any further?’

‘Of course it does, he’s taken a bribe.’

‘Yes, but under great duress. Could you make a confidential report, not actually sack him, but keep him on? You see, if he is thrown out on the street, it will be a sign to whoever is doing this that the plot has failed, and I don’t want that to happen. Twig?’

‘Yes. But what have you done to attract this kind of trouble?’

‘A good question. I don’t know. But I shall find out. Can we cooperate? Don’t sack Ellis yet, and I’ll let you in on the arrests, once I am in a position to be sure.’

‘Dangerous, Miss.’

‘Yes, but only I can do it, and it’s better than being bored. Come on, be a sport. Think of getting your hands on a prominent local coke dealer.’

‘Well . . . Only for a short time,’ he temporised, ‘a week, say.’

‘Two,’ bargained Phryne.

‘Split the difference. Say ten days.’

‘Done. You’ll take no action for ten days, and I’ll let you in on the kill. A deal?’

‘A deal,’ agreed Robinson. ‘I’ll have a word with WPC Jones, too. Ellis is a fool, but until now I would have said that he was as honest as the day. Here’s my telephone number, Miss Fisher. Don’t get in too deep, will you?’

‘I am already,’ said Phryne. ‘Mr Smythe, I have accepted Detective-inspector Robinson’s apology, and I think that we can declare the matter closed. Goodnight, gentlemen,’ she breezed, as Robinson, Ellis and the manager exited. She closed the door on them and sank down onto the sofa, where Sasha put an arm around her.

‘Dot,’ called Phryne, ‘order more tea, and come and have some yourself. That concludes the entertainment for the night, I hope.’

Phryne said no more until Dot came reluctantly and sat beside her, brushing down her uniform jacket as though the touch of the hapless constable had soiled it.

Sasha poured her some tea and leaned back again, encirc- ling Phryne with a strong comforting arm. The young woman was trembling; Sasha wondered if the Princesse had over- estimated Phryne’s strength. Dot sipped her tea suspiciously.

‘Well,’ said Phryne, her voice vibrant with excitement. ‘They are now after me, as well as Sasha. This is excellent, is it not?’

‘Oh, excellent,’ murmured Sasha ironically. ‘Excellent!’

‘What do you mean, Miss?’ asked Dot, setting down her teacup with a rattle. ‘Who is after you? The person what hid the little bag on the wardrobe? I’d like to lay my hands on ’im, I would,’ she continued, biting vindictively into a teacake. ‘E’d know e’d been in a fight.’

‘Him, indeed. Sasha, it is now time to tell us all that you know about this
Roi des Neiges
.
Begin, please,’ ordered Phryne. She was quite cool. The tremor had been hunting arousal, not fear. Phryne was enjoying herself.

Obediently, Sasha settled himself into the curve of Phryne’s side.

‘We were visiting Paris, before the end of the Great War. I was only a child, and I do not recall much about it; just the sound of the big guns, coming nearer and nearer, and Mama being frightened, and we could not sleep. I do not remember Russia, which we left in the winter—though perhaps the cold, that I remember from very small, the snow and the cold wind. Paris was cold, too. Mama and Grandmama came to Paris in 1918, just before the Peace was being signed. They had accomplished a great journey in escaping to Archangel, where the English were; they had gone most of the way on foot.’

‘All very affecting, make a good film, but
revenons à nos moutons
if you please,’ snapped Phryne, resisting the hypnotic attraction of the brown eyes and the honeyed voice.

‘Patience,’ smiled Sasha, not at all crushed. ‘If you interrupt me, I shall lose my memory. So. We were all in Paris, my father having been killed by the revolutionaries, and Mama sold some of the family jewels to keep us fed. The Tscarnov emeralds, and many other beautiful stones she sold in that winter.

‘We sought a protector, and not Mama but Grandmama found one—an Englishman, a lord, and he found us a flat and nurtured us as if we had been his own, for love of Grandmama—how we laughed about it, Mama and me!’

‘Yes, and so?’ asked Phryne impatiently. Dot was staring at Sasha as though he had dropped in from another planet.

‘So, we lived with the English lord until we were sixteen, then we were sent away to school in Switzerland. We were away for a year, Elli and me, and Grandmama wrote that all was well in Paris, so we did not inquire anymore. Then we returned, two years ago, and found that the old lord was dead—it was sad, he was a generous man—and that Mama was dying. We could see that she was dying. She had become habituated to the cocaine, and since the old lord had left Grandmama a great deal of money, she could buy what she liked. She was sniffing it by the handful, and after the dose she would become bright and happy, like the Mama of yesterday, then morose, then bitter, then screaming and falling into fits. So the cycle. She did not sleep. She begged us to kill her.

‘This was not necessary, for the saving of my immortal soul, as after a few weeks I might have done it,’ admitted Sasha. Tears ran unchecked down his cheeks. ‘She died. Before she died, we besought her to tell us who had done this to her, who had introduced her to this deathly drug. She would only tell us that the King,
Le Roi
of Snow, had given it to her for free. She thought him kind—then the price had gone up, and then up. She had sold all her jewels. But Grandmama knew that some of the jewellery had not gone to pawnbrokers. This King had a taste for fine stones, we heard, and the great necklace of the Tsars, at least, had gone to him intact. And the Princesse’s pearls.’

Something that Sasha had said hit Phryne’s intuition like a lance through the solar plexus. He paused, feeling the tightening of her muscles, but she could not pin down the thought. She waved him on.

‘And a collar of diamonds made, it was said, for Catherine the Great. Grandmama said that if we could survey Parisian society, then we would one day see the necklace, and then we would have our man. Thus was born the
Compagnie des Ballets Masqués.
Both my sister and I had danced together since we were children; also we had no profession. We danced the old story of the Maiden and Death, and Paris was intrigued. Night after night we played to packed houses in the old Opera, and night after night we scanned the jewelled ladies, looking for the necklace of Catherine. We even began to make a profit,’ observed Sasha with artless astonishment. ‘Always we looked. Then, at last, we saw it. On the bosom of a demimondaine, a worthless woman. I called upon her, and she said that it was only lent; the owner was an American parvenu. Him I spoke to, and at last he told me from whom he had bought it; and I came here to find that man, and to kill him . . . May I have some more tea?’

‘The name, Sasha, the name?’

‘But if I tell you the name, you may warn him, and thus my revenge will be lost,’ complained Sasha. ‘Also the Princesse will skin me.’

‘Ah, but if you do not tell me the name, I will skin you, and I am closer than the Princesse,’ said Phryne, baring her teeth and reaching for a fruit knife, as though willing to begin the skinning instantly. Sasha shrugged fluidly.

‘His name is Andrews,’ he said dismissively. ‘We saw the man at the soirée where I had the delight of meeting you. He does not seem to be clever enough to be our
Roi
. But that is what the American told me. And I saw the sale note. A mere fortune, he paid for that necklace, when it was priceless.’

‘Are there any more of your mother’s jewels left unaccoun- ted for?’ asked Phryne.

Sasha nodded. ‘Some. A great diamond cluster, and a brooch in the shape of a flying bird by Fabergé, in diamonds and enamel; a long string of pink pearls. We have not seen them yet.’

‘I cannot believe that it is Andrews. He hasn’t the brain!’ exclaimed Phryne. ‘Go on. Why did the Princesse take me to the Bath House of Madame Breda?’

‘To show you the system. That night I met you, being under the special protection of
Notre Dame des Douleurs
,
I was being pursued by the minions; I had been at a drop.’

‘In Toorak?’ gasped Dot. Phryne considered this.

‘Yes, it does seem very odd and unlikely, Dot, but stranger things have been known, though not many. Go on, Sasha.’

Sasha obligingly provided the address, which Phryne wrote down in a small, leather-covered notebook.

‘How did you know that the drop was to take place there?’

‘The maid from the Bath House of Madame Breda told the Princesse; Gerda, I believe, is the name. With a stupidity which I cannot emphasise enough, I allowed myself to be seen.’

‘Who was the carrier?’

‘Madame herself, it seems. Two men were following her, at a distance; it was they who pursued me. Madame pays calls at the houses of her most favoured customers with Gerda, to massage them; she disposes of her “beauty powders” while there.’

‘These men know you?’ asked Dot, concentrating.

Sasha nodded. ‘Indeed, they know me. They seem to be Madame’s guardians while she carries the snow; most of the time, they are not with her. Luckily, they are not very intelligent.’

‘Possibly not,’ agreed Phryne, recalling Thug One and Thug Two. Sasha stood up and stretched.

Now, milady, shall I leave you?’

Phryne stretched out a hand to Sasha. She was very attracted to him but did not trust him out of her sight. ‘No. Stay until morning,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s too late to be wandering the street. Won’t your relatives be worried about you?’

‘No. My sister will know that I am well. We are twins.’ He bowed slightly to Dot and went into the bathroom, collecting Phryne’s mannish dressing-gown on the way. Dot and Phryne eyed one another.

‘Well, are you going back to your mother, now that my true depravity has been revealed?’ asked Phryne with a smile.

Dot grinned. ‘I reckon you’re different, Miss—outside the rules. And he’s a sheik. Lucky to get ’im, p’raps. I’m for my bed, it’s late.’

‘So it is—goodnight, Dot.’

‘Goodnight,’ replied Dot as she closed her door. Phryne retired to her bed, to fortify herself with Sasha and philosophy against the coming trials of the new day. She did not doubt that there would be some.

CHAPTER TEN

Take a whiff, take a whiff, take a whiff on me Ever’body take a whiff on me
. . .

‘The Cocaine Blues’ Traditional American Song

The coming trials announced themselves at eight of the morning in the person of Dr MacMillan. Dot, who was awake, let the agitated woman in, and knocked discreetly to rouse Phryne, who rolled over with a sleepy curse into Sasha’s arms and spent an engrossing five minutes in extracting herself therefrom. Finally Dot entered, carrying two cups of tea, and Phryne gulped hers, rumpled her black hair into order, and staggered into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later she emerged, respectably clothed, demanding aspirins and forestalling Elizabeth MacMillan with a languid wave. ‘Elizabeth, I can’t possibly attend to anything intellectual yet,’ she groaned. ‘Dot, get some black coffee.’

She lit a gasper and sank back into the sofa. The doctor surveyed her sternly.

‘If you will gad about all night, and begin the day with black coffee and cigarettes, you’ll be on my hands in a month, young woman,’ she observed. ‘And you’ll be a hag before your time. I have something important to say and I’ve a woman in labour waiting for me to return; attend, if you please!’

Phryne drank her coffee. Her eyes lost their glaze; she was awake and alert. ‘I apologise, Elizabeth, how foul I am being! Go on, of course!’

‘Those packets you sent me. What are you playing at?’

‘Why? What was in them?’

‘This one,’ said Dr MacMillan, laying down the chemist’s package sealed with red wax, ‘is sodium chloride: common salt. This one,’ she laid down the muslin package, ‘is pure cocaine. Where you got them is not my concern, but I’d advise you to have a care, my dear. These people have a reputation for being over-hasty in their actions.’

‘So I’d heard . . .’ murmured Phryne. The little packet had appeared in her pocket while she was at Madame Breda’s, and it was real cocaine. But the big packet which she had obtained, as real cocaine, from the Princesse de Grasse was salt.

‘Interesting salt,’ added the Doctor, dragging herself to her feet. ‘Traces of all sorts of elements in it. I reckon that it is dead sea salt—they use it for saltwater baths in some beauty establishments, you know. Well, I must be off.’

‘Stay at least for a cup of tea, Elizabeth!’ protested Phryne, but the older woman shook her head.

‘Biological processes won’t wait for tea,’ she observed, and was gone. She passed Mr Smythe, on her way out.

The manager was polite, but firm. He realised that Miss Fisher had been totally innocent of any wrongdoing in the matter of the police visit on the previous evening. He was delighted that it had all ended so amicably. But there must be no more of it. Another such episode and, for the good of his hotel, he would be reluctantly compelled to ask Miss Fisher to find alternative lodgings. Phryne smiled and assured him that she did not anticipate any such contingency, and that a sizeable
douceur
should be added to the bill, to soothe his wounded feelings. Mr Smythe withdrew, suavely pleased, and closed the door quietly behind him.

‘Quick—lock the door, Dot! Someone else will waltz in and expect a hearing before breakfast,’ cried Phryne, and then added, ‘now don’t open it for anyone except room service! Gosh, what was that quotation—“I never was so bethumped with words since first I called my brother’s father Dad”. Shakespeare, I think. Sasha! Time to get up!’

The young man, who had evidently fallen asleep again, leapt from the bedclothes and was dressed in a minute. He joined Phryne on the sofa looking irritatingly alert and uncrumpled. Phryne glared at him resentfully.

‘How can you possibly look so healthy at this hour? It’s unnatural. Ghastly. However. What do you have to do today?’

‘I must call at Scott’s; my sister and I have a matinée at ten, and another at three, and an evening show tonight at the Tivoli. I think that the Princesse would like to talk to you,’ he added.

‘And I would like to talk to her. Oh, Lord, now what?’

Dot answered the knock, and came back with the breakfast trolley.

‘At last,’ said Phryne, and collected a boiled egg.

By nine she was accompanying Sasha down the steps and around the corner to Scott’s hotel. Two letters awaited her at the desk on the way out: a thin blue envelope with gold edges and a thick white one with no decoration at all. She put them into her clutch-purse to read later, concealing them from Sasha. Phryne did not intend to share all of her informa- tion with anyone. Dot had her orders, and the telephone number of the admirable policeman, if Phryne should not return within three hours. Sasha offered his arm, and Phryne slipped her gloved hand between his elbow and his smooth, muscular side. He really was very attractive.

He seemed to catch her thought, for his mouth curved up at the corners, and he smiled an intimate and self-satisfied smile which, in another man, Phryne would have found very irritating. In Sasha it was endearing. There was no masculine pride of conquest in him, but a childish, actor’s pride in the deserved applause of an educated audience. The sun shone thinly, fashioning a cap of red light for Phryne’s shiny hair.

They approached Scott’s, a hotel not of the
dernier cri
, but respectable. The doorman surveyed Sasha’s costume with deep disapproval, but allowed him in, pulling the door open grudgingly. Phryne did not tip him, which deepened his depression.

In their room the Princesse and Elli looked up from the counting of a pile of shillings as Sasha swept in, then returned to their task.

‘Boy, you must bathe and dress,’ snapped the Princesse. ‘You have a performance in an hour. Elli, take up all the coins and put them away. Please be seated, Miss Fisher. Tea?’

Phryne assented, removed three laddered pairs of tights from an easy chair and sat down, prepared to be receptive.

The Princesse filled a bone-china cup from her samovar and passed it over, while Elli poured the coins into a soft bag and vanished into another room, presumably to supply Sasha with a clean leotard and tights. Phryne remembered the death-mask, and produced it from her coat pocket. The Princesse snatched it, and pointed a long, gnarled finger at the red smudges along one edge.

‘You?’ her voice was sharp. Phryne flicked a hand toward the other room.

‘Him,’ she returned, equally brisk.

The old woman’s face seemed to shrink in on itself. ‘Ah. He will tell me, then. You were unhurt?’

‘Of course,’ replied Phryne. ‘And he was not too badly injured. Just a scratch along the arm. Not enough to hamper him.’

‘Ah,’ gloated the Princesse. ‘You found him a pleasant diversion? If only someone would marry him. That is almost his only skill—that and dancing. If we do not have some good fortune, he will become a gigolo, and that is no life for a descendant of princes. How useless we are! I was taught nothing, nothing, when I was a child, because it was thought that only peasants worked. But I learned by finding things out for myself. Then the Tsar’s daughters became nurses, and so I was allowed to acquire another skill. It was not until I came to Paris, though, that I discovered that my most saleable skill was the same as Sasha’s. Ah me . . . it has all been most amusing, and it may all come to an end very soon. What happened?’

‘Someone was chasing him. We escaped by a ruse. Princesse, did you know that the powder which you sold me was salt?’

The lined face showed no change of emotion, but the voice dropped a half-octave, and the old woman replied slowly, ‘Salt? That is not what I paid for. What is Gerda playing at?’

‘I don’t know. Have you bought any of the same product from her before?’

‘
En effet
. . .
mais pas tout-à-fait
,’
explained the Princess. ‘She always found some reason not to sell.’

‘Reason not to sell?’

‘Yes. Sometimes that Madame was watching her, that the stuff had not been delivered, that it had all been sold . . .
Tiens!
Salt! And we paid cocaine prices for it!’

The old woman began to laugh, and after a moment, it struck Phryne as funny too. Phryne tasted her tea; it was very strong, flavoured with lemon, and she disliked it.

There still remained the matter of the packet of real cocaine that had been found in her pocket, with the cryptic note. And the policeman, Ellis, had gasped, ‘just as she said’ when the chemist’s packet had fallen out of her pocket. That argued that the person who had set Phryne up for a drug-possession charge knew about the Princesse’s transaction in Madame Breda’s. That limited the persons to the Princesse and her suite, Gerda, and possibly Madame Breda—any one of whom might have slipped Phryne the real cocaine.

The Princesse stopped laughing, mopped her eyes, and poured herself some more tea. She tilted her chin at Phryne. ‘Are you further along in this investigation?’ demanded the old woman, and Phryne shook her head.

‘I have an address; or perhaps, a person,’ said the Princesse. ‘It may help you.’ She extracted a folded slip of paper from the recesses of her costume, which, at this hour, consisted of an old-fashioned corset cover, and a long, sumptuous blue satin robe, partially faded. Phryne unfolded the paper.

‘Seventy-nine Little Lon,’ she read with difficulty, it being scrawled in villianous ink.

‘Who is this Lon?’ asked the Princesse. ‘That is what I would like to know. Perhaps he is our
succinsin
.’

‘
Succinsin?
’

‘Scoundrel.’

‘I’ll find him,’ promised Phryne, and took her leave of the de Grasses. The beautiful Sasha kissed her very gently and presented her to his sister to kiss. Phryne found the two of them so similar that she did not object. She knew they had designs on sharing her, and began to think that might prove extremely engrossing—then dragged her salacious mind and body away. She walked loudly down the hall as she left, then crept back to listen at the door. She heard the voice of the old woman speaking their familiar French.

‘How was the
milch
cow, eh? Did you please her?’

‘Certainly,’ said Sasha smugly. ‘I stroked her until she purred. She is of a sensuality unusual in English women. I think that I have ensnared her. She will want me again.’

‘Did she pay you?’ grated the old voice, and Sasha must have shrugged, for Phryne heard the old woman slap him lightly.

‘Grandmama, do not be so greedy!’ he protested, laughing. ‘Next time she will pay. In the end, I think she will marry me.’

Phryne hoped that her grinding teeth could not be heard through the door.

‘Perhaps. At least, you shall not waste your strength in vain. She is generous, I think. Yes. And she is clever.’

‘Truly, she saved me by a trick—she thinks with remarkable speed. I think she will find the
Roi des Neiges
.’

‘Yes, she will find him, and then you will follow her. And then . . .’ she made a choking noise, probably accompanied by a graphic gesture.

‘Revenge is sweet, children, and we shall have every
centime
out of him before he dies. With that profit, I believe that you may retire, and your sister may marry for love.’

The old woman cackled gleefully. Elli protested.

‘I shall not marry. I do not like men. Take me with you, Sasha, when you go to Miss Fisher again! Please, Sashushka, please!’

‘I do not know if she would like that . . .’ said Sasha, considering. ‘But I will ask her. I must bathe—we have a performance. Come and wash my back,’ said Sasha. Phryne went soundlessly down the hall. She passed the doorman without a word. He awarded a gloomy stare to her retreating back, and sighed. That woman was class, the doorman could see that, and it was wise to be on the side of class. Or so the doorman had been told. It had never done him any good.

Phryne soon realised that first, she was attracting attention by hurrying, and that second, running in a tight skirt, loose coat and high heels required concentration of a high order, which she did not feel that she could spare at the moment. Therefore she walked into a café and ordered a pot of tea, lit a gasper, and fumed. So that was why the Russians had adopted her! As a decoy duck! The perfidy of such creatures!

She drank the tea too quickly and burned her mouth. There was no point in getting angry with them. The Russians were as amoral and attractive as kittens. One thing, however, she vowed. Not one penny would Sasha extract from her purse, and she was not going to marry him. To be exploited was the fate of many women, but Phryne was not going to be one of them if she could help it.

Phryne opened the first of her letters and found that the solid white envelope contained an invitation, in impeccable taste, from Mr Sanderson, MP, to dinner that night. She replaced the card in its envelope and tore open the scented one. A large sheet of violently violet paper bore the subscription of Lydia Andrews’ house, and a short message asking Miss Fisher to call at her earliest opportunity. Phryne snorted. The woman was a clinger, after all. She crumpled the message and left the café, dropping Lydia’s invitation into a rubbish-bin. She would go to dinner with Sanderson, but before then she and Dot had places to go and people to see.

The first thing to do was to hire a car. Phryne was a good driver, and disliked having to constantly call taxis.

There was a garage in this street, she recollected, down at the edge of the city, where the livery stables had been for the city’s hansom cabs. Phryne caught a cable-car, holding on tightly as instructed, and breathed in the strange, ozone-flavoured burned dust scent, until she was dropped off at the corner of Spencer Street. The garage was large and newly painted, and an attentive, if oil-stained, young man stood up suddenly as she entered. The dim interior of the ex-stable was gleaming with brass lamps and lovingly polished paintwork. The young man wiped his hands hastily on a piece of cotton waste and hurried towards her.

‘Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?’

‘I want to hire a car,’ said Phryne. ‘What have you got?’

The young man gestured towards a sober Duchesse, high-axled, with a closed body built by a coachmaker. Phryne grinned.