Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [88]
“I'm fine,” she automatically protested. “A gin and tonic would be good.”
He ordered for them both. When their drinks were before them, she inflicted a dose of spirits onto her mistreated insides, then set down her glass sharply and announced, “I'm going down to the Lodge tomorrow.”
He arranged a look of mild surprise on his face. “Do you think that's a good idea?”
“I don't know, but I think it's necessary.”
“Do you wish me to come?”
“I telephoned to Flo this morning, and she'd like to go—her friend Donny will drive us. We'll be back on Wednesday; there's some museum opening Donny wants to attend.”
“Hm,” he grunted. “I'd have thought you'd want to drive yourself.” Russell disliked being driven anywhere.
“I'm sure he'll let me have the wheel part of the time,” she said, although Holmes, having seen the lad's pride in that gaudy motor, had his doubts.
“How many people know of your plans?”
She fixed him with a glare. “Holmes, I know you think I'm being particularly stupid lately, but give me some credit. Neither of them know precisely where the place is, although I had to tell them roughly where we were heading. And I asked them to keep it quiet—I said I didn't want anyone else to know, because they'd want to join us and make it more of a bash than I wanted.”
“‘Bash.'”
“You know what I mean.”
“Of course.”
“I hope you don't mind. That I'm abandoning you here,” she said, belatedly concerned for his welfare.
“Not in the least. I have plenty to keep me busy.”
“Your Paganini research?”
“Actually, it's proving quite intriguing. Do you know, there is a theory that Paganini was commissioned by the Duke of . . .” but between the alcohol and her own concerns, she soon stopped listening. Which was precisely what he had intended.
When the drink was half gone and her eyes had begun to glaze with boredom, he dropped the diversion and told her, “I believe I've identified your faceless man.” Then he corrected himself. “Not identified, perhaps, although I've got a lead on him.”
She stared, picked up the glass and gulped down the second half, coughed a while, then, eyes watering, asked, “What?”
“The faceless man of your second dream. I found an elderly woman who spent some time in the park following the earthquake, and remembered your family. She also gave me the tale of a man coming to the tent city the day the rains began, which was the Sunday, who'd had his facial hair scorched off and wore some white ointment on his skin. Probably zinc oxide,” Holmes noted.
“Ointment,” she repeated, and reached for her empty glass. Holmes raised a finger to the waiter for another.
“The chap was looking for your father. He went to your tent, and his appearance frightened you. Miss Adderley's informant remembered your shrieks.”
“My God.”
The shock—or reverence—of the phrase was tempered by the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach. She seemed scarcely to be listening as Holmes described the old lady and her establishment, the aged butler and his protective granddaughter. He did not tell her about the photograph in his breast pocket, judging that its introduction would drain any rationality from the remainder of the evening. Other than that omission, he piled every conceivable detail into the narrative, until the sheer complexity and the second drink allowed her to attain a degree of distance from his revelation.
She interrupted his description of the old lady's shoes. “So two of the dreams depict actual events. First the earthquake, then an event shortly afterward.”
“So it would appear.”
“That would suggest that the third also refers to a concrete event. That there is an actual hidden room somewhere that I know about.”
“Of that I would not be so certain.”
“Why not?”
“The three do not run in precise parallel. The first two have powerful emotional overtones, yet the third is emotionally neutral, or even mildly reassuring. Of the first pair, the only element that changes is the description of the flying objects, but with the third, change itself is the constant factor—the details of the rooms are different