The God of the Hive - Laurie R. King [134]
“With the child, yes, charming little thing. What was the name you used?”
“Oh, nothing, it’s just one—he occasionally uses another name so his step-father doesn’t find him. The step-father doesn’t, er … doesn’t care for the child.”
It was the best I could do at the moment, but the voice over the telephone line was as indignant as I could have asked. “I see. Well, I shall take care to forget the other name.”
“Whatever it was,” I added.
“Indeed.”
“May I speak to Mr Russell, then?”
“I am sorry, madam, they are not in the hotel at present.”
“When did they leave?” I asked sharply.
“Not ten minutes ago,” he answered, to my relief. “I believe the little girl expressed a desire to paddle in the sea, so he arranged a car and driver until the afternoon.”
“Very good,” I said. “May I leave a message for him? To say that his cousin Mary will ring again at tea-time?”
“I shall let him know the moment he returns,” the man assured me. I thanked him and rang off, resting my forehead against the telephone’s black body. Had the hotel man been in front of me, I would have rested it against him.
The “object of our affection” to be traded on Westminster Bridge was not Estelle, at any rate. Was it Damian?
I waited for an hour before the exchange put my call through, only to be cut off not once, but twice, each time having to begin the process anew. Then when I reached the Hotel Delft, the woman who answered the telephone spoke only Dutch; she broke the connexion a third time. On the fourth attempt I used French instead of English, which delayed her long enough that I could try German, as well, and although she seemed to speak neither with any fluency, she did recognise words of both languages, and I could guess from her voice if not her words what answers she was giving.
Yes, she knew M de Fontaine and his something companion. (Redheaded, perhaps? Did Dr Henning have red hair?) They were there for two nights and then not. Friday and Saturday? I asked—vendredi et samedi? Mais pas le dimanche?
There followed a rattle of Dutch, which I took to be the affirmative but linked to a question of—I pressed the telephone into my ear as if it might aid comprehension. Then I heard a word in the torrent that sounded familiar in several languages.
“Valise?” I asked. “Did you say ‘valise’?”
Thirty seconds of something that meant: yes.
“What about his valise?”
The voice paused, then came out with six laborious and heavily accented syllables. “Sa valise sont ici.”
“Whose valises are still there?” I demanded. “His, or hers? Or both?”
But precision was beyond her abilities, or even agreement in case and gender. She rattled on, her voice climbing, and then the telephone went dead.
I did not have the heart to attempt a fifth connexion.
I made two more calls. The first was to Sophy Melas, who was at home and sounded puzzled but unworried when I asked her if she’d had any unexpected callers other than Goodman and me the other night. The answer was no; I rang off before she could question why I called. The other was to my own house in Sussex. Its buzz continued in my ear, although there was no knowing if that was because Mrs Hudson had gone, as she’d been told, or because she’d stayed and been abducted.
I put the earpiece into its rest, and tried to think what else I could do, what other hostages to fortune lay out there.
I could think of none.
I bought eggs, cheese, and a loaf of bread on my way back to Pall Mall, retraced my laborious path through Mycroft’s flat and into the dumbwaiter shaft, hanging the portrait over the hole as I came. In the Melas kitchen, I left my contribution on the table.
I found Mycroft in a dressing room whose furniture testified to Mrs Melas’ taste. He was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring intently at the narrow crack between the two halves of the curtain. I cleared my throat, and he turned, startled.
“Ah, Mary. Good. What news?”
“Is there something out there?” I asked.
He gave an uncomfortable laugh and brushed past me. “Merely the air.