The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [100]
‘Moths to the flame of fame.’ Stevie smiled. ‘That’s true. Perhaps there’s more truth to the description “cult of celebrity” than we realise.
They have a lot of followers.’
‘How can I help?’
Stevie thought once more about what a kind man Paul was. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open at the hotel, Paul. Even rumours can be useful, unusual arrivals or behaviour, and especially people who ask lots of questions about specific individuals. I’d be interested in hearing about them.’
Paul turned the stem of his wine glass with delicate fingers. He seemed to be on the verge of telling Stevie something, his mouth opened then closed, his eyes left hers and sought the bread basket.
‘What is it, Paul?’
‘Oh, nothing. I had something to tell you but it completely slipped my mind . . . old age I suppose!’ He laughed.
Stevie shook her head. ‘Silly creature.’ Paul was not yet forty.
Stevie slipped her key into the lock of her hotel-room door. She felt suddenly very tired and longed for the goose-down pillows and duvet that waited for her inside.
As she walked through the door, she sniffed the air. It was a habit she had. You could always tell what had been going on in a room by its smell, even if there was no physical evidence. So she sniffed automatically, and stopped. Sniffed again.
There was the distinct smell of cigarettes. Not of cigarette smoke, which could have wafted up from somewhere, but of nicotine. It was the scent of a heavy smoker. It was a hotel, maids came and went, it could easily have been one of them . . . but there was the tang of alcohol mixed with it, stale alcohol. Maids didn’t smell like that.
Was someone in the room?
Adrenaline pumped in and woke her right up. She could see the whole room from the door. It was empty.
She peered through the crack between the hinges holding the door to the wall. No one behind the door.
The bathroom door was open. She inched forward so that she could see the whole bathroom reflected in the large mirror.
Empty.
The base of the bed reached the floor. No one could fit under there.
The closet.
If anyone was in the room, the closet was the only place they could be. Stevie bent carefully and slipped her knife out of the special sheath on the inside of her boot. Its balanced weight in her hand gave her confidence.
A maid passed by her open door and Stevie called out to her.
‘Excuse me, signorina. Would you do me a great favour and hang my coat in the closet? It weighs a tonne and I sprained my wrist on the ice earlier today.’ She spoke clearly, making sure her voice could be heard by anyone hiding in the room.
‘But of course.’ The young woman dutifully took Stevie’s coat from her. She headed for the closet, Stevie at her heels, the knife pointed and ready to be rammed, if necessary, into the shoulder of anyone hiding there.
The maid flung the door back and hung the coat in the empty closet. She turned. ‘Is there anything else, signora?’
Stevie quickly hid the knife behind her back. ‘No, thank you. Very helpful.’ She gave the girl a five-franc coin and closed the front door behind her.
She was still certain someone had been in her room. The smell was all wrong. A burglar? It was unlikely—this was Switzerland. But you never knew . . .
Stevie moved to her underwear drawer. She arranged her panties, bras and socks in a specific pattern every time she unpacked. To the casual observer it wouldn’t be noticeable, but she would immediately be able to tell if anyone had moved a thing. She opened her drawer.
The pattern had been disturbed. Someone had searched it. She felt an icy shiver of fear.
Could still be a curious maid, her reason reminded her, but she didn’t believe it. Like a cautious robot she drifted to the bathroom.
The maid had done her room before she left for dinner. The bed was already turned down, the slippers in their place on the floor . . .
But her nécessaire had definitely been touched. It had moved from the perfect position she had placed it in, carefully nestled under the shelf.
It