The Troika Dolls - Miranda Darling [132]
The sanatorium disappeared as they rounded another bend, then reappeared closer as they circled up in wide loops towards the granite rise. This time it was possible to see several cars—all dark, gleaming, expensive—parked in a gravel lot at the front; a helicopter waited patiently on a helipad, its rotors moving slowly to stop them icing up.
Henning pulled the Jaguar into the lot and stopped in front of the entrance. Stevie was now sitting in the back seat, wearing the fur and a large pair of sunglasses.
A thin man with gingery hair and a neat blue suit scuttled efficiently towards them and introduced himself as Gunnar Gobb, manager.
The place at first glance had little to suggest a modern health clinic. The proportions were vast, a legacy of a more generous time, with heavy wood panels and perfectly polished herringbone floors. The lighting was dim, with wall sconces and floor lamps with soft fabric shades illuminating the vast rooms. A wildly floral carpet in raspberry, turquoise and gold ran the length of the hall.
The reception opened into a vast circular room with triple-height windows that looked out over the woods to one side and the precipice to the other. On the other side of the river, right on the edge of the cliff, Stevie could now see the ruins of a small castle.
Turquoise velvet curtains ran from the moulded plaster ceiling to the floor. Groups of three or four heavily upholstered armchairs squatted around hexagonal coffee tables, and a small glittering bar nestled under a raphis palm on one side. Somewhere, a pianist was playing Chopin and, above it all, a huge panelled skylight let in the day.
Henning did all the talking. Stevie had assured him up-and-coming starlets never spoke directly to hotel staff and the arrangement suited her rather well as she was feeling particularly light-headed. This she blamed on nerves rather than toxic after-effects of Australian snake venom.
Gunnar Gobb took Doctor Meinetzhagen’s reference and filed it.
‘A nurse will be sent to Miss Duveen’s room,’ he informed them crisply. ‘A cure programme will then be drawn up for her, including rigorous diet and therapeutic treatments. Medications will also be pre-approved for administration. A psychologist will see her in the morning.’
‘I don’t think a psychologist—’
Grunnar Gob neatly hemmed Henning’s protest, ‘We at Hoffen-schaffen believe in, shall we say, the holistic approach. A psychologist, I think you will find, will be most enlightening.’
Grunnar Gobb’s wide smile repelled all argument.
The rooms in the sanatorium were palatial, furnished with armchairs in pale velvets, a thick navy carpet, heavy curtains and a large bed covered in a crisp white coverlet. On the door, a small brass plate with the name of the room: Piz Buin.
There were several windows with a spectacular view of the trees in the mist, the ruined castle, but no balcony, which really was quite fortunate because straight below the window was a sheer drop to the bottom of the gorge. The indigo river ran invisible between the rocky walls, the sound echoing upwards so you could hear it even with the windows closed.
If you fell, Stevie thought, you would fall forever.
Stevie’s medical check took place in the west wing of the sanatorium: heated stone floors laid in seamless blocks and lights with ice-blue bulbs. On one side, the rock wall of the mountain was laid bare, the mica flecks in the granite glittering, fools gold.
It was warm and very quiet. A uniformed nurse pushed Stevie, now safely ensconced in a wheelchair, past the sauna and steam rooms. Henning followed close behind. Huge steel buckets of ice water teetered on the end of a rope in a shower area. A mound of snow, also lit with blue light, gathered in a stone basin to one side. On the other side, a wall of water jets waited.
They were shown the swimming pool. Here too the lights were dim and the effect was odd—so different to the bright fluorescence of ordinary indoor pools. Tiled in dark blue ceramic,