Russian Roulette

by Sara Sheridan

  When he reached out, he did so with surprising swiftness. Wiry and fast, he grabbed Mirabelle and pushed her into the bushes. The twigs and leaves scratched her legs and dug into her back as she lost her balance. Well, that’s riled him, she thought.

  ‘It looks like you feel threatened now,’ she said smoothly. Panicking never helped.

  ‘Who sent you?’ he snarled. ‘Who?’

  Mirabelle’s heart raced. He was stronger than she was, but she tried not to let the fear show in her voice. ‘Nobody sent me. I’m acting for a friend of Phil Quinn’s. There’s nobody on his side but us, you see. Still, perhaps we can get him out of this together. If you just tell me . . . ’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re going to get more people killed if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Were you gambling in London, Billy? Where did you get the money you brought home for the pram?’

  ‘Gambling? God, you haven’t a clue.’

  ‘Tell me then.’

  He shoved her hard and backed away. ‘You’re not getting it from me,’ he spat. ‘You don’t know what will happen if I tell you. You don’t want to get involved in any of this, a woman like you.’

  ‘I’ve been involved in worse.’ Mirabelle passed a hand over her jacket. She didn’t want to look down, but she was certain her stockings must be a state.

  ‘Big words. Look, I didn’t kill Helen and that should be enough.’

  ‘Well, it’s not. You know who did it, don’t you? What’s going on, Billy? Did you see something that night? Is that what it is?’

  ‘One dead woman is one too many. And if you don’t stop poking about . . .’ A vague looked crossed his face as if he was considering what might happen if Mirabelle continued to ask questions. It didn’t make her give up.

  ‘I can help. Don’t you think you’ll feel better if you share what’s on your mind?’

  Billy laughed. It was a carefree and unexpected sound. Almost a giggle. ‘And then we’ll have a cup of tea? Nice, like. I’ve got Vi to think of and a nipper on the way. I’m not going to tell you anything. If you come here again, I’ll hurt you. Properly. Understand? You don’t know what you’re doing.’ He paused for a second before he turned back into the kitchen and slammed the door.

  Mirabelle’s shoulders dropped. She looked down. Her stockings were torn to shreds. Still, she smiled. She’d kept her head at least. She’d read about it in a training manual. If someone pushes themselves against you, you should try to feel what they have in their pockets. There had been the screwdriver, of course. She’d felt that. But she’d slipped her hand inside and when Billy Randall pulled back she’d managed to keep hold of a little slip of card. Now she turned it between her fingers. In the half-light from the window she could see there was a phone number, printed in black. Belgravia 4192. No name. No address. Still, she popped it into her purse and paused momentarily to remove her laddered stockings. That was a better day’s work, she told herself. That was worthwhile, however angry it had made him.

  As she slipped off the bus and walked towards the front, Mirabelle noticed with a smile that the door to the Boite was open. It had been some day and she decided she felt like a drink. A wash of pink light from the neon stairway landed in a puddle on the pavement. Her heels clicked as she walked through it. Upstairs, you’d never know whether it was lunchtime or dinner. Like all good nightclubs, the Boite always felt like it was the right time to frequent the bar. One of the Italian waiters was engaged in polishing glasses and, as she entered, he emerged to pull out a bar stool with a flourish.

  ‘What can I get you, madam?’

  ‘Champagne,’ Mirabelle said, surprising herself by repeating McGregor’s order from the other night.

  If the waiter was surprised she was alone, he didn’t show it. He efficiently produced a chilled glass, filled it and placed a small plate of peanuts at its base.

  ‘Busy day?’

  Mirabelle nodded. She looked around. There was only one other customer in tonight – a man on his own in the corner. He was nursing a whisky and reading a book, which even from this distance she could see was some kind of guide to Brighton with a picture of the Pavilion on the cover. ‘Is Mr Gleeson here?’ she enquired.

  ‘He’s upstairs.’ The barman gestured.

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘In the office. Would you like me to fetch him?’

  Mirabelle shook her head. There was no point in troubling anybody. Besides, she had her lead. She sipped the champagne. ‘Do you have a telephone?’ she asked.

  The barman reached into a cubbyhole and pulled out a cream Bakelite phone on a long wire. He placed it on the bar with a click. The Boite had everything. Of course it did.

  ‘I thought maybe you wanted to talk to Mr Gleeson,’ he said smoothly. ‘If you like, there’s a button to transfer up to the office.’ He indicated it, though his eyes fell downwards, over her décolletage. Mirabelle recognised the feeling that fluttered in her stomach – she’d had the same sensation at the Grand in Eastbourne and in the drawing room at Tongdean Avenue. He reckons I’m for sale, she thought. She finished her drink and motioned for him to refill it. The champagne bottle dripped as he drew it out of the ice.

  ‘Is it all right if I call a friend?’

  The waiter replied with a knowing smile. She stared back without meeting his grin and he replaced the champagne in the ice bucket and moved away. Then she picked up the handset and called the operator. ‘Belgravia 4192.’ It took a few seconds to get connected. The bell rang at the other end and Mirabelle worried, momentarily, that it was too late to call. If the number was a private house it was bad manners to ring after nine. No sooner had she dismissed this thought than she worried about what she might say. It was impossible, after all, to make a plan. She had no idea who or what was at the other end of the line. A vision of Vesta with her notepad flashed across Mirabelle’s mind’s eye but the Prudential’s offices were closed now and she couldn’t pretend to be filling in a form.

  ‘Hello,’ a man’s voice drawled slowly, as if it was a tiresome task to pick up the handset. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Is that Belgravia 4192?’ Mirabelle checked, buying a second or two at least.

  ‘Yes. Can I help you?’

  The voice gave away nothing. ‘Is the lady of the house at home?’ Mirabelle tried, careful not to sound flustered.

  ‘The countess is out of London, I’m afraid.’ He said the words as if they were some kind of announcement.

  Mirabelle hesitated. The edge of the card had become bent in her purse and, with her free hand, she slipped it through her fingers, tapping it on the bar. It helped her concentrate. ‘Ah, I’ve missed her then. Is she in Brighton by any chance?’ The words came out of nowhere – as if in walking round all day she had simply been preparing to put two and two together so that, when she did, it was effortless.

  ‘Yes. Brighton.’

  ‘And she is staying at the Grand? I mean, it’s the only hotel.’ Mirabelle adopted the haughty tone she’d heard the countess use at the reception desk.

  The voice hesitated. Giving out the whereabouts of one’s mistress was a serious offence.

  ‘I think I may have noticed her as she checked into her suite yesterday,’ Mirabelle continued smoothly. ‘I simply wasn’t sure. It was at a distance you see and I was meeting friends.’

  ‘May I take a name?’ The voice sounded more persistent than when it first came to the phone.

  ‘Oh, I’m an old acquaintance.’ Mirabelle let the lie slip seamlessly down the wire.

  ‘Ah.’ He thought he had understood something. The man’s voice switched again, continuing as if by rote. ‘Well, Madam’s Tuesdays and Saturdays will continue the same in her absence.’

  ‘Good,’ Mirabelle said, sounding confident, as if this was what she had rung to check. ‘Tuesday is tomorrow. And everything as usual then?’

  ‘Shall we expect you?’

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  The line clicked dead. Mira
belle regarded the frosted champagne flute in front of her. She lifted the glass to her lips. ‘Good heavens,’ she mumbled. At least the way ahead was clear. It was a connection she would never have made in the normal run of things. But it opened up a plethora of new possibilities. That this card was in Billy Randall’s pocket certainly seemed a mismatch.

  The waiter removed the phone. Then he reached for the champagne bottle. ‘The gentleman sent you a drink,’ he said, raising it as if to demonstrate.

  Mirabelle glanced at the man in the corner who had put down his book. He nodded as if he was seeking some kind of agreement. ‘No, thank you.’ She pushed the glass away and slipped off the bar stool. Really, anyone would think she was fifteen years younger and far more available. Perhaps once this was over she might give Superintendent McGregor a run for his money. Perhaps he deserved that. She popped a few shillings next to the peanuts and stalked back into the chilly evening air.

  Chapter 22

  The woman who deliberates is lost

  The Grand Hotel loomed large in Mirabelle’s life in Brighton. The first time she crossed its august threshold she had been engaged on her very first case, but, since then, without becoming a regular haunt, it had certainly developed into a feature. Once she had been barricaded into a suite and had to fight off a homicidal maniac. If Fred hadn’t equipped her with a gun, she probably wouldn’t have survived. Now, she stalked into the lounge and sat on one of the comfortable seats, near where Vesta had stationed herself that afternoon. When the waiter approached, she ordered a pot of tea and a plate of ham sandwiches.

  ‘On white or brown bread?’ the man enquired.

  Mirabelle did not respond well to choices of this kind. Over the last year, she noticed that there appeared to be more of them. ‘White,’ she said, feeling uncertain. In the old days, they’d simply have brought you whatever they had.

  ‘Very good,’ the man replied, as if confirming that she had made the correct choice.

  Before he turned to leave, Mirabelle leaned forward. ‘I wonder if you might help me. There’s an old school friend of mine staying at the hotel. She’s a titled lady. I hoped to visit but I wonder if I have missed her. It’s rather late.’

  A waver of expression crossed the man’s face like a shadow. ‘Ah. I see. The countess has been receiving visitors this afternoon. I believe she is still entertaining. Shall I call up to announce you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb her if she has visitors.’ Mirabelle pointedly checked her watch. Visitors arriving in the afternoon invariably left before dinner. ‘Perhaps I’ll just pop up after my sandwiches.’

  ‘You have to be announced,’ the man said. ‘We can’t just allow people who aren’t guests . . .’

  ‘Oh. Quite,’ Mirabelle reassured him.

  As he left in the direction of the kitchen, Mirabelle realised how quiet the hotel was this evening. A couple arrived and checked in, flirting with each other as they did so. One or two customers nipped in and out of the bar, but, apart from that, there was hardly anyone around. The waiter returned in due course and she nibbled her sandwiches. Across the deserted hallway, the man behind the reception desk disappeared into a back room. A bellboy walked smartly into the luggage store and emerged with a leather cosmetics case under his arm with which he bounded up the stairs. Mirabelle laid a couple of shillings on the table and got up to follow him. The moment she placed her foot on the first step, an older man appeared ahead of her.

  ‘Madam?’ he enquired.

  ‘I’m just going up?’

  ‘To?’

  Mirabelle hesitated. To say she was a guest might catch her out. ‘Visit a friend?’ she hazarded.

  ‘I can call up for you. It is only staff who can go up and down, you see. We like to announce callers at the Grand.’

  ‘I thought I’d be a surprise. It would be rather fun, do you see?’

  The man raised a solitary eyebrow. There had been several divorce cases spawned by people who were surprised by their visitors. Some had made the papers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, raising a hand to direct Mirabelle back to the reception desk. ‘Why don’t you give me your friend’s name?’

  Mirabelle squirmed. ‘Oh it’s fine. I don’t want to bother anybody. Perhaps you might direct me to the lavatory?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gestured across the hall and Mirabelle stalked off, aware his eyes were on her. Behind the mahogany door, she washed her hands and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked tired. Faded even. She ran a sink of cold water and splashed her face. At least she felt refreshed, though, she noticed, the dark shadows under her eyes persisted. She reached into her purse and powdered her nose. Then she walked back across the hallway and waved cheerily to the man on the desk. ‘Good night,’ she said to the doorman, and turned along the front.

  The streetlights were low tonight. That would help, she thought, as she turned smartly at the corner of the building and headed to the rear. The doorman appeared oblivious as she caught a last sight of him, his hands clasped behind his back and his hat pulled low over his eyes. At the back of the Grand, a kitchen porter sat smoking on one of the bins. He blew a long stream of smoke into the night air and watched lasciviously as Mirabelle approached. ‘I’m late,’ she said, dropping one or two consonants and lengthening her vowels. She hoped it would be enough. ‘And I’m new. They showed me where to get the chambermaid uniform but I can’t remember. Will you help me? I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  The man sucked air through his teeth. ‘You’ll have to smarten up your game if you’re going to last at the Grand. What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Mary.’

  The fellow stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. ‘The higher-ups won’t like it, Mary. But I’ll show you just the once.’

  The hotel was as quiet behind the scenes as it had been upstairs. The smell of baking bread pervaded the basement floor as preparations started for the next day. A boy passed with a trolley of shoes ready to be polished, each sporting a label with the name and room number of the guest. The kitchen porter showed Mirabelle to a scuffed door. ‘The women go in here,’ he said. ‘Remember now?’

  ‘Oh yes. Thank you.’

  As he disappeared round the corner, she slipped inside. To the rear of the changing room there was a locked laundry cage, the shelves and rails crammed with uniforms for waitresses and chambermaids. The air smelled of soap. She fumbled in her handbag for her SOE lock picks and made short work of the mechanism. Inside, she found a pair of flat shoes, more or less the right size, a housekeeping apron and a black shift. Grabbing these, she changed quickly. The shift was roomy, but with the apron tied over the top it wasn’t too obvious. In a tiny mirror propped above a solitary shelf, Mirabelle put up her hair in a tidy bun and removed her jewellery, stashing it in her pocket along with the lock picks. She hung up her own clothes and hid her crocodile clutch underneath her skirt. ‘Well,’ she whispered, checking herself as well as she could in the mirror. ‘That will have to do.’

  Glad it was quiet, she slipped down the corridor and up the service stairs, which unexpectedly brought her into the main hallway. It seemed bright now in comparison to the poor lighting on the interior stairs. The man on the desk, who had stopped her so politely only a few minutes before, gesticulated frantically for her to return through the swing door. He looked furious. Mirabelle realised she’d never seen a chambermaid at the Grand. They clearly weren’t allowed in the public areas of the hotel. She dropped her head and retreated into the basement to start again. This time she navigated the building more successfully. As her heels sank into the thick carpet of the penthouse floor, she found herself hoping that the countess wasn’t occupying the suite where she had been detained two years before by the man she had shot using Fred’s gun.

  She need not have concerned herself. The steady beat of background music quickly confirmed that her mark was installed front and centre in a suite that must have commanded a prime sea view – the best in the hotel and, arguably, in Brighto
n. She fumbled for the lock picks and made straight for the next unmarked door. After checking over her shoulder, she picked the lock and slipped inside. The cupboard was stacked with linen and boxes of soap. It smelled of honey and vinegar. Mirabelle grabbed a short stack of hand towels and balanced them on her arm as she’d seen maids do somewhere, although she couldn’t recall where or when. Then she returned to the corridor, where, ahead of her, two waiters carrying champagne buckets had appeared at the head of the service stair. One of them knocked smartly at the countess’s suite. Mirabelle passed, pretending to be on her way up the corridor. The sound of laughter and the syncopated rhythm of a jazz recording emanated from the open door – there was some kind of party going on. Mirabelle halted round the corner and peered back as the waiters disappeared inside. She bit her lip. This operation was more nerve-wracking than she had anticipated. She leaned against the wall, keeping her eyes peeled. Five minutes later, the waiters emerged. One pocketed a shilling. Mirabelle rounded the corner, trying to look as if she was in a hurry.

  ‘It’s a bit late for service.’ One of them eyed her.

  ‘They sent me because of the party. The bathroom.’ Mirabelle rolled her eyes. ‘What’s it like in there?’

  ‘It’s lively all right. I haven’t seen you before.’

  ‘I usually work the other shift. What are they up to?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’ The waiter winked. ‘Hasn’t anyone told you?’

  Mirabelle shook her head.

  ‘Well, you’ll find out soon enough.’ He grinned.

  Mirabelle knocked, as the men shoved open the swing door and disappeared back into the belly of the building. Ahead of her, the entrance snapped open and a man in evening dress, smoking a cigar, leaned back as if he was taking in a view or considering a painting. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Service, sir? Towels for the bathroom.’

  He stood back to let her pass. The suite wasn’t as full as the one to which Jinty had taken Mirabelle further down the coast, but it was just as noisy. After what the waiters had said, Mirabelle was relieved to see that nothing particularly nefarious was going on. In high spirits, a group was throwing dice around a low coffee table. Opposite this game, the countess sat alone sipping a recently topped-up glass. She paid Mirabelle absolutely no notice as she passed into the bedroom where several coats were laid on the bed. Mirabelle peered back round the door frame. The man who had let her in whispered something to the countess. It was difficult to lip-read when you didn’t know the subject matter being discussed and Mirabelle couldn’t make out what he said. However, when he had received the countess’s assent, he disappeared through double doors on the other side of the suite. These, Mirabelle knew, led to a private dining room. Charlie had shown her once. Up here, the suites had their own facilities. A system of dumb waiters was equipped to ferry food from the kitchens below and there were limited cooking facilities on site – a gas ring. ‘For crêpe Suzette,’ Charlie had said with a smile.