‘We don’t know how to thank you, Sir Humphrey,’ said Lola. ‘We desperately need your guidance and advice. It’s in times like these we find out just how fragile and vulnerable we are.’
‘Quite. I’ve already spoken to the specialist in charge. A very competent and helpful chap,’ said Sir Humphrey, patting Lola reassuringly on the hand.
‘And?’
‘I won’t beat around the bush,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘it looks serious.’
‘How could this have happened so quickly?’
‘Brain tumours can be very insidious. Harm by stealth, which makes them notoriously difficult to detect until it’s almost too late.’
‘Oh my God!’ said Lola.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll find a way to deal with this, you’ll see. Isis is tough and I already have a few ideas …’
Encouraged by Sir Humphrey’s optimistic remarks, Lola sat back and stared out the window as the hire car crawled through the heavy evening traffic towards the hospital.
‘How often did I tell you, Georgie; no more somersaults!’ remonstrated Sir Humphrey, addressing his patient in the darkened room. Fully conscious, and feeling a lot better due to the heavy drugs that had been pumped into her, Isis looked at Sir Humphrey, a trusted old friend she had known her whole life. He was more like a favourite uncle you told things you didn’t want your parents to know, than the family doctor who knew all your innermost secrets since you were a kid. A rare, kindred spirit she could trust without risk of being betrayed.
‘It’s really good to hear your voice after all the excited Spanish palaver round here,’ said Isis. ‘When can I get out of this place?’
‘I knew you’d ask me that,’ said Sir Humphrey.
‘Well?’
‘Not for a while, I’m afraid.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘Bad.’
‘How bad?’
‘Not too sure yet.’
‘Come on … I know you too well. Tell me.’
‘It’s complicated …’
‘Remember the day you taught me to play chess? You got bored talking to the vicar at dinner, and you and I went into Dad’s study to have a game of chess? I think I was about eight or nine at the time.’
‘Oh? How is this relevant?’
‘Well, you told me the most important thing was to have a strategy.’
‘All right; I get it. You’ve seen the X-rays?’
‘I have.’
‘You’ve seen the tumour?’
‘Yes.’
‘It must be removed.’
‘They told me it can’t be done.’
‘There’s a young surgeon in Boston who’s pioneered a new technique. I think he could remove it, but it’s risky.’
‘How risky?’
‘Very.’
‘And if we don’t operate?’
‘Three months …’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘I’ll arrange it. But you have to promise me one thing …’
‘What?’
‘No more somersaults. At least for the moment.’
‘And how, do you suggest, I’m going to tell the thousands of fans waiting outside “no more somersaults”?’ said Isis, enjoying the familiar banter. ‘What about them?’
‘I insist,’ said Sir Humphrey, pointing a stern finger at his patient. ‘Doctor’s orders.’
‘You drive a hard bargain.’
‘You bet.’
‘I’ll be known as the Queen of Disappointments; you’ll see.’
‘That’s a little harsh, don’t you think?’
‘Game of chess?’
‘What? Now?’
‘Why not? I’ll ask Lola to get the plane ready, and in the meantime, you can see if my little grey cells are still working properly, as Hercule Poirot used to say. Diagnosis; Kasparov-style.’
Sir Humphrey began to laugh. His easygoing bedside manner was legendary, but actually had a serious side to it. While he was joking with his patient and engaging in light-hearted conversation, he was in fact assessing Isis’ state of mind and making decisions about how best to deal with the crisis. This was a tried and tested technique he had perfected over many years. It had served him well on countless occasions, especially in situations of extreme stress.
In this instance, however, things were a little different. Because doctor and patient had known each other for such a long time, Isis was well aware of this strategy, and happily played along with it. The tables had been turned.
‘You’re on,’ said Sir Humphrey. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and sat down on the side of Isis’ bed. ‘I’m not sure my Mexican colleagues would approve of this.’
‘Doctor and patient playing chess?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Not really. And besides, they all think we English are somewhat eccentric in any case.’
‘Do they have a point, you think?’
‘You tell me, Georgie,’ said Sir Humphrey, laughing.
‘The chess set is in the drawer over there,’ said Isis, sitting up in bed.
‘If I remember correctly, last time we played you ambushed my queen with a classic Kasparov ploy I taught you. You won’t get away with it twice, I promise you.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Isis, enjoying herself. ‘You may not even notice it’s happening.’
‘Talk’s cheap. Let’s find out, shall we?’
34
Feeling relaxed and a little tipsy from too much champagne, the countess pulled down the armrest and let herself sink into the comfortable leather seat of the old Bentley. She had enjoyed the afternoon at La Closerie des Lilas and, to her surprise, she had also enjoyed meeting Mademoiselle Darrieux. The flamboyant socialite-writer with the fierce reputation had turned out to be far less self-possessed, and far more entertaining than the Paris social set gossip implied.
‘Thank you, Katerina,’ said Jack. He reached for the countess’ hand, and kissed it gallantly.
‘What for?’ asked the countess, surprised by the unexpected gesture.
‘For rescuing me from the velvet clutches of a social predator,’ said Jack, laughing. You were right; Mademoiselle Darrieux is in a class of her own. The way you ‘suggested’ she meet me tomorrow at the Ritz and tell me all about the scandal in the very place where it all happened, was brilliant. At least now I won’t have to attend one of her scary soirées. Thank you. You are a master tactician.’
‘No one has called me that before,’ said the countess, laughing. ‘What did you think of her?’
‘I quite like her. I think all this outrageous socialite stuff is a bit of an act, a front. Look, she’s intelligent, witty, articulate, well-educated and fun to be with. Hardly the attributes of a flighty social butterfly. I think underneath the façade is a shrewd and astute woman, carefully observing and recording everything around her.’
‘Very perceptive. Not bad for a country boy from Down Under. I completely agree with you. I like her too. Why do you think she’s doing all this?’
‘What? Almost intentionally making fun of herself and all that?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I think she uses it as a door-opener. And because people don’t take her too seriously, they let their guard down and unintentionally allow her see things that would otherwise remain hidden. You said she was a successful author. A biographer – right? That’s what writers do; they observe. She’s in the people business. Do you remember what she called herself?’
‘Tell me.’
‘A connoisseur of human nature.’
‘That says it all. I think you two will get on famously,’ said the countess.
‘We’ll see. Tomorrow,’ said Jack. ‘Afternoon tea at the Ritz at three, to be precise. Could I borrow François and the Bentley? After all, appearances are important, especially in Paris. You told me so yourself.’
‘And you don’t want to disappoint Mademoiselle Darrieux
.’
‘That would be unforgivable.’
‘In that case, you shall have the car and the driver.’
‘Your blood’s worth bottling,’ said Jack.
‘Another one of your curious antipodean sayings, no doubt,’ teased the countess.
‘You bet.’
Jack looked across the elegant square with its splendid classical buildings dating back to the Sun King days of Louis XIV. François was skilfully manoeuvring the big car through the heavy afternoon traffic towards number 15, Place Vendôme, one of the most famous hotel addresses in the world. One hundred and fifty-nine rooms of ultimate luxury, with a staff of six hundred to cater for every whim.
The back door of the car was opened as soon as the Bentley pulled up at the imposing front entrance. ‘Welcome to the Ritz, Monsieur Rogan,’ said the liveried doorman in perfect English. ‘Mademoiselle Darrieux is expecting you in the Bar Vendôme. Please follow me.’
I’ve been recognised without ever having been here; impressive, thought Jack, and got out of the car. Mademoiselle Darrieux is obviously a lady of considerable influence.
It was impossible not to be impressed by the opulence and grandeur of the hotel’s entry and foyer. The flowers alone were overwhelming. A pinnacle of classic elegance and style blending the beauty of nature with manmade craftsmanship and art.
The Ritz family sold the hotel to Mohamed Al-Fayed in 1979. Over the next ten years, the Egyptian tycoon spent two hundred and fifty million dollars renovating the tired icon. In August 1997, Princess Diana and Al-Fayed’s son, Dodi, had dined in the famous Imperial Suite – once occupied by Göring – just hours before meeting their tragic end in the Pont de l’Alma underpass.
Living history, thought Jack, looking down the corridor on his left. He could imagine the Duke of Windsor with Wallace Simpson on his arm strolling towards the Ritz Bar for cocktails. What an amazing place.
Afternoon tea was already in full swing in the Bar Vendôme, a popular venue frequented by Parisian high society. Mademoiselle Darrieux’s table was strategically positioned next to the grand piano, in clear view of the entrance and everyone else in the busy room.
If Jack thought Mademoiselle Darrieux’s dazzling Valentino creation of the day before had been eye-catching, nothing could have prepared him for the spectacular outfit she had chosen for their afternoon meeting at the Ritz.
Lilac had been replaced by a yellow so bright, it would have made daffodils wilt in shame. However, Valentino’s masterly hand had once again made sure that Mademoiselle Darrieux’s figure was the hero to be admired with envy by women half her age. With her ample bosom sufficiently exposed to make even the most experienced waiter blush, Mademoiselle Darrieux had once again achieved her objective: she was impossible to ignore.
Trying hard not to laugh, Jack kissed his host on both heavily powdered cheeks, as instructed by the countess. Mission accomplished, he thought, and sat down. Jack didn’t like being on show, but to have failed to follow this social ritual would have been an unforgivable faux pas only committed by bores and the socially inept.
Mademoiselle Darrieux pointed to the cocktail glass on the small table in front of her. ‘You must try one of these,’ she said, well aware that all eyes were on her and her handsome guest.
‘Looks lethal,’ said Jack.
‘It is, but in a sublime way; trust me.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s called a “Rainbow”, made famous by Frank Meier, a charismatic barman here at the Ritz Bar during the nineteen twenties and thirties. Yellow chartreuse, mint, anisette, cherry brandy, cognac, green chartreuse and kummel. Genius.’
‘Sounds irresistible. I must have one.’
‘You shall,’ said Mademoiselle Darrieux. ‘In fact, Meier was right here during the war. He was one of Göring’s favourites. He even invented a cocktail for the Reichsmarschall; the “Stuka”.’
‘A dive-bomber, certain to obliterate the enemy?’ quipped Jack.
‘Something like that. Apparently, it was vile.’
‘Fascinating. As a resident barman popular with the Germans, Meier would have known all about the scandal of the crystal skull?’ said Jack, a sparkle in his eyes.
Mademoiselle Darrieux looked at Jack. ‘I like your style,’ she said, patting Jack on the hand, ‘subtle, but persistent. I wonder, are you like that in all of your endeavours?’
‘Only when I’m pursuing something exciting.’
‘I like that even more.’
To his surprise, Jack was actually enjoying the light-hearted, flirty banter, and was warming to the flamboyant, outrageously dressed, eccentric woman sitting next to him. Her wit, good humour and sparkling intelligence left no room for awkwardness or embarrassment or, God forbid, boredom. An afternoon he had approached with some trepidation was turning into fun.
‘In that case, could you please put this persistent pursuer out of his misery and tell him about the scandal?’
‘I will, but first we must share a Rainbow. The pot of gold is always at the end. And besides, this story requires a stiff drink.’
35
It was almost midnight by the time the old Bentley finally crossed the moat leading to the Kuragin Chateau. Jack sat in the front chatting to François, who had patiently waited for him at the Ritz for hours without complaint. As it turned out, François had put the time to good use. He had arranged to meet an old friend, a lady, who was teaching at the Ritz-Escoffier School of French Gastronomy adjacent to the hotel. They had spent some time together – over a splendid dinner – in a private dining room where the celebrity chefs were trying out their new creations. Staff canteen à la Ritz.
Jack was certain that everyone would be fast asleep by now and quietly entered through a side door.
‘The reveller returns,’ said the countess, turning on the light. ‘Afternoon tea until midnight? That’s a record. You must have succumbed to Mademoiselle Darrieux’s considerable charms is all I can think of,’ teased the countess. ‘You did kiss her on both cheeks as I told you? Perhaps you didn’t stop there?’
‘I’m not that brave. Powdered cheeks and perfume to make a rhino faint were enough for me, thanks. And besides, everyone was watching. You should have seen her outfit. The things I do to get a little information,’ said Jack, shaking his head.
‘I hope it was worth it.’
‘Sure was.’
‘Come into the kitchen and tell me all about it.’
‘Boy, can this woman drink!’ said Jack, making himself comfortable on the kitchen bench. ‘First, she plied me with fancy cocktails that almost blew my head off, then she suggested we have dinner. Some posh restaurant at the Ritz.’
‘L’Espadon? The Swordfish?’
‘That’s the one; I couldn’t get out of it; sorry.’
‘Poor boy. People with influence wait for months just to get a table … She was showing you off, that’s all.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Never mind …’
‘She knows everybody, and the staff fawn over her like she owns the place. Tucker was great, and so was the wine. And after that, we ended up in the Bar Hemingway for more drinks. It was there she finally told me about the scandal.’
‘The saga of the crystal skull?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t wait.’
‘You won’t be disappointed.’ Jack pulled his little notebook out of his pocket, slipped off the rubber band holding it together and put it on the table in front of him. ‘What she told me was astonishing. I still find it difficult to get my head around it all, but I had the big surprise of the evening up my sleeve,’ boasted Jack. ‘She was speechless, I tell you. Lost for words. Well, momentarily at least.’
‘How did you manage that?’
‘With a photo. As you can imagine, it takes a lot to render Mademoiselle Darrieux speechless, but when I showed her the photo, she was gobsmacked.’
‘The suspense is killing me,’ said the countess. ‘Why do you think I
stayed up for you? Tell me!’
‘All right. It’s a great story. Only this one begins with a legend.’
‘I can see where this is heading,’ said the countess. ‘We’ll be here all night.’ The countess pointed to the samovar on the kitchen table. ‘Tea?’
‘From my favourite tea urn warming generations?’ mused Jack.
‘It has heard more stories than you’ll ever come up with.’ Enjoying the intimacy of the moment, Jack opened his notebook. ‘A long time ago,’ he began, speaking slowly and putting on his best narrator’s voice, ‘somewhere deep in the jungle, an Aztec priest is about to perform a human sacrifice. Held down by four masked men, a young warrior is lying on the stone altar ready to have his chest cut open and his beating heart ripped out to placate the bloodthirsty gods. Drums are beating, priests are chanting, the faithful are watching. Holding a large knife in his right hand, the priest looks up at the stars, and then plunges the razor-sharp blade deep into the chest of the hapless warrior.
‘Covered in blood, the priest reaches inside the open wound with his left hand, searching for the beating heart. This is something he has done many times before, only this time he cannot find the heart. Instead, he can feel something hard and smooth like stone, inside the man’s chest.’ Jack paused, letting the tension grow and reached for his teacup.
‘And all this is relevant, I take it?’ said the countess, raising an eyebrow.
Jack was enjoying himself. ‘Sure is,’ he said. ‘Don’t you want to know what the priest found inside the poor man’s chest?’
‘I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’
‘A present from the gods.’
‘You don’t say. What was it?’
Jack reached for his iPhone, called up a photo and pushed the phone across the table towards the countess. ‘This.’
For a long moment, the countess just stared at the photo Jack had taken of the crystal skull in Sir Charles’ study a few days before.
The Hidden Genes of Professor K: A Medical Mystery Thriller (Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 3) Page 18
