Miss Seeton Sings (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 4)

by Heron Carvic

  A waiter entered and announced, “M. Stemkos, mesdames.”

  Heracles Stemkos bustled in, followed by the waiter wheeling a laden trolley. While greetings were exchanged the waiter arranged the trolley and put cups and plates upon the table. His eyes widened when he saw the pistol. Finished, he bowed and murmured, “’Sieur et ’dames,” and withdrew, his eyes still wide and shining with anticipatory joy. What a miss, this English one. Such a one introduced a flavor into the life of a hotel. First she ties herself in knots and now she entertains at midnight in her night attire the beau monde and the opulent with coffee for three and guns for one. What a miss.

  There was no jollity in the attitude of Heracles Stemkos. By a narrow margin he remained polite and, in deference to Miss Seeton, the conversation was conducted in English, but he made it clear that he resented being called out late at night however important the matter and, although he was prepared to acknowledge that Mme de Brillot would not have arranged this somewhat unconventional meeting had there not been a question of urgency, he implied that he would prefer the urgency and the importance to take precedence over social niceties, including food and drink.

  To match his mood Mme de Brillot put on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and became the brisk business executive and Miss Seeton began to appreciate the pause the Frenchwoman had made when saying she had never acted—upon the stage.

  Stemkos heard the summary of the bank statements in silence, skimmed through the papers, frowned and remarked: “These are private matters between the bank and myself. How did you get hold of them?”

  “They were given to Miss Seeton.”

  “Who by?”

  “The director of the bank, Karl Telmark.”

  “I see.” He turned to glare at Miss Seeton. “And who are you that Telmark makes so free of my affairs?”

  “Why, nobody,” said Miss Seeton. “It’s just that Mr. Telmark sent for me, or so I understood, to draw something, or somebody, though he hasn’t yet told me what. Or whom,” she added in the interest of grammar. “But he insisted, first, that I should understand the background and this—these—or rather those”—she indicated the papers—“are it. The background, that is. Though, actually, I didn’t. Understand it, I mean.”

  “You won’t need to—nor will Telmark. I’ll stop his handling of my affairs tomorrow morning.”

  “That,” said Mme de Brillot, “is your privilege; just as it is your privilege to commit professional and social suicide, since it is your privilege to be a fool and to pass judgment without knowledge of the facts, relying quite entirely on your own prejudices.” She gathered up the papers and the drawings.

  Not since his divorce from his first wife had Heracles Stemkos had to endure plain speaking and he empurpled under the whiplash. He got to his feet and made to take the bank statements. “Leave those,” he rapped. “They’re mine.”

  “Then collect them from Karl Telmark in the morning. I am not entitled to return them to you. They have been entrusted to an agent of Scotland Yard, with the knowledge and approval of the police and the Sûreté here, by arrangement with the Bank of England and the sanction of the British government in conjunction with the Crédit Suisse, the Swiss Bank Corporation and the Banque du Lac.”

  Stemkos was dumbfounded. “Agent? For . . .?”

  “You wished to know who Miss Seeton was. Now you do.”

  Paying no heed to Miss Seeton’s disclaimer, “But I assure you . . .” Stemkos sat down heavily.

  “Explain.”

  Unknowing, his hand strayed toward the napkin-wrapped toast. Mme de Brillot casually pushed butter and foie gras nearer, went to the trolley, poured coffee, handed it to Miss Seeton with the salver of friandises, gave her a wink and traced a gesture of finger on lip, poured a strong whiskey for their guest and a weak one for herself, settled on her chair, adjusted her glasses and proceeded to expound.

  Stemkos listened tight-lipped, tallying amounts and dates in the lists and making notes. He did not relish the juxtaposition of the newspaper cutting, nor the implication that he had been cuckolded by his secretary both maritally and professionally, but the inference was unavoidable and he accepted it.

  “How much,” he asked, “of this forged English money am I held responsible for?”

  “None,” said Mme de Brillot, “since we, in this room, are assuming that you knew nothing of it.”

  “And the British government and the Bank, do they agree with you?”

  “No.” She was frank. “They have not made up their minds.”

  “Why have you?”

  “Because of that.” She held out Miss Seeton’s cartoon of him. He looked at the black minstrel version of himself, seated spread-legged on a throne, the ermine-trimmed cloak corded loosely across his chest, the paper crown set at a jaunty angle over one eye, and was forced to grin, making the likeness to the caricature complete. “That is Miss Seeton’s assessment of your character and on that assessment alone we decided to risk this meeting.

  He bowed toward Miss Seeton. “I am honored.”

  Miss Seeton smiled but said nothing. Not for anything would she speak. Mme de Brillot had cautioned her to silence and she was fascinated to watch the way in which this very, very clever woman played her cards. And was playing Mr. Stemkos too. At the beginning, when he had been so angry, he had looked such a dangerous man. But now the atmosphere was changing. And if Mme de Brillot was twisting the truth and facts a little here and there—especially with regard to oneself—to suit her own purpose, that purpose was still, one was convinced, a good one. And if keeping silent helped, then silent she would be.

  The millionaire returned to Mme de Brillot. “And had the assessment of my character been wrong, was this”—he waved at the pistol—“your next line of persuasion—or defense?”

  The Frenchwoman removed her glasses and her blue eyes flashed with laughter. “No, that belongs to the next chapter of this history. Figurez-vous . . .” Slipping into French, she described Miss Seeton’s journeyings, her escapades and their sequels, leaving him to draw his own conclusions. She showed him the sketch of the overpainted Gainsborough, adding that x rays had proved Miss Seeton right and that owing to her the stolen paintings had been recovered. Then she let him see their hostess’ appraisement of the various characters involved, with the exception of her own and Vee’s, and left the sketches to speak for themselves.

  Stemkos viewed Miss Seeton with a new respect. So this meek little mouse had penetrated to the center of a web; her air of simplicity must be assumed. For his own part he would have a session with Telmark in the morning, contact the Paris office and set some inquiries in train. He could . . . “What is this tune you mentioned which was repeated?”

  “The ‘Song of India,’ from Sadko.”

  He could . . . short notice, but by applying some pressure in the right quarters, he could give a dinner party tomorrow—he noticed the time—no, tonight, have some music and watch the effect of Miss Seeton’s appearance on his wife and secretary. Stemkos got to his feet.

  “You will both dine with me tonight—informal—a snack, at such short notice. What,” he asked Miss Seeton, “is your choice?” She rose but was too surprised to speak. “There must be some dish you have missed since you left England. Name it.”

  She thought of the overindulgence, the overabundance of rich food that she had suffered recently. Something that she had missed? How kind of Mr. Stemkos. Well, actually, there was. One would so enjoy plain . . .

  “Scrambled eggs,” said Miss Seeton.

  Sir Hubert Everleigh surveyed his crowded office. If any more departments wished to be represented at these conferences—or as he privately thought of them, these Seeton Sessions—they’d need to be held in the board room. He would be intrigued to know what had brought Duncan Oblon over from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office with some urgent query that had to be settled by midday. So far Oblon had contributed nothing to the discussion, but presumably time would tell, and it would have been a waste
of their time to have proposed that his problem should have been dealt with first on the agenda. The F.C.O. gentry were not to be hurried. They liked to weigh pros with the same deliberation with which they balanced cons, and they preferred to brood over everybody else’s estimate of a situation before coming to some such momentous decision as that final judgment should be deferred until some later date.

  Fenn, he thought, was looking tired. Hadn’t uttered so far, and indeed appeared to be asleep.

  “Then we can take it,” he asked Inspector Borden, “that the case against Estevel is going satisfactorily?”

  “He’s badly rattled, sir. We saw him again at his flat and he blew his top. He’s running scared and it shouldn’t take long now. It’s his wife and kids I’m sorry for. I don’t think she’s a clue what he’s been up to.”

  Sir Hubert made a grimace of distaste. “Typical. Like all traitors—they want to occupy first, second and third place. Family and friends aren’t entered in the race—but nothing we can do there to help, that I can see. Is there,” he inquired, “any further business, or should I say development, any of you gentlemen wish to treat of?”

  Commander Conway cleared his throat. “One development, sir, but it’s still a bit soon yet to do more than guess at what it means. The stream of forgeries pouring into the Bank of England is less—”

  “Down to a trickle,” corroborated Jonathan Feldman.

  “Also there is a rumor, unconfirmed, that Tolla’s dead.”

  “Rumor confirmed,” stated Fenn without opening his eyes.

  There was a general movement of surprise. “And can we take that as official?” queried Sir Hubert.

  Fenn’s eyes opened. “Not official, A.C., in the sense that you can send a wreath or congratulations, but, yes, you can take it as read.”

  Commander Conway smiled. “You’re not telling us that he came up against MissEss and that she settled his hash?”

  “He trod on her umbrella and it bit him and he died of it. But since he’d established residence in Switzerland and was working for, and against, half the countries in the U.N., they thought it best to let him disappear without trace.”

  “So,” remarked the A.C., “there’s been a death. Let us hope that that’s the end of it. But in these affairs, or I should say in my experience of these matters, one death—”

  “Four.” Sir Hubert straightened. “Three of theirs, one of ours,” amplified Fenn. “Theirs didn’t matter—ours did.”

  In view of Fenn’s grim mien, no one liked to break the silence. Inspector Borden tried to switch the subject.

  “The Duke of Belton’s pictures are back in the Abbey. The official story goes that he’d forgotten he’d taken them down for cleaning. The story doesn’t go with us, as the Swiss asked us to meet ’em at the airport and escort ’em home. They said nothing about the where, why or what have you, but the word I got was that MissEss breezed into some gallery or other, gave the pictures the once-over, wagged her brolly, said, ‘That, that, that and that,’ and breezed out again.” He glanced at Fenn. “I always thought that Tolla was behind the stolen-picture racket.”

  “He was,” agreed Fenn, “and Miss Seeton blew it—at the art museum. But since”—he turned to Jonathan Feldman—“your friend Telmark is a director of the museum as well as the Banque du Lac, and is also her official employer, pro tem, that story was sat on.”

  Oblon coughed. “I—er—we at the F.O. need a spot of advice.” All eyes turned to him. “Is the ambassador to dine with Stemkos tonight, or not? I mean,” he supplemented, on seeing their blank expressions, “the dinner’s in honor of this woman, this Miss—er—Seeton. I believe Belgium’s going, but do we? What we need to know is, is Stemkos in the clear? Invitation only came this morning, so easy enough to plead prior do. But could be a spot unwise, as Stemkos usually rates a spot of priority. Puts us in a bit of a—er—spot.”

  Sir Hubert hid a smile. It wasn’t often that the police were asked to adjudicate on the priorities of entertainment at ambassadorial level. “Your province, Mr. Fenn, I think.”

  Fenn accepted the pass. “No proof either way. His secretary’s bent, and I’d say so’s his wife.”

  Oblon was aghast. “In that case, definitely, we’d better—”

  “You’d better,” interrupted Fenn, “rely on Miss Seeton like the rest of us. She considers Stemkos is jolly. And since she, and others, are risking their lives on that assumption I don’t see why your ambassador can’t risk,” he mimicked acidly, “a spot of indigestion.”

  The chef had tried.

  Scrumbledeggs Miss Seeton

  ·

  Riz de Veau Emilie

  ·

  Bœuf en croute Dorothée

  ·

  Pommes Nouvelles • Haricots Verts

  ·

  Bombe Miss Seeton en Surprise

  Reading her individual menu, Miss Seeton’s appetite shrank. If this was Mr. Stemkos’ idea of a snack, what, she wondered, must be his idea of a full-course meal. Also his little joke of putting her name to the different courses. So embarrassing. However, she comforted herself that few of the guests, some twenty in all were likely to detect the teasing.

  Mr. Stemkos himself, on her left, although punctilious, appeared preoccupied. She was not to know that the conference with Karl Telmark that morning had given him reason for preoccupation. Apart from confirmation of all he had learned the night before, he had discovered that his wife had forestalled him, visiting the bank immediately upon its opening, and had had access to their joint deposit box. He and Telmark had repaired to the vaults, taken the box to one of the cubicles outside the grille for examination and found that it contained two parcels. One had proved to be a wad of new English five-pound notes which, by lunchtime, were confirmed to be forgeries, the other had held the full complement of the “stolen” jewelry on which his wife was claiming insurance in Paris. With Miss Seeton’s list of colors before him, he had examined the stones and sent for a lapidarist. The list had been exact: the colored stones were real; the diamonds false.

  On the opposite side of the table Belgium’s representative noticed his host’s absorption. He asked Miss Seeton if she spoke French and, on her admission of “Tray per,” said that with the permission of the princess—he bowed to the lady on his right—he would be grateful for the opportunity to practice his English. Princess Lefardi, elderly, with darting eyes and snapping jaws which gave her a vulpine look, raised bony shoulders; red-tipped claws spread languages in the air before her—of five she had no preference. On Miss Seeton’s other side the British ambassador, who had been dreading some over-earnest arty female and was delighted with this quaint reincarnation of a favorite aunt, black lace and all, laid himself out to entertain and to amuse.

  Gold plates? One had read about such things, but never had one thought to see them. Did one, Miss Seeton wondered, eat off them? Might it not scratch the surface? She was relieved when exquisite Paris china was laid atop and she was offered an iced dish of yellow paste surmounted by what looked like grayish tapioca. She helped herself with caution, added the trappings of minced onion and a wedge of lemon and accepted two small hot rounds like pancakes. Scrambled eggs? The yellow paste proved to be quite simply that. For the rest, although caviar is reputed to be an acquired taste, Miss Seeton took to it at once and also took, unusual in her case, a second helping.

  She ate delicious food, sipped wines and chatted with ambassadors and the only break in the pleasant flow, bringing her back to the reason behind this party, was when the string trio providing background music began the soft evocative plaint of the “Song of India.” The nostalgic mood of the melody was unexpectedly tom as Anatole Librecksin, toward the far end of the table, jerked and snapped his wineglass stem.

  Tension had been building in Librecksin. The fiasco of the previous night’s attempt upon Miss Seeton, ending in Tolla’s death, had tumbled his plans and he had spent the day trying to pick up and rejoin the threads of the black man’s organization
insofar as they affected his own projects. Never before had he had to appear in person on the darker side of the moon, interviewing and instructing men who later would be able to identify him. He had dispatched the panic-stricken Mantoni to Paris with orders to get in touch with a contact of his own, a girl called Lilianne, one of the figurantes who was rehearsing for a new revue at the Casino de Paris. She would arrange for a studio and provide him with paintings, stolen in France, which the Italian was to disguise.

  Librecksin rated his position. The two men concerned with the theft of the paintings; the man who had staged the theft of the jewelry in Paris; Mantoni; Lilianne herself—all could be directly linked or traced back to him. The question of Miss Seeton’s removal he would now have to deal with personally—and soon—since his employer’s unexplained departure in the middle of the previous night, followed by this hastily arranged dinner in her honor, had added to his anxieties. Also this playing of the “Song of India” could not be chance and if, as he suspected, it was a ruse engendered by Stemkos to test his reaction, it was a test which he had failed to pass. It rang the knell to his original aim: with his employer discredited, he himself would be the logical candidate to hold the reins of the Stemkos empire or, failing that, to become the manipulator of whatever puppet the shareholders should elect. Owing to this woman’s machinations, his carefully nurtured, jealousy guarded image as the power behind the Stemkos throne was endangered. His alternative, his insurance policy against failure—flight—was being forced upon him.