by Zizou Corder
‘I live at Maggs and I work for Mr Maggs,’ she said. ‘You stole it from us and we were looking after it for someone else.’
‘Mr de Saloman,’ I said.
‘What do you know about Mr de Saloman?’ she asked.
‘I read it in the paper,’ I grinned, and she smirked at me.
‘So, I’ve come to get the book back,’ she said. ‘Now what do you mean you didn’t mean to steal it?’
‘I was looking at it when Mr Maggs came in the room and I just stuck it in my pocket instead of putting it down,’ I said.
‘You must have big pockets,’ she mused.
‘Is that your next question?’
‘It’s not a question at all,’ she snapped back. ‘No, next question is, where’s the book now?’
‘Well, that guy nicked him, didn’t he?’
‘Is that your next question?’ she asked sarkily. ‘Bit of a waste, as we both know the answer. So, who is he then, and what’s he doing with it?’
She was clever. I liked her.
Then she said, ‘What do you mean “him”?’
‘What?’ I said.
‘You called the book “him”. You said “him” not “it”.’
‘So my grammar is less than perfect,’ I said smoothly. ‘Sorry about that. Perhaps I ain’t had the benefit of a sprauncy education like what you have.’
But she was looking at me now out of very clear eyes. They told me, clearly, that she didn’t know what the book was. To her, it was just a book.
And I wasn’t telling her anything. Nothing about Nebo, nothing about magic, and nothing about how, though I stole the book by mistake, I was no way giving him back.
CHAPTER 18
According to Nigella
Adrian and I were in the bar at the Ritz.
‘Martini,’ I said to the waiter, as we slid in. I was expectant, happy. I had a strong feeling that this could be it.
‘So tell me,’ I said.
‘She is a very unhappy girl,’ Adrian began.
‘Do I care?’ I snapped. ‘Tell me about the book.’
He smiled under his little moustache. Adrian is one of my longest-serving employees. I trust him, inasmuch as I trust anyone. Anyway, I pay him a lot.
‘It has been in the family for many years – more than a century,’ he said. ‘Her brother has stolen family books before to settle his debts. You may remember…’ And in fact I did. I get all kinds of heirlooms from rich young addicts who can’t touch their family money but know how to raid their mother’s jewel boxes.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That boy. So why do we think this book is different from the other stuff he’s fobbed us off with?’ They’d been good quality, the other books. Expensive, rare – but not the only book I am interested in.
‘His debt is much larger this time. The threats made to him – and to his sister – are more ferocious. They are absolutely desperate. I said to them, bring the best thing you have, and they looked at each other and tears came to their eyes. He said, to her, “But it’s cursed.” She said, with some bitterness, “So much the better – they deserve it.” And I saw from the look she gave me that she believed in the curse. Knowing that you are interested in books with legends and stories attached…’
‘What is the curse?’
‘No one is allowed to open this book. Nobody may read it.’
I smiled and I wondered.
‘What is the name of the family?’
‘De Saloman,’ he said.
We sat for an hour, beneath the drooping palm. I, who never wait for anyone!
At ten minutes late Adrian began to shuffle his shoes. At twelve minutes he made a telephone call. At fifteen he began to swear, softly, in Russian. After half an hour his face was white, his jaw solid tight and he was muttering death threats.
I merely sat there, looking beautiful, drinking Martinis, and getting angrier and angrier. I do not like to be made a fool of.
But I waited. If this was the real book…
At nine fifteen, he received a call.
‘London!’ he yelped. ‘But –’ Then he said, ‘OK, give me the details.’ Then more Russian swearing. Then: ‘OK, ninety minutes. Yes, the helicopter. Is Rudolph there? And the girl? OK.’
‘Adrian,’ I said calmly, ‘you have raised my hopes.’
‘Yes, Madame,’ he said.
‘I trust you know my attitude to disappointment, Adrian.’
He gulped. ‘Yes, Madame,’ he said. ‘There will be no mistakes. You can rely on me.’
‘I do hope so, Adrian,’ I murmured. ‘I am quite fond of you, you see, and it would be such a shame…’ I brushed his moustache gently with my finger, and looked him in the eye. ‘I am going to London now, Adrian. Would you like a lift? And shall we meet again tomorrow?’ My voice was tight with anger.
So you can imagine my howling, furious disappointment when I heard that a Mr de Saloman had been murdered and a book had disappeared.
‘Offer a reward!’ yelped Adrian, desperate to save his skin. ‘Someone must have it! Offer money!’
‘How can Romana Asteriosy associate herself with a murder!’ I yelled. ‘We might as well put out an announcement that we killed him! Don’t be ridiculous!’
And then it occurred to me. Romana couldn’t offer a reward – but Nigella Lurch could. I could step back into who I used to be. As Nigella, I could offer a reward for a lost book. I could – clever! – claim it was mine. I could start my return to innocence. Nigella would begin to be real again.
‘Adrian,’ I said. ‘Get me a couple of children – babies. Blonde, grey eyes. Healthy ones. A boy and a girl. The younger the better. And a nanny.’
I smiled.
I picked up the phone to ring my publishers from all those years ago. My life was going to change. I was going to be good, and happy, and innocent, with children. I was going to be a writer.
CHAPTER 19
According to Billy
It’s a nice feeling to have 25,000 dirhams’ worth of exchangeable property in your bag. Easy tosh, by any stretch. Lee and that bird are stuck down the shores, and it’ll take them forever to get out – if they can at all, without me going and opening up for them – by which time I’ll have cashed in the goods and everything’ll be fine. Lee won’t mind too much that I did it without him. I’ll pay him off. But with his mug all over the papers he really couldn’t have pulled it off himself, could he? Nice bit of work though. Excellent to have that reward offered, as well. Keeps it nice and clean.
So now – Miss Nigella Lurch. Let’s look you up. I’d taken the trouble to remove myself from any of the scenes of the crimes and positioned myself in an Internet caff up Regent’s Park way. Couple of minutes on the old www should give me the old bird’s address…
Only it didn’t. Usually I can get any information in no time at all, but Miss Lurch was a bit undetectable. Googling her brought up loads of references to online bookshops, reviews, articles, foreign editions… no address though. Not even any of that ‘Nigella Lurch divides her time between Islington and Tuscany’ or ‘She lives with her husband George and 93 cats in Hampshire.’ I hoped she didn’t bliddy live in Hampshire. I didn’t want to have to go to the criking country.
Well, I wasn’t going anywhere at this rate.
Time to start hacking. I got her publishers’ site, and had a sniff around, and was able to get in pretty easily. In-house contacts – there we go.
Nothing.
Author details – surely it’ll be there.
Nothing.
Was Ms Lurch hiding herself away on purpose?
Her books hadn’t been selling that well lately. The last one was out six years ago.
It was children’s books she wrote. The Cotton MacGill Mysteries, about a cat detective. Eight of them, out of what was going to be a series of fifteen. Wonder what happened to the rest…
Well, I’d just have to read everything till I got a clue. No one can keep their address a secret forever. Not against my skills,
anyway.
I got a coffee and sat down to read 873 interviews with Nigella Lurch – none of them less than four years old. Journalists are very nosy. They’ll aways say where someone lives.
They didn’t.
And I wasn’t going to be calling the police information line. Ravens don’t talk to the police.
You know those moments when if you was a cartoon character a light bulb would appear over your head? Well, a light bulb appeared over my head.
So first thing in the morning, I rang up the publishers.
‘Hello, could I speak to the publicist responsible for Nigella Lurch please?’ I said. I put on another of my voices – languid, know-it-all, posh pretending not to be.
‘Oh, yeah, hi,’ I said. ‘This is Pete Walsh, at The Times – yeah, sorry, who am I talking to?’
Her name was Venetia.
‘Venetia, hi,’ I gushed on. ‘Listen, really like to run an interview with Nigella, yeah, Nigella Lurch, fascinated by this reward she’s offering, you know, lost book, doing a thing on how people can really really love books, and the crazy things that makes us do, and yeah, really really big fans of hers from way back, thought it’d fit in really well, only trouble is, really tight deadline, sorry, today or tomorrow?’
Well, I didn’t have to ask twice. She was off like a basket of kittens.
Within an hour she’d called back. As it happened Miss Lurch could fit me in that afternoon, and would I be bringing the photographer, what about hair and make-up? I resisted the temptation to wind everybody up, and said no, we’d just be using the publishers’ author photo, thanks.
So it was that I proceeded up to Hampstead and found myself on a rather pleasant street where the houses looked like a Victorian giant had gone a bit mad with a set of red bricks and extra turrets.
Her house had all glossy dark leaves outside, and steps up. I ding-donged and an automated voice came on the intercom.
‘If you have an appointment, press one. If you represent a public service provider, press two to make an appointment. If you have a delivery, press three. If none of the above, go home and apply in writing.’
I decided to be a delivery and pressed three.
‘If you need a signature, press one. If you don’t, leave it under the stairs to your right.’
I pressed one. I needed a human being.
For a while, nothing. I rang again.
Then I heard a voice inside.
‘Maxim! Maxim, where the heck are you?’
More silence.
Then suddenly the door flung open. It was a woman. A very beautiful woman – not young, but very well presented. Her hair was like Mr Whippy ice cream, blonde, in a pile, waving up and up. You half expected a chocolate flake to be sticking out the side. Her face was a film star’s – wide curvy red mouth, smoky eyes turning up at the corners – but it was all a little smeary, a bit out of focus. Her body was as curvy as her mouth, with added oomph. She was wearing some kind of lady’s gown type thing, all silky and not entirely covering her up. It was turquoise, with dragons on it. She was smoking.
‘This had better be good,’ she drawled.
‘Mrs Lurch?’ I asked chirpily.
She stared at me. ‘I see no package,’ she said.
‘Well, technically I’ve come to interview you,’ I said. ‘But since you mention it, I have got something for you. Question is, have you got what you promised you’d give for it?’
She gave me a deep, dark look.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Do come in.’
I followed her into a remarkably fine-looking house. Plenty of nice stuff that I’d have away if that was still my line of work. I took some mental notes to sell on – there’s always somebody wants to know the layout of a prosperous house and the potential tosh.
We went into a sitting room with white sofas and a glass table. She pulled a string to roll up the blinds over the windows and afternoon sun flowed in to reveal a scene of glamorous squalor. Empty champagne bottles, glasses with lipstick smudges on the edge, ashtrays full of butt ends also with lipstick on the ends. A big fur coat lay like a puddle on the floor where someone had dropped it. A bottle of perfume seemed to have spilt and the place reeked of its sweet, heavy smell. I stepped back instinctively and she shot me an evil glance.
‘Do sit down,’ she said, in a rather silky voice.
I sat, or rather perched, on the edge of a huge white sofa. If I leaned back it would for sure have eaten me alive.
‘So,’ she said, shovelling a pile of magazines to one side. ‘Are you the man from the magazine? It’s so good to see you. As you know, I have been very quiet for a few years, lying fallow, you know. But now I am ready to start writing again and there will be a new Cotton MacGill story out pretty soon…’
I smiled at her. I could see she was playing safe. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘But actually, and sorry to disappoint because of course your literary career is quite fascinating, it’s the… other matter… I’d like to discuss.’
‘Oh?’ she said.
‘The cash,’ I said smilingly. ‘I just want to confirm that you’ll be giving me 25,000 dirhams when I, er, deliver to you.’
Her eyes slid sideways to my bag and flicked back to me.
‘Do you have it with you?’ she said. Her voice had gone a little husky. My word, she really does want it.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘And you’re… not wanting to hand it to the police? I am of course cooperating with them…’
And I knew straight off that she was not and that the police would never be told by her that the book had turned up.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m happy to leave all that to you… simpler for me… as it’s you paying, it’s you I’ll deliver to. Unless you have any objection…’
‘None whatsoever,’ she said. ‘In fact –’ and here she lit another cigarette from the butt of the one she had finished – ‘it might be best not to mention anything to the police at all.’
‘Often the best policy,’ I remarked.
She flicked her smoky eyes over to me and we smiled at each other. Things are so much clearer and simpler when you know you’re both villains.
‘So show me,’ she said. She was almost breathless and I wondered if I should up the price.
I took out the book, unwrapped it and laid it before me on the table. I hadn’t had a chance to have a good look at it before – well, why should I? I was only interested in the money. It looked old and in decent nick and was worth 25,000 dirhams. But I opened it at a random page so she could see it was the real thing and I glanced down. It was some kind of torture scene – someone was being flogged for having stolen something. The words ‘Craven thief, it’s only what you deserve’ leapt out at me.
I turned the book round and offered it to her.
She sighed, and reached an elegant white hand out to the book.
I coughed.
‘Cash?’ I murmured.
She looked at me, smiled, tightly, and with real physical effort pulled her hand back. Then she stood and went across to a mirrored cabinet, opened a drawer and pulled out several wedges of full-on caio. Returning to the other sofa across from me, she counted it out and then placed it in a pile in the middle of the table. She looked over and gave me a pussycat smile.
She pushed the pile of money towards me.
Despite all our nice manners both of us, at the last minute, grabbed at what we wanted.
She laid her hands firmly over the book. I tucked the caio inside my jacket. Each with our booty in hand, we couldn’t wait to put distance between us.
‘Bye then,’ I said on the doorstep. ‘Nice doing business.’
‘Bye,’ she said, and as I turned to walk away I heard her squawk, ‘Jenny? Jenny!’ at the top of her voice, back into the house.
CHAPTER 20
Continued by Mr Maggs
By midnight I felt very bad. Janaki was not back. Though I had had quite enough of the police, with Mr de Saloman’s dreadful death, and the theft of
the book, and discovering that the boy Joe English had left a wallet stolen from the Russian millionairess in my study, I clearly had to call them again.
They told me young girls often disappeared, perhaps she had gone to a nightclub, did she have a boyfriend? I explained that Janaki was not that type of girl but they clearly thought I was an old buffer and a fool, and then wanted to know why she was living in my house when not a member of my family. I have found that my having won her at poker does not go down well with the constabulary so I reverted to the tragic-orphan-adopted-by-loving-great-uncle variation, which is almost true, and quite true enough for the occasion. God forgive me.
Only the next morning did I get a return call from an officer – Sergeant Foley – who had a head on his shoulders and realized the particular connection of Janaki to the murder of Mr de Saloman. I told him about the social worker Richard Oliver and how she had followed him. He promised they would do everything they could and I was mildly comforted.
I was drinking tea when the next shock came. A knock on the door – I was beginning to dread the very sound, so often had it brought bad news of late.
It was another young person – perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Not the youth English, not Janaki, not the mysterious Jenny Maple. It was a small, slender French girl, with pale skin and dark eyes, and dark shadows under her eyes, and a haughty manner. She introduced herself as Eliane de la Roche de Saloman.
I took her upstairs to our more attractive drawing room. She sat upright under a portrait of Captain Scott and, between nibbles of small chocolates that she took from her bag, she spoke to me.
‘I am the daughter of Ernesto de Saloman,’ she said, and indeed she looked like him. She shared also his look of fear and distraction. ‘I have come to London to…’ Here she paused and attempted to gather herself.
‘To find the book?’
