by Steve Bryant
Fawn laughed. “No, really eleven. Dad met Mom a dozen or so years ago, a romance developed, and now there is me. We’re your average all-American family.”
James pressed her about her mom.
“She’s a journalist,” Fawn said. “That’s how it happened. She was covering an earthquake that killed a lot of people, and she stumbled upon Dad when he wasn’t supposed to be seen. She was terrified at first, but they started talking, and one thing led to another. The romance surprised them both.”
How, James wanted to know, does it work? Lines were being crossed here.
“I’m afraid it’s been hard on Dad,” Fawn said. “A kink in his normal operation. He has to worry about me. He worries about Mom too. It wouldn’t do if word got around that we existed.”
“Your dad is scary,” James said.
“All dads are scary.”
Maurice arrived to take their order. After a brief study of the menu, Fawn requested the salade de betterave au chèvre, a beet salad with goat cheese, apples, and walnuts.
“Only a salad?” James said.
“I’m watching my figure,” Fawn said. “Well, I don’t have a figure yet, but some day.”
James could have shown off his knowledge of French cuisine, as he knew the menu inside out. Indeed, thanks to his early training in rapid memorization, he had learned it by heart at first glance, and over the course of the year had sampled most of its exotic delicacies. Nevertheless, he chose an all-American-boy order of a cheeseburger, French fries, and a milk shake. He didn’t want to seem pretentious. Besides, he loved cheeseburgers.
Before he moved on, Maurice looked through the napkins on his tray as if expecting to find something written on them. “Oh, sorry, Master James. No messages.”
“What was that about?” Fawn said as the waiter receded.
James could have brushed the question aside, but he liked this girl and did not wish to keep secrets from her, even very personal ones. He openly confessed his hope that his parents had left him a message before they died.
“My family was very keen on keeping each other informed,” he said. “We left notes everywhere in case any of us had to contact the other in an emergency, or in case one of us got into trouble. It’s basic spy craft. If nothing else, I think they would have wanted to say good-bye. We didn’t know it was the last time we would see each other. Things needed to be said.”
Fawn regarded him.
“I’m sorry about your mom and dad,” she said. “I’m sorry anyone dies. My dad doesn’t, you know, kill people. He simply wouldn’t. He’s more of an escort. He helps them get to their next destination.”
“Where is that?”
“Goodness, who knows? It probably has to do with ancient religious beliefs and modern physics and good and evil and afterlife population control and whatever. I’ve no idea. Dad and I never discuss it. Some people, it appears, never seem to go anywhere.”
She nodded toward the dance floor. The ghostly Beaumonts were dancing cheek to cheek, very lovey-dovey. Count Otis Monroe was singing “I Only Have Eyes for You.”
“Our favorite couple,” James said. “They give the room a cachet. That’s what Chef Anatole always says.”
Maurice arrived with the food, and the two diners poked at it distractedly. They discovered a shared fondness for movies.
“The theaters are dark,” the girl said. “Dad and I can slip in unnoticed.”
“I go on Saturday afternoons with Mr. Nash,” James said. “Or sometimes with Miss Charles. She’s the fortune teller.”
“Is that her over there at that table? I’ve been watching her. I hope I grow up that pretty.”
James followed Fawn’s gaze. From across the room, Miss Charles caught his eye as he did so, and she seemed to be flashing a card at him. He blushed, being quite certain that the tarot card she was holding up was The Lovers. That was all he needed—teasing. James and Fawn, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
“Do you like Shirley Temple?” he asked suddenly. The child movie star was the current Big Thing in the movie world, despite James’s low opinion of her. They had even given her an Academy Award. Still, it was a handy change of subject.
“Oooh, no!” Fawn shrieked. “Ick. Don’t tell me you do!”
“Oh, please. Have you ever heard a song as sappy as ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’?”
“Then there’s those ringlets!”
Fawn reached across the table and helped herself to James’s fries.
“So, why?” James asked. That he could be sitting here with the exquisite daughter of the most dangerous father in history perplexed him.
“Why what?”
“Why this? Why did you ask me to dinner?”
She smiled and shrugged her slim shoulders.
“I guess I like a boy in uniform,” she said.
“There will be a lot of boys in uniform if this war happens,” said James. “It’s all anyone around here is talking about. The Germans seem to be itching for a fight.”
“I know,” Fawn said. For the first time during the meal, a dark look crossed her face. “I hate it. We’ll have to move back to Europe. Dad will be sooo busy.”
“I don’t understand how it works,” said James, worried that he might be treading on sacred ground. “With your dad. I mean, for everyone who dies, does he—”
“Like Santa Claus?” Fawn laughed. “Everyone in the world? He would be very busy indeed. No. He’s quite busy, of course. His job is mostly ceremonial. He appears for special cases. I don’t mean famous people, but people whose lives have been special, often in little ways, or who need extra help getting to where they are going. Still, a war, or a plague, those create special situations.”
The image of the black figure billowing across the Grand Lobby floor was still vivid in James’s mind. The image was still maddeningly familiar.
“And, ah, his look?” he said. “Does he always—”
“Everyone’s mom or dad is beautiful, don’t you think? But no, he doesn’t look like that all the time. When we are alone, way alone, he … alters. I’m not sure how to describe it. He becomes sort of normal, with a sweater and slacks and slippers. You might even think him handsome. But that’s only an hour or so a day, even on a good day. I see him so much the other way, in his ‘man in black’ guise, that I love him like that, even more than when he changes. It’s the look I am most used to. Of course, I tell him all the time that the dark spooky robe look is so old-fashioned.”
Over his left shoulder, James noticed that Abasi, the largest of Queen Siti’s guards, had entered the room and was hurrying over to Mohammed Bey’s table. He appeared agitated.
Meanwhile, someone was tapping him on his right shoulder.
It was Roderick, of all people. “Hey, sport.”
James gave him an incredulous look. Surely Roderick wasn’t here to tell him his dinner break was up. This dinner was more of an official assignment.
Roderick bent down and whispered in James’s ear. “You know that young lady I took up to Mr. Lesley’s suite? There seems to be some sort of problem. Mr. Nash is getting complaints that it’s too noisy in 3913. Like some sort of catfight going on in there.”
James was about to tell Roderick to take care of the problem himself when Roderick added, “I’d give it a look-see, sport, but Mr. Lesley gave me a huge tip to leave him alone. I wouldn’t want to queer a good thing.”
Walter Quinn, in his trench coat with his camera slung over a shoulder, bolted into the room and elbowed his way past Roderick. “Jimmy, me boy,” he said. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t notice that you was squiring a young lady. Greetings, miss. So, Jimmy. I get a call from my friend down at the fifth precinct, and he tells me a squad car of New York’s finest is on its way to this address on account of a body being found in what can only be construed as peculiar circumstances. Such as, the body is missing a head, and the head is nowhere to be found. I am here to ask your angle on this development.”
James was standing and already putting his cap back on as he noticed all the Egyptians running out of the room with Abasi in the lead. What in the world was going on?
“No comment,” he said to Mr. Quinn.
He turned to Fawn.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. We have to go. I wish you could finish the dinner. Chef Anatole’s desserts are incredible. The bee’s knees. But we have to get you back to your father. I don’t know what’s happening.”
She picked up James’s milk shake and took a sip on its only straw, then planted the shake firmly back onto the table.
“Oh, no, James Alexander Elliott,” she said, rising from the table. “Oh, no. You aren’t taking me back to my room just as things are getting interesting. I’m coming with you. Think you can stop me?”
James considered the consequences. He desperately wanted to spend more time with the girl. But he also worried about what might happen if he kept her out too late. If Fawn’s father looked terrifying checking in to a hotel, what would his wrath look like?
“Okay,” James said. “Only until we meet with Mr. Nash. Only until we find out what’s going on.”
Chapter Ten
The Godfrey Girls
By the time James and Fawn reached the skeletons at the Boneyard Club entrance, Miss Charles had caught up to them. On her high heels, she clicked along with the interrupted dinner date as they all headed toward the Front Desk. They needed to see Mr. Nash.
The heads on the skeletons spun a full 360 degrees as the trio passed.
“James, whatever is the matter?” Miss Charles said. “I could see trouble brewing from across the room.”
“Oh, Mr. Lesley seems to be up to his old tricks, bothering actresses,” James said. “Plus something has upset the Egyptians. Not to mention that somewhere we seem to have a fatality. Some story about a missing head. The police are on their way. Other than that, everything is peachy. We’ll probably read all about it tomorrow in Mr. Quinn’s newspaper column.”
“This is my fault,” Miss Charles said. “I should have seen this coming.”
In the midst of deep concerns, James remembered his manners. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Fawn, Miss Charles. Miss Charles, Fawn.”
“Hi, sweetie,” Miss Charles said.
A look of relief crossed Mr. Nash’s face upon seeing James, Miss Charles, and the girl approaching. James had helped Mr. Nash with many sticky situations since his coming to McGrave’s, and he knew the night manager would welcome his help.
A half dozen men, some in police uniforms, surrounded Mr. Nash.
“Jim, boy, you’re right on time. This is Detective Dan Durbin and his boys. We were heading up to the Bridal Suite to check on an accident. Meanwhile, could you, ah, check on that little matter in 3913? Again?”
With an exchange of looks, James and Fawn silently agreed to extend their dinner date a little, only long enough to comply with Mr. Nash’s request. Meanwhile, Mr. Nash didn’t seem to be aware of any situations with the Egyptians, and James knew best not to raise the subject in front of the police. James planned to look in on the Egyptians himself as soon as he dealt with Victor Lesley and returned Fawn to her father.
“And, Miriam, could you—I mean, Miss Charles—could you watch the desk?” Mr. Nash said. He looked slightly embarrassed at betraying any familiarity.
“Go!” Miss Charles ordered. Time was wasting.
The parties took separate elevators. During the ascent, James filled Fawn in on his previous visit, and they could hear the hubbub from Mr. Lesley’s suite as soon as they stepped into the thirty-ninth floor corridor. Once again, the hallway drew its share of spectators peeking out their doors.
Despite the ruckus, a bewildering sight kept James and Fawn from barging into the room. A girl was standing outside the door at 3913. More specifically, three girls were standing there, but they were all the same girl. They each had wavy blond hair like the movie star Jean Harlow, and their backless white dresses contrasted with their bright red lipstick. James figured they couldn’t be over seventeen years old.
“It’s getting good in there,” one of them said.
“I think she’s going to clonk him,” said the second.
“He deserves it,” said the third.
“Who are you?” James asked.
“We’re the Godfrey girls,” the first replied.
“We’re triplets,” the second added.
“We’re here to audition for the play,” the third explained. “We’re going to be Dracula’s wives.”
This was more than James could tolerate. The girls were so young, and Mr. Lesley was such a Broadway wolf. He felt he had to do something.
“You can’t,” he said. “I’m calling off the auditions.”
It was a bold announcement, but the Godfrey girls were having none of it.
“Oh, no,” one said.
“Not possible,” said another. “We’re perfect for the parts.”
“No one can do it better,” boasted the third.
“Stop it!” came a shout from within the room.
Again, three raps from James’s fist.
“Yessss?” came Victor Lesley’s voice.
The actor seemed surprised when five bodies stormed into his sitting room.
“Thank goodness,” said Pepper O’Toole, the actress who had been locked in the room. She was holding a wooden stake and apparently had been contemplating using it. “This old coot was trying to squeeze me. I shall not return, Mr. Lesley. Cancel my application.”
“You were a terrible Mina anyway,” Mr. Lesley said. He did not seem to be in an encouraging mood.
He perked up when he noticed the Godfrey sisters. The three were looking in astonishment at the high ceiling.
“Ladies,” he said. “Welcome to Broadway. I have the perfect parts for you. I am Victor Lesley, your leading man by day, your bloodsucking lord of the underworld by night.”
He treated them to one of his vampire stage laughs, and the sisters squealed like frightened schoolgirls.
For James, it was all too much. Someone needed to teach this bozo thespian to behave.
“Mr. Lesley,” he said, hoping to take control of the situation. “The management can no longer put up with these outbursts from your room. You must start treating these young ladies more appropriately. You’ve been disturbing the other guests.”
Victor Lesley rolled his eyes with practiced exaggeration, as he might for a silent film. “Look, Ace,” he said. “I’m a professional, and I know what I’m doing. My methods are not to be questioned.”
For a moment, James didn’t see how he could compel the old fool to act properly, not without calling in Mr. Nash, and then he remembered the bedroom. The scheme might work. He faced Mr. Lesley squarely.
“Downstairs,” James said with all the bravado he could muster, “is a man named Walter Quinn. He’s a newspaperman who loves to write stories that embarrass celebrities.”
“I’m yawning,” said Mr. Lesley.
“In your bedroom,” James continued, “is a locked wooden box. You said it contains your greatest secret. I know what is in that box.”
“You don’t.”
“I do. I will definitely tell Mr. Quinn if you make it necessary.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would. So here is how things stand. There will be no more disturbances from this room. You must promise not to kiss any more actresses. You can’t squeeze any, and you can’t chase any around the coffee table. Any more problems and Walter Quinn will know all. Deal?”
James tried to maintain a stern look, and he could almost see the thoughts being checked off as the actor weighed his options. Mr. Lesley would reason that there was no way this boy could know the contents of the box in which he kept his spare toupee. It was constantly under lock and key, always had been. And yet, even the suspicion of its contents could ruin him.
The actor pondered the situ
ation until his face turned red, like pressure building in a boiler. He appeared to be about to blow his wig right off his head. “Deal,” he grumbled.
He turned a sour face to the Godfrey triplets. “Ladies,” he said, “let me see your résumés.”
In the hallway after, James couldn’t have been happier. “I so didn’t know if that would work,” he said. He turned to Fawn for approval.
“Masterful,” she said. “What was in the box?”
James grinned. “Hair.”
“Hair?”
“Yep. His backup hairpiece. Victor Lesley, Broadway’s most handsome leading man, has a dome like a watermelon.”
They were both giggling like longtime best friends by the time they reached the elevator.
Chapter Eleven
The Case of the Missing Mummy
The mood was far more somber in Royal Suite assigned to Queen Siti.
At first, Mohammed Bey had questioned the presence of Fawn.
“She’s a most trusted assistant,” James said. “She is of noble birth. I am not allowed to say more.”
James had not planned to bring her to the Egyptian suite, but Fawn had argued that it was on the way back to her own. “You are staying in the penthouse,” he had countered to no avail. “Everything is on the way back to your suite.”
Mohammed Bey considered the girl. “I suppose it matters little anyway,” he said. “Soon our loss will be known to all the world. Until then, I trust you and your companion to be discreet.”
In a voice racked with shame, Mohammed Bey revealed his secret. “We are mystified,” he told James. “Against all logic, against all our efforts, the mummy of Queen Siti has vanished. We are certain she has been stolen by the most evil of villains.”
Abasi and the other guards stood with their heads hanging. They had been responsible for protecting her.
“I don’t understand,” James said. “Was she left alone?”
“Never, according to Abasi,” Mohammed Bey said. “All four guards were in this salon the entire time. No one entered the bedchamber, and no one exited the bedchamber. They heard nothing. My colleagues and I were dining at the time in your restaurant with the distinguished visitors from the Brooklyn Museum. What they must think of us!”
