Hotel du Barry

by Lesley Truffle

  ‘Good. Well, Jim and Bertha won’t let me give up on art school. So I clock on, then sneak out and spend the day at Slade. In the late afternoon Jim makes sure Edwina sees me on duty with him. I know this sounds underhanded but I’m determined to become a professional artist. I’ve been selling my paintings to cover the fees.’

  ‘Tell me, do Jim and Bertha acknowledge your talent?’

  ‘Yes, all the staff do. So I can’t let them down.’

  ‘You said earlier that the staff are family. What family member would Jim be?’

  ‘He’s the eccentric uncle. Jim is really smart but pretends to be a stupid bear. It confuses people and they let down their guard. My father and Edwina used to have arguments about the staff all the time. Daniel said he would trust Jim with all his worldly possessions and even his life. And Edwina would yell that Jim was nothing more than a jumped-up criminal.’

  ‘Is Mrs du Barry likely to make staff changes?’

  ‘Edwina won’t sack Jim because she knows that every other luxury hotel in London and probably Europe is dying to poach him. But Jim loves the labyrinth and reckons he’s happy as a clam sampling the insanity down there. He reckons the dramas that go on easily make it well worth the price of an admission ticket.’

  Otto smiled, closed his notebook and stretched. ‘Unfortunately, our time is nearly up. I think I can successfully treat you but it may take time. Would you like to do that?’

  ‘Yes, Mary reckons you can help me.’ She studied her hands carefully. ‘But there’s something I’m really worried about. Do you think I’m barking mad or unhinged?’

  ‘No, Caterina, I don’t. From your medical reports I gather that there’s no physical reason for your constant dozing off. None of the specialists you’ve seen believe you to be narcoleptic. Narcolepsy usually involves other symptoms such as loss of muscle control, hallucinations, sleep paralysis, hot flushes, elevated heart rate and unique sleep cycles. I suspect your falling asleep might simply be a coping mechanism. But I would need to spend more time with you to give a proper diagnosis.’

  ‘Could it be some sort of phobia?’

  He smiled. ‘Phobias are in fashion right now. But it’s been going on since Hippocrates, the famous ancient Greek physician, studied a man with a curious phobia about flutes. Since then we’ve moved on to even more exotic phobias such as pteronophobia, fear of being tickled with feathers, and consecotaleophobia, fear of chopsticks.’

  Cat grinned. ‘I didn’t know such things existed.’

  ‘Look, phobia research provides doctors with professional kudos. At parties everyone wants to talk to the phobia specialist while avoiding the incontinence expert. So rest assured, Caterina, we will not be going down the path of fashionable neurosis. We’ll be seeking something much more treatable and accessible.’

  ‘I understand.’ She glanced at him shyly. ‘And by the way, all my friends call me Cat.’

  After she had left, Otto stood on his balcony in the cold wind and smoked. Blimey, imagine what it’s like having Edwina as a stepmother. Cat’s potential is at risk, unless I untangle her wiring and teach her how to handle stress. But I know how to do this and she’s exceptionally intelligent and seems to be a quick learner. All will be well.

  He butted out his cigarette. Filthy bloody things, I must give them up. Otto had been trying to give up smoking ever since he started. Even his mother didn’t know he smoked. Nor did she know that twice a week he went to a Soho dance studio, where he had private flamenco lessons with Señorita Perfecta Gonzalez; formerly known as, the Belle of Barcelona. Otto had deduced that the Señorita was about the same age as his oldest sister but she was a forest fire compared to the pale light of Emma.

  During his first lesson, Señorita Gonzalez had sneered at Otto’s polished leather brogues. ‘English brogues! You can’t do the flamenco in brogues. Estupido. Fix this problema and go see Señor Thomas Rodd for Cuban-heeled boots. You move really well but you will never become a real man, a proud tigre in those bloody brogues.’

  Otto was taken aback, he’d worn English brogues his whole life. ‘What on earth is a tigre?’

  She’d tossed her head and looked at him scornfully down her nose. ‘It’s Spanish for tiger. A tigre turns any situation to his advantage and always lands on his feet. He is feline but masculine; macho, proud, sensual, fast and fearless. And when he does the flamenco, his boot heels punish the bloody floor. Like this.’

  She pounded the length of the studio with staccato heels and castanets clicking fiercely above her head.

  Since then Perfecta had given him unsolicited advice at every opportunity; instructing Otto not only on releasing his inner tigre but also tips on finding the right wife. According to Perfecta she should be a sensual, independent woman with fire in her soul and a passion for lovemaking that will melt your bloody teeth. Naturally this made him think longingly of Mary Maguire.

  After several weeks of private lessons Dr Otto Rubens decided that Señorita Gonzalez had been correct in one of her predictions. He felt different; more masculine, sensual and fearless. And the only thing he could attribute it to was the five pairs of Cuban-heeled boots cluttering up his wardrobe and his increasing skill at dancing the flamenco.

  Señorita Gonzalez seemed to be slowly making a tigre of him.

  15

  Delectable Sins

  Sean Kelly was in bed but not alone. It was three o’clock in the afternoon and he was servicing a client at his palatial townhouse in Belgrave Square. It wasn’t his finest hour as these days it required more self-discipline for him to maintain an erection long enough to satisfy his clients. There was an unspoken rule that Sean would demonstrate more vigour than the woman’s husband and that he would labour away until she peaked. Recently it had occurred to him that the only time he didn’t have to consciously think about his virility was when he was making love to Mary Maguire. So great was his stamina then that he’d find himself asking her, ‘Am I wearing you out? Tell me when you’ve had enough. Because I just can’t get enough of you, babe.’

  The prospect of getting rich no longer steeled Sean’s resolve, whereas in the past just walking past his bank gave him an erection. At Lloyds of London, he’d retained several safety deposit boxes crammed with jewelled cufflinks, gold bars and other loot. A legion of grateful women had amply rewarded him and over the years he’d cannily reinvested his ill-gotten gains and quadrupled his assets.

  Daniel had been his financial advisor and as they’d strolled around Sotheby’s one morning he’d said, ‘Sean, I won’t stand by and watch you chuck your future away as Matthew Lamb did. He pissed most of his loot away on rare wines and shoved an entire fortune up his nose, courtesy of his drug dealer. The rest was squandered on partying with a bunch of hangers-on and Parisian courtesans. But you can do better than Matthew. Why not ensure your future by moving into a respectable business venture? Breeding polo ponies, owning a restaurant, theatre or luxurious hotel – it could all be yours.’ Daniel had paused to run his connoisseur’s eye over a magnificent Titian oil painting. ‘But only if your present career becomes a means to an end. Unfortunately, Sean, you’re a bit lazy. Don’t look at me like that. You’re capable of doing anything but can’t be bothered exerting yourself. Admit it.’

  They’d visited auction houses and art galleries together. Daniel had steered Sean’s taste towards art that would gain in value. ‘There’s one proviso. You shouldn’t buy art you don’t genuinely like. Don’t become one of those prats who only buy art because it’s a good investment.’

  Subsequently Sean now owned a fine art collection he genuinely loved. In his darker moods, he distracted himself by admiring an Italian Renaissance painting of Susanna and the Elders, which hung on his bedroom wall. The bathing beauty spoke to him as she reclined in her hip bath. The artist had gotten away with something close to pornography, simply by plundering biblical subject matter. The woman’s luminous skin, full breasts and red hair made him think of Mary Maguire. She wore pearls in her hair an
d smiled just for him. Over time, the two women merged and he could only ever see Mary gazing back at him from the canvas.

  Sean had come to realise that no matter how rich he became, he could only wear one silk shirt and eat one sumptuous dinner at a time. He also knew he lacked the cut-throat attitude so prevalent among London’s most successful man whores. Sean had investigated alternative employment but had yet to find an easy but classy career that would be acceptable to the future Mrs Kelly.

  Mary Maguire said one night in her cups, ‘No way am I going to marry a career criminal, gigolo, gambler or drug dealer. I want a man who earns his money by honest means. A Cockney bricklayer has got more going for him than those lard-arsed, cigar-smoking, professional liars who call themselves lawyers.’

  Sean regretted not sticking with his boxing training, for Mary Maguire did have a soft spot for pugilists. He knew, because he’d seen her at a nightclub recently with one of Britain’s most successful heavyweight boxers. She’d been wearing an emerald-green satin evening gown, cut daringly low back and front. The boxer had kept his beefy hand on her bare back as he whispered in her ear. To make matters worse, Sean knew that Mary never wore knickers under sleek evening gowns as they ruined the line of the garment. It had taken all his self-restraint not to leap from the balcony and fall on top of the thick-necked sonofabitch.

  Just thinking about Mary’s magnificent breasts covered in slippery satin provided Sean with all the erotic fantasy he needed to finish the job. Instead of Mrs Grayling, the wife of a Security Service big knob, moaning underneath him, Sean envisaged his beloved beckoning him. She slowly lifted the hem of her satin dress until he could see her beautiful quim. Sean applied himself with renewed vigour and in doing so took Mrs Grayling where she wanted to go. And then some. She screamed when she peaked and so great was her relief that she burst out laughing. ‘Ohhhhh, Sean. That was almost a religious experience.’

  Sean gave Martha tender kisses and then proceeded straight to his patented erotic after-care. Allowing a satisfied woman the time to enjoy skin contact and come down slowly in the afterglow was the way he liked to end every session. There’s no nodding off on the job for this bad boyo. He’d barely started spooning Martha when there was a tentative knock on the door. Sean’s valet knew that he shouldn’t interrupt unless it was an emergency and even then, if there was no response, he was to bugger off and return in fifteen minutes. But for some reason today he wasn’t taking the hint.

  Christian whispered through a crack in the bedroom door, ‘Sir, two plainclothes policemen are waiting downstairs in the parlour. They arrived half an hour ago and I can’t keep them at bay much longer.’

  ‘Christian, I’m busy for fuck’s sake. Tell them I’m not home.’

  Sean slid back under the quilt and continued paying homage to Mrs Grayling’s substantial charms.

  Christian braced himself to stay on mission. Playing valet to Sean Kelly Esquire was never dull – he was even thinking of going on the game himself. ‘They know you’re here, Sir. Saw you coming in earlier, with your ah, your lady friend.’

  Martha leapt out of bed and scrambled around for her clothes. She retrieved her silk stockings from the lampshade and lacy suspender belt from the snout of a stuffed polar bear. ‘It’s him. It has to be. The devious bastard’s paid some MI5 spy to follow me. I know it!’

  Her agitation sent her rushing all over the bedroom. The sight of her bouncing, dimpled arse made Sean laugh. She tripped over the fur rug but managed to save herself by grabbing hold of Sean. She rose to her chubby knees, ‘He won’t divorce me but he keeps me on a tight leash. If only I had the guts, I’d kill the fucker!’

  Sean turned his laughter into a cough. A gentleman always spares the lady. He kissed her dimpled shoulder. ‘Shhhhhhhh, I’m sure your husband’s got nothing to do with this. It’s probably about a recent theft. Some pusbag stole my Royal Enfield motorcycle. So, relax, Martha. And have another champagne while I fix everything.’

  He patted her affectionately on the rump. Sean was quite fond of Mrs Grayling. She didn’t wear him out with chitty-chats. Martha was a meat and two vegetables kind of woman, with a weakness for kippers. She got down to business quickly, moaned a lot and came like a powerful steam locomotive. There’d been complaints from the foreign diplomat next door but Sean had slipped Lucien Dupree a few tickets to sold-out musicals and all was well. Dupree had even invited Sean to his frightfully grand Christmas bash and proudly introduced him around. Subsequently, Sean had gained a few new clients. It was marvellous how a touch of bribery could improve a chap’s connections.

  Sean slipped into his purple satin dressing gown and monogrammed slippers. He wound a cream, silk scarf around his throat, fitted a cigarette into a jade holder – a look he’d stolen from Daniel du Barry – and strolled into the parlour.

  He was met by two stony faces. Obviously the constabulary were not as relaxed as they’d been on their last visit. One of them said, ‘Mr Kelly, we are here to ask you to come down to headquarters for questioning.’

  ‘Not necessary. If there’s more paperwork, I’ll attend to it tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s not about your motorcycle, Sir.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s about another matter and we’re not asking you, we’re telling you. You have to come down to the station. Immediately.’

  Sean took his time getting ready while Martha sat on the bed, worked her way through the rest of the champagne and sulked. He ignored her rising paranoia and selected an immaculate taupe suit and cream silk shirt. Christian applied the clothes brush and expertly arranged a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Sean reknotted his tie several times and placed his hat on at a rakish angle. A gentleman must never appear flustered. And so by the time Sean descended the front stairs he appeared to be a man of taste and distinction, being escorted by his private bodyguards.

  Sean’s lovely young neighbour waved at him from her upstairs kitchen window and he blew her a kiss. Mrs Jones adored Sean. He’d told her he was a theatre impresario and flipped her several double tickets to various theatrical productions. In return she baked for him and kept him supplied with treacle tarts. Some of Sean’s happiest hours were spent in Mrs Jones’s kitchen and he felt valued being Jenny’s trusted friend and confidant. And he appreciated having a woman in his life with whom he was intimate, but didn’t have to fuck.

  At headquarters Sean was stunned to find himself being coerced into taking part in a series of identity parades. It was enough to give a chap flashbacks. He tried to retain his dignity but by the time the police had put him across the platform three times, he’d lost his nerve. Then he was shown into a small room with an opaque glass window along one wall. It was impossible not to wonder who the hell was watching him from the other side. There were three detectives present and for nearly an hour Sean had been answering their repetitive questions. He’d checked out their cheap suits, ill-fitting across the shoulders and tight across their tackle and concluded they weren’t Security Service personnel.

  The interview was going nowhere. Sean immediately knew it had nothing to do with Mrs Grayling. They don’t give a rat’s arse how I earn my living. They already know. Obviously they wanted him to own up without having to smack him around. Or maybe the police just did things differently in London. They tended to be more direct in Dublin.

  When one of the detectives leant heavily on the back of his chair, Sean felt sweat pooling under his armpits. The leader of the pack shoved his face very close to Sean’s. ‘Mr Kelly we brought you in so you could be positively identified.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By two eager witnesses. Both spotted a second guy up on the fucking roof.’

  ‘Which fucking roof are you referring to?’

  The three of them exchanged sidelong glances and the fat one farted. He didn’t apologise.

  The leanest one offered Sean a cigarette and even lit it for him. Good cop, bad cop. Sean was familiar with this routine. ‘Come on, Mr Kelly, don�
�t make this harder than it need to be.’

  ‘Frankly, I’ve no idea what you’re getting at.’

  Fatso smirked. ‘Tell him about it, Johnny. I gotta take a dump.’

  He left the room and the atmosphere improved. Johnny leant against the wall and directly above his head was the vilest graffiti Sean had ever seen. The cruel lewdness of the drawings was impossible to ignore. A wave of revulsion swept over Sean. The crim who’d drawn this filth on the walls must really hate women. And these creeps had chosen to leave it there.

  Johnny spat on the floor. ‘One witness said he was twenty-five per cent sure it was you up on the hotel rooftop with Mr Daniel du Barry just before he died. And the other couldn’t make up his bloody mind. You won’t tell us where you were that night, so obviously you don’t have an alibi. Let’s not fuck around here – your lack of cooperation makes you a murder suspect. Now, I’d really like to work this out before it gets real nasty. So, for the last time, where were you that night between the hours of two and six am?’

  Sean took one last drag on his cigarette. What the fuck is going on? Are they lying in order to trap me? He wedged his cigarette butt into an ashtray that was stuffed to the gills. There were gouge marks all over the worn table and one corner had broken off. No doubt the damage occurred when someone was being encouraged to own up. He’d thought his hoodlum days were behind him. But he’d been wrong.

  Sean gave in. ‘I spent the night at the Hotel du Barry. With a lady of my acquaintance.’

  ‘Room number?’

  ‘It was a private apartment.’

  Ferret-face leant over the table. ‘And the name of this lady?’

  ‘Mrs Daniel du Barry.’

  The detectives sniggered.

  Johnny said, ‘What makes you think, that we’re stupid enough to believe that you were in the du Barrys’ private apartment having sex with the wife, while her husband was on the premises?’

  ‘Pay attention, lads. It goes like this – I attended Mr du Barry’s Annual Winter Garden Party held in the hotel’s famous glasshouse. And after a swell party, I then retired to bed with Mrs du Barry at about three am. She’d invited me to stay the night.’