by Ranjini Iyer
She inhaled—the smell of overdone cookies wafted toward her. Max checked the oven. There were cookies on a baking sheet inside.
Where was Lars?
The pastry counter beckoned. Surely Lars wouldn’t mind her sampling one thing. Or two. Fruit tarts! How luscious those raspberries looked. She felt a sharp, sweet sensation in her mouth. There were the heavenly religieuses—brown for chocolate, lilac ones, lavender flavored most likely, and pink—raspberry or rose, perhaps. Choux pastry filled with flavored cream, topped off with a thin layer of fondant. She leaned forward to pick one of them. She’d have the lavender.
She raised her eyes a little.
Behind the counter, Lars lay on the floor. His face was frozen. Magazines and letters were scattered around him. With a cry, Max went to him. He didn’t look at all well. He looked…he was…was he? He couldn’t be.
Numbly, she pulled out her cell. 911 wasn’t the number in London. She ran out. An elderly man was bicycling by. She almost pulled him off his bike.
“Oi, watch it!” he cried angrily.
“I need to call an ambulance, please!”
The man pulled out a phone. Max ran back to Lars. And she saw it. A trickle of dried blood formed a line from his temple to his cheek. Lars was dead! She staggered back and fell.
Clutching at the pastry case, Max screamed. Minutes later, an ambulance arrived. Paramedics rushed in. Questions were fired at her. The police were called.
There were people everywhere. Two police cars had arrived shortly after the ambulance. They had put that ominous yellow tape outside the patisserie.
“Who found him?” a voice was asking urgently.
What if Lars had been murdered, Max thought? She felt herself shudder as a man walked up to her. Dressed in a plain black suit, white shirt, and striped tie, his entire being screamed detective.
“Did you discover the body?” he said.
Max looked up at him. He had a lazy smile on his lips, but his eyes were alert. She nodded.
“Did you know him?” he asked.
“Huh?” She glanced at the case behind which poor Lars lay. “How did he die?” she asked.
“We’re not sure yet. Did you know him, miss?” He was watching her closely, she knew.
Max had regained some control of her emotions. She made a decision. “Oh, no,” she said as glibly as she could. “I just stopped by for some pastries.”
She didn’t look the detective squarely in the eye. Awful liars averted their eyes, poor liars stared too hard, she had heard in some movie. Good liars did neither. She glanced at the detective, held his eye for a second or two, then turned to look inside the bakery.
The detective glowered at her for a bit. He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head. He sat her down on a nearby bench and asked her a few questions about her stay, her plans, and how she had found Lars. She was a chef, she said, taking a holiday in London. She was looking for a nice place to eat. She had heard good things about the Butler’s Wharf Chop House, she offered with last minute inspiration based on the directions Lars had given her. Seeing the pastry shop open, and overcome with hunger, she had stepped in. She did a brilliant job, she thought, of keeping the tone light and yet suitably horrified.
“Very well,” the detective said. “Do you need someone to take you where you’re staying?”
“Please,” she said.
“We may need to speak to you again.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Let me get you an escort.” He signaled with his hand.
A woman approached. “Excuse me for a second,” the detective said to Max.
He turned to his colleague, who said softly, “Heart attack. He possibly hit his head on the pastry counter causing the wound to his temple. The body was moved…but why, and by whom?” She shrugged.
Max caught the woman’s quick but obvious look in her direction.
The detective shook his head. “Maybe a customer found him and got scared. If it’s only a heart attack, lets wrap this up quickly. I’ll dig up his relatives. You drop her off at her hotel. Take a copy of her passport, just in case. And make sure she isn’t suffering from shock.”
The detective thanked Max and handed her over to his colleague. Max’s escort left her at her hotel room and gave her the number of a hospital to contact if she felt unwell. She took a copy of her passport and left.
Max bolted her door and collapsed on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She was trembling. She kept picking up the phone, but wasn’t sure whom to call.
Claiming not to know Lars had been deceitful and disloyal. But if she had said she knew him, she would have had to reveal so much more. What did one do in a time like this? She really needed to talk to someone. Uncle Ernst…should I call you? He’d be worried sick if she told him. Besides, he’d insist that she come back home. She had come too far now to return empty-handed. Friends? There weren’t any she was close enough to for this kind of news. She dug her fists into her eyes. Just admit it.
You want to call one person.
He did say to call if she needed help. Hopefully he had meant it.
Max stared at the phone for a while more before dialing room service. “I’d like two scones and two sticky buns, clotted cream, jam and butter, some orange juice and coffee. Please.”
Max stayed in bed and turned on the TV. She watched Die Hard in French. It was fascinating to watch a film she knew backwards and forwards when she could not understand a word that was spoken.
Her food arrived.
She turned off the TV and stared at the blank screen, wondering what she might cook for Bruce Willis if he accepted an invitation to dinner. Eventually, she slipped into an agitated sleep.
At first light, she glanced outside her window. A fog had seized the city in a dense grip. The Thames flowed in tranquil peace, but in the distance she could see the Tower of London, the place where Anne Boleyn and many others had been beheaded. Death seemed to loom everywhere.
But she had made her decision.
She dialed Julian. Their conversation was brief.
Max went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Like a million tiny needles, she felt its force massaging some relief into her tense muscles.
“Lars is dead,” she had spluttered to Julian. “Please come. Please. Please. Please.”
And he had said only three words of immeasurable sweetness.
“I’ll be there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Max lightly knocked on the door of the room directly below hers. Julian opened it, looking scrumptious in dark blue jeans, a pale pink button-down shirt, and smart, new-looking suede shoes.
She threw herself into his arms. “Thank you for coming,” she said into his chest.
He patted her head as if she were a puppy or a small child.
“There, there,” he said.
“Someone was probably following Lars and me,” Max said. “The German.”
“Have you seen anyone?”
“No,” she said, peeling away from him, “but isn’t that the point? Anyway, I figured if these people—Berliner—want the papers, I’m the next lead. Since Lars died, I haven’t had the courage to leave this hotel. It’s been two days. Staying here is driving me crazy. I’m about ready to jump into the Thames.”
She leaned against Julian’s bed and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling. “It’s probably safer for you if no one knows you are with me.”
“Okay,” he said. “So what do we do now?” He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes.
“You rest a bit,” she said. “Then we can see about retrieving the papers. I have the locker key and the name of the bank.” She didn’t feel half as confident as she was trying to sound. And poor Julian was suppressing yawn after yawn, looking exhausted. She shouldn’t have called him. It would have been best if she had just returned to Chicago. With Lars dead, the whole business had become a minefield, no place to turn without risking an explosion. Besides, what might she accomplish
even if she had the papers? She’d just be a sitting duck for the Germans. Julian would be, too.
She turned to him, her guard slipping away. “Actually, I’m not at all sure what to do. I called you because I was frightened and still am. I’m sorry to have taken such a liberty—it was wrong of me.”
“It’s fine,” Julian said, suppressing yet another yawn. “I did offer to help, didn’t I?” There was an awkwardness about him now. Julian was keeping a respectable distance and his eyes averted, Max thought.
“This is a dangerous situation,” Max said. “That sounds almost lame said in broad daylight. But it is.”
Julian folded his hands. “Let’s focus on the task at hand. We can always worry later.”
Max tried to smile. She handed him a mustache and a hat. “I asked the hotel receptionist to give me the number of a costume shop. Luckily they deliver.”
The ice seemed to have broken, for Julian let out a laugh. He took them from her and tried them on in front of a mirror. “I look ridiculous,” he said. But Max was pleased.
Julian was looking at the bed fondly now.
“Crazy business, isn’t it?” Max said. “Get some rest.” And she left the room.
Two hours later, Max and Julian were in the hotel lobby.
“Lars’s bank,” Julian said, “is the Co-Operative Trust Bank, right? It’s the bank of many minor members of the royal family—and of men hiding money from their wives. Beautiful building. Twenty-two Curzon Street. It’s easiest to take the Tube. We can walk to London Bridge station. It’s about a mile from here.”
“I don’t see the point of going there,” Max said.
“What else is there to do? Perhaps we can talk to someone there.”
“Hmm…okay. I’ll find my way to the train station,” Max said. “It’s best if we go separately. Where will you wait for me?”
“By the ticket counter,” he said. Giving her hand a tight squeeze, Julian left the lobby.
Max took a few deep breaths. She opened her purse to look for the locker key. She rummaged through it for a while as panic rose within her. It wasn’t there. She pulled out receipts and papers until she was staring at the bottom of the purse. No key. Damn.
Perhaps she could simply tell the truth at the bank. Sad thing was, the truth was seldom appreciated or believed. She didn’t know what they were going to do. She hoped Julian might have a plan. This dependence that she had developed on him almost as soon as he had arrived in London was typical of her. She always depended on whoever was available. Wasn’t that another reason she hadn’t gotten Uncle Ernst involved?
She went through her purse once more. Wait a second. She had given the key to Julian. Safer that way, they had decided. Exhaling with relief, she began putting the scraps of paper away. One of them caught her eye. It was the credit card receipt Lars had handed her for her room. A germ of an idea formed in her mind.
Max rushed out of the hotel and started walking along the river toward the Tube, keeping an eye out for anyone who walked too close.
Outside the bank, Max showed Julian the credit card receipt with Lars’s signature on it. She asked him to practice copying it a few times.
“I think you have it,” Max said. “Now, lets go over what we are going to do one more time.”
At the bank, Max stayed in the waiting area. Julian went over to the lockers. A few minutes later, he returned.
“The person at the lockers is an old timer,” Julian whispered. “He knows Lars. We cannot risk this with him. But his shift changes in ten minutes. David takes over then.” Julian pointed discreetly across the room. “Him.”
David weighed about two hundred pounds, sported a face sprinkled with pimples, and had greasy, curly hair. He looked young, oafish, and uncomfortable with himself.
“He is perfect,” Julian said. With eyes on David, he put his hands on Max’s blouse and undid the first two buttons.
“Hey!” Max cried. Her cleavage showed now. Julian patted her collar down, stepped back, and gave her an admiring grin. She wished she could give him a sultry smile. One of her advantages was a nice cleavage. But at this moment when she could show off something she was proud of, she knew her face bore not a seductive look, but schoolgirl gawkiness. She squirmed.
“Use all your charm.” Julian’s hands hadn’t quite left her blouse yet. He fiddled with her collar.
“Yes,” she said with a wry grin, “that is what we Americans are known for. Our charm.”
Julian laughed, pulling his hands away.
“Ready?” Max asked.
“I have an idea. Just in case.” Julian casually walked around the bank, then approached the desk of a stern-looking woman. Her nameplate said Manager. Max made herself comfortable on a sofa close by and watched David.
When David’s eyes glanced toward Julian and the woman, Julian began to speak. Max couldn’t hear what he was saying, but the woman seemed quite taken by him. She invited him to sit and started chatting freely.
David watched them for a while before turning away. He started descending the spiral stairs to take his place at the lockers. Max signaled as much by standing up and smoothing her shirt.
Julian quickly finished his conversion and went over to Max.
They waited until David was out of sight. Max started down the stairs, with Julian close behind. They approached the desk in front of the locker area as if in a great hurry, ran into each other, and apologized. With formal graciousness, each acted as if they ought to let the other go first.
“Please go ahead,” Julian said with a wave of his arm and looked at his watch.
Max thanked him. David, who was sorting a lot of papers on his desk, stood up. Max leaned forward. David glanced at her face first and dropped his eyes to her breasts that were almost spilling out of her blouse.
“Hello,” she said in a low, throaty, Lauren Bacall voice, attempting to sound sultry.
“Hello,” he said, still looking at her chest.
Max touched her clavicle, a last minute inspiration from The English Patient. If Ralph Fiennes had found Kristin Scott Thomas’s clavicle attractive enough to obsess over for years, surely hers was attractive enough to distract this boy-man for a few seconds.
David’s eyes sought her hands. He licked his lips and swallowed.
“My grandfather owns a locker here,” she said. “Can I open it?”
“Are you listed as a signatory?” David said mechanically. This time he looked at her face.
Max turned down her lips and brought a hand to her face. “Well, I have the key. My grandfather has had an account here for years,” she said. “He was English. I’m American. He died recently. Now I want to open a locker in my name, but first I need to take some documents from his locker. It’s such a bother.” She wrung her hands.
“I see,” he said. “You can open it if you’re a signatory.”
Max glanced at Julian.
“Please,” Julian said to David, “I would like to access my locker. How long is this going to take?”
“Just a moment sir, let me help this young lady first,” David said.
Max moved closer and began to stammer. “My grandfather died yesterday.” Genuine grief for Lars brought tears to her eyes. She held out her arms, as if looking for comfort.
Max could tell that David had softened considerably. He had compassion written all over his face. The kid was probably a product of an all-boys school.
Julian threw up his hands. “Maybe I should see the manager. Some of us have work to do—”
“Or better yet, I’ll go see her.” Max glared at Julian.
Julian shrugged.
David looked at Julian. Quickly he said, “One moment, madam. I’ll be with you shortly. Sir,” he said to Julian, all business-like, “perhaps you’d like to sign here.”
Julian huffed, shook his head, and grunted, grumbling all the while about being in a hurry. He signed the book, distractedly checking his phone at the same time. David opened a drawer and took out the sign
ature card box. He pulled out the one for Lars Lindstrom and stared at the two signatures.
Max started sobbing even louder. “Maybe I should go to the manager right now,” she said. “It’s obvious you don’t have the power to do anything.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “This had to happen to me today of all days! I insist that you help me now.” He slammed a fist on the table. A few papers flew down to the floor.
“Have some pity,” David said angrily, bending down to retrieve the strewn papers. “She has just lost her grandfather. I’m trying to help her without breaking the rules.” To Max he said, “Madam, one moment while I help this…this gentleman.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Can I get to my locker now?” Julian said. He dialed someone, went to a corner, and began speaking in urgent tones.
“Yes,” David hissed, almost putting an arm around Max. “I tell you,” he murmured into her ear. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that man.”
Max nodded in agreement.
David went on, “Such men give Englishmen a bad name. He sounds Scottish, though, despite his name. He’s insensitive and brusque. But we’re all not like that. You please sit.” He indicated a sofa away from the main desk. “I’ll find a way to help you, I promise.”
“No, I’d rather wait here.” Max dabbed her eyes with a hanky and continued to sob.
Julian returned to the desk. Max stood close to both men, so they were all crowded around the tiny desk.
David glanced once more at the two signatures.
Julian was threatening to call the manager now. He insisted that she was an old family friend.
David bit his lip. His eyes showed fear. “I’ll, uh, need to see some identification,” he stammered.
At that moment, Max pushed her ample bosom at David and began to sob. David was startled, but immensely pleased.
Julian looked at his watch. “Unbelievable, this circus you people run here,” he shouted. “Thanks to you, I have just missed an important meeting. The papers I need are in that locker. If I lose this multi-million-dollar contract, it’ll be your fault, young man! I’ll have you fired. As for ID, mine has been on your desk for ages now.” David looked down and began searching through the scattered papers. Julian let out a groan. “Great, now where did it go?” He started shuffling through the papers, dropping some, moving others, and generally making an enormous mess.
