Part 11 (1/2)
”Sorry,” he muttered indifferently, pulling a case from his breast pocket, a lucifer from another and lighting an Egyptian cigarette.
I pointedly waved the emerging smoke away from me, suddenly realizing that the young man might be an intruder rather than a visitor.
”I must ask you to leave, sir. These are my rooms and I demand to know your reason for camping here so cavalierly! Otherwise, I shall have to call Mr. Minucci, our landlord, to eject you.”
He rose, forced at last into reaction.
”I wouldn't,” he suggested in a silkily husky voice.
”I most certainly will.” I recognized a veiled threat when I heard it, and retreated into the pa.s.sage, wis.h.i.+ng that I had withdrawn as soon as I had perceived our rooms to be invaded.
”Please don't go, Miss Huxleigh,” he cajoled, perhaps alarmed by my likely escape. ”My close friend, Irene Adler, has spoken most highly of you, and you certainly would not be one to panic.”
”I am not panicked!” I paused in my flight to answer the charge of cowardice. Too late I realized my mistake.
The man laughed softly, having already crossed most of the distance between us with the long, easy swagger of a lion. In the dim light of the single gasolier I realized that I should be hard put to describe him beyond the rusty sideburns and mustache, nondescript plaid suit and oddly innocent features.
”The least you can do, sir, is remove your hat, as is proper in a lady's presence,” I said with some asperity, attempting to restore the illusion of ordinary social intercourse.
Secretly, I feared that his next act would be to lift the ebony cane at his side and strike me down, though why anyone should want to rob Irene and myself I could not imagine.
I envisaged myself tumbling down the four flights of twisting stairs, my poor aching head bobbing from riser to dusty riser... a discreet mention in the papers headed ”A Saffron Hill Mishap: Mysterious Man Vanishes in Wake of Tragedy to Parson's Daughter”... Irene pacing and wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth at my untimely end and vowing to track the intruder to the ends of the earth....
”Oh, very well, Miss,” the young man conceded a trifle rudely, taking the swarthy little cigarette from his mouth and the hat from his head at the same moment.
Ma.s.ses of cinnamon-colored curls tumbled to his manly shoulders.
”Irene! You monster; what a fright you gave me!” Now that we stood toe to toe, the cigarette smoke swirled around my face like fog. ”What is the meaning of this mummery? Surely you have not got a part in male guise?”
”Indeed no,” she a.s.sured me in a normal tone, turning to display her costume. ”But I did deceive you?”
”You nearly were the end of me! How did you-do you manage to look so masculine?”
She paced before me. ”Long strides, to begin with. Amazing how much more efficiently one gets on without pantaloons and petticoats and pounds of flounces.” She paused to tap her shoulders. ”Shoulder pads and gloves, as you can see. Hands are the tricky part. A bit of spirit gum and some ginger crepe hair-do you fancy me with a redder tint? No? The bowler rides right over the ears and the m.u.f.fler almost meets it, implying a thicker neck.
”And”-she expertly flourished the slim cigarette clamped between her fore and middle fingers-”the little cigar is the piece de resistance. Only men smoke in public.”
”Only men smoke at all!” I retorted.
”Do you think so?” Irene smiled and inhaled delicately on the vile weed between her fingers. After my long afternoon among the chemist shop's mingled odors it nearly made me ill.
”But why?” I asked, edging back over the threshold as she returned to her chair.
”I have business in town tonight. My interview with Mrs. Stoker was most productive; the next stage of my investigation awaits.”
”You actually discussed the Wilde matter with her, and she did not toss you out for impertinence?”
”Why should she? I was not impertinent.”
”Well, since my head aches and my nerves are aflutter, you had better tell me what happened. Nothing could put me more out of sorts than what has happened today.”
”Sit then and hear an amazingly simple tale.” Irene rolled her eyes toward the gasolier above. ”Mr. Oscar Wilde would not like it, but there is no mysterious or melodramatic reason for Florence Stoker clinging to his silly cross.”
”What then? Why would she possibly refuse to return it?”
”Because she does not have it to return! It was mislaid-or, as I think, stolen. She is too embarra.s.sed to admit that the treasured keepsake of the Divine Oscar was cavalierly let go. Imagine his chagrin to find a gesture of his so ephemeral! It would quite slay the man. He might not speak in aphorisms for an entire week or two.”
”Why do you think the cross was stolen?”
”Florence Stoker keeps a rigorously ordered household. It is her husband who leads the unmannerly theatrical life. I doubt she would mislay a fallen hair, much less an object of value. And this little cross is the kind of thing a servant might take, expecting no one to miss it.”
”You have a suspect.”
”Indeed. Your predecessor.”
”My predecessor!? What on earth do you mean?”
”The previous pourer at Florence Stoker's Sunday afternoons at home-I suspect her of splas.h.i.+ng Jimmie Whistler with hot tea as a ploy to get herself hastily dismissed. Numerous other small household objects are missing also. Bram Stoker lays it to pixies.”
”Of course he would; he's Irish.”
”So am I,” Irene returned. ”Half.”
”I didn't mean to slander your origins, Irene. The Irish are actually quite, quite-”
”Misunderstood,” Irene finished for me. ”I know how fond you are of the breed, especially with Mr. Wilde among it.”
Irene, whatever her antecedents, was American-born and on that basis alone did not share my British dislike of those sp.a.w.ned across the Irish sea. I could have called the Irish many things, but ”misunderstood” would have been the kindest. There the matter lay, although I tucked away this rare fact about Irene's background as I would a fresh handkerchief-for use when needed.
”Surely you didn't visit Mrs. Stoker in your present guise,” I said.
”Naturally not. I approached her woman-to-woman, doing a service for a mutual friend too tongue-tied to speak for himself.” Irene gave a little shudder. ”Mr. Wilde is well off to have lost her. A chill woman, Nell-quite lovely, but chill. I would think living with her could predispose one to despair.”
”Perhaps she is misunderstood, and you mistake English reserve for something worse. We do not all share your joie de vivre.”
”Joie de necessite,” Irene shot back, rising with a flourish of the cigarette. ”As is my disguise now. I go to track down the clumsy Sarah Jane in her new lair.”
”Which is?”
”A position in Berkeley Square. Mrs. Stoker seemed much surprised, but I am not. There are better pickings there than in Chelsea, no matter how fas.h.i.+onable. No doubt Sarah Jane made connections with the Stokers' wealthier guests at the Sunday affairs.”
”But why do you go at night, and Friday night at that?”
”Because the master will be out and I can deal with Miss Sarah privately. I will tell her I'm a Pinkerton, I think. You inspire me as usual, Nell.” Irene twisted her hair and pinned it up, then settled the bowler hat at a rakish angle. ”Don't worry; I've never yet been accosted in such garb.”
”You've done this before?” I said faintly.