In fact, when one happened to be in Paris and had a fast car at one’s disposal, one could easily pop down to the Riviera for a spell, Freddie had told her. If he hadn’t wasted his entire inheritance at the card table, he might have taken her some time.
Perhaps she should be grateful for the card debacle, as Freddie might have gotten it into his head to propose to her, and the whole trip would have been spoiled by her rejection.
Not that Freddie was in love with her or anything. They had always just been friends, meeting at the races or the theatre, sharing a laugh and a joke, and forming the ideal object of a lot of gossip about the possibilities if they ever became engaged. It was no secret Freddie was desperate to land a rich heiress, and venomous tongues agreed that Alkmene, at her age and with her temper, should be happy any man wanted her at all.
Alkmene just hoped that Freddie would be smarter than to ever propose to her, on the Riviera or wherever, as he was such a sore loser that after her resounding NO! he’d no doubt be sulking for three months.
Mr Dubois didn’t seem enticed by the Riviera either. He looked out of the window, even shifting position in his chair to catch a better view of something out there.
Alkmene would have thought it rather rude, had not something in his expression convinced her there was something really worthwhile to see.
The countess also tried to catch a glimpse of the object of his interest. ‘Ah. It is her.’ She focused on Alkmene, adding, ‘The woman who caused such a commotion at the theatre. You saw her at the party, busy with that…’ she looked for the appropriate word ‘…screen?’
Alkmene nodded. ‘Isn’t she called Evelyn Steinbeck?’
Dubois glanced at her. ‘The American actress, yes. You know her?’
Alkmene shrugged. ‘Casually. What is she doing here this morning? Art perhaps?’
Dubois glanced at her again, sharper this time. ‘What has she told you about the art?’
Alkmene didn’t think it prudent to admit Evelyn hadn’t told her a thing, about any subject. Apparently her knowledge of Evelyn Steinbeck made her interesting to Dubois, and on her part she wanted to know what he knew about the actress and her dead uncle. She said casually, ‘Just that it is one of the best collections in the country. Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Rodin.’
She was just repeating what she had read in the paper an hour ago, but Dubois nodded seriously. ‘I wanted to interview him about his collection. He managed to get his hands on some very wanted pieces. It was hard getting through to him though. Lived like a hermit, hardly showing his face anywhere. And when he did appear, he shied away from strangers like they were rabid dogs.’
‘Strangers, or just reporters?’ Alkmene asked, holding Dubois’s gaze. ‘The press doesn’t always have a good name.’
‘I don’t see what harm there is in a nice piece about someone’s art collection,’ Dubois countered with a tight expression.
The countess interrupted, saying in a thoughtful tone, ‘It looks like she is taking up residence there. So many suitcases.’
Quickly Alkmene slipped into an empty seat to catch a view of the street. On the other side the Hotel Metropolitan’s uniformed porters carried a dozen suitcases through the open double doors. A familiar statuesque figure with blonde hair catching the sunshine stood watching everything with a critical intensity. Evelyn Steinbeck, fleeing the murder scene…
The countess said, ‘I have heard the Metropolitan’s mattresses are quite good, but their bread is bad. All English bread is, by the way. You cannot bake bread like the Russians can.’
‘But does it relate to the murder?’ Alkmene wondered out loud as she scooted back into her old place.
At the word murder the countess’s companion knocked over her teacup.
Although almost empty, a stream of brown liquid flowed over the table’s crisp white damask cover.
The woman raised her hands and whimpered in what could be Russian curses or supplications to the saints from the gold-rimmed icons.
Dubois pulled out his handkerchief and pushed it on the wet spot.
The countess clicked her tongue and said, ‘You shouldn’t be so clumsy, Oksana Matejevna. The whole room is looking at you.’
The woman continued to make high-pitched sounds of regret and frustration while tugging the handkerchief from Dubois’s hand and dabbing herself.
That hand, with a small scar on the thumb and the deep tan matching his face, didn’t seem that of someone chained to a typewriter in an office, but of an adventurous sailor who had travelled the seven seas.
A bit of jealousy stabbed Alkmene as she imagined Dubois undercover for some story in an exciting foreign city like Venice, hiding in a dark alley and watching the front of an antique palazzo where stolen art would be delivered after nightfall. She bet Dubois had an interest in the dead man’s art collection because he was investigating some big case. Perhaps theft of art from some museum by thieves who worked for a private collector? Not everybody got the objects of their desire by honest means.
Ah. Men got to do all the fun things while women were supposed to stay at home because their lungs were weak, or something.
‘Murder, you said?’ Dubois asked with a probing look at her. ‘I thought the untimely death of Evelyn Steinbeck’s uncle was an accident.’
‘That is what the paper said. A fall on the rim of the hearth. But as nobody was home at the time it happened, we can’t be sure he really fell, can we?’
Dubois held her gaze. ‘Meaning?’
Alkmene hitched a brow. ‘Isn’t it a coincidence he slips and falls and dies on the very night when all the servants have their night off? I don’t suppose it is hard to figure out what night that is, if you just keep an eye on the household for a while.’
She added almost as an afterthought, ‘Or know the routine from the inside, to begin with.’
Dubois leaned back in his chair. ‘You are suspecting a member of the household of involvement?’
Alkmene wasn’t about to make wild accusations. Stories could go and live a life of their own and an innocent person could get in trouble. Sipping her tea, she took a moment to compose her thoughts, then said with a nod at the window, ‘Now that Mr Norwhich is dead and you can’t interview him any more, I suppose you are interested in writing up Ms Steinbeck’s life story? It has to be tragic. I bet her parents died when she was young, she had to fend for herself and now that she has found some fame on the stage and wants to find family, her uncle, her only living relative, has died too. Maybe the newspapers can even turn it into some curse story that the masses will gobble up?’
She gestured in the air in front of her, like unrolling a banner text. ‘Family curse strikes again.’
The Russian companion dropped the damp handkerchief and slumped in her seat, saying something to the countess in an angry tone.
The
