The Jewel Box Part 9

Inside Ciro's, a crowd was gathering. A very untypical crowd for this venue. Mismatched and out of context, like a box of odd shoes at a jumble sale. As they milled about, buying drinks at the bar and peering at the fixtures and fittings, waiters were setting up rows of folding chairs on the gla.s.s dance floor. A lectern had been placed on the little stage.

"It's true, then." Margaret was hugging her copy of The Vision The Vision.

"We'll see." Grace was fussing with the long ginger wig and hat she was wearing. The brim was pulled so low over her eyes that she could barely see.

Half past eight. Many had taken seats, though some lingered at the bar, where business was brisk. n.o.body looked confident. Everyone seemed to be eavesdropping on each other: "Jones had it on good authority. He's reliable, Jones is."

"Cynthia told me about it. She's a librarian. She knows about these things. Literature and all that."

Margaret pointed at a couple of empty chairs. "Let's sit down before the seats are all taken."

Grace kept catching sight of her reflection in the s.h.i.+ning gla.s.s and metal around them. The wig was ludicrous. She swore under her breath.

Nine o'clock. The conversation had died down into nothing. The crowd was restless.

"Do you think he's going to turn up?" Margaret's face was a mess of hope and dismay.

"Don't ask me. My instincts about O'Connell have been worse than useless so far."

Margaret gazed agitatedly about. "Surely he must be coming. Why would they have opened up the club if he wasn't? Why would they have put all these chairs out, and the lectern?" he must be coming. Why would they have opened up the club if he wasn't? Why would they have put all these chairs out, and the lectern?"

"Maybe they simply heard the rumor, like the rest of us, and thought it was worth a punt on the off chance. They're selling plenty of drinks, after all. Sisley, the manager, is conspicuously absent. Oh!"

"What?"

"Nothing." Grace tugged at her hat brim and slid down farther on her seat. She'd spotted someone she'd rather not have to speak to. What was he he doing doing here here of all places...? of all places...?

As the minutes pa.s.sed, the tension in the room spooled out into a taut, thin thread. At half past nine, the thread broke. Muttered complaints grew louder. People shrugged and shook their heads and got up to leave. Waiters began stacking chairs and moving them out.

Grace felt quietly satisfied. In the faces all around her, she saw reflected the disappointment and anger she'd been feeling with O'Connell for over a week. It was a sort of vindication. Positively cheery, she turned to Margaret. "I'm heading off to the Tutankhamun on the Strand. Do you want to come?"

Margaret shook her head. "I'll stay on here a bit longer. Just in case."

The Tutankhamun Club was styled as a grand Egyptian palace: all marble columns and murals showing pyramids and slaves and n.o.bles with huge eyes standing side-on. There were masks, statues and jeweled scarabs which Grace knew to be genuine ancient artifacts s.h.i.+pped over from Egypt. Waiters, clad in gold loincloths, carried drink trays high above their heads. Women in white robes fanned the guests with purple plumes and palm fronds. The dance orchestra wore black wigs and makeup.

Grace (having discarded the wig and hat) was greeted by Monique, the manageress, a great precipice of a woman wearing a lot of lace. They'd barely begun speaking when there was a whoop of "Darling! How marvelous!"-and she was being kissed on both cheeks and guided off to the best table by the effusive owner, Sheridan Hamilton-Shapcott, a man so stick thin that even the most expensive of Savile Row suits hung off him like a sack. (Really, he and Monique looked most peculiar side by side. Barely the same species.) "Dwinks, dwinks." Sheridan clapped his hands at a waiter. "Gwace, you're to twy my new c.o.c.ktail, the Luxor Lizard. I concocted it myself so I can a.s.sure you of its deliciosity, and bla bla."

"What's in it?"

"Twy and you will know." This was Sheridan's motto. It was hung above the bar, inscribed in characters reminiscent of hieroglyphics. Grace had heard a rumor that he had it hanging over his bed, too.

The golden drink had a honeyed, golden taste. "It's yummy. Is it dreadfully potent?"

"Don't be so suspicious." He crossed his legs and frowned at her, a frown exaggerated by the Egyptian-style kohl all around his doe eyes. "Wemember to be nice, Gwace. I'm still cwoss with you for not coming here sooner. You-my oldest fwiend, and I've been open over a month!"

"I thought perhaps I should let you get properly started before I came in to distract you. Let you get your feet under the table, so to speak." This was almost the truth. She knew Sheridan too well to have wanted to be there on those first nights. Indeed, stories quickly reached her of his foolishness in letting the staff help themselves to free drinks-encouraging them even, for fun. The result was mayhem. On the third night someone had called the police in, and it was all Sheridan could do to keep the place open. The chaos ended only with Monique's arrival. She'd run bars and clubs for years and quickly knocked the Tutankhamun into shape, tolerating no nonsense from her supposed boss, a self-confessed nightclub virgin.

Sheridan had inherited the Shapcott Brewery and Distillery from his late father, Edward, but had failed to acquire the great man's drive and work ethic. His fluttering-b.u.t.terfly attention span (hailing, along with his doe-eyed foppery, from his late mother, Amelia) did not mix well with the world of business, and he quickly pa.s.sed all onerous responsibility over to his father's long-term deputy, the better to devote his time and energy to his evolving hobbies. And "evolving" really was the right term: It had all begun, before his father's death, with a brief stint studying ancient history at Cambridge. While there, he had fallen in with a group of archaeologists, who had persuaded him to drop out, join up with their forthcoming Egyptian venture and provide all funding. Shapcott Senior, keeper of the purse, had fallen in with the plan on being promised by his son that archaeology, and not ancient history, was "the thing." The Shapcotts' old friends Catherine and Harold Rutherford backed up Amelia's view that "the boy will settle back to his studies once he's got it out of his system." In fact, Edward wasn't at all bothered about the university degree. He could understand why a man might want to go digging about in foreign countries unearthing treasures. The desire to sit about in libraries reading dusty volumes, on the other hand, was a far less tangible one-and it was good to think of his son finally getting his hands dirty.

In the event, Sheridan fell in love with Egypt but not with archaeology. The pyramids were truly magnificent, and it was heavenly to float down the Nile on a lovely boat. Why would one want to spend all one's time grubbing about in the hot sun? One had simply to grease the right palms to get hold of the most fabulous treasures and s.h.i.+p them home, where one kept them as trophies or sold them.

It was around this time-as the family home began to fill with amulets and sarcophagi-that the disgruntled and tubercular Edward departed the corporeal plain while gazing confusedly at the mask of Anubis, the jackal-headed G.o.d of cemeteries and embalming, which had mysteriously appeared on his bedroom wall.

Not long after his father's death, Sheridan was contacted by Cecile Joubet, a Parisian costumier, who wrote to request permission to view the famed Egyptian collection, and to make free use of its motifs, colors and "spirit" in the creation of a fas.h.i.+on line for the House of Myrbor. Watching this tiny, pa.s.sionate French girl running her hands over his bronzes, staring intently at his hieroglyphic slabs and holding his jewels up so that the light shone through them, Sheridan was reminded strongly of Cleopatra herself. One month later, he was married to Miss Joubet and utterly in thrall to her world of Egyptian-influenced fas.h.i.+on and interior design.

The present phase of Sheridan's existence, as the new owner of the Tutankhamun, came about after the untimely and abrupt end of his marriage. Cecile, when finished with Egypt, moved on to Orientalism and a pa.s.sion for a French university professor with an expansive collection of Chinese objets d'art.

"The girl had no staying power," Sheridan moaned as he slumped on the zinc bar at the Coyote Club in Paris. "Changes her men along with her hemlines."

"Courage, mon ami. mon ami." Monique, manageress of the Coyote, patted him on the back and handed him another drink. "All you need is a project-something to help you forget the girl. What you lack is a dream to follow. Now me-I have the dream but no means of making it real. We can help each other. Vous comprenez? Vous comprenez?"

"She's tewwibly cwoss with me." Sheridan jerked a thumb in the direction of Monique, who was back at the door, greeting newcomers. "Would you help me talk her wound?"

"What's she cross about?"

"Oh, she's always cwoss." Sheridan rolled his eyes. "You know who she weminds me of? That old nanny of mine. The cwotchety Iwish one. You wemember? She beat me with a poker, you know."

"Monique?"

"The Iwish nanny. Oh, you wemember her, Gwace. Big warty nose and bla bla."

"Yes." She could see them all as children, playing together: Sheridan, Nancy and herself, while their parents ate dinner and talked about grown-up things downstairs. Sheridan had always preferred it at the Rutherfords' because of their more amenable nanny and also the dolls' tea set. He'd not been allowed one of his own, being a boy. She and Nancy had liked having him about. Being a few years younger than them, he'd been quite easy to order around. That was the only real change in him: the fact that these days he didn't allow anybody to order him around. Except Monique, perhaps. In all other respects, he was just the same as when he was a little boy. "Funny," said Grace after a moment. "I remember your nanny pretty well but I don't remember the warty nose."

He flapped a hand. "Well, perhaps that was poetic license. She jolly well should should have had a warty nose. Anyway, I think it's the snakes." have had a warty nose. Anyway, I think it's the snakes."

"Snakes?"

"The weason Monique's cwoss with me. I met this old snake charmer chappy, used to twavel with one of the big circuses. Gave me a vewwy good pwice on a couple of pythons. Big ones, you know. I thought they could lounge about the place, dwape themselves awound the artifacts. Exotic atmosphere and bla bla."

"Sheridan! No wonder Monique's cross with you! I tell you something, if you start draping snakes about this club, you won't catch me in here again." No wonder Monique's cross with you! I tell you something, if you start draping snakes about this club, you won't catch me in here again."

"Spoilsport. You're as bad as Monique. They don't bite-pythons. They can't even squeeze much if you dwug them. That's what the chappy said. You just dwug the blighters."

Grace had spotted someone. "Margaret! Over here!"

Sheridan tutted. "Darling, what are you about, dwagging such a dwab personage into my club? She has the look of a secwetawy. Vamoose her, if you please, and I'll see you later."

With that he was off, leaving Grace slightly indignant on Margaret's behalf.

"Dwink? I mean, drink?" she asked as Margaret, rather breathless, took Sheridan's place.

Margaret shook her head. "I'm not staying. It's getting late. Work tomorrow and all that. Just had to come and tell you what happened."

"Well?"

A sly smile. "He was there among the crowd. I spotted him. He was wearing a fake beard and mustache, but it didn't fool me me."

"Really?"

"I went up and tapped him on the shoulder. 'Mr. O'Connell,' I said. 'Would you kindly sign my book?'"

"And? What did he do?"

"Well, he pretty much jumped out of his skin. Then he steered me to the side of the room and told me he'd sign if I kept quiet about who he was."

"What was he doing, skulking about at his own reading in a stupid disguise?"

"He said he'd heard the rumor about the reading, and couldn't quite resist coming along incognito for a look."

Grace snorted. "What was he expecting? To sit in the audience and watch himself up onstage?"

Margaret shrugged. "I suppose he thought it was something of a novelty. I think he likes novelty."

"Quite."

"Anyway, you're one to talk. You were hiding under a ginger wig ginger wig earlier." earlier."

A sniff. The girl was getting beyond herself again.

"Look at this." Margaret pulled out her copy of The Vision The Vision and opened it at the flyleaf. and opened it at the flyleaf.

To Margaret, The smartest cookie in the barrel.

With admiration, Dexter O'Connell "He admires me, do you see that?" She was preening now. "Out of all those people who'd come to hear him read, I I was the only one to recognize him. So now there's one person in this world who understands how smart I really am!" was the only one to recognize him. So now there's one person in this world who understands how smart I really am!"

"Well, that's very nice for you, I'm sure." Grace felt her face twitching.

"You're jealous! Look, there's no need for that. He gave me a message for you." Now she fell irritatingly silent. Drawing out her moment of power, perhaps.

"Well? What did he say?"

My, how she loved being the holder of secret knowledge.

"He said, 'Tell your friend it doesn't suit her to play demure.' And he handed me this." She produced from her bag a sealed envelope, which she slid across the table.

Grace took up the envelope. It felt heavy and contained a familiar shape.

"It's a key, isn't it?" said Margaret. "Must be to his hotel room. What will you do do?"

"He's the most arrogant, presumptuous man I've ever met." She still hadn't opened the envelope. "And I'm tired of his games."

"But what will you do do?"

"I shall post this back to him." And she put the envelope away in her bag. "Now, you'd better get going, hadn't you? Work tomorrow and all that?"

"I suppose so." She looked as though she was hankering to change her mind and have a drink after all. "Am I leaving you on your own though?"

"Not at all. She has company." It was John Cramer, standing beside their table. Cramer, with a broad smile on his face, the expression in the brown eyes barely discernible in the dim light of the club.

"What are you doing here?" It came out almost panicky. She tried to calm herself. Margaret was glancing from one to the other, but then her gaze slowed and lingered on Cramer's face.

She's attracted to him, Grace realized. And then, looking about her at the women at nearby tables, most of whom were staring: They're pretty much all all attracted to him. attracted to him.

"Thought I'd better bring you these." From behind his back he brought out her ginger wig and hat. "I believe you dropped them on your way here."

"Were you following following me?" me?"

"Not really. Well-actually, I suppose I was." Cramer was blus.h.i.+ng a little. "I was intrigued by the disguise. And I thought, I bet she's going somewhere worth going to. Let's find out."

Now it was Cramer who blushed and seemed lost for words. Margaret waved awkwardly, mouthing something, and slipped off.

"Is this fellow bothewing you, Gwace?" Sheridan was back-and now the two men were all grins and handshakes and exclamations of, "Haven't seen you in years, old chap." Sheridan made a weak joke about the wig and hat and had them removed. Cramer started asking him about the Tutankhamun, and a waiter set down three more Luxor Lizards on the table.

"I met this old dog in Caiwo a few years back. What larks! I'd been on a dig. He was...What were were you doing in Caiwo, John?" you doing in Caiwo, John?"

Cramer shrugged. "Just taking a holiday."

"Have you wead any of his witing, Gwace? He's tewwibly good, you know, when he interviews people. Puts them wight at their ease and gets them to tell him all sorts of secwets."

"Enough of that, Sheridan." Cramer lit a cigarette.

"He made his big splash with an interview with Pwesident Harding a few years back. Did you know? The man was up to his neck in it-the mistwesses, the Teapot Dome scandal-you name it. You'd think the last thing he'd want to do would be to talk to someone like John. All so wevealing. What was that thing he said, John? 'I can deal with my enemies. It's my G.o.dd.a.m.n fwiends that have me walking the floor at night.'"

"Something like that."

"Gwace is a bit of a journalist too, did you know that, John?"

"Sheridan-"

"She wites that Diamond Sharp column in the Hewald Hewald. It's tewwibly popular. She's wather naughty, our Gwace." And then-seeing her face-"Oh dear. I've committed a faux pas. See how she's looking at me? As if she wants to thwottle me or something. I sort of forgot it's a secwet that Gwace wites that column."

The dance orchestra were playing a good, fast Charleston. Grace fixed a smile on her face. "Care to dance, John?"

They whirled and kicked around the dance floor, she and Cramer, and she sensed people staring. Grace had always found it impossible not to feel attracted to men who danced this well, just as she'd never been able to sustain an attraction for hopeless dancers. They moved close together and her arms went around his neck, and she knew that they looked like lovers. There was only one other man in London who could dance her about this well.

She had to find a way to calm herself down.

"You seem to be spending a lot of time with my sister," she said as they walked back to their empty table.

"Nancy's a lovely woman. But you know that. We've become friends."

Grace took out her cigarettes and pa.s.sed one over. "She's had a hard time. I know that you have, too."

"She told you, then? About my wife?" She noticed, now, that he appeared still to be cold sober, while she was like something spilling over. Those d.a.m.n c.o.c.ktails! And he hadn't even touched his. The gla.s.s was still full. She reached for it herself.

"It's been five years since my wife died," he said. "But it doesn't make any difference. Time, I mean. That whole thing about time being a great healer-it's just something people say. An easy line."

"There are too many easy lines," said Grace. "The war caused so much loss and grief that we gave up wearing mourning clothes. Otherwise we'd all all have been in black all the time. London would have become a city of crows. But when we put away the clothes, we lost the knack of how to mourn. We shoved it in a drawer, so to speak, and mislaid the key. It's all stiff upper lip and soldiering on these days. We don't understand how to talk about grief anymore." have been in black all the time. London would have become a city of crows. But when we put away the clothes, we lost the knack of how to mourn. We shoved it in a drawer, so to speak, and mislaid the key. It's all stiff upper lip and soldiering on these days. We don't understand how to talk about grief anymore."