Read Online An Old Betrayal: A Charles Lenox Mystery (Charles Lenox Mysteries) by Charles Finch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Finch
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not given up the old ways entirely, and in his seventies had briefly returned to prison, on a charge of fraud; when he died, not long after, eleven women came forward claiming to be the sole heir of his estate.
“How do you do, Monsieur LeMaire?” asked Lenox.
“I flourish badly, sir.”
“In that case you do not flourish at all, I fear!”
LeMaire smiled. “My English is not up in snuff, I am sure. To use your parlance.”
“It seems very fine to me.”
“How may I help you?”
“You may have heard that I was once a detective—like yourself,” Lenox added, thinking with an unbecoming note of pride that it was the other way around.
“Yes, of course. We are grateful you have cleared the field, though I read with very great ardor the account of the murders upon the Lucy. ”
At the last moment he transmogrified the last word into Lucys, willfully it seemed to Lenox. He suspected the Frenchman of shamming his awkward English, and had since the words “up in snuff” passed his lips. It was no doubt beneficial to be underestimated, and of course nobody disdained a funny accent like the British. “That was a hairy business,” was all Lenox said.
“I thought you did capitally well.”
Lenox inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment, then went on. “Once in a rare while, I do take on a case. I have one at the moment.”
“I am impatient that I might help you,” said LeMaire. “What is the case?”
Lenox had told the story of his encounter in Gilbert’s not forty minutes before to Padden, and now he had the points of the matter set in his mind and told LeMaire with decisive efficiency about the entire sequence of events. The French detective listened with great interest, all the way forward over his forearms on his desk, at the very edge of his seat, occasionally looking down at his hands and twisting his little beard with two fingers when Lenox came to a puzzling detail.
He waited until Lenox had finished and then said that alas, no, no such woman had come to him, that his only cases at the present moment concerned a vanished husband and a stolen ruby necklace, that while he kept his “ear in the ground” and tended to hear from his spies of much of the private detective work in London, he had not heard of this woman, he was so sorry, he was a thousand apologies. He begged of Lenox his card and promised to call upon him the moment he learned anything relevant, anything at all.
Lenox thanked him warmly and accepted the offer of a cup of coffee before he left. It was a loss of fifteen minutes in his crowded day but gave him a further chance to study the Frenchman. They discussed old crimes, on both sides of the Channel. He was a sagacious fellow, this LeMaire. By the time Lenox departed he was still not entirely sure whether that sagacity was complemented by honesty.
If LeMaire’s office had been very fine, ormolu and sterling, Robert Audley’s was all oak and brass. It stood not far away on Mount Street, near the fine old pile called the Prince of Saxe-Coburg Hotel—named for the Queen’s prematurely dead love, Prince Albert, for whom she still, by all accounts, mourned deeply. Indeed, Audley was the house detective at several of the grand hotels in London, including besides this one the Langham and Claridge’s, responsible for any minor matters that their august guests brought to management. He had been on the police force until about six or seven years before; Lenox had known him then, a sturdy young man, impatient of nonsense.
He was also, according to Dallington, a committed alcoholic.
Audley greeted Lenox at the door himself, gruffly acknowledged the card he received, and said that he did remember their previous encounters, though from his tone you wouldn’t have guessed the memories were altogether fond. In the plain, banker’s-style office there was no whiff of spirits. Certainly he had no assistant.
There was another telltale sign, however, one that Lenox had observed in
“How do you do, Monsieur LeMaire?” asked Lenox.
“I flourish badly, sir.”
“In that case you do not flourish at all, I fear!”
LeMaire smiled. “My English is not up in snuff, I am sure. To use your parlance.”
“It seems very fine to me.”
“How may I help you?”
“You may have heard that I was once a detective—like yourself,” Lenox added, thinking with an unbecoming note of pride that it was the other way around.
“Yes, of course. We are grateful you have cleared the field, though I read with very great ardor the account of the murders upon the Lucy. ”
At the last moment he transmogrified the last word into Lucys, willfully it seemed to Lenox. He suspected the Frenchman of shamming his awkward English, and had since the words “up in snuff” passed his lips. It was no doubt beneficial to be underestimated, and of course nobody disdained a funny accent like the British. “That was a hairy business,” was all Lenox said.
“I thought you did capitally well.”
Lenox inclined his head to acknowledge the compliment, then went on. “Once in a rare while, I do take on a case. I have one at the moment.”
“I am impatient that I might help you,” said LeMaire. “What is the case?”
Lenox had told the story of his encounter in Gilbert’s not forty minutes before to Padden, and now he had the points of the matter set in his mind and told LeMaire with decisive efficiency about the entire sequence of events. The French detective listened with great interest, all the way forward over his forearms on his desk, at the very edge of his seat, occasionally looking down at his hands and twisting his little beard with two fingers when Lenox came to a puzzling detail.
He waited until Lenox had finished and then said that alas, no, no such woman had come to him, that his only cases at the present moment concerned a vanished husband and a stolen ruby necklace, that while he kept his “ear in the ground” and tended to hear from his spies of much of the private detective work in London, he had not heard of this woman, he was so sorry, he was a thousand apologies. He begged of Lenox his card and promised to call upon him the moment he learned anything relevant, anything at all.
Lenox thanked him warmly and accepted the offer of a cup of coffee before he left. It was a loss of fifteen minutes in his crowded day but gave him a further chance to study the Frenchman. They discussed old crimes, on both sides of the Channel. He was a sagacious fellow, this LeMaire. By the time Lenox departed he was still not entirely sure whether that sagacity was complemented by honesty.
If LeMaire’s office had been very fine, ormolu and sterling, Robert Audley’s was all oak and brass. It stood not far away on Mount Street, near the fine old pile called the Prince of Saxe-Coburg Hotel—named for the Queen’s prematurely dead love, Prince Albert, for whom she still, by all accounts, mourned deeply. Indeed, Audley was the house detective at several of the grand hotels in London, including besides this one the Langham and Claridge’s, responsible for any minor matters that their august guests brought to management. He had been on the police force until about six or seven years before; Lenox had known him then, a sturdy young man, impatient of nonsense.
He was also, according to Dallington, a committed alcoholic.
Audley greeted Lenox at the door himself, gruffly acknowledged the card he received, and said that he did remember their previous encounters, though from his tone you wouldn’t have guessed the memories were altogether fond. In the plain, banker’s-style office there was no whiff of spirits. Certainly he had no assistant.
There was another telltale sign, however, one that Lenox had observed in
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