mine.â
Jim grinned. âI donât think this actress has had much truck with the Bible.â
The crowd cheered her victorious ascent. Cat gleefully noted, âI reckon sheâs not wearing any underwear. How come?â
âMaybe her washing didnât dry in time.â
They both sniggered.
The peroxided beauty was fantasy made flesh, the created femme fatale of male dreaming. Jim drained his cup and licked his lips. The actress swivelled gracefully on the top step and blew them all a kiss before disappearing into the lobby. Jim suspected that all the menfancied her rotten and the women yearned to be in her shoes. A collective sigh of desire arose from the crowd.
Everything was swell until a hotel valet shoved his way through the crowd. Jim sensed that something was up. âWhat is it, Alfred?â
âItâs Mrs du Barry, Sir. Iâve been looking all over for Miss Cat.â
âAnd?â
âMadam requested that I find Cat and get her back to the ninth floor. She reckons itâs way past Caterinaâs bedtime . â
Catâs face fell and she carefully studied her shoes. Christmas Eve was already over before it had even begun. She wouldnât be able to disappear into the labyrinth for the special staff supper. Cat had helped Ziggy, the pastry chef, to make traditional Christmas treats: Kokosbusserl , Linzer tortes and Lebkuchen . Sheâd iced all the Sacher tortes and while theyâd worked Ziggy had taught her the words to âSilent Nightâ. Heâd told Cat, âIn Austria we sing â Stille Nacht â on Christmas Eve. We shall all sing it tonight. And drink up the good schnapps Mr du Barry supplied.â
Jim placed his hand on Alfredâs shoulder and Alfred looked nervous. âYou do know it is Christmas Eve, donât you, Alfred?â
âYes, Sir.â
âThis is when folk try to spread good cheer. By doing things like looking after our chums and ensuring our nearest and dearest have a good time.â
âSir?â
âI have a proposition for you, Alfred. Letâs imagine that I choose to let you off that nasty little IOU you accrued at last nightâs poker game. And in return you choose to spread some fucking Christmas cheer around, eh?â
âBut Mrs du Barry will get shirty. She might even get me sacked.â
Jim looked at his watch. âYou worry too much, my boy. You donât understand how things work. The Hotel du Barry is very traditional. It operates on the time-honoured system of pimps, spies and snitches. With a modicum of effort I can arrange to have Mrs du Barryâs every move tracked.â
âSo the eyes are everywhere?â
âPrecisely. Iâve already been informed Madam is playing hostess up in the Winter Garden. Meeting and greeting. She wonât have time to scratch herself and she definitely wonât be returning to the ninth floor until the last guest leaves and the sun begins to rise.â
âReally?â
âYes, Alfred. Wise up. Now, all you have to do is tell Catâs babysitter that Iâve promised to have Cat back on the ninth floor well before that lard-arsed chap in the red suit comes sliding down the chimney. Deliver this message, stay clear of the Winter Garden and all will be satisfactorily sorted.â
Alfred grinned. âIf you say so, Sir.â
âI do. Tonight Catâs babysitter is one of Mrs Brownâs girls. Gwendoline is a good sort.â
âI get it. Consider it done.â
âThatâs more like it, and in return Iâll tear up that IOU. But never forget this: punting your hard-earned wages is a mugâs game. Especially when youâre up against me and the cream of Scotland Yard. And while Iâm dispensing free advice, you need to dump your latest squeeze. Miss Gottfried is sharing her considerable charms with you and that unhinged psychopath, Gary Smythe. You donât want to end up
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