If I Had You (8 page)

Eyre picked a piece of tobacco off his lip. “I imagine any part of the present government is, among those who fled.”

“Very true, sir.” He chose his words carefully. “I have heard there might be some manufactured unrest at the Marvins' command performance.”

Eyre's eyes narrowed. “From who?”

Ivan shrugged. “Those who hate Stalin's government.”

“Plenty of those.” Eyre sat back, regarding him.

Ivan didn't know what to do with his hands. He locked them together behind his back, his palms feeling hot underneath his gloves. “I might be able to learn more about it.”

“How?” Eyre elongated the simple word.

Ivan cleared his throat. “I can keep my ears open around the Russian community, but I'm also concerned that someone in the Marvins' world could be helping.”

“You don't say,” Eyre drawled.

“Yes, but I can't learn more about that.”

“No?”

He felt he had to explain. “You've told us not to fraternize with guests.”

Eyre nodded. “What do you have in mind?”

“Miss Loudon, the Marvins' secretary, is often underfoot late at night. I've attempted to follow orders not to speak to her since you explicitly ordered us to refrain from fraternizing, but if I was allowed to continue our initial conversations, I might be able to learn who is feeding information about the performance to the Russian community.”

“Do you think she is the problem?”

“No, sir. She's newly come to London, but she's always on duty, so she has access to everyone the Marvins do.”

Eyre steepled his fingers together under his chin. “How much trouble do you think these elements are going to make?”

“I think it is going to be bad, sir, very bad.”

Mr. Dew's eyebrows rose. Eyre looked even calmer.

“We don't want any trouble.” A thin trail of smoke rose to the ceiling from Eyre's forgotten cigarette.

“No, sir, we can't afford it.”

Eyre nodded. “I know of whom you speak. She does tend to wander, that one. Go ahead and do your worst with her, as long as she seems of value to the greater enterprise. But I'm going to want to know what you're hearing among your people. That seems more important to me.”

Ivan nodded, sadness warring with elation.

A knock came at the door. The night concierge poked his head in after Eyre called, “Enter.”

“Miss Plash is outside, sir. Says her mother is missing?”

Eyre ground out his cigarette in a battered brass ashtray, not one of the Grand Russe's, and stood. “Do we know for how long?”

“She didn't tell me. Shall I send her in?”

Eyre nodded.

“Why don't you request a date with this Miss Loudon?” Mr. Dew suggested. “That will flatter her.”

Eyre stood. “There's stationery in the credenza, Mr. Salter. Ah, here you are, Emmeline.”

Ivan went to the credenza and took paper and an envelope to the corner of Mr. Eyre's desk and wrote a note under Mr. Dew's watchful eye, while Miss Plash fretted about her mother.

“I'll take it upstairs,” Mr. Dew said. “You start the search for Mrs. Plash.”

Ivan nodded. “It really isn't necessary for you to take the note. I'm sure I'll see her around midnight.”

“You need to make a young lady feel desired.” Dew reached into his pocket. “Here.” Dew handed several half-crown coins to Ivan.

“I can't take your money,” Ivan protested.

“I'll get it from petty cash. Show her a good time.”

Images of Miss Loudon's mouth, brushing softly against his, came to mind. “Doing what?”

“Go to the pictures. Buy her lunch.” He winked. “You know the sort of thing.”

He didn't, not really. “I'll start looking for Mrs. Plash.”

“Do you know what she looks like?” demanded Miss Plash.

“Tone, Emmeline,” Eyre said gently.

“I do, Miss Plash,” Ivan said, as Mr. Dew left the office. “We'll fetch her back to her room. Don't you worry.” He nodded at the upset woman and left, wondering if her smeared mascara was evidence of real emotion or if she was simply being dramatic.

* * *

“Make me a sidecar, will you, darling?” Sybil asked from her perch next to her husband on their sitting room sofa.

Alecia glanced in despair at the framed print on the wall depicting “The Chinese,” a character from
The Sleeping Princess
ballet that had inspired the name of this Chinese Suite. “Help me,” she implored silently. The gold and white striped pattern on the ballerina's hat was echoed on the walls, and the bathroom wallpaper resembled the blue and white floral pattern of her skirt.

Alecia had been shut up with the Marvins all afternoon, making endless drinks. How Sybil remained relatively sober was beyond her. She'd been utterly unrepentant about the concern she'd caused by being missing for hours the day before. Alecia had to admit her nails had been freshly varnished, so a manicure had been part of the day's proceedings.

“A sidecar for you as well, Richard?” Alecia asked.

“No,” Richard said absently, turning a page in his script.

Alecia had just finished squeezing a lemon when a knock came on the door. She went to open it and found the night manager there.

He held out an envelope. She smiled and took it. “Thank you.”

“Good night.” Mr. Dew winked at her as she closed the door.

“Bring it here,” Richard said.

“Actually, it's for me,” Alecia admitted after examining the envelope. She set it down and finished preparing the drink.

“Something from the vicar?” Sybil asked, an air of malice flavoring her words.

Alecia went back to the drinks cart and retrieved the envelope, then sat across from her employers. “No, it's not from my family.”

“Well, don't keep us in suspense,” Sybil said. “Read it out loud.”

“What if it's private?” Richard wondered.

“Alecia is such a baby, it couldn't possibly be anything that interesting,” Sybil said archly, and took a sip of her drink. “Oh, this is heaven, darling. You do have a career ahead of you as a bartender.”

Alecia slid her finger underneath the lightly sealed envelope and flipped it open. She pulled out a single sheet of notepaper. “It's on hotel stationery.” She read, then an “oh” escaped her before she reread it.

“What?” Sybil said.

“That night watchman I keep seeing about has asked me to spend tomorrow afternoon with him.”

Sybil blinked. Richard's brow furrowed.

Alecia put the note back in the envelope. She'd never been asked on a date before, had certainly never expected Ivan Salter to do so. What had changed? Was he still attempting to apologize for his behavior on Friday? Her face felt hot as she remembered their dance.

“She's blushing, poor baby,” Sybil said to her husband. “Do you think we should let her go on this date?”

“We are in loco parentis,” Richard said. “I do not like the idea.”

“But she must have a life,” Sybil said grandly. “Yes, I think she should go. It's just the afternoon. Daylight. No trouble there.”

“Just the afternoon,” Richard repeated.

“But a Monday,” Alecia said.

“Is that his day off?” Sybil asked.

“No. But his shift starts at eight. They work twelve-hour shifts, six days a week.”

“Immigrants,” Richard said. “They are used to hard work. Need to get ahead.”

Alecia suspected Ivan didn't come from a poor background. He seemed educated, well mannered, and too well-spoken for that. But she wanted the conversation to end before the Marvins talked themselves out of letting her have Monday afternoon free.

Sybil set her glass on the table next to her. She missed the coaster, and Alecia's fingers itched to right the glass before it left a stain on the beautiful wood.

Sybil rose. “Let's investigate your wardrobe, Alecia, darling. You must dress suitably for such an important occasion.”

“You've seen all my clothes.” As had Ivan Salter.

Sybil's head wobbled on her neck. “Then let's investigate my wardrobe and see what can be done.” Her eyes half closed as she held out her arm.

Alecia glanced at Richard, who shrugged, so she rose to her feet. What was the harm?

* * *

Ivan spent two hours searching every nook and cranny of the main floor. Either Mrs. Plash wasn't there or she was one step ahead of him at every moment. However, it was past ten thirty at night and the old woman must be tiring. Might she be napping somewhere?

He went down the dank stairwell to the basement. For the most part, this area wasn't open to the public, but he didn't want to admit defeat to Mr. Eyre, and there were lavatories down here, left from when the hotel first opened and private rooms didn't have their own.

He'd check in with the night manager after investigating there, not bothering to go into the area marked Staff Only, just past the public lavatories.

The light down here was feeble and flickering, the corridors uncarpeted. The Russian fantasy of upstairs was missing here, but the four lavatories, though plain and functional, were still occasionally used by guests. He opened first one door, then the second, peeking in. When he rattled the knob of the third door, it refused to turn in his hand.

“Mrs. Plash?” he called.

Shocked, he heard a response. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Plash?” he said again, disbelieving.

“Yes,” said the elderly female voice again.

“Your daughter wants you,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He stood bemused as the door opened. “My goodness, it is you,” he said.

“I don't know you.” The elderly woman frowned and clutched at a rope of pearls.

“Mr. Salter, ma'am. I'm a night watchman here at the Grand Russe.”

“My daughter sent you to collect me?” The creases around her eyes deepened.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“How odd. I wouldn't have thought she knew where I was.”

He held back his commentary. “Have you been here all evening?”

She didn't answer, merely sidled out of the door, around him, then began trudging down the hall toward the stairs.

“We could go up in the lift,” he suggested. “It comes down here.”

She paused. “That would be lovely.”

“May I take your arm?”

She nodded, and leaned heavily against him as he walked her toward the service lift, intended mostly for moving laundry from the basement washing facilities to the guest floors.

They found the front door to the Duchess One, the Plash's large, two-bedroom suite, open. Miss Plash paced alone, looking small and plain against the gold-and-black striped walls and oversized russet furniture. Ivan expected Mr. Eyre to be with her, but the manager must be tending his flock in the Coffee Room.

“Mother!” Miss Plash shrieked, her hand going up as if she wanted to slap the elderly woman, before descending to her rouged cheek. “Where did you go this time?”

The elderly lady glanced uncertainly at Ivan. He didn't want to reveal any secrets, whatever the situation, so he smiled politely.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, in his best imitation of Mr. Eyre's smooth manner.

“Not so fast,” Miss Plash said, coming toward him.

Would she offer him a tip? He deserved one, but he'd never known the woman to be generous.

Instead of finding her purse, however, the woman fixed her hands around his upper arm and leaned into him, batting her eyes, which had been freshly made up.

“How can I ever repay you for finding my darling mother?” she cooed.

He couldn't wrench out of her grip, but he did take a step back. “It was no trouble, Miss Plash,” he said.

“When is your shift over?” she whispered.

“Eight in the morning.”

“Oh, how ghastly,” she said. “Why don't you come in early tomorrow and I'll give you tea? We'll get to know each other better. I really must express my appreciation.”

One hand left his biceps to drift into her cleavage. He used the opportunity to break away.

“Thank you, Miss Plash, but there is no need, and I am not free then in any case. Hotel business.”

He waited for her to suggest she would persuade Mr. Eyre to free him, but she said nothing. Had she fought with the manager after he'd gone on his search? He'd best alert the male hotel employees that she was on the prowl, though he wondered how long the woman could afford her suite without her protector.

“W
hat do you want?” Richard Marvin leaned his cheek against the door but still looked hostile.

Ivan held his ground despite the heavy scent of alcohol wafting off Marvin's breath, but he did wonder if he should have knocked on Miss Loudon's private door rather than the main entrance to the Chinese Suite. “I'm here to see Miss Loudon.”

“Oh, you're the boy who wants to date her.” Marvin sneered, his bushy, gray-blond mustache riding up on one side.

Ivan smiled politely. He would not dispute mere terminology. “I thought we could stroll toward Piccadilly, and then maybe go into Hyde Park, take a walk along the Serpentine. Just a walk.”

“Good weather for it,” Richard allowed, “but she's here to work, not play.”

“Yes, sir,” Ivan said, wondering if this idea cooked up by the hotel managers was a good one. If he created a rift between Miss Loudon and her employers, how would he learn anything about the link between them and the Russian conspiracy? “I'll have her back before dark.”

“In January?” Marvin scoffed, changing his tune. “You don't offer a girl a very good time. You can't even manage an early tea before dark.”

“I didn't want to have her out very late,” Ivan said, backpedaling. “Out of respect to her employers.”

Marvin's eyes narrowed. “You don't seem very keen on the girl.”

“We're both working people. I'm realistic.”

Marvin's sneer turned to a grin as he puffed out his chest and slid one hand into the opening of his coat. “You'll never win a girl's heart by being realistic. Did not Shakespeare write,

“If that is the case, sir,” Ivan, who had been forced to read Shakespeare in his entirety, said, “it doesn't matter what we do or how long it takes, just that I persuade the lady she had a good time.”

Marvin chuckled. “Well said, young man. I suppose a night watchman is a suitable beau for a secretary. Why not? Come in.”

Ivan stepped in, acutely feeling the shabbiness of his clothing in the opulence of the room. Places like this were once his birthright, but all that was long lost now. And his sister wanted to destroy his access to what he had left. At least he could walk these halls in comfort and watch the doings of luckier folks. What about him and Vera though? When did they start to live for themselves and not for the dead?

Mr. Marvin pointed to his wife then left the room.

“Hello, there!” Sybil Marvin lounged on a sofa in front of the painting of the costumed ballerina that provided the theme for the room. The actress showed to good effect in plain ivory pajamas against the Chinese floral-patterned upholstery.

“Mrs. Marvin.” He inclined his head.

“I hope you don't mind taking out a girl in nice clothes,” she said, perusing him with a tiny wrinkle between her eyes. “I've lent Alecia some of mine.”

So that was Miss Loudon's first name. He liked it. “She is already nicer-looking than me, so it hardly signifies.”

Her laugh sounded full and theatrical. “My dear boy, you know better than that. The Grand Russe hires night watchmen like great ladies of old used to hire footmen. It's all about looks. What did you do before?”

“I was a night watchman before, at a hotel that failed.”

“And before that you were in Russia?”

“Before that I was in Paris, then Berlin, then Helsinki. I haven't seen Russia since 1918.”

Her voice dropped gravely. “You've been away from home for a long time.”

“Yes.” He didn't want to dwell on it. “Where are you from originally?”

“Exeter. My father was a tram operator there. Humble beginnings.”

“You had talent that took you from a conventional life.” He felt like this was the line she wanted to hear next.

“Yes, I suppose I did.” She tilted her head. “What are your dreams?”

“To be able to provide for myself and my family, I suppose.” He shifted from one foot to the other.

“Now there is a humble dream, dear boy. Were you someone quite unimportant in Russia?”

“My family had connections, but no, we weren't important.”

“Wealthy?” she guessed. “You made it this far.”

He was saved from responding by a door opening. Miss Loudon walked in, followed by Mr. Marvin. She wore a blue cloth coat with fur around the collar and cuffs, in a very current style. Her close-fitting hat matched, and her blond hair curled around her cheeks. He checked her shoes, and they were sensible ones that she could walk in, not quite in step with the rest of her outfit.

Mrs. Marvin gave him an expectant look.

“Very glamorous,” he said, holding his hands stiffly at his side, along the threadbare, elbow-patched winter coat that he'd had since Berlin.

“I like your tie,” Miss Loudon said shyly.

He ran his hand down the red silk self-consciously. It had been a holiday gift from Boris and was the nicest piece of his wardrobe by a long shot, if he didn't count his uniform.

“Thank you. You remember Mr. Grinberg? He gave it to me.”

“He has good taste.”

“Who is that, darling?” Mrs. Marvin asked.

“A pawnshop owner,” Miss Loudon said.

“The night watchman is friends with a pawnshop owner?” Mr. Marvin said crossly. “That seems like a recipe for trouble.”

Ivan didn't want the man's temper to go south again. “His shop is on the street where I live. He took your brooch.”

“I see.” Marvin clicked his tongue against his upper teeth. “Well, Alecia, have a good afternoon with your swain.”

She smiled politely, then looked at Ivan. He was glad to have a cue to exit and made his goodbyes.

“I couldn't wait to leave,” he admitted as they reached the lift.

She spoke haltingly. “Was Sybil making you uncomfortable? I wish she hadn't told you I was wearing her clothing, but then you've seen everything I own.” When she twisted her hands together, he could see she was nervous.

“We're young and we don't have any money, either of us. Still, you weren't at Boris's pawnshop for your own benefit.”

She giggled as the lift operator gestured them in. “True. Where are we going?”

He liked the cheerful sound. “To the park, I think. It's a nice day for the season.”

She nodded.

Was she enthusiastic enough? “Unless you wanted to go to the pictures? Or there might be a tea dance somewhere. We could ask the concierge.”

“No, I'm dressed for the outdoors.” She tucked her hands into her borrowed coat's pockets. “This coat is smarter than my dress anyway.”

* * *

Alecia perused Ivan as they left the hotel on the Park Lane side. His clothing was shabby but it didn't matter. His shoulders were heroically broad and the lean body underneath gave the impression of coiled strength. He had the face of a film star, and his tilted black fedora made him look broody. She was glad he didn't sport a cap. She liked men in proper men's hats. His tie's pop of color gave the hint of what burned underneath, the fiery heart of a Russian.

“Why did you invite me out?” she asked, as they passed by the end of the hotel. She wanted to break Ivan's habit of silence, not to mention her own. A trio of boys ran by, chasing a dog. They nearly spun an older lady around in a full circle. The woman grabbed her chest and puffed.

Ivan reached for the woman's arm. “Are you well?”

The woman coughed. “Yes, dear boy, thank you.”

Ivan let go of the woman and regained his position next to Alecia. “Do you mind?”

She admired how casually he'd helped the woman. But given that they were all but on hotel property, he probably had to for the sake of his position. “No, I've just never been on a proper city date before. I don't know what one does.”

“This, I suppose.” He thrust his hands into his pockets.

Was he uncomfortable? Shy? “Shall we look at the magazines?” she asked, pointing to a news stall.

“If you like.” They ambled toward it. He picked up a newspaper and she reached for
Punch
.

They read for a couple of minutes, her shoulder touching his arm. She was acutely aware of him, that scent of cucumber and birch already so familiar. A cartoon struck her as funny and she giggled.

“What?”

She showed him the page, reading aloud. “‘Pavement Winter Sports. For those who cannot get away to Switzerland.' ”

“Roller skates,” he said, looking at the drawing. “I've never done that. We ice-skated as children, of course.”

“In Russia, how could you not?” she agreed. “Oh, look at this. An article called ‘This Green Winter.' It's true, isn't it? London is all water and mud right now.”

“We won't be skating on the Serpentine, that's for certain,” he agreed. “Would you like the magazine? I'll buy it for you.”

“Oh, you know I'll find it lying around the hotel somewhere this week. And anyhow, I wouldn't want to carry it while we're walking.”

“Very well. Shall we go to the coffee stand and then walk down to the water?”

“Coffee sounds wonderful. Your nose isn't even red, but I imagine mine is a fright.”

“No. I like what winter does to girls' faces. Red cheeks, a little sparkle in the eye. Very appealing.” He glanced at her, then looked away.

“And all bundled up,” she reminded him as she set down the magazine.

“In fur,” he retorted, with a smile.

“It's stunning, isn't it?” She caressed the fox collar of Sybil's coat.

“You want luxury?”

“I want new clothes. I'm tired of my drab homemade rags.”

“Do you want to be an actress?” he asked. “Is that why you took the job, to have an in?”

“No, I didn't really have an ambition, other than to be a modern girl, not a Victorian relic. It would be so easy to stay with my grandfather and be his helper and live like that.”

He took a moment before he spoke again. “So you want to go to the pictures and dance all night?”

“It's not the worst idea,” she said. “We're young. Being young doesn't last very long. I feel like I've already wasted most of my time. I'm twenty-two.”

He stared at the wall of magazines, but she didn't think he saw any of it. “I'm twenty-six.”

“Your life was dreadfully interrupted by the war,” she said.

“Yours too. It sounds as if your parents were rather different from your grandfather. What was your life like before?”

“Books, conversation. Rather thrilling ones, sometimes, about ideas. But I was only twelve when they died, so I didn't understand much of it. Lots of dinner parties with writers. Nothing to do with theater or artists or anything. It wasn't like Bloomsbury or Chelsea, but still, a lot different from life in a vicarage.”

“I'm sorry. It sounds like you were happy.” He tilted his head toward the street and she followed him.

“Oh, very. What about you?”

“We mostly lived a country life. My mother's lungs were weak, so we didn't spend that much time in Moscow. We had tutors and played outdoors.”

They walked up to the wheeled caravan that comprised the coffee stall. Ivan paid for two coffees and dispensed the hot drink from the large urn.

“This will take the red out of my cheeks,” she teased.

“Oh, don't say that, Miss Loudon.” He winked.

She couldn't help repeating her question. “You didn't really say why you wanted to take me out. I would think you'd be sleeping still, at this time of day.”

“It's about three now, I think.” He sipped at his coffee. “You're right. I would be, for another hour or two. It's hard, sharing with my sister. When her friends are around they make a lot of noise.”

“You need to stop up your ears.”

“I go and sleep on the sofa in the back of the pawnshop,” he told her.

She made a noise to suggest he continue.

“As for you, miss, I simply wanted to speak to you outside of the hotel, get to know you better when we weren't under the eye of my fellow employees. Or employers. I wanted to know about you and Mr. Eyre . . .” He trailed off suggestively.

“There's nothing to tell,” she protested. “Goodness, one dance on New Year's Eve. And he has a girl.”

“I think that is over,” he said. “I had that impression yesterday.”

“Ah.” She remembered Sybil's long disappearance and couldn't help but agree.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing.” She put her cup to her lips.

He lifted his eyebrows. “Are you interested?”

If Ivan only knew how she'd ogled him. “In Mr. Eyre? No. He's a wonderful dancer. I'd dance with him again, but I was playing a role, in a way, that night. I don't normally go to nightclubs; in fact, that was the first time. And I wore Sybil's clothes.”

“A lot of girls wouldn't care. They'd just be happy to be at May-stone's.”

“I'm too self-conscious, maybe,” she said. “Too ordinary.”

He shook his head slowly. “I don't think so. Much too pretty.”