Lord Foxbridge Butts In (6 page)

Once I was dressed, I went down to the foyer to wait for Twister. Though the night porter was manning the desk at midday, and bellboys were thin on the ground, it appeared that nobody knew about the hanging, yet.

“Oh, thank God you’ve come,” I ran out to meet Twister when I saw him come in sight of the hotel.

“What’s going on, Foxy?” he stopped and took hold of my elbow, “What’s the mystery?”

“Well, it looks like a suicide, but there’s something odd about it,” I explained, “and there are some, shall we say,
exceptional
circumstances involved.”

“What is this place?” he leaned back to take in the pomp and majesty of the neoclassical facade, “I didn’t know there was a hotel here.”

“Very few people know about this hotel,” I lowered my voice, as we were still outdoors, and jerked my head toward the steps to indicated that we ought to go inside, “It’s very
exclusive
, if you know what I mean.”

“The Connaught is exclusive, too, but I’ve
heard
of it,” Twister followed me into the foyer and through the arch to the stairs.

“It’s a
gay
hotel,” I explained once we were indoors.

“It doesn’t
look
very gay, I’d call it quite stodgy” he said, looking about at the clubby appointments until he finally noticed the common theme of the paintings, “Oh, you mean
that
kind of gay. It’s a hotel for queers.”

“Exactly, so you can imagine that many of the guests would be rather upset by a visit from the police. There are diplomats and respected businessmen staying here, not to mention
me
. I hoped you could advise us on how to proceed.”

“I’m amazed that such a place exists,” Twister looked around himself as we ascended the second flight of stairs to Count
 Gryzynsky’s room, “But I haven’t heard so much as a whisper that anyone at the Yard is aware of it; if the guests are as respectable as all that, and the waiters aren’t suspiciously camp, there should be no danger of a detective coming to suspect that everyone here is queer. And if your suicide really
is
a suicide, well — queers hang themselves all the time, nobody would think a thing of it.”

“You talk like you’re not one of us,” I said to him, somewhat perturbed by his blasé attitude.

“As far as the Yard knows, I’m
not
,” he said in a very superior warning tone that I did not like one bit. I narrowed my eyes at him, but he didn’t notice as we’d arrived at the room and he was examining the scene from the doorway.

I followed him into the room when he entered, my curiosity about what he’d make of it overriding my pique at his sneering caution. I was fascinated to watch the way he looked at things, as if taking photographs with his eyes: he would look at a thing, concentrate on it, blink, and then move on. He made a circuit of the room, closely examining the clean empty ashtrays and the spotless water-glass on the bedside table, with me on his heels like a faithful Watson.

“Do you know who the poor chap is?” Twister stood reverently in front of the body and looked into its face.

“This room belongs to Count Gryzynsky,” I told him, “A famous dancer, you may have heard of him.”

“No,” Twister continued to run his eyes over the corpse, concentrating and blinking, “But you seem to be unsure if this is him.”

“Well, the face is so disfigured,” I offered as an excuse.

“Did this Count have any other distinguishing marks or features that you’re aware of?” Twister was staring closely at the hands.

“Um, I can’t think of one?” I knew of one
very
distinguishing feature, but I did not think it polite to mention in mixed company.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he turned those photographic eyes on me, “Out with it.”

“Well, he’s sort of a nudist,” I temporized, “My rooms are across the courtyard, so I’ve seen into this room, er, on occasion. And there was something, um,
unusual
...”

“Would you care to take a look and tell me
if
this unusual feature is present?” he asked impatiently.

I gulped and stared at him in shock.
Me
? Examine a corpse’s underpinnings? I was not so delicate that a hanging body sent me into fainting hysterics, but there seemed something ghastly about invading a dead man’s privacy in that fashion. Nevertheless, I swallowed my disgust and stepped over to the body, leaning down to look under the white shirt.

It was most definitely
not
the Count. I was deeply relieved, which Twister could see plainly on my face.

“What is your relationship with this Count Gryzynsky?” he eyed me suspiciously.

“We are acquainted, as one is with one’s fellow guests,” I tried to hide my lie in a display of pompous indignation.

“I see,” he said, and his tone implied he actually
did
see — saw right through my lie and could recite the exact number and order of sins I committed with the Count the day before, “But we are still left with a puzzle: who is
this
poor bugger?”

“Not a clue,” I admitted, turning back to the corpse of the unknown man who looked so much like the Count, but had been so much less richly endowed, “A brother, perhaps?”

“Mr. Delegardie,” Twister went back into the hall and addressed the manager, his notepad at the ready, “Did Count Gryzynsky share this room with someone?”

“No, of course not,” Delagardie looked shocked by the question, and went rather sniffy when he replied, “The Count sometimes entertained friends in his room, but gentlemen do not
share
accommodations here.”

“Have you seen this man before?” Twister pursued. “Has he visited here before, perhaps
with
Count Gryzynsky?”

“Not to my knowledge,” the manager answered tersely, and received agreement from the porters and bellboys behind him, “If it is not the Count, he is not known to any of us.”

“Well, I’m jiggered,” he tucked his pencil behind his ear in a very odd but endearing gesture, “I
would
have said this was a straightforward suicide, but people don’t barricade themselves into strangers’ rooms to kill themselves. And there’s no note. I’m going to have to bring in the Yard. My chief will be very interested in this.”

“Please, Sergeant, I
beg
of you,” Delagardie dropped his dudgeon and took on a supplicating posture, “No uniformed officers, please! This is a respectable house, I cannot have constables on the premises. It would
ruin
us.”

“I
am
sorry, sir,” Twister pulled the door shut behind him and locked it with the key that had been on the inside of the door, “But where suspicious death goes, constables must follow. We’ll do our best to be discreet, but we must do our duty. If you will be so kind as to go about your business, I will return shortly. Don’t let anybody leave until I return.”

“But my guests! I cannot prevent them from going out.”

“You’ll have to, I’m afraid. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

I walked Twister out, since I had invited him, “I hope it was all right that I called you,”

“I rather wish you hadn’t,” he admitted a little too readily, “I’ll get no end of chaffing for all that milording I had to do on the phone. It’s hard enough on the force with my background, it won’t do me any good with the lads if it’s known I pal around with the old nobility.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, with genuine contrition, “I didn’t think of that. I only reached out to someone whose honour I knew could be counted on.”

“Is this your way of wearing me down, Foxy?” he turned at the bottom of the front steps and looked up at me with a wry smile, “Awful lot of trouble to go hanging corpses about the place just for a chance to flirt with a copper.”

“You’re worth a little extra effort,” I grinned at him and watched him walk off down the street.

I don’t know why I felt so responsible in this matter, but I stationed myself in the foyer and asked my fellow guests to stay in when they tried to go out, explaining that there had been an accident and the police wanted to talk to us. Not that there was any great traffic, it was a small hotel after all, and there were only twelve of us in residence at the moment. Some of the men I spoke to got rather shirty at the mention of police, but I was able to soothe them with platitudes about the accident having nothing to do with us and that questions would not be very invasive, and sent them off to the lounge for a drink on my bill.

But when the police arrived, my curiosity got the better of me, and I followed them up to the Count’s room to watch them at work, insinuating myself into a corner in hopes that they wouldn’t notice me and throw me out. It was fascinating to watch, as they took photographs and dusted everything with black powder that would probably send the houseboys into fits; I had a queasy moment when they unhooked the rope and slowly lowered the unfortunate creature from the chandelier; the way the body moved, floppy and stiff at the same time, was too gruesome for words. There really
is
no dignity in death.

The way the bluebottles went through the Count’s things was rather sloppy, too, and I was nearly moved to object when they yanked the sheets off the bed and held them up to the light, lifted the mattress itself to look underneath, and then dumped them all in a bundle with the carelessness of a band of Visigoths.

“
What
is going on here?!” Count Gryzynsky was a picture of shock and anger, standing in the doorway to his vandalized room. He looked rather natty, otherwise, slim and cool in an obviously new white suit and straw hat that looked extremely well on him. At least
some
of my hundred pounds had been put to good use.

“Mr. Gryzynsky?” Chief Inspector Brigham, a tall middle-aged man with a weathered face and distinctly military demeanor, detached himself from Twister’s side and approached the outraged dancer.

“I am
Count
Gryzynsky. What are you filthy peasants doing to my room?”

“I’m afraid there’s been something in the nature of a tragedy,” the Chief Inspector came up and put an amiable arm around the Count’s shoulders, gently guiding him into the room, “Perhaps you can help us shed some light on the problem.”

“
I
? Help
you
? I do not understand,” he tried and failed to shrug Brigham’s arm off his shoulders.

“Perhaps you can tell us who this fellow is,” the Chief Inspector gestured at one of his minions to pull back the sheet covering the corpse’s face, “Nobody seems to know him.”

“I do not know him,” the Count lied even more transparently than I did, his eyes darting all over the room as he denied the knowledge; and, unfortunately, in their frantic darting, his eyes fell on me in my quiet corner, “Sebastian! What are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Andrzej,” I came forward, acting as if I was supposed to be there, “I found the body. I thought it was you, at first.”

“This is terrible!” he pulled away from the Chief Inspector and came to stand next to me, “
Look
at what they have done to my room!”

“Would you mind telling us where you’ve been today, Count?” the Chief Inspector asked as Twister pulled out his pad and pencil.

“I
do
mind,” the Count said hotly, “My business is my own.”

“I’m afraid
that
,” the Chief Inspector indicated the sheeted body, “makes your business
our
business.”

“Very well,” the Count lifted his head to look down his elegant nose at the policemen, “I went to Brighton yesterday, and returned just now. If you wish to see my train ticket, I may still have it somewhere.”

“That would be very helpful, thank you,” the Chief Inspector held out his hand and the Count started patting his pockets in a rather stagey manner.

“I must have thrown it away,” he admitted after dragging out the pocket-patting pretense as long as he could, “I am not in the habit of making keepsakes of train tickets.”

“Perhaps you’d care to tell us what you were doing in Brighton?” the Chief Inspector went on.

“I would not
care
to tell you
any
thing,” the Count raised his eyebrow with an admirable hauteur, “But as you insist on prying into my affairs, I was meeting with a theatrical agent who had suggested that I might find an appropriate engagement in that city.”

“And did you?”

“No, I did not. I did not like the look of the place, it was very, how do you say,
tatty
. And so I came back.”

“You won’t mind giving us the name of this theatrical agent, I presume? And the name of the hotel where you slept last night? I assume you stayed in a hotel.”

“The agent’s name was Horrocks, or Horace or something like that,” the Count looked thoughtful and started patting his pockets again, “I do have his card here somewhere. Ah, here it is. James Horrocks. Quite genuine, you see. And I did not sleep in a hotel, I... I neglected to bring any notes or my cheque-book, and so had to wait in the station until the return train would come. I am
quite
tired.”