Barbara Silkstone - Wendy Darlin 02 - London Broil Page 4

  What would Matty think of this fancy place with men in turbans losing the value of her entire neighborhood on one roll of the dice? Dark wood, green shades over large, gold tables, and crystal chandeliers that wouldn’t fit in walk-in closets. We were escorted to a private room in the back just beyond a glass-enclosed banker.

  Benny joined the men at the table. I stood to the side, fascinated by a world I’d only seen in James Bond movies. The evening became a blur of gentile cussing, quiet sighs of success, and stacks of chips sliding across carpeted tables. I had no idea of what was going down. I just knew there were winners and losers. And there was a rhythm to it all. Each player would tap the table, bet or call or fold.

  They played for two hours and then announced a break. My friend seemed to be doing well. Someone said something that sounded like four to the eight, high hand. I wished I knew what was going on, but relied on Benny’s face after the hand was over to tell me.

  I couldn’t help worrying about the silver-haired guy in the dark tuxedo who kept his eyes pinned to us. He looked like he’d stepped out of an ad for expensive liquor, but with an air of casual violence. I shot the dude a friendly glance. His eyes turned icy. I looked away.

  Benny took a break from the gaming table to sip his scotch and stretch his short legs. I leaned in to him, my back to the silver fox as I whispered, “Don’t make it obvious, but there’s a tall, good-looking guy in a tux… grey hair… He’s been watching every move you make. He’s kind of intimidating.”

  Hannah turned in my direction and away from the dude as if perhaps lip-reading was not out of the question. “I’m aware of him. His name is Victor Veal.”

  I felt Veal’s eyes boring at the back of my neck. “He looks mad at you.”

  “He was Amin’s contact in Switzerland, the guy who traded antiquities for guns. I don’t like him showing up at this point.”

  I squeezed Benny’s arm to let him know I was in his corner. Veal shot dagger looks at us.

  “One more hand and then we’ll leave,” Benny said as he went back to his table.

  Smiling and feeling a surge of bitch, I slinked up to the big guy. “Put your eyeballs back in your head. You’re not frightening anyone.”

  Veal had bright blue eyes, thick grey hair, and skin like a baby’s butt. He raised his Jack Nicholson eyebrows in two sardonic arches, “Get used to the staring. I might decide to keep you around when this is over… for my amusement.”

  “When what’s over? That sounded like a threat!” Without taking time to think, I plunged my stiletto heel into his instep. His drink shot out of his hand, sideswiping a turban or two before dumping its contents on a baccarat table, soaking the player and the table. The banker waived the wooden pallet sweeping cards and liquor aside and glared at Veal. The Swiss stormed off.

  Thirty minutes later, Benny and I walked with a stone-faced man in a tux that didn’t hide a lethal looking gun to a row of tellers behind brass and heavy glass. A stern teller with wire-rim glasses tallied up Benny’s winnings.

  “I should have quit while I was ahead.” He laughed.

  I felt uneasy at the thought of carrying a lot of cash.

  “Don’t look so concerned, sweet Wendy.” Benny squeezed my arm. “The money is wired to an account for me. We shan’t be carrying cash on us.”

  I sighed with relief as I scanned the room for Veal. He had disappeared. A guard walked us to the door and waited until Samuel brought the limo up. Benny and I laughed as we tumbled into the car. “See you are my lucky lady. How fortunate I am to have met you.”

  “I’ve never won anything in my life. You’re the lucky one.”

  He smiled, “I am a lucky devil.”

  Chapter 11

  It was well after two in the morning when I stood next to Benny as he tapped in the security code on the pad that sat at eye level to the right of his front door.

  Samuel stood behind and one step below Benny. He looked anxiously up and down the street. His dark skin rendered him all but invisible, except for his peculiar, light amber eyes with the black line around the irises. He had the eyes of a wolf.

  Benny eased the door open, but as I stepped ahead of him he cut me off with his elbow and entered first. The lights were on low, just as we had left them. Benny gasped and put his hand out and toward me in a protective move.

  I followed his gaze to the staircase. The animal skins that had been lying on the floor of each of the bedrooms were now displayed as if creeping down the stairs. The tiger, the lion, the bears, the leopard, the panther… head to tail and each at a slithery angle, as if approaching prey… us. My brain was slow to process; I heard a ringing in my ears and felt something wedge in my throat… it was a scream.

  Samuel exchanged looks with Benny and then turned his strange eyes on me. I slipped back against the foyer wall with my hand on my neck, an unconscious motion.

  Benny nodded and Samuel closed the door with a thud.

  I heard someone suggest calling the police. It was me.

  My host shook his head. “Perhaps the burglar confused my house with a neighbor’s.”

  “You’ve been living in England too long. You’re making British excuses. Way too polite. Perhaps we should find the burglar and apologize to him for not being home when he came to call?”

  Benny smiled. “I would guess nothing has been taken. At the worst, this is merely a threat.”

  “Someone got in here while we were gone. He could come back tonight and kill us,” I said.

  “If that is Allah’s will… so be it,” Samuel said, his wolf-eyes glowing.

  That response sucked. Who’s side was he on?

  My host turned to me. I shall walk you to your room and see that you are safely locked in.” He motioned to his houseman, “Samuel, please take the skins and place them all in the library.”

  Stunned by his calm demeanor, I said, “So, you’re really not going to call the police?”

  “There would be no point. And it might open the door to further trouble. We need no more visitors this evening from either real or perceived officers of the law.”

  The Tomb Raider in me kicked in. “Are you afraid someone might come here posing as a policeman? What if the rogue interior decorator comes back tonight?”

  “He would not have warned us if he intended to do us further harm. He would have dispatched us… me in my sleep. Now come with me, my dear… I’ll see you to your room.”

  “Samuel… Please tend to the hides and set the alarm.”

  Benny preceded me on the stairs. As he walked, he tipped the paws of each rug so I could ease by and work my way to the top landing. I fought the urge to gallop out the door, but Benny was right. If someone had intended to hurt us, they wouldn’t have laid the animal skins out this way. No, this was a mind game and that pissed me off.

  As I passed the tiger’s paw, a wave of sadness washed over me. Something so beautiful should not come to such an undignified end.

  We walked quickly into my room. Benny waited while I inspected my things. Aside from the missing lion skin, the room appeared to be intact. My host peeked in the wardrobe, the bathroom, and under the bed. No lurkers.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, my dear.” He leaned over and gently kissed my cheek. “Bolt yourself in.”

  Once the door was closed I flipped the lock and propped a chair under the knob. A shudder ran from the ends of my hair to my toes. I felt violated and freaked out.

  I kept the bathroom door open as I stood at the sink and washed off my makeup. No way was I going to step into the shower. I had seen Psycho. I know what happens to blonde women who take showers while there’s screechy music playing in the background. Okay… maybe the music was in my imagination.

  Picking up the little, jeweled flashlight, I grabbed a pillow and blanket and tried to climb into the wardrobe for the night. But the closet stunk of cedar and old things. It was probably full of germy bugs. I crawled out and into the bed drifting into an uneasy sleep.

  Sometime be
fore sunrise I heard the watch-geese honking. I pulled the covers over my head and squitched down under the duvet.

  Chapter 12

  I woke the next morning to the overpowering smell of curry and lamb. Yuck. I buried my face in the pillow. Whatever happened to a good old English breakfast of bangers, rubber eggs, and fried bread?

  I showered and threw on my Katherine Hepburn tea dress, a lovely blue and white number. I added some ballet flats. Ready for the day, I was jonesing for coffee. I tiptoed down the stairs. The library doors were closed. I knocked softly before opening the door.

  No Benny. No Samuel. Just the animal hides stacked in front of the fireplace.

  My nerves were rubbing on imaginary broken glass as I sidled to the kitchen. The curry pot bubbled away unattended. A blob of red sauce had spilled on the floor, and a kitchen knife lay next to it. I shut off the pot, bent down and picked up the knife. Then I realized it wasn’t red curry on the floor. The spot was a bloody footprint. I dropped the knife. It bounced on the floor. Adrenalin rocketing through my body, the brassy taste of fear filled my mouth.

  Whoever left the footprint had to be nearby… perhaps in the pantry. The back door was slightly open. I could see Holly and Hildy standing with their heads near the door, waiting for their breakfast. Some watch-geese.

  Should I call the police? What would I report? Unattended curry, a bloody footprint, and a kitchen knife with my fingerprints on it? I should have known better than to touch lonely hot pots and sticky red knives. But they don’t teach you that in real estate school, and I was learning tomb raiding on the job.

  If this was nothing and I called the Met, Benny might come bouncing in majorly upset with me for involving the police. If this was something, they might hold me under suspicion… of what? Decision, decisions.

  Thud! And again another thud! The noise sounded as if it came from the wine cellar. I thought to call out to Samuel, but reconsidered. I remained unsure about the virtues of the houseman, and the bloody knife on the floor made me even less confident.

  I snuck up the six flights to Benny’s room and knocked on his door, once, then twice. No answer. Ever so slowly I opened it. Benny’s bed was made. Had he gotten up early or hadn’t it been slept in? I checked his bathroom and closet. Roger’s client had vanished. I’d screwed up my first archaeological assignment. There could be a simple explanation but I didn’t think so, not with Benny’s tenseness, the animal-skin break in, and a bloody footprint.

  Stepping as lightly as I could, I made my way down two flights to my room. The door creaked a teeny bit as I opened it. I slipped inside and turned the lock. I made a mad dash to the closet to pack my suitcase. Pausing, I realized my luggage would make too much noise and slow me down. I’d seen too many horror movies. I knew the bad guy – if there was a bad guy – was lurking under the stairs or in the foyer. They always are. Screw my suitcase.

  I found a black plastic trash bag on the closet shelf. Perfect. I threw three designer outfits in it, tossed in some sandals, my toiletries, and knotted the end. I gently pitched the bag out the window onto the shrubs directly below in the garden. I had no intention of leaving without a few of my St. John dresses. I’d worked too hard to pay for them.

  I eased my way down two flights of stairs, quietly entered the bedroom over the shrubs, and closed the door behind me. I tried to raise the window. It was painted shut but gave way with a screech to my lifting.

  The trellis came up to the bottom of the windowsill. It might not hold my weight, but those prickly dry shrubs just below should cushion my fall. Carrying my purse, I grabbed the frail woodwork like a demented musketeer. Unfortunately, the ground came up rather quickly.

  “Ouch!” said a strange voice as I landed on something round and boney.

  Benny had called this place a garden of constant surprise. I had just encountered one.

  Chapter 13

  I fell, rolled over onto my feet, and looked at my landing pad. It was the head of a scrawny little man wearing khaki shorts with pockets on the legs and a sweaty safari hat. His left ear swung away from his noggin like an open door on a taxi. He grabbed it and pressed it against his skull. “Wendy? Right?” he said. “Want to make a fast buck?”

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “Algy Green, the world famous entrepreneurial archaeologist at your service. I’m on the trail of a crime syndicate of archaeologists dealing in stolen antiquities. I could use your help.”

  “I’m already in a committed archaeological relationship.”

  “But, I’m talking big business. I heard you were staying here. According to the BBC news, you assisted Professor Jolley in recovering twelve of the Lost Boys.”

  “I’m not talking business with some English imbecile. What’s on your leg…?”

  “Nothing.” He blotted at it.

  “It looks like blood.”

  “It’s a goose bite. Some vigilante geese attacked me a bit ago. It’s a big problem in London. The heat is driving them insane.”

  His right ear came flinging away from his head. He now looked like a taxi with two doors open.

  “Your ears have popped away from your head,” I said.

  “No they haven’t!”

  “They have. I can see them.”

  “Have not!” he snapped as he clutched his ears.

  I tried to step around him. His hair was dusted with rose-scented talcum powder. Every time he jerked his head, the powder flew in my face and his ears flapped.

  He blocked my exit. “Not to worry. You can feel secure with me, as I’m not an easy wicket. Very few men take me on.” He put his arm over my shoulder.

  “That’s it!” With my trash bag in my left hand, I hauled off with my right and clocked him. He fell to the ground, feet up and knobby knees askew.

  “Why, I never!” he gurgled.

  “I’ll bet not!” I said.

  Hildy and Holly were at my heels honking and nipping. “Shoo!” I pushed them off. They turned on Algy Green biting his bum. He ran in the opposite direction.

  Dragging an iron patio chair to the side gate, I threw my bag o’ clothes over the edge, jumped on the chair, and lunged over the fence, falling on my fanny. I ran round the side of the townhouse onto the street, sweat dripping off my cheeks like an exotic salt facial. Thanks to our dinner excursion last night, I had my bearings. Benny lived in Lambeth on the south side of Westminster Bridge. If could get across the bridge, I’d hike to the Hyde Park Hotel where Roger would find me. My instinct was telling me that Benny hadn’t spoken to Roger since I’d arrived. I’d been hoodwinked, but for what purpose? I wanted Roger and a cold pitcher of beer, if for no other reason than to dump on my fevered brow.

  Scurrying along, I kept the London Eye over my right shoulder. It looked like a huge bicycle wheel in the sky. It lifted people up, gently looped them around, and plopped them back on the ground. I thought it a bit like the rhythm of my life. Loopy, but eventually I come back to earth.

  The pavement sizzled. I took short panting breaths. It hurt to inhale the steamy air. My ears ticked and my brain buzzed. I edged around emergency workers who were tending to a woman passed out on the sidewalk.

  A small cab slinked along the curb. It had to be one of the unlicensed taxis that cruised the streets. If he drove me to my hotel, I could dash in and maybe change my US dollars for British currency and pay him. Freelance taxis don’t have meters, so the fare is usually agreed to at the beginning of the ride. I stepped off the curb and closer to the cab, which was mostly yellow, but had one rusted orange door. “How much to the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park Hotel on Knightsbridge?”

  As I leaned in the passenger side window to negotiate the rate I was hit with the smell of incense and stinky bodies. The cabbie was a swarthy looking fellow with Rastafarian dreadlocks, crooked teeth, and dark sunglasses. The little hairs on the back of my neck did a jig, but I was desperate. It was a long hike to the hotel. Plus I was getting the creepy feeling someone might be tailing me. Maybe that Al
gy Green guy.

  “That will be thirty-two pounds,” the cabbie said.

  “What? That’s robbery.” I guessed the fanciness of my destination dictated the price.

  “My mistake, mum… forty-two pounds.”

  As I didn’t have another option, I agreed. I opened the back door and shoved my designer trash bag onto the seat and followed it in. Disgusting, creepy, ick. I tried to wedge my short dress between my thighs and the battered, germy, leather seat.

  The driver did a wheelie and headed into traffic in the opposite direction from Hyde Park.

  “Going the wrong way, fella!”

  He ignored me.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  We made eye contact in his rearview mirror. He was licking his lips.

  “What do I have ‘kidnap me’ stamped on my frigging forehead? Let me out!” I demanded as he accelerated through the light and round a corner.

  “Ain’t gonna happen!” I yelled.

  He was forced to slow down and fall in line behind a row of cars. I judged his speed to be not quite fatal. I decided to jump.

  Grabbing my trash-bag luggage and my purse with my right hand, I yanked the handle with my left and battered my shoulder against the door. Had he locked it? I choked on the sandalwood sweat-scented air as panic kicked in. The door squeaked in protest as it grudgingly opened. I rolled from the seat and fell cleanly away from the taxi, scraping my knee on the road and getting blood on my pretty tea dress. Blood. That would be impossible to remove.

  The vehicle screeched to a stop. For a second, I thought the cabbie might run after me. Curious pedestrians stared at us, which must have scared him off. He pulled into traffic and disappeared. No one offered to help, they just cast half-glances my way. What is this, New York? I adjusted my clothes and stepped onto the sidewalk. I was in the middle of a sticky mixture of the antique air of London and diesel exhaust.