'The Grand Banks Hotel Incident'

By Phineas Redux

—OOO—

Summary:— Fiona ‘Fay' Cartwright & Alice ‘Al' Drever are private detectives in an East Coast American city, in the 1930's. The ladies are asked to provide security at a swish hotel, on the occasion of a group of VIP's residing there

Caution:— There is a certain amount of light swearing in this story.

—O—

Part 4 of the 'Drever & Cartwright' series
1. The Packer Building Incident.
2. The Fowler St. Incident.
3. The Pier 7 Incident.
4. The Elevated Rail Incident.
5. The Charioteer Insurance Co. Incident
6. The Grand Banks Hotel Incident
7. The Vanishing Girl Incident

—O—

“ Wowee! The ‘ Grand Banks' ? We've arrived, at last. Good job we're pretty much free at the moment.”

Fiona turned in her chair, to contemplate the author of this excited exclamation. Alice, for it was she, was caught in the act of running a hand through her luxuriant brunette locks, as she grinned impishly back at the woman who often suffered under the title of ‘ Lady of Alice's Heart '.

“Y'see, this is our problem right here.” Fiona tried to smile, with an added condescending sneer; but of course, faced with the young woman whom she did indeed love with all her heart, and always would; well, the exasperated but warm smile won, hands down. “What we need'ta project is the aura of a couple of professional women, on top of their game. Not that of a young schoolgirl taken out for a cream tea by her aunt, an' losing all control. So it's the Grand Banks Hotel? So what?”

“It's the poshest place in Delacote, that's so what, darling.” Alice rose from the couch where she had been lazing, at length; adjusted her skirt, brownish-red cotton ankle-length but loose-fitting, and came to stand by her affectionate mate's side. “All the nobs go there for their cocktails of an evening; an' whenever anybody who really is anybody deigns to honour Delacote with their exalted presence, the Grand Banks is their den of choice. So, read me the letter, then. Who's stayin' there, as we speak; an' what've they pinched, that the hotel management want us t'wrench back from their sable-covered fists?”

“Al, joy of my life, you have been reading far too much ‘ Ouida ' lately.” The tall black-haired, logical member of the duo smirked patronisingly. “Didn't I tell ya her works are too rich for the imagination of a delicate innocent young gal like you?”

“Give it up, sweetness. I'm cold, hard, an' I know what's what, alright. At least, I think I do.” Alice rubbed her companion's shoulder tenderly. “So, come on, what does the letter say—an' who's it from, anyway?”

“Settle down then, an I'll read it; just relax, for Heaven's sake.” Fiona gave her companion a tender smile. “Ready? The Manager, Leonard Cecil Laithwaite—he seems determined t'foist his whole moniker on us—gives us his most polite regards, and requests our presence at his office on Tuesday, 8 th August, 1933, appointment 11.45 am,—to discuss a matter of the utmost importance. That's all.”

“Humph. Doesn't tell us much.” Alice leaned over her paramour's shoulder, for a closer glimpse of the letter, thereby causing Fiona to nearly swoon as the scent of the brunette's hair filled her nostrils. “Ah, here's the rub, ducks. Y'forgot t'mention this last paragraph. —”

“Kindly don't call me ‘ ducks ', if ya please.”

“—it would be helpful, he says, if no mention of this invitation was allowed to become public. Ah-ha, he's got secrets. I adore a good secret—it usually means some low-down, nasty, ill-bred mean bastard has their dirty mitts in the soup, somewhere. I love it.” Alice unbent and rose to her full height, 5' 7½”; placing a hand at the small of her back, on top of her light-yellow silk blouse, as she did so in order to ease a rebellious muscle. “D'you suppose we ought'ta go armed t'the teeth? I cleaned my Colt .38 Special, just last evening. Y'never know.”

“Darling, get a grip; we're not heading out t'defend the Alamo—just visitin' an' ordinary hotel. We may not actually be given the case at all, as it is.” Fiona shook her head in defeat. “Your mother never let you see the inside of a book on etiquette when y'were young, did she?”

“Nark it, ya floozy. I'm in, an' I'm stayin' in. What about— hey ! What ya doin'?”

“Remember a week ago, when I said not t'call me a ‘floozy' again? Well, ya just did, darling.” Fiona, meanwhile, had secured a firm but loving grip on the culprit's left wrist. “An' now I'm gon'na do what I threatened t'do a week ago, if the event ever recurred. Ya remember?”

“Oh Gods! Y'wouldn't, would ya, gorgeous?”

“Too late for blandishments now, gal. Here goes—”

“ Ahh !”

—O—

“Pray take these chairs, ladies. I, er, believe you have already met my other guest here, on, er, previous occasions? Excuse me.”

The small lean-featured man, perhaps 5' 5” in height, gestured to the plain wooden-backed pieces of furniture in question, while he stepped gracefully round the corner of the desk to take his place in a comfortable leather armchair awaiting him there. He was dressed in a morning-suit; dark jacket, pale grey trousers, with white spats on his scintillatingly polished shoes. The office, like the hotel itself, showed all the design features of a bygone style—in this case Art Nouveau. The building had been designed in 1902, at the height of that particularly artistic outpouring, and had not suffered further up-dating since. So now, surrounded by the modern zeitgeist of the present age, which was fully-fledged Art Deco, it seemed to the casual eye somewhat out-of-date and perhaps lacking in the moderner refinements. But many customers, with wads of loose money in their wallets, continued to appreciate its appearance of refinement and almost decadent sophistication—which the newer, so-called Moderne style seemed, somehow, to lack.

Already seated at the other end of the desk from the women was a large grey-haired man whom both Fiona and Alice knew well from several former meetings; Agent Allan Napier of the Bureau of Investigation. Although they had met on about three separate occasions in the past, they had never developed what might be termed a mutual rapport or even understanding. To put it bluntly Agent Napier loathed the women, as amateurs; while Fiona and Alice thought of the heavy-set man as a thick-headed lummox, who only made arrests by fluke and luck. They didn't smile at each other; merely let it be understood, by a slight curling of the lip and minute raising of censorious eyebrows, that the long-standing feeling between them was indeed reciprocal.

“So, we received your call-to-arms yesterday morning.” Fiona, as was her usual manner, jumped right in; ignoring the silent, but obviously disapproving, trousered presence nearby. “What can we do for you, Mr Laithwaite?”

“Firstly, let me thank you for coming over at such short notice.” He placed a perfectly manicured hand on his desk-top as he spoke; focussing his attention exclusively on Fiona, whom he obviously took for the leader of the detective duo. “The fact is we here at the hotel have just completed detailed preparations concerning, er, a large group of top-listed Senators and British VIP's. A political Conference, you know. We—the management, that is—have decided we need in addition to the Bureau men, so ably led by Agent Napier here, other outside personnel to augment security matters generally; within the confines of, er, the hotel itself. We have, therefore, chosen your firm to help us in our present necessity,—if you are agreeable.”

This was not the type of work the women were usually involved in; so they both looked at each other, and mused on the subject for a few moments, while they assimilated this information.

“Just what're we meant t'do, exactly?” Fiona raised the main question of interest. “Maybe ya can be a little more explicit, an' explain just how we'll fit in?”

“ Uum , we have a large ballroom on the second floor which, for present purposes, has been equipped as a conference hall.” The manager coughed quietly, and continued hurriedly. “The meeting next week, is a very important affair. International; well, America and Britain, anyway. The British visitors will be staying at this hotel as guests during the conference.—”

“That's nice.” Alice butted in, just for something to say.

“—er, yes.” Laithwaite raised an eyebrow, as if not used to interruptions. “It is, therefore, these foreign personages whom we primarily require your services to protect. We would also put a small suite, on the appropriate floor, at your disposal.”

Now that solid information was being set out in front of them Alice and Fiona perked up and began to go over the salient points, as these occurred to both of them.

“Who are these charac—people, exactly.” Alice took a notebook from her dove-grey leather handbag, and twirled a pencil in her fingers. “We need names, ranks, an' positions in society; that sort'a thing. Let's us see what we're faced with, y'understand.”

“Say, Laithwaite, are ya really gon'na go through with this?” The Bureau representative growled into audible life; his tone clearly showing a certain disdain with proceedings. “What can these dames, here, do that we at the Bureau can't do a thousand times better, an' faster? Ya know my opinion on the matter, already.”

“Ah, umm.” Laithwaite frowned slightly, now that the crux of the affair had been reached. Then he again visibly shrugged slightly, and came clean with the needful. “Well, Agent Napier, you are providing cover for the Senators, which is fine; but the details of what you earlier told myself and my companion Directors seem to point to these women as being likely to be in a far more—what may I call it?—realistic, position to carry out the investigations necessary; from the Hotel's point of view, you see. Right,—so first, there is the British Foreign Secretary, Sir Charles Beverley—”

“ Wow! You weren't kidding when ya said top people.” Fiona was impressed, still ignoring the presence of the now visibly fuming Government agent.

“Just so.” The manager allowed himself a haughty expression, mixed with quiet pride. “ Ahem , along with the Foreign Secretary will be, primarily, his private secretary, Mr Graham Linkley-Brice; and, as I am led to understand, three lesser assistants. It is the Foreign Secretary whom we would like you to take an, er, particular interest in during the conference. His entourage will have Scotland Yard protection, by the way; but we feel some further security, focussing more pointedly on the hotel itself would be, er, appropriate.”

“I've already put a whole squad in place for this party.” Agent Napier virtually snarled, as he butted in to make his own position known. “That's twelve agents, for your information. How two ordinary women, like these here, can have any possible effect on the outcome is beyond me—especially as they ain't, by any readin' o'the regulations, Government trained. Well, I ask you?”

“We have been through all this before, Mr Napier.” Laithwaite unexpectedly showed the, hitherto well concealed, iron fist of his character. “The particular danger outlined by you at our preliminary meetings has worried the Hotel management to such an extent—rightly, I may say,—that the Directors have decided private detectives—and Miss Cartwright and Miss Drever fit the bill perfectly—are necessary, in addition to your, er, official contingent. Any questions, ladies?”

“Will we be following them in off-duty hours as well?” Alice brought up an interesting point. “I mean, will we hav'ta be at their sides when they go shopping; to the baseball game; t'meet friends, an' suchlike; or stand guard outside their bedroom doors, of a night?”

“Er, no.” Laithwaite frowned again, contemplating the subject silently for a moment. “They are only scheduled to stay in America for four days—most of each day being taken up with the conference. So there will probably be few chances to, er, engage in the activities you have mentioned. I would wish you ladies to focus on your work within the hotel, during the course of the Conference.”

“Suits me.” Fiona smirked quietly. “Don't fancy trailin' around the streets, tryin' t'keep tabs on a client in public. That never works out right, believe me.”

“Perhaps this is the appropriate moment to, er, divulge to the ladies the salient points of our, er, disquiet associated with the coming Conference.” Laithwaite shuffled in his expensive suit; giving the Bureau man a worried look. “What you are about to hear, ladies, must of course not go beyond the confines of these walls—whether you take the case or not. Is that understood?”

“Yeah, we can keep a secret, don't worry.” Fiona sneered quietly at the manager. “We've had experience of delicate situations before; we know how t'handle ‘em. Go on.”

“Well, Agent Napier?” Laithwaite made a light movement of one hand, giving way to the other man.

“Huh! This is nuts.” Napier apparently continued to harbour a great deal of reserve about his position; but finally gave in and opened up with the story. “OK, OK, what it is—is, this here Conference is bein' attended by some real high-falutin' members of the Legislature. That's to say, two Senators and the British Foreign Secretary; an' miscellaneous staff, on both sides. Now, takin' into consideration the parlous state of the political world at the present juncture—y'do keep up with important world news, I expect?”

Faced with the grinning sarcasm with which this last question was put, it was a race between the two women as to who would be first with the correct retaliatory punishment—by a short head Alice won.

“Listen, bozo, Fay an' I know what's goin' on, sure enough.” She ran a hand through her brunette locks as she fixed her victim with an angry brown eye. “As to you , I'd be surprised if ya remembered the way home every evenin', without help. Yeah, we know all about Mussolini, an' that character in Germany—wha'sis name, again?”

“Hitler.” Fiona nodded knowledgeably, in support of her partner.

“Yeah, him.” Alice waved a cursory hand in the air, and continued at full throttle. “An' that thug Stalin, an' all those other characters makin' a mess of Europe right now. So what?”

“Huh! So what ?” Napier, on his own part, sneered with relish. “I'll tell ya so what . America and Britain makin' any kind of a military deal these days is just got'ta anger almost any European dictator y'care t'name—an' there's scores o'such makin' hay in the Old Country as we speak—if ya hadn't noticed.”

“Stop belly-achin', Napier.” Fiona felt it more than time to put her pennyworth of irritation into the mix. “Are these just your own personal anti-social ramblings, or is there a point hidin' somewhere in the bushes?”

The Bureau agent glared at his interlocutor as if keel-hauling was a subject which had just sprung happily to mind; then he gained control of his temper again and reluctantly returned to the subject under discussion.

“It has come to the attention of the Bureau; and everything comes to the Bureau's attention, eventually—that certain Governments in Europe would break out the bootleg whisky an' dance a real live hoedown if this upcoming Conference could be disrupted somehow.” Launched on the topic, Napier settled back on his chair and proceeded to details. “Certain British Security Departments have been in communication with us—”

“That'd be MI5.” Fiona thought it prudent to show she and Alice were au fait with such particulars.

“Yeah, stop interrupting, will ya?” Napier pretended not to be impressed. “An' what they tell us is that a group of spies—maybe they'd be better described as agents provocateurs —have made their way here, to Delacote City, in preparation for this event.—”

“How'd MI5 know about it?” Alice asked the obvious question, with a raised eyebrow.

“Because they're spies themselves, an' spy-catchers, Miss Drever. Because they're also spies .” Napier's voice oozed with sarcasm as he scored this palpable hit. “Governments have the wherewithal t'find out these kind'a things; that's why the Bureau's in existence, t'stop such in their dirty connivin' tracks. Where was I?”

“Someone had come t'Delacote,” Fiona took her cue with outright joy. “t'wave a patriotic flag at the Senators, when they arrive.”

“ Huh! ” Napier looked like someone who had eaten a bad oyster. “These people ain't comedians. They ain't Harold Lloyd or Keaton, by a long way. We think there may be as many as half a dozen, working together. Don't know if they're all men, or not—better t'keep an open mind on that question. Anyway, we're pretty sure they're already here, and that their scheme is to make an attempt on the lives of one or both Senators; or, perhaps, the Foreign Secretary; we ain't quite certain.”

“ Hmm , iz'zat so?” Fiona folded her hands and looked keenly across at the grey-haired man; a sharp iciness now glinting in her eyes. “That needs some thinkin' about.”

Alice had been busily transferring this information to her notebook, while her cohort sat back and mulled over the whole thing. Fiona liked to give every potential case its full share of all-inclusive scrutiny; and she had already come upon various areas that needed clarification.

“Say, Mr Laithwaite, we'll need'ta be armed in this situation—can't do much good if we ain't.” She raised a dark eyebrow at the manager. “Is that gon'na be any concern? T'the Scotland Yard men, I mean. It might cause, er, anxiety an' stress all round, y'know; if we hav'ta argue with ‘em, at all.”

Laithwaite was clearly beginning to see that the whole topic was, in fact, a minefield or swamp of so far unrealised difficulties. He himself had never been concerned in a situation of this importance before; and was now swiftly finding these previously un-recognised problems and details almost overwhelming in their enormity.

“I think Sir Beverley has a man of his own—a Scotland Yard officer—acting as personal bodyguard.” The manager stroked his chin in thought. “You may need to bring the subject up with him. Otherwise, I understand the need to bear arms perfectly, and have no opposition to such.”

“I, on the other hand, got more than a little opposition.” Napier favoured the women with one of his special glares; glares which, on previous outings, had been known to crush hardened criminals—but now seemed to glance off the ladies like shots ricocheting off armoured battle-cruisers. “Listen Cartwright—an' you better lend an ear too, Drever—me an' my men are gon'na protect the Senators from all danger; an' if that means unannounced straight shootin' at any point, you'll just have yourselves t'blame if you're in the line o'fire—got that?”

“We can look after ourselves, Napier.” Alice glared at the man with no sign of the milk of human kindness. “Anytime y'wan'na re-create the gunfight at the O.K. Corral, is fine by us. Fay an' I'll end up bein' Wyatt Earp an' Doc Holliday, t'your sorry Clanton gang, get me?”

Agent Napier, infuriated beyond all measure by this sassy remark, snarled something only half under his breath—which both Mr Laithwaite and the ladies chose to ignore—and heaved himself out of his chair to stalk to the office door; which he evidently took great pleasure in slamming behind him.

“Well, er, ladies, I think we may allow Agent Napier some leeway in his attitude, I suppose.” Laithwaite hunched over his desk and glanced worriedly at his remaining guests. “Anyway, I leave the whole thing in your hands, ladies. What do you say?”

Fiona looked at Alice; Alice returned the compliment, then gave a sort of half-nod to her companion, who interpreted it correctly.

“OK, Mr Laithwaite—we're in.” Fiona leaned forward in her chair to fix the small man with an intent gaze. “But we got'ta have—what's it called,— carte blanche , t'go about our activities without criticism, or undue pressure. We're professionals, an' y'can take it from me we know what we're doin'. What d'ya say?”

“I'm, er, agreeable.” The manager seemed much relieved at having this weight of responsibility taken from his shoulders. “As to rates, I expect that your services will be, er, within acceptable limits?

Alice was the firm's accountant; and if there was one thing she was expert in it was keeping the firm's accounts on a comfortably viable basis.

“This is an unusual sort of case, Mr Laithwaite.” She softened her reasoning with a gentle smile—not that the manager seemed to react in any visibly happy manner to her words. “So there are all sorts of details to be taken into account, as it were. It'll hav'ta be rates-an'-a-half for this present business. But, don't worry, you'll be getting' all our exclusive professional expertise for that.”

“Will you be taking up residence in your rooms immediately?” Laithwaite appeared less than enchanted by this information, but made no audible resistance. “To make yourselves familiar with the layout of the hotel, and such-like?”

“No, we'll leave that till the week-end.” Fiona could see that taking a positive attitude to their duties from the start would best serve the women in the long run. “We'll go back to our office, an' mull over the whole thing. Don't worry; we'll have your place under tight security before ya can say ‘ Betty Boop '. So long.”

—O—

“What d'you think about it then, Fay?”

The women had returned to their office on the 5 th floor of the Packer Building, at the corner of 12 th St and Rosemartin Rd. They were presently sitting beside a large table-desk in one corner of the well-lit room, considering their newest case.

“Well, it makes a change from pursuing dead-beats an' gangsters, I suppose.” Fiona shrugged gently. “Probably spend most of our time preventing the fourth estate from shouldering an' pushing their victims around, in the hotel corridors.”

“Yeah, an' getting' blinded by all those camera flash-bulbs, too, while we're at it.” Alice nodded understandingly. “At least it'll pay well; an' we might get our own mugs in the papers, too,—that won't be bad for publicity, eh? Anyway, we could do with some silver in the pot. This place needs re-decorating, an' no mistake.”

“As long as ya don't go for this awful modern Art Deco, that's all round us these days. Can't stand it.”

“Hah! Talkin' of style, honeybuns, what about these, eh?” Alice indicated, with a perfectly manicured index finger, the plans scattered over the table. “Some interestin' stuff here. It's Art Nouveau, by the way; right up your street, I should imagine.”

“Ingrate!” Nevertheless Fiona shuffled her chair closer to her sarcastic better half, and leaned over to examine the plans, while rubbing shoulders companionably with her light-o'-love. “So, what about ‘em? God, you're right; the place is Nouveau, right down t'it's tiny cotton socks.”

“Yeah, that's what I thought, too.” Alice nodded, pointing to a particular place on one of the sheets. “See here? It even has its own Turkish Baths; several inter-connected rooms, in fact; and a small pool. Now, that's what I call swish .”

“Could create some difficulty, if Sir Beverley decides to indulge himself with that service.” Fiona looked at Alice with a wide smile. “Can't follow him in there, can we, sunshine?”

“ Huh! It'd certainly be a sensation, if we did.” Alice laughed aloud at this incongruous thought. “Suppose we'd just hav'ta wait at the door. D'you have the British timetable, dear? I seem t'have lost it.”

“Yeah, that's it over there—under the ground plan with the yellow strip down the side. See it?”

Alice leaned across the wide table; shuffled some un-needed plans out of the way; and grabbed the typewritten sheet in question. She spread the paper out on the table, so they could both read its contents; then began to quote those passages of interest.

“Yep, this's it.” She flattened the single sheet carefully with one hand and, leaning close over it, dove into the details. “So, let's see—they arrive on Sunday, 13 th August. The first day of the actual conference bein' Monday. It goes on through Wednesday; then they—the British contingent—leave on Thursday morning, 17 th August. Seems straight-forward.”

“Yeah.” Fiona scratched her chin as she thought about the situation. “That means we'll have them under our eye for practically five days. A longish stint. Ya had any experience with Limeys before, Al?”

“Not t'say actual experience, as in really gettin' t'know any, no.” The brunette shrugged. “Probably nothin' to it. They're just people, like any others, I expect.”

“Don't forget they're also ‘ Upper Class ', dear.” Fiona pin-pointed the material fact in the case. “Actually, I take that back, they're true-blue ‘ Aristocracy '.”

“How'd you make that out?”

“Well, Sir Beverley's ‘ Sir ', ain't he?” Fiona could see a church in daylight as well as anyone. “An' take a close gander at the list of personnel at the bottom of the page. His Private Secretary, Graham Linkley-Brice—apart from the double-barrelled name—is also the ‘ Honourable ' Graham what-not. That's aristocracy, too. I'm not quite sure what level, but it's definitely your real nob an' no mistake.”

“Hell's Bells!” Fiona growled low in her throat. “I just hope they're properly grateful for all the hard work we're puttin' in.”

They had, by now, carried on their researches into the early evening; the time, as Fiona glanced at the office clock, being 8.15pm, and both women showing signs of tiredness. They pushed the papers away and rose from the table, as a certain amount of aches and pains made themselves known while they walked over to the open window to stare down into the busy street and breathe in some fresh air.

“God, I must be getting' old.” Alice groaned, as she rubbed the small of her back vigorously. “I could be doin' with a session in the Turkish Baths, myself.”

“Well, don't despair.” Fiona had the answer to hand. “Maybe they do Ladies Days, or Evenings, at the Hotel. A coupl'a sessions in the steam-room'll soon fix ya up, next week.”

“Ha! Can't wait.” Alice rolled her eyes sarcastically. “ Ooh God , I'm tired.”

“Yeah, let's call it a day.” Fiona nodded her agreement. “How about ‘ Roberto's '? They have a delicious spaghetti bolognese, an' maybe some real wine if we're lucky. Come on, grab your hat.”

“Yummy. You payin'?”

“God, alright.” Fiona growled low, as she took her paramour's arm and made for the office door—not forgetting to switch the light out as they left. “ Jeez . When was the last time you shelled out for supper, gal?”

“Last week, was it?” Alice shuffled her shoulders inside her warm coat. “Remember? ‘ The Golden Cockerel '?”

“That was a month ago, baby. Don't try'n pull the wool over my eyes.” Fiona was having none of it. “I'm beginnin' t'think the last time sunlight saw the inside o'your purse short skirts an' cloche hats were still in vogue.”

“Hah!”

—O—

“ Rat-a-tat! ”

“Damn visitors!” Alice sniffed wearily as she crossed to the door. “Can't we get any peace in this damn hotel.”

Sunday had dawned bright and cheerful, with the sun beating down from a cloudless sky. The rooms they had been allocated, on the 7th floor of the hotel, looked out on the extensive panorama of a busy Canterbury Av., far below. The ladies had been generally mooching around the hotel since the day before ‘ getting to know the joint ', as Alice so pertinently put it to her sweetheart. On this pivotal day they had both risen, less brightly and far less cheerfully than usual it has to be said, to patrol the corridors and huge entrance hall of the hotel before the arrival of the several guests. Already, during the course of the morning, they had suffered the visitation of Mr Laithwaite no less than three times; he being in a state bordering on the hysterical, from an excess of nervous energy. Finally, over the course of two frantic hours, the VIP's had all arrived and taken up their several abodes on the 7 th floor alongside Fiona and Alice.

“Good morning, madam. I am Carrington, Sir Charles Beverley's butler.” The man was of short stature; dressed in a dark jacket and grey trousers; and radiated an air of respectful efficiency, allied with an utterly perfect anonymity. “He requires me to ask, if you ladies are not otherwise engaged, would you be so kind as to accept his invitation to lunch in his private stateroom. May I have the pleasure of informing Sir Charles of your acceptance?”

Fiona looked at her partner with raised eyebrows; Alice looked at Fiona, enquiringly, obviously enjoying the situation immensely.

“You may inform Sir Beverley we shall be there.” Fiona put her hand on Alice's shoulder, and leaned gently against her. “His own stateroom, I take it?”

“Yes madam, room 2188, along to the left-hand on this floor.” Carrington bowed, with just the right soupçon of servility. “Perhaps I may also be allowed to correct a slight misunderstanding, madam? It is Sir Charles . A Knight of the Realm is always addressed by his given name, never by surname. A common mistake, madam. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am.”

Having acknowledged both women he backed off and withdrew silently. A few seconds later Alice leaned out to look both ways along the wide corridor, then moved back in and shut the door.

“He's gone.” She frowned at Fiona, and scratched her left elbow in thought. “A high-class servant; and a fount of arcane aristocratic knowledge, too, by the sound of it. Well, it's not every day I'm invited to dig in at the trough with the nobility. What's the routine?”

“The routine, darling, is never to forget we're democratic Americans.” Fiona nodded confidently. She knew where she stood at least. “Just be polite. Don't call him Charlie; an' I fancy he's probably not actually a Lord, either. We'd better remember that, as well; before Carrington jumps in with another lesson on English Heraldry, or whatever, at an inconvenient moment. Come on, let's get washed an' spruced up. You got'ta make a good impression on Sir Charles, y'know.”

“Huh. Damned aristocrats.” Alice wasn't going to surrender without one last fight. “Sometimes I think the French had the right idea. 1794, an' all that, y'know.”

“You sound like a commie.” Fiona smirked over her shoulder as she preceded Alice. “Anyway's, Al, ya look great in that yellow wool two-piece. So just shimmy into his room, like Mata Hari meeting someone she really likes. Maybe it'll take his mind off more important matters.”

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

—O—

The stateroom suite occupied by Sir Charles Beverley was one of the ‘ Grand Banks ' plushest examples. It was huge, featuring a sitting-room apparently as large as an ocean-going liner's saloon. Other doors led off to pastures unknown, but probably just as large. The furnishings were of the latest; the soft thick carpets were Persian; the grand piano in the far corner was a Bernstein; the long oak table running the length of the apartment was antique; while Carrington, as butler, presided over the handful of servants like a General over his Division. It was, however, a cold collation; so everything was quickly placed before the guests, allowing he and his throng of servants to speedily disappear, their duty achieved.

The guests' host, Sir Charles, sat at the head of the table. On his left sat Fiona; to her left sat Alice; while further down the table were two unknown quantities.

“I don't know if you have already met.” Sir Charles waved a hand, covering all who sat at the table. “But introductions won't be out of place, I think. Down on the left there is Chief-Inspector Richard Upland, of Scotland Yard, tasked with our—the British, that is—security. Next to him is Graham Linkley-Brice, my Private Secretary; and finally, Miss Alice Drever and Miss Fiona Cartwright, private detectives.”

There was a soft buzz, as of many wasps, while everyone allowed they could see their neighbours. Then their host got down to business.

“I thought it relevant to the present, er, security arrangements you have all been kind enough to provide for my, er, entourage, that you should meet together in this, er, less official manner.” Sir Charles began to show that smooth unassuming, but sharply alert, manner for which he was renowned in International political circles. “It will allow you all to get to know each other, I believe. Particularly as you both, Miss Drever and Miss Cartwright, will be working closely with Chief-Inspector Upland.”

“How so?” Fiona, with iron resolve, instantly grabbed at this mild hint. “Al an' I don't usually work with outsiders.”

“This coming conference is, if I may be allowed to say so, a most serious business.” Sir Charles was far too urbane to show the slightest dissatisfaction, though he replied in a steady determined voice. “The whole thing is of a most delicate nature.—”

“Yeah, but—”

“You, Miss Cartwright, and your partner, have been employed by the hotel for their own considerations; focussing primarily on the well-being of the hotel and its security. I, along with the team of officers under Chief-Inspector Upland here, must see to my own, er, defence.” The British Peer carried relentlessly on. “But on the last day of my voyage here, before docking at the pierhead, I had occasion to send certain, er, requests back to London. And they have seen fit to agree with my assessment of the situation. Which, overall, will mean closer ties with yourselves—Miss Drever and Miss Cartwright. In effect the British Government is agreeable to your combining your regular, er, activities with those of Chief-Inspector Upland; for as long as I and my team are in residence here. So ladies, what do you say?”

There was not much either Fiona or Alice found in answer, except to finally agree to the proposal. Being on the sharp end of British diplomacy was a first for both women, and neither felt they entirely liked the experience. Alice pursed her lips, and heaved a sigh. Fiona twisted her lips in several directions; bit down on her lower lip; frowned at everyone else sitting round the table; then capitulated.

“OK, we're in.” She gave Sir Charles a sharp look, however. “But there's a number o' penetratin' questions about our personal standing in this whole affair I'd like t'discuss with Inspector Upland; mighty soon an' at some length. On that understanding we're willing to take on the job; at the goin' rates, o'course.”

“Thank you, ladies.” Sir Charles smiled, with evident relief. “I am sure you will conduct yourselves extraordinarily well.”

The next half hour was exclusively given over to a proper appreciation of the luncheon menu; which, to the American women's surprise, turned out to be an excellent representation of British taste—cold quail, mint potatoes, delicate long green beans, covered in a superb sauce. The white wine, too, had a gently golden sheen, tasting of sweet peaches. Fiona and Alice found themselves thoroughly enjoying the meal; especially as Sir Charles regaled his guests with several humurous anecdotes of his time in various consuls in India, Egypt, and Greece earlier in the century. Everything went off smoothly and enjoyably, in a relaxed atmosphere dexterously controlled by Sir Charles, who was clearly an expert in such matters. Finally, as he rose to show his guests out, he again came back to the main purpose of the informal meeting.

“I must make it plain to you both, Miss Cartwright—Miss Drever, that each team will be of equal standing, though absolutely separate, unless wishing to pool information.” He bowed with just the right tone, and favoured his departing guests with a thin, though warm, smile. “Well, that is everything, I believe. I hope you all enjoyed lunch. I thought the quail was perfect, myself. Goodbye, goodbye.”

—O—

“ Aah! That's good.” Alice inhaled deeply, appreciating the fresh air wafting through the open window of their bedroom on the 7th floor as she leaned her elbows comfortably on the wide sill. It was now early evening and the women had just completed a reconnaissance of the hotel floor, to check the VIP's were happily ensconced in their several rooms and suites. “I could do with a rest-cure in a hotel like this. Bring on the Turkish Baths! Hey, look! I can see the Bartleby Building, and the Packer Building. Makes me feel almost at home. Anyway's, this Inspector Upland? What're we goin' t'do about him, eh? Bit of a setback t'our free an' easy lifestyle, don't you think?”

“Oh, I expect we'll get along well enough.” The black-haired half of ‘ Drever and Cartwright ' snorted somewhat cynically. “But I bet there'll be fun an' games before the week's out; mark my prophetic words.”

Fiona was presently engaged in setting out a change of clothes on the wide cover of their double-bed. She was musing on whether to choose the light-blue wool waist-length jacket; with a calf-length skirt of a slightly darker hue, and a pale yellow silk blouse—or a dark green hip-length light coat with lighter green skirt, again nearly ankle length; although bias cut for comfort and easy movement. However, before a decision could be made a hearty rap sounded on their sitting-room door.

“Who can that be?”

“Open it an' see, precious.”

Taking her paramour's advice Alice, closely followed by that very lady, exited the small but comfortable bedroom and crossed the pale floral carpet of the larger room to open the door, with an expansive gesture.

“Afternoon, ladies. Chief-Inspector Upland, at your service. May I come in?”

“Yeah sure, we were just talkin' about you.” Fiona offered their visitor a hand as he entered. “This here's Alice Drever; an' I'm, by default, Fiona Cartwright. So, how's things in smoky ol' London these days?”

“Pretty fair, thanks. The sun seems awfully bright over here though, in contrast, I must say.”

Neither woman had been able to engage the Inspector in conversation at the lunch given earlier by Sir Charles. Now that he stood before them both took the opportunity to examine their catch.

Chief-Inspector Upland was in his mid forties; tall, around 5” 9', thick black hair, slightly greying at the sides; of a firm, but not portly build; dressed in a dark suit, including waistcoat, and displaying a restrained tie of dark green and brown angled stripes. Altogether he looked the personification of efficient officialdom; and even Alice had to admit to herself that the first impression he gave to observers was that of—a responsible and determined police officer.

“Yeah well, don't go getting' ideas about a quick sun-tan.” Fiona liked to burst balloons with the best. “It'll be overcast an' rainin' again before ya can say Claudette Colbert. This ain't California, by any manner o'means. So, how're ya settlin' in?”

“Very nicely, I must say.” The Inspector smiled cheerfully, as Alice waved him to a comfortable-looking chintz covered armchair by the window. “My suite's about as large as my whole house, back in England. You don't do things by half, over here.”

“We like t'make a good impression on our friends.” Alice grinned. “Say, are you the only, er, representative of security for the British contingent? Just askin', as Fay an' I need'ta know who's who, y'see.”

“Not quite. I have a couple of sergeants along with me—but no-one else.” Inspector Upland shrugged nonchalantly. “I suppose we take a rather more staid attitude to these things, than perhaps yourselves. Faced with the upcoming reality of the conference, though, I think Sir Charles had second thoughts halfway across the pond; and so here we are.”

Alice and Fiona glanced at each other non-commitally; then Alice broached the topic of interest.

“So, what were your plans for including us in protecting Sir Charles, in an' out of the hotel? By the way, is it really true we can call him by his first name? Seems rather forward.”

“Yes, quite. It is, though, the normal manner of addressing a person of his rank. Perfectly acceptable.” The British officer shuffled into a more comfortable position and eyed both ladies intently. “My general intention is to act as personal bodyguard to Sir Charles at all times, in close attendance.” He lowered his eyebrows in concentration. “By that I mean I, along with my sergeants, will have authority for his well-being; while you both, although shouldering your share of this particular responsibility, will mainly focus on taking care of his Private Secretary, the Honourable Graham Linkley-Brice, and the few other officials. Your work will, I expect, generally centre on activities within the hotel—much as you are doing at the moment, in effect; there aren't going to be many occasions, if any, when Sir Charles or Mr Linkley-Brice will actually need to exit the building—”

“What happens if the Senators want t'invite him to a blowout somewhere?” Fiona addressed a question that she and Alice had earlier pondered on, with particular concern. “I mean, some fancy expensive eating-trough where the nobs go t'forage?”

“Eh?”

“Fiona means, what if he, Sir Charles, is invited out to a restaurant for dinner of an evening?” Alice was always the refined one. “By his opposite numbers, that is. Kind'a an official request. I mean, Sir Charles can hardly refuse, I'd a'thought. What d'ya do in those circumstances?”

Upland thought enough of the point to sit back in his chair to consider the problem, running a hand softly over his lower chin while he did so.

“Yes, that might bring, er, certain difficulties along with it.” He eventually came to a decision, and looked from one to the other of the women sitting opposite him. “My men may be, er, a little out of place in those circumstances. In that case I'd take one of you with me as, er, assistant. Whichever one of you stays behind will, of course, have control of security for Mr Linkley-Brice, in the interim.”

“That covers that, then.” Fiona's agreement sounded half-hearted at best. “What about the evenings an' nights, by the way? Are you goin' t'patrol the corridors of this floor? Or stand outside Sir Charles's suite? Y'can't do that all night, an' perform all day as well, y'know.”

The British police officer seemed much amused by this hypothetical nocturnal activity; allowing himself to grin broadly. These Americans certainly appeared to have some strange ideas.

“Heavens, no.” He actually gave a snort of laughter, as he stood up to leave. “At least not personally, all night. No, I have a rota organised including myself and my sergeants; we'll take a few hours each patrolling this floor during the nights. I hardly anticipate any, er, felonious activity in the dark hours, though; what with the heightened level of in-house security—as personified, in fact, by your own presence as well as that of Agent Napier's contingent.”

“Talkin' of that,” Alice brought up another topic of interest. “Napier's men, an' women, will be armed; Fiona and I are certainly armed, for your information; what about you, an' your sergeants?”

“Ah yes, guns.” Upland contemplated this issue silently for a moment, then shrugged lightly. “In Britain, of course, Police officers are not usually equipped with firearms; but myself and my sergeants have received a week's training, and are now qualified to carry arms. But I'm sure there will not be any need for their use. We must look on the bright side, after all, eh? Well, goodnight, ladies. It looks as if tomorrow is going to be most interesting. Goodnight.”

A moment later Alice had opened the door; the ladies had shaken the Inspector's hand for the second time in fifteen minutes; and, Alice re-closing the door behind the retreating back of the British man, they had the apartment to themselves once more.

“ Hurph! ” Fiona, for one, was less than impressed by the laid-back attitude shown by the representative of Scotland Yard. “Guns the Inspector an' his men hardly know how t'use; a haphazard night-guard; an' a team of subordinates t'take the strain, who've probably never done this sort'a thing before; all that equals no bloody chance of stopping any form of attack, whenever such might occur. I don't know! Total shambles: quite remarkably British, in fact.”

“If you ask me it's goin' t'be a really stimulating few days.” Alice, however, smiled with some satisfaction as she opportunely identified the point that truly mattered. “It's gon'na be great money-wise, as well. Our salary from Mr Laithwaite; our extra salary from Sir Charles; maybe bonuses from both, y'never know. The only downside'll be the dammed Income Tax; we don't wan'na end up like Al Capone, of happy memory; d'we, lover-girl?”

“I should say not.” Fiona raised her eyes to the ceiling, in contemplation of such a fate. “Just keep the figures in the red; or is it the black?—I can never remember. Anyway, make sure the ‘ in's ' equal—or is it excel—the ‘ out's ', if ya see what I mean.”

Alice turned to stand in the middle of the sitting-room carpet; meditating on her tall companion, with a curious expression.

“Fay, your grasp of Accounting is—is—; oh, forget it, lets go t'bed; it's been a long day, an' I need my beauty sleep. Come on. You gon'na wear those raspberry an' cream silk jim-jams I bought you from ‘ Macy's '?”

“Sure thing, gorgeous, I love ‘em.”

“ Whee! ” Alice grinned archly at the lady who made up her whole world. “Race ya t'bed, then. Bags I the left side.”

“Not if I can help it, dearie.”

“ Hey! That ain't fair. Le'go, you'll trip me.”

“Too bad, lover. All's fair in Love an' War.”

“Fay, my beautiful young mustang, you're gon'na regret that remark,—in just about three minutes.”

“ Yee-hah! ”

—O—

The international conference —or as much so as was possible, considering only Great Britain and the USA were represented—finally sprang to life at eleven a.m. on Monday morning—an hour later than originally planned, because of unexpected hold-ups in the provision of certain necessary paper-work for both sides; but this being finally sorted to everyone's satisfaction the doors of the large ball-room on the second floor of the ‘ Grand Banks ' Hotel were firmly closed by one of the Bureau of Investigation men corralling the Senatorial contingent; and the group of assorted Senators and British Government officials inside were left to their own private devices.

“So, what happens now?” Fiona, standing by Alice's side, brought up this interesting question as they all mingled, somewhat promiscuously, in the corridor. “Here we all are; but what d'we all do ?”

There were present, much like a group of actors on a film set between takes, not only the representatives of ‘ Drever and Cartwright ', but also what appeared to constitute the whole squad of Bureau of Investigation officers; not forgetting the now brown-suited figure of Chief-Inspector Upland, accompanied by one of his sergeants also in mufti. It was, seemingly, as inclusive a selection of law-enforcement personnel as could be wished for. Agent Napier, unsurprisingly, attempted to take charge willy-nilly; growling mirthlessly and proceeding to set out the schedule as he saw it.

“We've got the door here under wraps. I've stationed two men to keep tabs on it throughout.” He tipped back his grey fedora, rubbing a finger over his forehead. “My other officers'll patrol the hotel; relieving each other at intervals, so there's always cover at all times. Inspector Upland tells me he'll be in that saloon over there, an' be coming over t'check the ball-room door every now an' then—for which we're mightily grateful, I'm sure. You ladies?—well, ya can do whatever ya like; doesn't matter t'me. That covers everything.”

“Listen, bozo, Al an' I are takin' a real attentive an' professional interest in this whole thing; along with the Scotland Yard team—who I have a far better belief in than your half-baked lot.” Fiona never liked being ignored, or slighted merely for being a woman; and, anyway, she didn't like Napier on principal. “What are ya, some kind'a sap from Hicksville? We're probably more experienced than you, or any of your men. In a gunfight we'd hit our targets better'n you; in a fist-fight we'd sock our opponents cold while you lummoxes were still engaging in a wrestling match with them; in a road race we'd catch an' run our quarry off the road, while you were still lookin' at your maps an' wonderin' how you'd got lost; an' finally, in a security operation like this here, we'll keep our clients out'ta danger entirely, while you're runnin' round like headless chickens tryin' t'find assassins who walked in in front of your eyes an' then walked back out again just as easily. So cut the crap. Al an' I'll be around; an' when we are I don't want any snide remarks from you or your goons, Napier. See ya.”

The two women walked off along the corridor, leaving an echoing silence behind them.

—O—

“The ‘ Help '.”

“What? Have ya lost your mind, Al?” Fiona paused as the women negotiated one of the seemingly interminable straight corridors of the hotel; lines of closed doors receding into the distance on both sides, like some kind of optical illusion or experiment. “Help for what? Oh, ya mean—”

“The, wha'd'ya call ‘em, servants.” Alice knew how to form a logical description; though this, sadly, was not one of those times. “All those characters, in white jackets, bringing your dinner in the restaurant; or dragging customers' suitcases upstairs; or standin' at your room door, with a hand outstretched waitin' for a tip they ain't ever gon'na receive—from me, at any rate.”

“You're a hard case, lady.” Fiona sniffed indulgently. “So, what about the staff?”

“It's just we haven't given any of them the third degree yet.” Alice was always a stickler for proper procedure. “I mean, what kind'a secrets might any o'them be hidin'? Anybody's guess. And, in present circumstances, ain't it our job t'delve into precisely those areas o'interest?”

“Interest t'you, darling—but not t'me.” The tall black-haired part of the detective duo put her well-shod foot firmly down on this idea. “How many o'them are there? Must be at least a hundred—maybe more. If you think I'm gon'na give the next three weeks over t'interrogatin' the entirety of the staff, think again that's all.”

Alice wasn't one to give up a bright idea easily, however; especially when it had sprung fully formed into her brain just ten minutes previously, and shone—in her opinion—with all the radiance of a First Principle in the Higher Mathematics: not of course, as she herself would readily admit, that she would recognise one of these abstract theorems if it crept quietly up behind her one day and kicked her butt.

“What if one o'them's a hood in disguise?” The brunette liked to pursue all the ramifications of her ideas to their furthest ends—usually a rubbish strewn cul-de-sac of an alleyway of no importance to anybody, logically speaking: but it was the principle of the thing, as she often excused her actions to her ever-patient better half. “What if there's some bozo in a white jacket who's running a scam in the hotel; or a woman, goin' around at the moment quietly makin' people's beds, who's—who's—who's an assassin waitin' for just this opportunity t'zap Sir Charles? Well, I ask you, eh?”

Fiona had suffered this kind of quality woozy thinking from her partner on any number of previous occasions, so had long developed a get-out manoeuvre that worked every time.

“Darling, I ask myself,—often.” She sighed deeply, then sprung her snare with a well-practiced air of innocent nonchalance. “Well, it's nearly twelve-thirty. I suppose they'll be herdin' the throng in'ta the restaurant for their lunch, right now.”

“ Jeez , lunch?” If there was one thing that always struck at the heart of Alice's inner being, it was the appearance of food, in large quantities. “Come on, baby; we better get a move on, before all the tables are taken. We'll go back an' case the Conference room afterwards; Napier'll look after it for us, meanwhile. Salad an' lobster; or steak an' fries? Your choice, beautiful.”

“Oh, God!”

—O—

There were, in fact, several tables available for the hungry diner to choose between—this being the off-season, and there being a policy newly set in place by the management to restrict the acceptance of new guests during the course of the Conference. This latter circumstance was, it need hardly be said, not the idea of the Hotel; but, rather, a strategem put forward by the Bureau of Investigation in order to help their security system. Alice pointed at a table by one of the windows, looking down on the Avenue two floors below; which also had the benefit of being guarded by a leafy, somewhat wide-spreading, potted palm.

“A great place t'inspect the other diners, eh, Fay?” Alice nodded contentedly as they took their chairs, while a male waiter in the obligatory white jacket came to take their order. “Nobody can see us clearly here, but we can see them.”

“Y'mean nobody'll be exposed t'your atrocious table-manners, dearie.” Fiona liked to niggle her partner gently, when the occasion arose. “Last time we had fries you ended up with tomato ketchup dripping down your chin, like a young kid at a birthday party—messy!”

“Don't exaggerate, Fay.” Alice sneered genteely. “So, what d'ya want? Gosh! Look'it the menu. What a choice.”

The hotel prided itself on serving some of the highest class provender to be found anywhere on the East Coast. It especially focussed on seafood of all kinds, including clams, oysters, octopus Italienne, scallops, shrimp, prawns, crab, and lobsters; fish, both sea and freshwater, were listed under a long index of types—ask for it, whatsoever it might be, and it would be cooked and presented in record time for the diner's delectation. This made up the hotel restaurant's main theme which, meanwhile, did not stint itself on the more mundane matters—huge thick steaks, venison, chicken, pork, and a variety of accompaniments. For the discerning gourmet items such as pate de foie gras, escargot, truffles, Scottish haggis, and of course, caviar, were also available—at a cost.

Fiona, who was at heart a country girl, merely curled her lip censoriously at this display of almost Roman decadence.

“A green salad, and grilled sardines.” She glanced at her companion, who was studying the menu microscopically with wide eyes. “Al, stop lookin' like a gal who's just bought her first pornographic novel. The same for her, waiter. Yeah, coffee for two, thanks.”

Alice, slightly disappointed but bucking-up nonetheless in the face of adversity, glanced around the room taking in the majority of those other people enjoying their mid-day meal. The dining-saloon was large, being a rectangle some seventy feet long by twenty-five feet wide, with a proportionately high ceiling. The outer wall was pierced by a long row of tall thin windows stretching from knee height nearly to the ceiling, flooding the space within in light. Two swing doors in the far wall gave entrance to the hidden kitchens, where the magic of the chefs resulted in the works of culinary art placed before the hungry diners.

“Look at that man, at the table over by the plate trolley.” Alice had singled out her first victim. “Who d'you suppose he might be? Looks like a middle-rank banker. Or maybe a substantial businessman. Wonder what he does. Nice blue suit, an' fancy white shirt. Bags o'dollars. He must be in the dry-goods line. Yeah, that'll be it. Oh, an' clock that lady two tables over to his right. That's ‘ Redfern ', y'know.”

“What is?” Fiona had been busy arranging the multifarious items of cutlery beside her plate. She liked them in a particular order, to suit her eating habits and sense of fastidiousness. “What? That flowery dress, that looks like the designer threw a bunch o'weeds at a white piece o'linen?”

“No, silly, that's ‘ Paquin '.” The brunette curled her lip at her companion's lack of knowledge about the merest basics. “I'm talking about the woman at the table before her. See? Blue, with angular cream stripes; an' form-fitting. ‘ Redfern '.”

“Oh, really.” Fiona was not interested. She usually shopped at mass market outlets and couldn't tell one fashion house from the other—as her partner never tired of reminding her. “It's just a dress, nothin' special.”

“ Hurrph! ” Alice gave up the unequal contest and returned to her scrutiny of the hotel's clientele. “See that man and woman together at the table with the red flowers? They're interestin'.”

“How so?” Fiona had decided to play along; it serving, after all, to pass the time till the grub appeared. “What about ‘em? Look perfectly ordinary t'me.”

“That's what all International spies or assassins aspire to.” Alice parted her lips to show a gleam of white teeth. “An unassuming surface, concealin' the ragin' tiger beneath.”

Fiona paused to stare at the brunette half of their detective company. When Alice started talking in this curious manner Fiona very often didn't know how to handle the young woman; Alice tending to have an outlook on the world around her which was all her own.

“Al, darling, are ya feeling quite well?” Fiona leaned over, across the table, to touch Alice's hand. “Hot flushes? Dizzy spells? The time o'the—”

“Fay, get a grip.” Alice spurned her lover's attempts at help with dignity. “I don't know about the man; but the woman's definitely a spy. Why, just look at her. Anxious about something; nervous of anyone who passes their table too closely; talking to her escort animatedly; and obviously foreign. What more d'you want. Shall I go up to our room t'get the handcuffs, while you stay t'keep an eye on them?”

“No, you will not.” Fiona expressed her horror in a low controlled snarl. “Y'can't go around arrestin' people just because y'don't like the cut o'their jib. God, Al, this is America; not—not—not Italy, or Germany, or wherever. Leave ‘em alone. God, you have such a suspicious mind—I'm scared t'go out in public with ya, sometimes.”

The lady in question pursed her lips; pouted childishly; and then shrugged her shoulders unconcernedly. After all, if a certain black-haired beauty did not wish to take her up on her brilliant insights into the criminal world, well, that was her outlook, after all. And, anyway, there were more important matters to attend to.

“ Ooh , look! Here comes our lunch.”

“I'll serve, darling, you know how you tend t'hog the food if I'm not around t'hold ya in check.” Fiona sat up straight, assured of her position on this point, if no other. “And look over there, too. See? A young lady's just sailed up t'meet that man an' woman y'were harbourin' gross suspicions about. They were simply waiting for her a little excitedly, that's all. International spies, indeed.”

Alice gave the now clearly happy group a few tables distant only a passing glance; the silver dishes now being set out on the table before her giving off exotic aromas of mouth-watering intensity.

“Whatever.” Alice was dismissive. “Fay, d'you think I'm on a diet or what? I'll take three more sardines, thank you. An' what's with one leaf o'lettuce an' a single tomato? Come on, stop piddlin' around—use that deep spoon, for Heaven's sake. Pile it on, that's right. More. OK, that'll do. Now that's what I call a meal for a growin' girl. Bon Appetit .”

“ Good God! ” Fiona could only sit back and concentrate on her own, sparsely covered, plate. “Al, I've seen jackals in Tanganyika eatin' a deer; I've seen piranha doin' what piranha do, up the Amazon; I've seen sharks goin' to it in the Pacific; but, darling-of-my-heart, I've never seen anything at all, ever, like you demolishing your food. God! ”

—O—

Neither Fiona nor Alice smoked, so they contented themselves, after eating, with a cup of coffee apiece and settled back in their chairs to inspect the other diners who had filled the extensive room while they completed their meal.

The ‘ Grand Banks ' was a hotel de qualité supérieure , priding itself on not only a high class of customer, as well as service; but of customers of only the bon ton , and service unequalled outside France, or the rest of the Continent. They achieved this primarily by setting high prices—though easing the pain by providing the finest amenities, comestibles, personal service, and luxurious surroundings possible. So it was, therefore, that those groups and couples sitting at the nearby tables gave the detectives an unusually comprehensive panorama of the highest; the wealthiest; the most aristocratic, of American citizenry. There might well have been a crash on the Stock Exchange in Wall St., which still lingered in people's memories; and a following slump which had wiped out whole States' incomes, as well as shattering the entire Mid-West economy; but there were still those who had, by one means or another, escaped destruction and were, if anything, even more set fair than ever. It was these who now filled the echoing dining-room with their happy, extrovert chatter and laughter—after all, what did they have to worry about? Daddy's oil wells were still sucking out the black gold which was the foundation of so many family fortunes; Mummy might have married well several times in the past, to wealthier men each time—thereby assembling an amount of inherited funds which, in cold figures, would have made any starving poor woman in Oklahoma or Kansas or trekking to a hoped for new life in California weep with despair. The best of everything was available to those with the money to pay; and, whatever they lacked in moral grace or ethical nature, these people certainly had money to spare. They also still retained something of that old nineteen-twenties attitude of living for the moment, and damn everything which might interfere with this admirable desire. That is to say the people now eating and drinking at the neighbouring tables were nicely dressed; had nice incomes; spoke, generally, with nice accents; aspired to be nicely admired; but were, in toto, not nice persons. It took Fiona and Alice about thirty seconds of acute observation to come to this conclusion independently, and to signal the results to each other by raised eyebrows and a slight curl of the lips.

“ Jesus , what a mob!” Fiona hardly attempted to keep the sneer from her voice.

“Doesn't look as if anyone here's ever soiled their hands with honest work.” Alice, though generally kind-natured, had to agree. “Exquisite dresses and fine suits, an' good manners, an' unlimited funds, but not a really friendly face anywhere. Tell any one of ‘em you didn't have five dollars for next week's rent, an' they'd have the management kick your sorry butt out'ta their refined presence before you'd drawn another breath.”

“Yep, that pretty much sums ‘em up.” Fiona regarded the room with unashamed aversion. “An' Mr Laithwaite caters to these people's every whim. Jeez , not my idea of how t'make a buck. I'm rapidly goin' off this job, y'know.”

“Yeah, y're not alone, honeybuns.” Alice sniffed, in delicate condemnation of the scene around her. “But we can't back out now. We just got'ta take it as we find it, an' get the job done. How about we go t'our room an' take some time out? I wan'na be in fine fettle t'case the corridors of this dump, later in the evening. What d'ya say?”

“OK by me.” Fiona rose from the table, accompanying her partner to the exit on the other side of the room, wending their way between the tables. “I don't think we need'ta worry overmuch about anyone here; they're too intent on enjoying themselves. Probably got a list of night-clubs on their later schedules the length o'their arms,—God, it must be a hard job enjoying yourself every night, no matter what the cost! Come on, let's get out'ta here.”

—O—

The main corridor of the 6 th floor, running behind the hotel's front façade, was brightly lit even though the time was now twelve-thirty in the morning, half-past midnight. The hotel management didn't stint on expenses when it came to the customers' comfort, and well-lit corridors were obviously high on their list. Eschewing the 7 th floor and its British political residents, where a multitude of Bureau men and women all in grey suits were presumably still clogging the corridors, Fiona and Alice had decided to inspect the less-travelled by-ways. A quick mosey down to the 2 nd floor assured them that the ballroom where the ongoing Conference was taking place was well protected. Some four Bureau men were wandering about the room when Fiona and Alice arrived, supervising the cleaning staff who were putting everything to rights for the following day's chinwag. The Bureau representatives, coldly stand-offish, gave the women detectives scant reason for over-staying their welcome; so Fiona waved a cheery farewell, perfectly designed to get right up the noses of the agents, then left alongside Alice with a fine easygoing disregard for the usual social priorities in these matters.

The women had, between them, decided that if any funny business was going to take place in the hotel it would at least start on one of the other floors than either the 2 nd or 7 th —each of these teeming at all hours with Bureau personnel. Going up by way of the stairwells rather than the lifts, they toured each floor in turn until they reached the 6 th . Even at this dead hour of the night there was still a surprising amount of official hotel business going forward. On each floor, for instance, the women found staff busily collecting multitudinous pairs of shoes from outside the suite doors, to be taken to some far-off dingy room, bordering on the Black Hole of Calcutta in all probability, where an army of no doubt low-paid but industrious workers were already buffing and polishing the fine leather footgear of innumerable guests. Other members of staff, mainly women, were pushing wheeled trolleys loaded with fresh towels and other laundry to unknown destinations; while several maidservants and waiters were fully occupied with trays of food and drink destined for some late-night party or insomnia sufferer. Each and every floor, in fact, rather than being an echoing silent tomb, was as full of life and activity as if the time was twelve-thirty midday instead of the reverse.

“God, does no-one sleep around here?”

Alice, in response to this wail of despair, grasped her partner's wrist companionably as they made their way along the straight corridor. At this present moment there were, behind as well as in front of them, a total of no less than eight uniformed staff in view.

“I figured we might find someone furtively sneaking about one o'these corridors.” Fiona admitted her mistake with a grudging smile. “Looks as if we need t'reconsider that, some.”

“Yeah, all a crook needs t'do is dress in a purloined uniform, an' they'll be as good as invisible.” Alice snorted disgustedly. “We couldn't tell the real from the fake, at short notice. What'll we do?”

They were now about thirty yards from the point where the corridor made a right-handed turn. As they spoke a uniformed maid carrying a tray came round this corner heading towards them. As the maid saw the two women in the distance she suddenly stopped, hesitated a second with an obviously flustered and preoccupied expression, then turned on her heel to disappear back in the direction she had come.

“Now that's downright suspicious.”

“Too right, ducks.” Alice agreed with her companion, and started making tracks in the wake of the maid. “Come on, pick up those plates o'meat, girl,—we got us a suspect.”

The corridor they turned into was shorter, ending in a blank wall twenty yards further on with only a single set of double-doors in it—probably, as Alice muttered to her cohort, a service lift. Their prey was already more than halfway to this destination; it clearly being how she had originally gained access to the floor. As the women moved forward their quarry paused and half turned in their direction. Instantly there was a small explosion in the side wall near Alice's elbow; a puff of dust and pieces of plaster shooting out in a small cloud. Then both women clearly heard the vicious buzz, as of an angry wasp, as something invisible but travelling at enormous speed zipped between them—followed immediately by a soft thump as it impacted the far wall behind them.

“Jeez, a silencer!” Alice bent low, as she felt in the wide pocket of her skirt for her revolver.

Fiona stood firm and straight, merely clutching her small shoulder bag as she quickly brought to view her M1911 .45 automatic. Another silenced bullet whipped past the women before they both opened fire on their target simultaneously. The pseudo-maid had meanwhile taken up a semi-crouching attitude—obviously determined to take out her pursuers before continuing her escape. The blast and noise from the two un-silenced weapons firing in accord was overwhelming in the tight little corridor. It sounded like a volcano going off, or a thunderstorm in full voice. The corridor filled with thin clouds of grey cordite fumes, then both Fiona and Alice saw their target slide against the wall, where she collapsed like a pile of dumped laundry, her gun slipping to the floor at her side, head falling on her chest.

Alice was the first on the scene, crouching down by the motionless figure. It took no more than a cursory examination to acquaint both Alice and Fiona with the results of the sudden shoot-out: a wide expanding splash of blood covered the woman's white blouse, issuing from a wound in her lower throat; the bullet quite clearly having passed straight through, exiting the back of her neck. She was as dead as Ancient History.

“That the only wound she got?” Fiona asked the question quietly, as she bent down in front of the slumped form.

“Yeah, just the one, as far as I can see.” Alice rose to her feet once more, with a gloomy expression. “Well, don't know yet who she was, but she was certainly up t'some form o' no good, that's for sure. Hey , watch it!”

The latter words were occasioned by the doors of the service lift, some fifteen feet away, opening to disgorge no less than five Bureau agents, mixed men and women, all of whom were brandishing a variety of lethal firearms. At the head of the gang was Agent Napier in person, looking slightly ruffled and out of sorts.

“ Ha , ya managed t'get the bitch. That's good, clears things up nicely.” He moved forward to stand over the supine figure of the female suspect. “So, she got her's, at last—well ladies, don't lose any sleep over her, she had it coming, bigtime—take my word for it.”

—O—

Everyone was assembled in the sitting-room of Agent Napier's suite for an after-battle Council of War. Present were a variety of Bureau agents; Fiona and Alice; Chief-Inspector Upland; and Mr Laithwaite, who was looking both subdued and nervously excited at the same time. Agent Napier held the floor, as he explained just as much as he felt anyone needed to know—which, of course was, by a long way, not nearly as much as they all wanted to know.

“—so, ya see, we were always on top o'the situation from the start.” He paused to run a beefy hand through his closely-cropped thatch of grey hair, with an air of self-assured contentment. “Brannigan, the head o'the whole dirty concern, we took out a few hours ago at his apartment in Todmorton. The rest o'the gang we knew were already here, in the hotel, ready t'move on the British Foreign Secretary—but we had that angle sewn up, too.”

“How?” Fiona wasn't going to let the big man off lightly; she wanted details, and she wanted them many and interesting.

“We got our methods, don't worry about that.” Napier allowed himself the pleasure of a small sneer. “We at the Bureau have a huge organisation at our beck an' call. We can get the low-down on anyone, or any thing, at a moment's notice. While you ladies were, ahem , taking your no doubt well-earned siesta this afternoon, we smuggled Sir Charles an' his entourage out'ta the hotel to a place of safety. Then we set up an ambush on the 7 th floor. An' mighty fine it worked, too. Things got a little out'ta hand, I give ya that. But we're professionals, an' we soon took the goons down, with only two needin' t'be shot—not counting Selena Charters, the woman you ladies accounted for. So, that's that. Now we can all happily settle down t'guarding the Conference for the rest o'the week, knowin' the major risk has been neutralised. Pretty good result, I'd say.”

—O—

A week later Fiona and Alice, after having completed their engagement at the ‘ Grand Banks ' hotel with all of their usual detached professional expertise, were back in the Packer Building; sitting at their large desk contemplating the events of the past few days, as these had individually affected both ladies. Neither was particularly happy.

“What happened?” Fiona was first to voice their overall concern. “Did Agent Napier flim-flam us, from the start?”

“Dam' straight he did.” Alice was fuming, even yet; her features reflecting an expression of complete non-happiness with the whole known state of affairs. “He already had half of his devious plan going before we even turned up t'hear Laithwaite importune our involvement in the whole sorry situation. We were taken for—for—for idiots. The entire thing was a Bureau set-up from the start.”

“Ya mean Mr Laithwaite probably knew something o'what was goin' on, well before he applied to us?” Fiona's voice held every ounce of the disbelief she felt at this devious playing with their good natures. “God-damned bas—”

“Yeah, exactly.” Alice continued her own stroll down the primrose path of discontent, anger, and snarling disgruntlement. “We were taken for bozos right from the beginning; then played like the saps Napier's always taken us for. God, I despise that man. What wouldn't I give t'be in his presence now, just for a few seconds; there's things I'd like t'do t'him I've been wantin' t'do t'people just like him since I was a little girl—two minutes is all I ask!”

“ Ha! That's a pipe-dream.” Fiona sighed, and returned to the real world. “Anyways, we salvaged somethin' from the wreck. We got paid by the hotel, double-time. Can't cry over that.”

“Don't forget the British lot paid us too; though I don't think they were legally required t'do so. Lingering guilt, probably.” This just remembered fact finally brought a tender smile of contentment to the brunette's features: if there was one thing guaranteed to perk up a brunette private detective, who also took care of the accounts, it was an ex gratia payment in respect of very little applied effort on her and her accomplice's part. “Yeah, that'll make our bank account look a little more cheerful. So, wha'd'ya think o'the whole thing, lady-of-my-heart?”

Fiona stood up with all the quiet and regal dignity of Cleopatra rising from one of her renowned milk baths; paused to give her still seated consort a look of imperial condescension, mixed with pure love; then reminded Alice of a fact that, in the heat of the last few days, had escaped the brunette angel's attention.

“Alice, dearest, y'recall the most important detail about the ‘ Grand Banks ' hotel?”

“Er, no.” Alice, also standing now and holding her heartmate's hand, bent a furrowed brow on her tall dark partner's face. “Was'sat, then?”

“The incorrigible Mr Laithwaite's parting goodbye t'us included the proposal that he'd be happy t'see us any time in the future,—an' whatever we then required would be on the house.” Fiona grinned widely, and licked her lips with the tip of a pink and delicate tongue. “An' I happen t'know that today is Ladies Day at their in-house Turkish Bath complex. Wha'd' ya say, lovely lady?”

“ Whoopee! ”

The End

—O—

To be continued in the next instalment of the ‘ Drever & Cartwright ' series.

—OOO—

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