Chapter Eleven
Paying off his cab on the Embankment, Jack spun around to get his bearings. The slow-moving Thames, close to high water, was busy with trade and pleasure craft, and behind him, the commerce of England's capital carried on in riotous wave. Crossing the road, he picked his way up the hill to the rear door of one of London's most famous and grand hotels: the Savoy. As he entered, a young lady looked up in welcome from her position at a beautiful reception desk.
"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you at all?" He put his cases down and removed his hat.
"Thank you. I'm actually meeting a lady here for dinner in a little while but – as you see," he gestured to his suit, "I need to change. I don't suppose there's somewhere I can … smarten up?"
"Of course!" The girl smiled politely, a finely judged reaction to the nature of his arrival. "How thoughtful of you to come this way – you can make a proper entrance. Do you happen to know where the reservation has been made?"
"The Grill, I believe. A Miss Fisher?"
He might as well have said a magic word. Her face lit up. "Then you must be Mr Benedick. I was told to expect you. I can do better than a changing room – we've a single on the first floor that we've set aside for you. You'll be much more comfortable there – and you can leave your bags there too."
She made some notes in the book before her, and rang a bell to summon the porter.
"Please take Mr Benedick to room 114, Henry. Thank you."
114 was far from palatial in its dimensions, but Jack was more than satisfied. He hung out his tail coat while bathing and shaving, to remove the creases it had suffered during the transit in his battered suitcase; and by the time he'd achieved a satisfactory result with his tie, it was almost eight. Descending to the ground floor, he noted – not for the first time – how easy it was to be incognito while dressed to the nines. As Jack Robinson, Aussie detective, he'd have stuck out a mile in his raincoat and trilby; as John Benedick, gentleman, he barely warranted a second glance.
Assuring himself that he'd earned it, he ordered a cocktail and sat on one of the banquettes in the foyer to await Phryne.
She didn't disappoint. And she certainly warranted a second glance from every warm blooded male in the vicinity.
Pausing as she arrived in the front hall, she glanced around looking for him; which gave Jack the perfect opportunity to appreciate what there was of her evening gown. Dazzling in silver and white, it left little to the imagination.
She saw him, and her smile of recognition dissolved his solar plexus. The silver fox slung over one shoulder was nonchalantly allowed to slip a few important inches. Sashaying across the floor, she planted a kiss full on his mouth. Which he then remembered to close.
"Hungry, Jack? I'm ravenous" she whispered. Taking his arm, she led him towards the Grill, greeting the maitre d' as an old friend and accepting gracefully a secluded booth, a glass of champagne and a menu.
"Let's get the business of ordering out the way, Jack – Michel, the oysters please, and the steak tartare."
Steak sounded sensible. "The same, please" he concurred, handing his menu back, "and we can just stick with the champagne, I think?" Phryne acquiesced with a smile of dismissal for the waiter.
"So, what's the plan for the morning, Jack?"
"Well, we agreed we have three things to do. One, to stop the supply of women; two, deal with the ones who are already here; and three, get the ringleaders from both sides of the operation behind bars. We're going to need the Metropolitan Police's help for the last part, and I've got a letter of introduction, but I'd rather wait until I've something substantive on who's involved before going to them," he said pensively.
"You make it sound easy! But how on earth can we stop the supply, from here?" she enquired.
"That's the bit I think you're going to be best at," he replied with a slight smile. He knew that, much as he would like her kept well away from the action, to suggest it would only meet firm rejection and an even more dangerous prospect of her involving herself without his knowledge. "I'm going to have to spend some time down at the docks for a few days – I'm looking for some familiar faces from the old days, but until I see them, we can't make a move. Once we have a name, though, we can start tracking down the flow of funds back to Australia – and put a stop to it. When the funds stop coming, my guess is the activity will wind down pretty fast. I reckon most likely it's going to need some persuasive work with a bank clerk or two …."
Her eyes lit with the elegance of the solution. "We'll still have to deal with the gang this end, but Bill Cooper will be more than capable of dealing with the Melbourne part." She reached under the table and squeezed his knee gently.
He promptly removed her hand, muttering as he did, "Phryne, we have an entire dinner to get through. I've coped with the sight of you in what passes for a dress that you're wearing, I'm coping now with being able to smell your scent, but if you lay one finger on me, I warn you, you won't even be allowed a single oyster, because we will have to go and find a private room, and your exit won't be anything like as elegant as your entrance was."
She obediently folded her hands in her lap, but her lips were twitching and her shoulders shaking slightly. Raising her eyes to his, they were full of mischief – and warmth.
"Speaking of private rooms, Jack," she hastily changed the subject, "I have a suggestion. You should simply stay here. No, hear me out" she added, when he opened his mouth to dismiss the idea.
"You want to be able to come and go without drawing attention to yourself. The staff here are discretion itself. If you stay somewhere smaller, you lose anonymity. And I'll keep my room on too, so it'll be easy for us to keep in touch. I'll pay – it won't cost poor Bill a penny."
He paused, and concluded that her plan had a lot going for it, though he failed to recognise his superior officer in the sobriquet "Poor Bill". He wouldn't mention the fact that he also liked the idea of being able to keep tabs on her – the idea would only rile her, but from his perspective, it would be a relief. He tipped his head to one side and regarded her consideringly.
"Okay. You've sold me." Her delight was palpable, and coincided with the arrival of their oysters; the remainder of the dinner passed in discussion of tactics for their next stage. His grievance with the tartare was quickly assuaged when, under her reassuring tutelage, he took his first taste.
They lingered over coffee, Jack enjoying simply watching the play of candlelight on her face. She talked animatedly – they had progressed on to London theatre now, and she was determined to take in a show once they were able to be seen abroad together.
Eventually, they reached a tacit agreement to retire for the night. He pulled out the table, and they walked slowly back to the lobby.
"Tell me your room number, Jack? I'll go and speak to the desk about keeping the rooms on, and give you a call when I'm back in mine." He did so, and turned for the stairs, glancing back to see her in intense discussion with the concierge.
Now that he was staying, he unpacked the suitcases, hung his clothes in the wardrobe and lay on the bed in his shirt sleeves, waiting for the phone to ring. He was startled, therefore, when there was a tap – not at the door of his room, but at a door near the window he hadn't previously remarked. Trying the handle, he found the door opened inwards – and Phryne on the other side of it.
She grinned at him mischievously, and stepped back, gesturing dramatically with her arm to the room behind her.
"Welcome to my boudoir! Such luck that we just happened to have been given adjoining rooms …"
"Luck? Somehow I doubt it" he responded sardonically. However, he couldn't deny that the arrangement suited him perfectly, for now. Less a room, more a suite, there was far more space than his own; and the bedroom they were in now was comfortably large enough for a simply vast bed. Closing his arms around her, he looked her squarely in the eyes, and drew the zip on her dress to her waist. She returned his gaze while nimbly dealing with his shirt studs. The two garments hit the floor simultaneously, and no further conversation proved necessary.