The clerk flicked a look at the manager and, after a moment’s hesitation, got a nod in return. ‘Yes, the Hilton Hotel.’
Harry swallowed. ‘Thank you.’
The manager gave a little bow. ‘It’s the least we can do for a relative of Mr. Rawlins.’
Jimmy knew something was wrong as soon as Harry walked in, slamming the door behind him. He grabbed hold of a beer can, ripped it open and drank most of it in one go.
‘Er, everything all right?’ Jimmy stammered.
Harry banged the can down on the table. ‘She around? Where is she?’
Jimmy was starting to get flustered. ‘You mean Maria?’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone out. I told her to get some food in. Is that OK, Harry? What do you want her for?’
Harry sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. ‘I’m gonna need some help, Jimmy. I’m gonna need some help.’
Jimmy pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Sure, Harry, anything you want. Whatever I can do, you know. Has something happened?’
Harry slowly lifted his hands from his face. ‘Yeah, you could say that. She’s cleaned me out.’ He laughed bitterly. ‘The little bitch has cleaned me out.’
Jimmy still didn’t understand. ‘Who? Who’re you talking about?’
Harry almost spat out her name. ‘Dolly.’
Jimmy finally understood. ‘You mean she thought you were dead?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yeah.’
‘So she’s in Rio?’
Harry nodded again, and then said, very quietly, ‘She’s cleaned me out, Jimmy. Five hundred grand.’
Jimmy swallowed. ‘Five hundred? Christ almighty!’
‘Yeah, and now she’s got it.’
‘You know where she is?’
‘Hilton Hotel.’
Then there was a pause. He looked at Jimmy.
‘We’re gonna have to find her. You know somebody who can help us?’
Jimmy gave him a puzzled look. ‘Well, if she’s at the Hilton, why don’t you just go and find ’er?’
Harry shook his head. ‘I’m a dead man, Jimmy. Understand me? I’m a dead man. I go walking into the Hilton Hotel, I start putting my face about, what the fuck do you think’s gonna happen to me? It cost me a fortune to get a fake passport.’
‘OK, Harry. OK, OK, I understand. OK, leave it to me, I’ll find her.’
Harry gripped him by the arm. ‘You bloody well better, Jimmy. You bloody well better.’
Morgan found Dolly’s hotel in a back street just behind Queen’s Gate. Only the discreet plaque on the wall was any indication that it was a hotel. She had class, this lady, you had to admit it.
He drove round until he found a meter, but he couldn’t find any change, so he scribbled a note saying ‘meter out of order’ and stuck it on the windscreen.
Inside, the hotel was as tastefully understated as the outside. At the reception desk he asked for Mrs. Marsh, and a prim-looking, elderly lady informed him in a posh voice that Mrs. Marsh was taking breakfast in the dining room.
‘Is she expecting you?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with a smile, and the receptionist led him through a thickly carpeted hall, lined with antique-looking oil paintings, to a pair of glass doors leading into the small dining room. He spotted Dolly sitting alone at the far end with her back toward him.
‘Ah, I see her, thank you.’
As he threaded his way between the tables, there was no talking, only the soft clink of cutlery and the rustle of newspapers. The residents were mostly well into their seventies and eighties. One old gentleman, sitting with his eyes closed and mouth half-open, looked as if he was at death’s door, and Morgan wondered if he was actually still breathing. He was so distracted, he almost bumped into the table as he sidled up to Dolly.
‘Morning,’ he said brightly.
Far from seeming surprised, Dolly turned round and nodded to the place opposite. As Morgan sat down, a pretty young waitress appeared with a cup and saucer, and inquired if he would like tea or coffee.
‘Coffee’s fine, thank you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Very nice hotel, if I may say so.’
Dolly smiled. ‘Yes.’
‘Very quiet,’ he whispered.
Dolly’s plate of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and thinly sliced toast looked very appetizing, and Morgan found himself licking his lips.
‘Er, mind if I take my coat off?’
‘Please, make yourself comfortable,’ Dolly replied.
Shrugging himself out of his coat, he almost slapped the elderly man at the table next to them with his sleeve — ‘Sorry, sorry!’ — but the old gentleman was buried so deeply in his Telegraph that he didn’t seem to notice. Morgan finally managed to hang the coat over the back of the chair without further upsets, but Dolly held on to the table with both hands as he sat down, just in case he overturned it.
The waitress appeared with the coffee pot and poured Morgan a cup. He heaped in the sugar and looked greedily at Dolly’s plate.
‘Mind if I have a piece of toast?’
Dolly passed him her side plate and clean knife, watching as he heaped on butter and marmalade and started chomping noisily. Dolly placed her knife and fork together, even though she’d hardly touched her breakfast. Her appetite seemed to have disappeared.
She waited patiently as Morgan finished his toast, wiped his mouth on a napkin, turned and fished a Woolworth’s notepad out of his coat pocket, then started leafing through it.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Trudie Nunn. Works as a waitress cum hostess at the Golden Slipper, a tatty little drinking club in Soho. Maybe she should apply for a job here.’ He looked round. ‘Liven the place up a bit, eh?’
Dolly didn’t smile.
‘Oh, there’s a kid. Did you know about him? A little boy.’
Dolly said nothing.
‘This kid seems... He’s left with a landlady most days, or a neighbor.’
Again he looked at Dolly. No reaction.
She pushed the toast toward him. ‘Another slice, Mr. Morgan?’
‘Oh, ta.’ As Morgan buttered the toast, he sensed a tension behind his client’s composed demeanor. He took a bite, then consulted his notebook again. ‘Er, it seems that Trudie, Mrs. Nunn, had a live-in lover. Husband went missing about six, seven months back. This chap moved in, kept himself very much to himself... The law not looking for your sister’s husband, are they?’
Dolly shook her head. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, it was just that there seems to have been a bit of a rumpus one night. Cops came, broke down the door, searched the place, but whoever the feller was, he’d done a runner.’
‘Did you find out his name?’ Dolly asked.
Morgan laughed. ‘I think he went by the name of Mr. Smith. But then they all do, don’t they, Mrs. Marsh?’
Dolly opened her bag. ‘I really wouldn’t know, Mr. Morgan.’ She handed him an envelope. ‘I’d like you to continue watching Mrs. Nunn for at least another two days. And like I said, don’t bother calling me. I’ll be in touch.’ She stood up and Morgan watched her curiously as she made her way out of the dining room.
Funny woman, he thought. Something not quite right there. He knew she was lying, but that was common with women looking for their husbands. He couldn’t quite work out what she was lying about. Then he suddenly remembered something, got up from the table and caught up with her in the foyer as she was about to walk up the stairs.
‘Mrs. Marsh!’
Dolly turned with a startled expression.
‘About the photograph. I did ask you for a photograph of your sister’s husband.’
Dolly nodded. ‘Y-yes, I... I’m sorry, I’d forgotten. I’ll get one to you as soon as I can.’ Then she hurried up the stairs.
Morgan was now certain his instincts were right. There’s a lot more going on with Mrs. Marsh than meets the eye, he thought to himself. And he was now actually looking forward to getting back on the job watching Trudie Nunn’s house. He was curious to find out what sort of a man this Mr. Jarrow, the husband, was.