‘Succinsin? ’
‘Scoundrel.’
‘I’ll find him,’ promised Phryne, and took her leave of the de Grasses. The beautiful Sasha kissed her very gently and presented her to his sister to kiss. Phryne found the two of them so similar that she did not object. She knew they had designs on sharing her, and began to think that might prove extremely engrossing — then dragged her salacious mind and body away. She walked loudly down the hall as she left, then crept back to listen at the door. She heard the voice of the old woman speaking their familiar French.
‘How was the milch cow, eh? Did you please her?’
‘Certainly,’ said Sasha smugly. ‘I stroked her until she purred. She is of a sensuality unusual in English women. I think that I have ensnared her. She will want me again.’
‘Did she pay you?’ grated the old voice, and Sasha must have shrugged, for Phryne heard the old woman slap him lightly.
‘Grandmama, do not be so greedy!’ he protested, laughing. ‘Next time she will pay. In the end, I think she will marry me.’
Phryne hoped that her grinding teeth could not be heard through the door.
‘Perhaps. At least, you shall not waste your strength in vain. She is generous, I think. Yes. And she is clever.’
‘Truly, she saved me by a trick — she thinks with remarkable speed. I think she will find the Roi des Neiges.’
‘Yes, she will find him, and then you will follow her. And then. .’ she made a choking noise, probably accompanied by a graphic gesture.
‘Revenge is sweet, children, and we shall have every centime out of him before he dies. With that profit, I believe that you may retire, and your sister may marry for love.’
The old woman cackled gleefully. Elli protested.
‘I shall not marry. I do not like men. Take me with you, Sasha, when you go to Miss Fisher again! Please, Sashushka, please!’
‘I do not know if she would like that. .’ said Sasha, considering. ‘But I will ask her. I must bathe — we have a performance. Come and wash my back,’ said Sasha. Phryne went soundlessly down the hall. She passed the doorman without a word. He awarded a gloomy stare to her retreating back, and sighed. That woman was class, the doorman could see that, and it was wise to be on the side of class. Or so the doorman had been told. It had never done him any good.
Phryne soon realised that first, she was attracting attention by hurrying, and that second, running in a tight skirt, loose coat and high heels required concentration of a high order, which she did not feel that she could spare at the moment. Therefore she walked into a café and ordered a pot of tea, lit a gasper, and fumed. So that was why the Russians had adopted her! As a decoy duck! The perfidy of such creatures!
She drank the tea too quickly and burned her mouth. There was no point in getting angry with them. The Russians were as amoral and attractive as kittens. One thing, however, she vowed. Not one penny would Sasha extract from her purse, and she was not going to marry him. To be exploited was the fate of many women, but Phryne was not going to be one of them if she could help it.
Phryne opened the first of her letters and found that the solid white envelope contained an invitation, in impeccable taste, from Mr Sanderson, MP, to dinner that night. She replaced the card in its envelope and tore open the scented one. A large sheet of violently violet paper bore the subscription of Lydia Andrews’ house, and a short message asking Miss Fisher to call at her earliest opportunity. Phryne snorted. The woman was a clinger, after all. She crumpled the message and left the café, dropping Lydia’s invitation into a rubbish-bin. She would go to dinner with Sanderson, but before then she and Dot had places to go and people to see.
The first thing to do was to hire a car. Phryne was a good driver, and disliked having to constantly call taxis.
There was a garage in this street, she recollected, down at the edge of the city, where the livery stables had been for the city’s hansom cabs. Phryne caught a cable-car, holding on tightly as instructed, and breathed in the strange, ozone-flavoured burned dust scent, until she was dropped off at the corner of Spencer Street. The garage was large and newly painted, and an attentive, if oil-stained, young man stood up suddenly as she entered. The dim interior of the ex-stable was gleaming with brass lamps and lovingly polished paintwork. The young man wiped his hands hastily on a piece of cotton waste and hurried towards her.
‘Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?’
‘I want to hire a car,’ said Phryne. ‘What have you got?’
The young man gestured towards a sober Duchesse, high-axled, with a closed body built by a coachmaker. Phryne grinned.
‘I’m not ready for something as quiet as that. What about this one?’ she asked, patting the bright red enamel of a Hispano-Suiza racing car. It was built rakishly low, wide-bodied to hold up an engine of fiendish power. The young man looked Phryne up and down, attempting to gauge her nerve.
‘Take it out for a spin, shall we? Then you will see that I can drive her all right. I wouldn’t harm a lovely lady like this — but I need a fast car. Come on.’
The young man threw down the cotton rag and followed helplessly.
He watched Phryne narrowly as she choked the engine, swung the starter with a skilled flip, and started the engine. The cylinders cut in with a roar; the muffler was not a standard piece of equipment on this car. Phryne took the wheel, released the brake, and the car rolled out into Spencer Street. She achieved a neat turn to the left.
They were a mile out along past the cricket ground when she opened the throttle and allowed the full power of the engine to surge forward. The mileometer flicked up into the red; the mechanic leaned forward and bellowed, ‘That’s fast enough, Miss! I’m convinced! You can have her!’
Phryne allowed the car to slacken speed and, for the first time, took her eye off the road. She seemed a little disappointed.
‘Oh, very well,’ she grumbled, completed a screaming U-turn, and proceeded to whisk the mechanic back to his garage with more expedition and skill than he had before experienced.
They swept into the garage, and Phryne stopped the engine. ‘I want it for a week, to begin with,’ she said affably. The young man observed that her shining cap of black hair was not even ruffled. ‘I don’t mind what it costs,’ she added. ‘And if you really jib at hiring it out, I’ll buy it. A lovely vehicle. . how much?’
‘I don’t want to sell it, Miss, I’m going to race it myself. . I rebuilt the engine, took me two months. .’
‘Fifty quid for the week?’ offered Phryne, and the mechanic, with a celerity not entirely induced by this monstrous offer, tossed the starting handle into the car and received the bundle of notes.
Phryne restarted the warm engine, set the car at Spencer Street as she would set a hunting hack at a hedge, and roared out, scattering pedestrians. The young man picked up the card, noticed that his client was staying at the Windsor, and closed the shop early. He needed a drink.
Phryne rolled to a halt at the main entrance to the hotel and called to the doorman. ‘Where can I leave her?’
The man’s jaw dropped. He hurried forward. ‘Park her just here, Miss, and I’ll keep an eye on her. Beautiful car, Miss. Lagonda, is she?’
‘Hispano-Suiza; see the stork on the radiator cap? First one was built for King Alfonso of Spain — this is the 46CV, isn’t she splendid?’
Phryne eased the car into the indicated kerb and switched off the engine. She swallowed to regain her hearing. The Hispano-Suiza had been roaring like a lion.
She ran up the steps and ascended the great staircase, reached her own suite, and surprised Dot in the middle of darning a stocking, so that she ran a needle into her finger.