She was halfway to the door when the dreadful sound of footsteps coming along the passage reached her ears, but Eddie was prepared for this, too. Wheeling about, she ran back toward the bed, threw herself onto the floor, and reached one arm underneath, as though in quest of something. A split second later, Madame Zhenay entered the room.
“What are you doing here?” she thundered. And Eddie, cool though she was, trembled as a suppliant before a merciless pagan god.
“Please, ma’m,” cried the child, her voice muffled by the bed skirt, “I have lost my turtle. Is that you, Stupid-Looking?” She extended her arm farther into the dusty cavern. “I can’t . . . quite touch . . . have you anything that might be long enough to reach him?”
“Here,” said Madame, handing her the hook-end pole with which the upper transoms were opened and closed. “Use this. How could a turtle have got up the stairs so fast?”
“He’s a tricky one, ma’m,” said Eddie, who had surreptitiously taken Stupid-Looking from the pocket of her pinafore and placed him under the bed whilst Madame was fetching the pole. “That’s why we call him Stupid-Looking. He only looks stupid, you see. But he isn’t . . . there! I’ve got you!”
She scrambled to her feet and held out the Testudine, now convincingly covered in dust, that the other might observe its fatuous expression.
Madame Zhenay grabbed her spectacles off the nightstand and peered at the turtle through them, without unfolding the ear pieces. She was unfamiliar with the habits of
Emys orbicularis
, or she would have known that Stupid-Looking could never have got up the stairs unaided. But her ignorance upon the subject of terrapin locomotion, combined with what appeared to be the proof of her own eyes, convinced her that this had indeed been the case, and she had to satisfy herself with terrorizing the child.
“What did you mean by bringing that infernal creature into my shop?” she roared.
“I’m very sorry, madam,” said Eddie with a hasty curtsy.
She attempted to dart from the room, but Zhenay caught her by the arm, and twisted it so painfully that the girl cried out.
“I’ve half a mind to keep you here forever,” whispered the ogress, thrusting her face close to Eddie’s, “and force you to be my slave! How would you like
that?”
“No!” Eddie shouted, as loudly as she could. “Stop! Let me go!”
Arabella had been anxiously hovering at the bottom of the stairs ever since she had seen Madame leave the sales floor. But when Eddie screamed, her aunt swarmed up them at once and fairly flew into the room, wresting her niece from that merciless grip. Evidently, though, Arabella had only effected the rescue in order to castigate the child, herself.
“Edwardina! How could you?! When you promised me you would be good! I shall probably lose my place now, thanks to you, and we shall be thrown into the street when I cannot pay the rent!”
Eddie’s lower lip trembled. “B . . . but Bella! I was only going after my turtle! I couldn’t leave him to run loose in the house, could I? Imagine the fright he’d have given Madame, if she had stepped on him as she was getting out of bed!”
And with that, the child began to cry hysterically. Arabella was actually worried that the shock might induce a relapse.
“Wait! Who’s minding the shop?!” bellowed Zhenay. And she tore downstairs, dragging Arabella and Eddie behind her. But all was well. For once there were no customers.
“Get her out of here, Bella!” cried the proprietor. “And come straight back! You’ll work late tonight, to make up the time!”
“Yes, Madame! God bless you, Madame!”
And Arabella hustled Eddie out the door, surreptitiously removing the B
ACK IN TEN MINUTES’ TIME
sign that she had placed in the window.
Chapter 9
“T
here
is
a strongbox,” said Eddie breathlessly, after Arabella whisked her round the corner. “A big locked one, next to the desk. The key is probably hanging from that ring she wears on her belt.”
“Oh, sweetheart! You are invaluable!” cried Arabella, hugging her.
“Well, I could not have done it without Stupid-Looking,” said Eddie modestly. She took the turtle from her pocket, brushed off the under-bed dust, and placed her lips upon his snout.
“Kissing turtles is a most unsanitary practice,” said Arabella reprovingly. “I cannot think it advisable in your current compromised state of health, Edwardina.”
“But he has served such a noble purpose,” Eddie protested. “Don’t you think he deserves to be rewarded?”
“Perhaps. But I doubt whether he is sensible of the honor you’ve bestowed upon him. It is typically frogs which reap the benefits of being kissed.” Arabella brushed the worst of the dust from Eddie’s pinafore and helped her into the carriage. “Although now I come to think of it,” she added, “I am not at all certain that a prince
is
better than a frog. I, for one, should much prefer an unassuming little amphibian to Britain’s own great walrus!”
“It hardly matters which is better, though, does it?” asked the practical Eddie, as her aunt was herself handed inside by the driver. “Stupid-Looking is only a turtle. And no one ever heard of a turtle prince.”
“You’re quite right, my dear; let us take this little hero back to the garden and set him free again. I have an idea that he would much prefer his liberty to a throne, or even to a kiss from a future famous courtesan.”
Eddie smiled. “How will you get the key, though?”
“Never you mind,” said Arabella. “I have a plan of my own for that!”
And after restoring her niece to bed and the reptile to its burrow, “Bella Daltry” returned to La Palais de Beautay, where she worked so hard and behaved so submissively, shooting occasional cow-eyed glances at her employer, that Madame Zhenay was sufficiently mollified to invite the minx to join her in a glass of claret after they’d locked up for the evening.
“There’s a place I know of, not far from here,” said Madame. “It’s very discreet, and known only to women like ourselves.”
But Arabella did not want to risk seeing someone whom she knew, who might unwittingly expose her for the fraud that she was.
“Couldn’t we stay here, Madame? This is so much cozier, and I am not really interested in talking to anyone but you.”
“Perfect,” said her employer. “We’ll go up to my bedroom.”
Afterward, Madame Zhenay, who had told Arabella to call her “Cream Pot,” fell asleep. And when a series of loud, wet snores indicated that she was well and truly under, Arabella, clad only in her shift, crept out of bed and tiptoed across the room. The great key ring lay upon the desk in plain sight.
But if you think that it is easy to locate a particular key on a large iron ring loaded with the blasted things, in semidarkness, whilst simultaneously preventing them from clinking together, then the author respectfully recommends that you try it sometime. Arabella sorted carefully through the collection, searching for a tiny key that might fit the strongbox lock. Her task was ultimately complicated by the fact that there were three that might have done, and they weren’t positioned together, but suspended at random between an assortment of larger keys. She was obliged to try each of the small ones in turn, and keeping the rest of them from jangling while she did this was no walk in the park. But finally, the last of the small keys turned in the keyhole with a satisfying click.
Arabella lifted the strongbox’s hinged top to reveal an organizational arrangement of impressive efficiency. The interior was full of files, each tabbed with a last name and first initial. Some of these held routine business papers, but many contained sealed envelopes addressed to the designated persons or agencies where, presumably, they might do the most damage.
By the light from the moonlit window, Arabella read through the names with wonder: She either knew or had heard of most of these people, many of whom were socially prominent. Of course, they weren’t all blackmail victims—the collection also included Zhenay’s regular customer files. But there was no time to waste; “Cream Pot” might wake at any moment to apprehend her, and Arabella did not like to think what would happen if she did: Something in her employer’s menacing mien suggested that murder would not be out of the question, and this was just the sort of situation that was apt to bring out the beast in her.
Costanze’s letters were filed under
W
, toward the rear, where, in a folder of its own, Arabella also discovered a ledger wedged between the
Z
s and the back of the strongbox. She remembered the conversation she’d had with Eddie about the difficulties of proving blackmail without exposing Costanze’s secret. “I expect I shall find proof of all sorts of dark doings,” she had said lightly. This must be the index to the files, the “proof of dark doings.” So she took that, also. And as she stuffed her contraband into one of Fielding’s large unattached pockets, the lovely thief gave thanks to the benevolent universe: an ordinary reticule could never have contained so much.
She was about to close the lid again, when an impulse seized her that she could never afterward explain, and Arabella grabbed Lady Ribbonhat’s customer file, closed the lid, and shoved the file into the other pocket.
“Just what do you think you are doing?”
A dark shape, swathed in blankets, rose up from the bed. It seemed impossibly huge in the half-light, like a threatening breaker that appears out of nowhere on a windless day. But Arabella had spent many childhood summers at the seaside, and knew from long experience that when one is confronted with a wave of this magnitude, the only practical thing to do is to dive straight into it.
“I must get back, Cream Pot,” she said, hoping her voice sounded relaxed. “I was trying not to wake you, but I cannot find all the pieces of my clothing.”
For a certainty she could not. Except for the pockets, which she still held in her hand, Arabella had intentionally scattered her clothes about the room as much as possible when taking them off. Zhenay was reaching for her spectacles, and in that split second, Arabella tossed the bulging pouches onto the vanity bench.
“Ah!” she cried. “There are my pockets, anyhow,” and she moved toward them.
“Stay where you are,” said Madame.
Arabella froze. There is a certain type of voice that compels obedience, and Madame Zhenay had one.
“I can’t let you leave now; it’s”—she brought the spectacles to her eyes and picked up a clock from the bedside table—“three o’clock in the morning! You’ll never get a cab at this hour! Besides, I don’t want to be told that your beautiful body has been found nude and lifeless in some alley. Bring it back to bed, love,” she said, holding open the bedclothes, “and this time I’ll light the lamp, so you can see what I’m doing!”
The younger woman was glad enough to comply—her feet were getting cold. Later, when the two of them were lying back against the pillows and blissfully smoking cigars, Arabella studied the numerous cracks in the water-stained ceiling, and the hideous, mold-colored wallpaper that was peeling and curling throughout the room.
“How much longer do you intend to live here, Cream Pot?” she asked. “A successful business woman like you should have a house of her own!”
“Why?”
Arabella was nonplussed. “Well, because . . . a woman is not complete without a house that reflects her tastes and passions. After all, what else is a home, but the mind made manifest?”
Madame grunted. “That may hold true for titled women and the like, but I’m working class, and proud of it! We live over our shops so that we may access them at any hour of the day or night. Because our work is who we are. To live otherwise would be unnatural . . . like a body without a heart.”
“That’s a moving sentiment, in its way,” said Arabella, “but you’re wealthy enough to move up in the world now! You should—”
“Don’t tell me what I should do,” said Zhenay flatly. “And don’t worry your pretty head about it,” she added in fawning tones. “I don’t plan on living here forever, but the time is not yet ripe to make a move. My people come from Alsatia,” she added, apparently changing the subject. “Do you even know where that is, Bella?”
Arabella shook her head. She
did
know, in fact, for her library contained a copy of
The Squire of Alsatia,
but she quickly decided that the gently raised Bella Daltry would not have heard of such a place.
“It’s the district that lies between the Thames, the Temple, and Fleet Street,” Zhenay explained, “the vilest slums in London. But that’s where I grew up, you see. It’s an official criminal sanctuary—no one can be arrested there—so you may imagine the sorts of things that go on.”
“Remarkable!” said Arabella. “And you’re to be congratulated on having escaped! But how did you come to open a cosmeticks shop?”
“Oh,” said Zhenay, rolling over and flipping her cigar stub into her half-empty wineglass. (Or perhaps it was half full.) “That is a long story.”
“The night is also long,” said Arabella. “What more perfect place and time to tell it, than here and now?” She turned on her side, cradling her head upon her arm, adopting the manner of a person who is prepared to listen—forever, if need be—to the tales of her companion. Because people are usually quite keen on relating their life histories, and the rule holds true for villains and heroes alike.
If the Almighty were to grant mankind a gift, just one, something that would have to please the greatest number of people all over the world, it would have to be the gift of an appreciative audience.
“Years ago, when I was much younger,” said Madame Zhenay, “I ended up in Paris on the eve of the revolution. The English were not popular in France at the time. Heads were being chopped off for no reason at all. And there I was, without a sou in my pocket.”
“Dear God!” Arabella exclaimed. “What did you do?”
“I went to Alsace—the very place for which my old London neighborhood was named—where things were safer. Eventually, I found work as a laundress.
“My best clients were the members of a family that made skin emollients in their cellar. They were forever wiping cold creams from clients’ faces and mopping up spills with their shirtsleeves, so I went there often, both to deliver loads of clean laundry and to collect piles of soiled.
“Once I’d become familiar with the premises, I found it easy to filch small items that no one would miss for a while, like teaspoons and candle snuffers. One time I even got a brooch, which the mistress of the house had foolishly left on a side table. I sold these things to the dolly shops, and didn’t do too badly, but one day I realized I would rather be making the sort of money the family earned. From that time on, I began to focus my attention on the business itself. I asked lots of questions, which turned into suggestions, and the head of the family eventually took me on as his assistant.”
“You must speak very good French, then,” said Arabella, who was now even more at a loss to explain the stupid name of Madame Zhenay’s establishment.
“Not a word, I’m afraid. My employer tried to teach it to me, but eventually he gave it up and spoke to me in English.” She pushed herself upright and selected another cigar from the humidor next to her bed.
“After the troubles ended, I moved to Paris, opened my own shop, and made money hand over fist. The only drawback was that I had to rely on my blasted bilingual shop assistants, who robbed me blind. Finally, one of them denounced me to the authorities as an alien without papers, and I was deported back to England, penniless, once again. Years later, I learnt that the woman who denounced me had stolen my business.”
“Well, how were you able to start La Palais de Beautay? Which is not proper French, by the way. It should be ‘Le Palais de Beauté.’ ”
“I know,” said Madame, exhaling smoke through her nose, “but it’s better for business this way.”
Arabella blinked. “Why would mangled French be good for business?”
“Two reasons. One: The love of the English for exotic goods is ever at odds with their distrust of foreign ways. They would rather deal with English persons
pretending
to be foreigners than with
actual
foreigners. Two: Mistakes linger in the memory. French speakers, recalling the grammatical error, will remember the name of my shop, whilst non-French speakers will cling to the recognizable, almost-English words.”
“But can that really be true?” asked Arabella.
“It
is
true,” said Zhenay. “They want foreign things, you see; not foreign people. But the foreign things must seem to be sold by foreigners in order to appear genuine. The name of my shop takes full advantage of this prejudice.”
“How cynically clever of you!”
“Yes. But it took time to get started again after my return to this country, skinned as I was, and with no family to speak of. I nearly starved that first year; couldn’t even get work as a whore—the pimps all said I frightened the customers!”
Here she threw back her head and laughed a wild, murderous laugh that raised gooseflesh on Arabella’s arms.
“I began by selling pots of lip rouge door to door. Then I got a booth, and hawked my wares at fairs and festivals. With very hard work, business gradually improved, until finally I was able to open La Palais.
“I am driven ever onward, Bella, by one very striking maxim. Perhaps you have heard of it: Behind every great man there is a great woman. And there is no overestimating her power: Just get the woman in your grip, my girl, and you will have the man!”
“I see,” said Arabella. “So your cosmeticks business is really . . .”
“. . . the means to an end. All wealthy women are obsessed with beauty. Either they lack it, and wish it above everything, or they have it, and wish to retain it for as long as possible. I promise them that eternal beauty
can
be theirs, for a price, and they flock to me like the geese they are, putting themselves in my power so readily that it is almost too easy!”