Sterling and Fernando hid in the shadows across the street, visible only by the fog of their breath.
A muscular deliveryman entered the shop, which shook the tinkling bell over the door. It alerted the voluptuous shopgirl, Rosemary, Madame Weiss’s loyal assistant, who resembled a shorter, curvier version of her boss. Rosemary winked, tossing back her blond hair before signing for the wine case. The postman threw the box onto the counter too easily for it to be full of bottles. It was probably payment from a regular client, dropped off just in time for Madame’s weekly bookkeeping.
Fernando broke the silence. “How long since you two spoke?”
Sterling checked the clock tower of a nearby church. “Ten years.”
“Did God tell you that?”
“No, he’s been giving me the silent treatment since I was a teen.I was checking the time. It’s nine oh five. If I don’t come out soon, you can tell the officers I died around nine fifteen.”
It was still Thursday, a few hours after they’d left Room 13. Normally, Sterling would be waking up now to start her weekend. But there’d been no chance to sleep.
Fernando shook his head in disbelief. “I thought the only way you and Madame Weiss would be anywhere near each other again was if one of you was spitting into the other’s grave.”
“She might put me in one after this.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you two?”
“Are you going to tell me what you did on your break last night?”
Fernando shivered and changed the subject. “You sure I shouldn’t go with you?”
“I have to do this alone.”
He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger, warm against the cold. “Good luck. I love you.”
She shook her shoulders, straightened her back, then marched across the frosty gray pavement towards the glow of the only shop lit at this hour. A bell chimed as she entered. Rosemary looked up, her customer-service smile vanishing at the sight of Sterling.
Blanc de Noir specialized in champagne, allegedly. Metallic labels and foiled caps gleamed from the shelves. Indeed, this was the same type of champagne once on offer at the Orient. The sort that came with the complimentary company of a woman.
Every time Sterling saw Rosemary, she thought she resembled her boss a bit more, courtesy of the precise hand of Madame’s personal surgeon, who preserved each escort’s beauty. By the time Rosemary’s pouty smile twisted into a scowl, she’d pressed the panic button beneath the counter, and the back office door opened, letting a beam of light into the dark hall. Madame’s spindly shadow fell across it.
“What’s wrong, Rose?” said Madame Weiss, strutting out like anelegant marionette. Her hands floated by her bosom, wrists fluttering with each click of her stilettos on the tile. Her suit was ivory, as were her shoes. She was tall enough that the outfit seemed to extend for ages. A string of pearls draped around her swan-like neck, the skin kept taut by expert scalpels.
Her blond chignon drew back her temples, thinning her eyes, a blue so pale they were almost invisible. They narrowed at Sterling. Her nostrils flared subtly. She lined her lips in a permanent sneer, but it deepened. Her brows were frozen by Botox into judgmental arches. The only spots of color in her outfit were the red soles of her shoes and the matching crimson varnish on her nails, which were filed to dagger points. She gently scratched the front of her neck, as if swallowing her revulsion. Madame’s escorts were known for their dirty work, but she kept her hands clean and her reputation unstained.
“I warned you never to darken my doorstep, dear,” she said.
Sterling approached her slowly, swiping her finger across a row of bottles no one was meant to buy, tracing a line in the thin patina of dust. She clicked her tongue in disapproval as she examined her fingertips.
The bell chimed, and Rosemary greeted whichever customer had walked in. Madame stepped back into the shadows, curling her finger for Sterling to follow. Madame didn’t deal with clients directly. She kept a tight grip on the operation from afar and came in each Thursday evening to manage the schedule and cook the books, during which she didn’t like to be bothered. Sterling joined her, closing the office door behind her.
Madame lowered herself into her chair and swiveled to face the glass-topped desk, ignoring Sterling. The black and copper rotary phone rang. Madame answered, wearing a grin wide enough to be heard over the call. It didn’t reach her eyes.
“Blanc de Noir, Madame speaking. Yes, hello, Helmut, it’slovelyto speak to you. How are things at the Hotel Imperial? For tomorrow? The opera? Verena can meet him in the lobby bar at five. Perfect. Pleasure doing business with you, as always.” She slammed the receiver down. The delicate crystal jar of peppermints beside the phone rattled.
She opened her ledger, scribbled Verena’s appointment down, and wrote up an invoice. Her escort service was a pen-and-paper business. Written records were as easy to keep as they were to burn.
Sterling cleared her throat. “Can I sit?”
“You may, but don’t get comfortable.”
Sterling wriggled into the chair. Madame scratched away at a new page with her fountain pen. “What do you need, dear?” she said with expertly feigned indifference.
“It’s about Hedy. Something terrible’s happened.”
Madame’s pen screeched to a halt, nib piercing the paper. She set it down, interlaced her fingers, and cleared her throat. “Excuse me?” she asked, her voice an octave higher than before.
