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CORA ASSESSED THE SAVOY.
The building soared before her in all of its finery, and everything inside her seemed to tremble. Well-dressed people glided through the hotel’s grand entrance.
A doorman wearing a top hat ushered her inside, and she raised her chin and quickened her speed, lest she be too recognizable. She hurried over the black-and-white-marble floor in the lobby, and she refrained from marveling at the elaborate gold-colored columns.
I’m just going to visit Pop. I have every reason to be here.
She may have told Miss Greensbody she would never enter the room, but as she’d exited the exhibit, her moral convictions had wavered.
After all, snooping might be frowned upon, but murder exceeded that in horribleness. Cora had snooped in Gal Detective films before. She knew the general concept and she’d even mastered the art of using a hairpin to break and enter.
Still, she’d find a way. Besides, in this case the victim of the crime was already dead. Mr. Tehrani wouldn’t care if she went through his things.
She marched through the corridor, passing various elegant sideboards and armchairs that seemed to serve no other purpose than to display the management’s consistently exquisite taste.
Room 1128.
Mr. Tehrani’s room was nowhere near Pop’s. Pop’s room had been at the very top of the Savoy. The top floors seemed to expand and be composed entirely of suites.
The doors on this corridor seemed closer together. Mr. Tehrani, despite his connection to the Shah, had been in London more in the role of a courier. Despite the Museum of Ancient Antiquities respectable address near other museums in Bloomsbury, it most likely did not have the funds to host him in a nicer room.
Cora had half-expected to see a constable outside the room, but when she spotted the brass numbers on the door and realized she was at the correct location, there was nothing to distinguish this room from any other one. No doubt the Metropolitan Police Force was vital for solving other cases as well.
Some maids in black dresses and crisp white aprons strolled down the corridor in her direction, and Cora swiveled and stared at the wall before her, feigning deep interest at a painting of a daisy, even though she’d seen dozens upon dozens of daisies before in their natural settings.
The maids, unfortunately, ambled slowly, pushing a laundry cart, and Cora’s heartbeat quickened. She was conscious she might appear ridiculous, as if she’d mistaken the corridor for a museum, and as if she’d mistaken this mass produced picture for art.
Still, she refrained from removing her gaze.
Finally, their footsteps grew fainter, and she studied the door of room 1128. It seemed fairly thick, and she hadn’t heard noises from the room. Perhaps she could use her trick for opening doors anyway. It had worked on set when she starred in the Gal Detective films. Perhaps it would work here.
She looked both ways, but the corridor was empty.
It was bound not to remain empty, and she tore a bobby pin from her bun. Her updo wobbled slightly, and she wished she’d placed a more liberal number of pins in her hair.
Never mind.
She inhaled, though the gesture did not manage to still her heart from hammering fiercely, and she set to work on the lock. She’d scarcely put it in, when footsteps sounded.
The footsteps did not come from either side of her, nor did they come from behind her.
The footsteps came from inside the room.
Her heart sank.
Naturally, the room wouldn’t be empty. The police were bound to have discovered the man’s identity.
The doorknob turned, and she yanked the hairpin from the door. She clasped her palm over it, so it dug into her flesh.
She wanted to flee. She wanted to scurry from the door, and if she didn’t manage to leave the corridor, she wanted to be pretending to be admiring another painting. Perhaps this time she could even plant herself before a depiction of an orchid.
But she couldn’t leave. She didn’t have time. All she could do was tighten her clasp on her bobby pin.
The door opened.
Cora braced herself for seeing the surprised, and then suspicious, gaze of a police constable. She braced herself for a sober looking detective, no less dangerous because he was not in uniform. She even braced herself for seeing a hotel staff member, and she prepared herself to murmur some nonsense about being in the wrong room.
Instead, she saw a maid, and Cora’s shoulders relaxed. The maid was taller than her and heavily made up.
The maid gasped.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Cora said hastily.
The maid gave a tight smile and then shrank back.
“Er—thank you,” Cora said. “I was just coming back to my room. This is good timing. It—er—looks very clean.”
The maid didn’t turn back and hurried away, her tight blue dress and white ruffled apron swaying from her sudden speed.
Cora sighed. That’s what she had come to—scaring the staff.
At least she was inside though. She placed her hairpin back in her hair and moved methodically through the room.
The room was clean. Cora had not had to lie about that, but it was not entirely empty, and Cora’s heart thudded.
She’d have to work quickly. At some point the police would discover Mr. Tehrani’s identity, and at some point after that, they would discover he was staying at this hotel, in this room.
Fortunately, that hadn’t occurred yet.
Cora opened one of the drawers, ruffling through underwear and shirts. She’d never touched male undergarments before, and guilt rushed through her.
He’s dead. He won’t mind.
Somehow her stern words did not utterly alleviate her worry. Well, she’d never developed taskmaster skills. That was another type of job the employment agencies wouldn’t send her on.
She opened the next drawer. The clothes were wrinkled, as if he’d put them in himself and not made use of a valet. He had a sufficient variety to make it evident he’d intended to make the most of his time in the capital. Evening clothes and more casual attire touched, and when she opened a wardrobe, she found rows of smart jackets and blazers.
Her chest tightened. What events had he planned to go to? What had he already done, not realizing it would be the last thing he would do?
She searched for the jewels, but they weren’t here.
Hmm... Perhaps someone had stolen them.
She searched for other clues. Unfortunately, the clothes were no help.
What had she expected she would find? Perhaps she’d been naïve to think Mr. Tehrani might have kept a calendar or notebook with an appointment scrawled on it that would lead her to the killer.
There was nothing of that sort here, only a few books that seemed to be fiction, given the colorful images on the cover, though Cora couldn’t read the strange looping Persian letters.
A guidebook on London made her heart sink. Had this been his first time here? Had he looked forward to visiting?
She picked it up. There was much in London that she still hadn’t seen. Some pages were folded down.
How curious.
She turned to the folded pages quickly. The British Museum. She smiled. Well, that place seemed to be on the top of many people’s list. The other folded page though was about Bloomsbury, and she frowned slightly, reading a short description of her square.
Had Mr. Tehrani intended to read about Bloomsbury because of its proximity to the British Museum? Or had he known he was going to visit that square? There would be no reason to visit Miss Greensbody at her home, and though the square was pleasant, it also lacked the monuments and historical importance that would have made it a natural priority for a visitor to London to see.
Perhaps... Cora frowned. She hadn’t checked the pockets of the man’s blazers. This was a hotel, and one in a new city. The man wouldn’t necessarily have done dry cleaning.
She returned to the wardrobe and checked the pockets of the man’s blazers. The first two ones were empty, but in the third one, she came to a glossy paper. It seemed sturdier than normal paper, and her heartbeat quickened. Was it a business card? The shape seemed wrong, and she removed it gently.
Most likely it was some flier for an art exhibit.
But when she looked at it, it definitely was no flier. It was a photograph.
Of Bess.
What on earth was Mr. Tehrani doing with a photograph of Bess in his pocket? Had he met her? Was he one of the wealthy gentleman Bess liked to go out in the town with?
Voices sounded in the corridor, reminding her that she should leave.
She slipped the photograph back in the jacket pocket.
Evidently, Miss Greensbody was not the only person in the building who had a connection with the dead man.