Deanna Raybourn - City of Jasmine

They fumbled with their sheet music, casting aside the next song on their list, and launched into a pretty little prelude. Mr. Halliday and I began to dance again, and just as he swung me into a graceful turn, I felt a shiver run down my spine.

“Evie?” His eyes were full of concern, his arm tight about my waist.

“‘Salut d’Amour,’” I said.

“Beg pardon? Oh, yes, I think it is. Pretty little piece, isn’t it? Shame I’ve such a wretched memory for music. Never can remember who wrote it.”

“Elgar,” I said stiffly. “It’s Elgar.”

His expression brightened. “Of course it is. Now, Evie—Mrs. Starke? You’ve gone quite pale? Are you feeling all right?”

I forced a smile. “Quite, but suddenly the room seems beastly hot. Forgive me. I must excuse myself for just a moment.”

He held onto my hand, patting it solicitously. “Anything you like. May I take you back to the table?”

“The ladies’ cloakroom, I think.”

He walked me as far as the door and I turned to put my hand to his sleeve. “Would you mind going to check on Aunt Dove? I oughtn’t have left her quite so long. I’m feeling frightfully guilty.”

He hesitated. “If you’re certain you’re all right.”

“Perfectly. Just a little warm. I will bathe my wrists and be right as rain in a few minutes. Please don’t trouble yourself. Go order some more champagne and I will be back to the table by the time it arrives.”

He trotted off and as soon as he was out of sight, I ducked behind one of the palms. I waited until the maître d’ strode by and jumped out to pluck at his sleeve.

The poor man nearly jumped out of his skin. “Madame! You have startled me.”

“I apologise, but I must speak with you.”

He preened a little, stroking his moustache. No doubt he was accustomed to intrigues in his establishment, but I had other fish to fry. I leaned closer.

“It is a matter of some delicacy, monsieur.”

“Naturellement.” He put on a conspiratorial smile and laid a finger to the side of his nose. “This way, madame.”

He led me to a quiet little alcove sheltered from the rest of the club by a carved screen. “What may I do for you, madame?”

“The song the orchestra is playing now, ‘Salut d’Amour—’ why are they playing that piece?”

He shrugged. “It is a pretty and popular piece, madame.”

“I think it is more than that. I believe you paid the conductor to play it. Why?”

His dark eyes gleamed. He was enjoying himself. “Madame is observant.”

“Madame is a little impatient, as well. Why did you pay him? Did someone pay you?”

He shrugged again. “It is customary to pay extra for special services,” he said blandly.

The hint did not go amiss. I fished in my tiny beaded bag and withdrew a paper note. His eyes lit with avarice and he plucked the note from my fingers, whisking it into his pocket before I could object.

“To answer your question, madame, yes. I was asked to make this request of the conductor.”

“By whom?”

He rolled his eyes heavenward and I took out another note. He made to take it, but this time I held it just out of reach.

He sighed. “Ah, madame grows cynical. Quelle dommage. Very well. I was given money to request the song, but monsieur was most insistent that it be played immediately.”

“Describe monsieur for me, please.”

He thought. “My own height, perhaps a little less slender. Dark hair and dark eyes with tiny moustaches. An Arab,” he added. “And a very young one. Not yet twenty.”

My racing heart slowed. It could not be Gabriel. The maître d’ was less than five foot eight and inclined to slight embonpoint around his middle. Gabriel had been six feet even and well-built. Even more damning, although he had dark hair, his gentian blue eyes would have given him away even if he could have passed for someone almost two decades his junior, which I distinctly doubted.

The maître d’ winkled the note out of my fingers. “Does madame have any more questions?”

“Yes,” I said suddenly. “How much did he pay you?”

“Two hundred francs.”

“And how did he pay?”

“In two 100-franc banknotes, madame.”

“You gave one to the conductor?”

He gave an indulgent laugh. “Madame underestimates me. I gave him fifty francs.”

I pulled out the largest banknote I had in my bag. “Give me the notes he gave you.”

He took the note from me and held it up to the light.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m no counterfeiter!”

He threw up his hands with a gusty sigh. “Madame must forgive my cynicism, but it is the burden of the Frenchman. When a lovely woman wishes to pay him far more for his money than it is worth—” He trailed off, leaving me to draw my own conclusions.

“You’re quite right to be cautious. But I think there may be something for me on one of the notes.”

He lifted his brows, a delighted smile playing about under his moustache. “La! An intrigue! Why did madame not say so before?”

He drew out the two hundred-franc notes and handed them over, happily pocketing the larger note I had given him in exchange. He leaned over while I examined the notes.

“What do they say, madame? Anything?”

I scrutinised the notes in the dim light. “Nothing,” I said, but even as the word was out of my mouth, I saw it. In faint pencil, on the very edge of the note. REAPERS HOME.

“But what does this mean, madame?”

I forced a bright smile and brought out another banknote to press into his hand. “It is an assignation. I must trust in your discretion, monsieur.”

He pocketed the banknote swiftly as he bowed. “But of course, madame! I am the very soul of discretion. It is more than my life is worth not to be,” he added with a wistful smile. No doubt he had seen his share of intrigues and thought himself a sort of Cupid, helping them along. Or he simply enjoyed the extra money he extorted for his silence.

I slipped the notes into my décolletage and slid out of the alcove, fluffing my hair as I made my way back to the table.

Halliday rose and handed me a fresh glass of champagne.

“Feeling better?” Aunt Dove asked.

“Much. It was wretchedly hot on that dance floor,” I said, turning from one to the other with a smile. I lifted my glass in a toast. “To Damascus. To old friends and new.”

We drank together and Halliday and Aunt Dove fell into conversation about what we ought to see and do in Damascus. I tried to keep up my end, but my thoughts kept turning to the banknotes rustling in my cleavage, and when Halliday at last dropped us at our hotel I was grateful to bid Aunt Dove good-night and go directly to my room. To Aunt Dove’s disappointment, Halliday hurried away, and I felt a trifle guilty I had warned him off. He was a big boy. I had no doubt he could take care of himself and would be gentleman enough to be gracious to Aunt Dove when he rebuffed her advances. Still, it was sometimes better to head off trouble at the pass, I had found, and I would have hated to lose Mr. Halliday as a connection. I had a feeling he could prove useful to us, and with so little to go on, I wanted every possible advantage in tracking down the facts behind the photograph.

I pulled out the banknotes and studied them again. There was nothing remarkable about them, no other pencilled messages, no distinctive scent. Just those two words and the song the orchestra had played. “Salut d’Amour.” It was a beautiful melody with just a touch of nostalgia to save it from sentimentality. There was something haunting and old-fashioned about it, and although Gabriel and I had quarrelled good-naturedly about music, it was the one song we had agreed upon. I could never convince him that jazz was going to be the next big thing any more than he could make me love Palestrina. But “Salut d’Amour” had been ours. We had danced to it the first night we met and every night after. No matter how badly we fought or how cold our silences had become, every evening after dinner Gabriel had started up his gramophone and played it, taking me in his arms and leading me into a sweeping turn that left me dizzy.