Evan Hunter - Lizzie

The hall porter whom she’d addressed as “sir” not a few moments earlier, came from behind his polished mahogany desk and said, “Ah, Miss Borden, ma’am! I thought it might be best to try catching you, the lady said it was urgent.” He led her to a glass-enclosed booth round a corner in the hall, said, “You can just pick up, ma’am, she’s on the line waiting,” opened the door for her, and then eased it shut behind her.

Lizzie picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said.

“Lizzie!” Alison said. “They were able to find you, were they? I do hope I haven’t fetched you back at an awkward time.”

“No, no, not at all,” Lizzie said. “But what a coincidence! I’ve just this moment given the hall porter a thank-you note to mail.”

“Ah, how sweet of you,” Alison said. “With our beastly system here, it probably won’t arrive till next Tuesday, when I’ll be long gone. I must tell you why I’m calling,” she said, somewhat breathlessly, Lizzie thought. “We’ll be leaving for Paris tomorrow, as you know, which is a dreadful pity because I shan’t be able to see you before then, what with tons of packing yet to do and getting the servants organized — they always seem to become as helpless as butterflies each time we make our summer move. I don’t know how long we’ll be there — Albert has some business to take care of, which may delay our leaving for Cannes — but I did want you to know where we’ll be staying, on the off chance we’ll still be there when you arrive. When did you say that might be, Lizzie?”

“The third, I believe. This coming Sunday.”

“Oh my, you will travel on Sundays, won’t you? In France, you’ll be lucky to find a porter. It’s always some sort of religious holiday there, and if it isn’t, you’ll find those surly frogs off to church, anyway, either praying or baptizing or else marrying a plump little maiden who, within months, will have grown a handlebar mustache to rival her mama’s. Do you have a pencil, Lizzie? I hear Moira shrieking at our gardener about something, and I’m afraid I’ll have to run and set it straight, what ever the calamity may be this time.” Lizzie could picture her rolling her green eyes heavenward. “Are you ready? I’m sorry, am I rushing you?”

Lizzie had picked up the stubby little pencil alongside the pad in the booth, and was waiting to write. “Yes, go ahead,” she said.

“It’s the Hotel Binda — do remember not to call it the Binda Hotel as there may be an utterly disreputable flophouse of the same name in Pigalle, if we’re to learn anything at all from Albert’s mistake. It’s number eleven rue de l’Echelle, not a minute’s walk from the rue de Rivoli and the Tuileries. We shall be there tomorrow sometime, and certainly through most of the week, unless Albert’s business detains him — which, frankly, I hope it does. So that we may see each other again.”

“How very kind of you,” Lizzie said.

“Now tell me quickly where you and your friends will be staying. I do believe we have the Crimean War being fought all over again in the scullery.”

“We’ll be at the Anglo-Français,” Lizzie said. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember the address.”

“Yes, I know it,” Alison said. “It’s in the rue Castiglione, not far from us, actually. Oh, I do so hope we’ll still be there when you arrive! We’ll have such fun, Lizzie!”

“I enjoyed yesterday enormously,” Lizzie said.

“As did I. Look at me, won’t you, I’ve almost forgotten! Please do say no to this if you find it awkward, Lizzie, won’t you? But I did want to make your stay in our filthy city as comfortable as possible, and I should have seen to it in person had our own travel plans not been fixed so far in advance. I’ve taken the liberty of asking my brother to call upon you; he should be there at noon, if you find that agreeable. He’s a Londoner to the marrow, and will do his utmost to show you some of the things you might otherwise miss.”

“Well, really, Alison, that’s...”

“And surely, you might enjoy lunching in something other than one of those dreary little places they’ve set aside for respectable Indies unaccompanied by the stronger sex. Geoffrey will see to it that you and your friends are escorted in style — he knows I shall behead him otherwise. And you must feel free to utilize him throughout your entire stay here. It will make it so much easier, Lizzie, truly. Do say yes, or I shall be cross with you.”

“Well...”

“Done then,” Alison said. “He’ll be there at noon, his name is Geoffrey. Hastings, of course. Don’t let his costume put you off; he’s a gentleman through and through even if he does affect the style of a Piccadilly Johnnie — what we sometimes call a masher or a chappie. My God, I’m sure they’re breaking things out there! Do let me go, Lizzie. Geoffrey Hastings, twelve noon, he’s tall and green-eyed and devilishly handsome, and if you’re lucky he won’t be wearing stays. I shall hope and pray I see you in Paris, my dear. And do take full advantage of Geoff while you’re here, though he’s such a mash, really. I must run,” she said, “ta.”

Lizzie stared in astonishment at the telephone.

Geoffrey Hastings was quite as tall and as handsome as Alison had promised, a young man somewhere in his thirties, Lizzie surmised, standing some six feet two inches tall in his patent-leather buttoned boots with their suede uppers, and wearing besides a dress coat that looked rather like an Eton jacket, cut to show an immense amount of ruffled shirtfront. The coat fitted him tightly at the waist, and Lizzie was certain (as Alison had suggested) that he was corseted beneath it. He wore a gray top hat, which he swept from his head the moment Lizzie approached him in the lobby, revealing short blond hair parted in the center. His face was clean-shaven, and his eyes were a green so dark they bordered on black.

“My dear Miss Borden,” he said, “how kind of you to make yourself available this afternoon.” He spoke English rather the way American stage performers did when they were trying to sound British, his voice somewhat high and nasal, his words slurred so that they became a continual sort of hum. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying our unaccustomed sunshine,” he said, and before Lizzie could reply, went on to say, “Allie told me you were up and about quite early this morning, and so I shan’t bore you with any more sightseeing till we’ve had a good lunch. I hope you’re quite as famished as I am.”

He took her for lunch (she felt hopelessly provincial thinking of it as dinner in her mind, the accepted word for it in Fall River) to a place called the Holborn Restaurant, where the glass and the brass and the marble columns were resplendently imposing, the room spacious, richly ornamented and attractively upholstered.

“I must tell you straight off,” he said, as soon as they were seated, “that there are no restaurants in all of London which can in any way compare to Delmonico’s or the Café Savarin in New York. Nor can you find here — at any price — a table d’hote meal equal in quality or style of service to that furnished at Cambridge’s on Fifth Avenue. Having made my national apologies, may I suggest that we start with the Whitstable oysters — our so-called native oysters — which are much my favorite, although many Americans find their flavor a trifle coppery and strong. The Chesapeake oysters, or the Great South Bay blue-points, might suit your palate better — if you like oysters at all, that is, and if they’re indeed in season, which I suspect they’re not. In any case, a bottle of Montrachet might be welcome, wouldn’t you agree?”