Chapter Eight

The doorman, suitably impressed by the major's uniform and the posh car, let us in without question and directed us to the lift.

We took the lift to the second floor and stopped outside the door to Lazaro's flat. I could hear music coming from within, a languid jazz tune. Someone had the gramophone up rather loud somewhere inside.

I glanced at Major Ramsey; he looked more grim than usual as he rang the buzzer.

"Remember what I've told you," he said. "Behave yourself."

"Yes, sir," I responded like a good secretary.

His scowl deepened, but he didn't reply.

A few moments later the door was opened by a solemn-faced man in a suit who wore an expression of long-suffering if ever I'd seen one. Not our man, I realized. A butler or valet, the put-upon manservant.

"Good morning," the major said. "Major Ramsey to see Mr. Lazaro."

"Very good, sir," the man said. "Please come in."

He didn't address me. It seemed the butler recognized me as one of the serving class. Between his behavior and Madame Arnaud's, one might develop an inferiority complex—if one thought of oneself as inferior, that was. Luckily, I didn't.

"May I take your coats?" he asked as we stepped inside, and he closed the door behind us.

Major Ramsey helped me off with mine and then handed the butler his own greatcoat and his service cap.

I looked around. It was a fairly large, marble-floored foyer, but the first thing to which the eye was drawn was the lifelike marble statue of a naked woman directly across from the front door. She was taller than me and noticeably voluptuous, her arms outstretched in a languorous and rather carefree posture.

Behind me, I heard Major Ramsey sigh.

"Not Grecian in style, that much is certain," I said in a low voice.

I turned my eyes from the statue and took in the rest of the décor. The walls were papered in black, an alternate pattern of glossy and matte stripes, and there was a black velvet sofa and a table that was configured in black and gold and glass. The naked woman aside, it was all very chic and modern. And expensive.

The butler appeared at our side, having magically divested himself of our coats without my having seen him do it, and inclined his head ever so slightly. "This way, if you please."

He led us past the naked lady—averting his eyes from it, it seemed to me—and into the large main rooms of the flat, then down a corridor. This flat was massive, I realized. It probably took up half of the floor. What must a place like this cost?

The music grew louder as we approached an open door to the left, and the butler led us inside. It was a sitting room, decorated in the same sleek art deco style of the foyer and what I had seen of the rest of the flat. A cloud of bluish smoke hung in the air.

There was a man in a black brocade dressing gown lounging on a sofa, folded newspaper in one hand, cigarette in the other.

"Major Ramsey to see you, sir." The butler nearly had to shout to be heard over the music, but the disapproval in his tone came through loudly enough.

Nico Lazaro glanced up from his newspaper then rose with a sort of indolent elegance, tossing the newspaper aside. He sauntered to the gramophone on the table near the window and turned it down, though not off, and stubbed out his cigarette in a jade ashtray.

Only then did he turn to us. His dark eyes swept over me first, and I recognized the practiced assessment of a first-class lecher. So he was that sort, was he? Our naked friend in the foyer ought to have been the first clue. I remembered just in time to keep my expression bland, my eyes slightly averted.

"Ramsey," he said then, turning his attention to the major. "Good to see you again, old boy. How is your uncle? I haven't seen him in town lately."

"He's well," Major Ramsey said. I noticed he did not return the pleasantry, nor volunteer any additional information about his uncle, the Earl of Overbrook.

While the gentlemen were exchanging greetings, I took the opportunity to study Mr. Lazaro a bit more closely. He was probably around forty but contrived to look younger with his bronzed skin and jet-black hair. He was undeniably attractive, but in a way I found distasteful. He was too sleek, too polished; there was an air of insincerity about him. I could see why Major Ramsey didn't like him.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me today," the major was saying. "I won't take much of your time; I merely want to ask you a few questions. I've brought my secretary along to take notes."

"By all means." He gestured to the pair of chairs across from the sofa. "Have a seat, will you?"

He returned to the sofa and sat, crossing one leg over the other. He reached toward the black enamel box on the glass table between us and flipped it open. "Cigarette?" he asked, his dark eyes on me.

"No, thank you."

"Major?"

"No."

He reached for a book of matches then, striking one. "So tiresome, matches. But my lighter was among the things stolen. A pretty thing, gold with my initials engraved on it."

He lit a cigarette for himself, waving out the match before tossing it into the ashtray, then sat back against the sofa. Only then did I notice the paintings behind his head. Framed in brass, they were both portraits of naked women. Though these two looked much less at ease than the woman in the foyer, their bodies strangely contorted and disproportioned. Picassos, I realized.

His gaze followed mine, and he grinned. "Admiring my ladies, are you?" he said. "You have good taste, Miss…"

"Donaldson," I said, giving him my usual alias.

"I don't know if you've heard of him, but Picasso is rather popular in Paris. Or was, before the Germans marched in. I don't suppose he's particularly lauded at the moment. They're not fond of deviants." He grinned. "I'm glad I got my hands on these."

I smiled but did not comment. I knew all about Picasso; one of Uncle Mick's art forger friends had made a pretty penny off his work in recent years.

It occurred to me that any thief worth his salt would have recognized the value of these pieces. They weren't particularly large, and why not take them if they would take a vase?

"Will you tell me about what happened here on the day in question?" Major Ramsey asked, taking control of the conversation.

Mr. Lazaro looked at him and sighed, expelling a cloud of thick smoke. "It's all so tedious. I don't hold out much hope that the police will be able to do anything."

"Nevertheless, we're interested in your story." The patience in his tone sounded a bit more fragile than what he'd had with Madame Arnaud. I had the impression that Mr. Lazaro would not be treated with the same kid gloves.

"I had seven others here for dinner." He rattled off their names, his emphasis on them indicating they were important people, and I dutifully noted them down. My shorthand was a bit rusty, but I remembered it well enough. And, anyway, I didn't think we would need the notes.

"We were having boeuf bourguignon. I was able to acquire enough for a dinner party, though I don't like to advertise the fact that our menu was a bit extravagant, if you catch my drift."

Black-market goods, he meant. There was a thriving black market now that food and other rationed items were scarce. Those who were able to get supplies sold them at greatly increased prices, and, as a lot of people were more than willing to pay, they were making a great deal of money. We knew a few people who were benefiting from such a scheme.

Nacy disapproved of taking more than our fair share of the available commodities, however, so we had thus far made do with our ration coupons. Of course, we hadn't had the Earl and Countess of Whatsit for dinner.

"I do hope you won't report that bit," he said with a smile that told us it wouldn't matter if we did.

"I'm not interested in what you had for dinner." It seemed the major's patience was slipping.

"It was very good boeuf bourguignon."

I could sense Major Ramsey mustering his tolerance, probably because he'd done the same thing with me on multiple occasions. "Did you notice anything in particular about their appearance?" he asked.

"I've told all of this to the police," Lazaro said.

"Of course, but you'll recall that I'm not with the police," Major Ramsey replied.

Lazaro smiled. "No, of course. I sometimes forget that I can share more with someone in your position. I've become accustomed to saying as little as possible except to my closest confidants."

There was a slightly sly gleam in his eyes as he said the words, but I couldn't quite determine if he meant something by them or if that was just how he naturally looked.

"You can rest assured that anything you tell me will be kept in confidence as far as matters go," the major said in a tight voice. He had given up on trying to hide his annoyance.

"There were three men. They wore masks. They were all of average height and build, nothing special worth marking. Though, I'll admit, I had other things on my mind at the moment." His eyes slid to me. "I wanted to keep my female guests safe. They were, I'm sure you can imagine, rather terrified."

I gave him a bland smile.

"As I've just mentioned to you, I had some very important guests. It would never do for something to happen to them in my home. Needless to say, there was quite the variety of responses to an armed robbery at one of my dinner parties."

He was talking a great deal without saying much, and I had the distinct impression he was hiding something.

I found my mind wandering, even as I jotted down notes about his guests' reactions to the robbery. They were all fair maidens in need of a man to save them, and Mr. Lazaro had cast himself in the role of knight in shining armor, though it didn't seem to me he had done much in the way of bravery.

"Did they speak with any discernible accents?" Major Ramsey cut in at last.

Mr. Lazaro took another drag of his cigarette as he considered. "I assumed they were English. The accents were not foreign enough to draw notice. But, now that you mention it, there was a hint of some other accent, I believe. Not enough that I could tell you what it was."

This was not surprising. Especially not if they had been German agents masquerading as English robbers.

"You were in Lisbon recently, I believe," Major Ramsey said.

It seemed to me that Mr. Lazaro's gaze sharpened ever so slightly, but he took a careless drag of his cigarette. "Yes. I had some diplomatic business there. Rather a lot of excitement in Lisbon these days."

"So I've heard," Major Ramsey said. "I will not, of course, ask you to reveal the nature of your diplomatic work, but was there anything else of interest that happened while you were there?"

"Not worth noting," Lazaro said with a smile.

"And you brought nothing back with you that may have… attracted interest?"

Lazaro shrugged. "Nothing of a sensitive nature. I bought some art. I always buy art when I'm in Lisbon. There is a great deal of it to be had as of late. Families that have left their countries behind and hope to be rid of unwieldy items before relocating to America or other far-flung places. The market for art is rather good."

He was taking advantage of the desperation of others for his own gain, was what he meant.

I realized suddenly that, as I had robbed the safes of people who had fled London for the safety of the country, I couldn't exactly judge him. I was surprised at the guilt that assailed me at the thought. Had I come so far from my prior life? I didn't know how to feel about the vast distance between then and now.

"And were any of those items stolen during the robbery?" Major Ramsey asked this so casually that it seemed as if he wasn't the least bit interested. I was watching Lazaro carefully but could see no hint of anything telling in his features as he answered. In fact, I found myself skeptical of his careless manner.

"No, those pieces weren't here at the time. I hadn't had them picked up yet. In fact, the crate arrived only a little before you did. I haven't even sorted through everything yet." He smiled. "I find I don't often get much work done before late afternoon."

I coughed suddenly. The men both turned to look at me. Mr. Lazaro looked solicitous, Major Ramsey coldly suspicious.

"I'm sorry," I said, still coughing. "I seem… to…" Cough. "… have something…" Cough. "… in my throat. Will you excuse me to find a drink of water?"

"I'll ring for Cheevers to bring it," Mr. Lazaro said.

"Oh, no. Please don't trouble him," I said, rising. I could feel Major Ramsey's gaze on me and refused to meet it. "I'll just find a glass of water myself."

"Miss Donaldson—" Major Ramsey began.

I threw in another few coughs to drown him out. "Excuse me."

With an apologetic smile amidst the coughs, and ignoring the daggers the major's eyes were no doubt shooting at me, I hurried from the room.