Amberlough(46)
The pumps were turquoise suede, beaded in jet, and they had a fearsome heel. Cyril didn’t remember buying them—had no idea where one might go about buying them—and so concluded they must be something Cordelia had already owned.
“Careful,” he said, lifting her foot delicately from her knee, “or you’ll put a run in your stocking.”
“Sweetness,” she said, hiking her black satin dress up to her thigh. “I ain’t wearing stockings.”
Nor was she wearing a garter belt, or a slip. Just her own freckles. “Suppose it saves you time.”
“Boy,” she said, snorting. “Does it ever.”
He wondered what she thought he knew, or if she thought he’d just used Aristide as a pimp, a procurer. Actually, he had no idea what Aristide had told her, what he’d said, what he’d traded for her services. Or what she thought those services included.
The car let them off at the curb outside the Fischer Building, an edifice of white marble above the Harbor Terrace boardwalk. Floodlights shone across the dazzling fa?ade.
“Sort of makes you wanna squint,” said Cordelia, screwing up her face.
There was a private lift to the penthouse, emblazoned with I Fa’s family crest. Cyril gave his card to the attendant, who nodded crisply and ratcheted the lever into place. The cage of the lift began to rise.
When they arrived, Cordelia swept the train of her gown across the copper lintel, careful not to catch her heel in the gap. The movement was surprisingly elegant, at odds with her brassy talk and demeanor. But she was a dancer; he shouldn’t be surprised.
Once he’d tipped the lift attendant, he caught up with Cordelia and folded her hand over his arm. Her new, white glove was startling against his navy sleeve. He laid his own gloved hand over it.
“You look quite at home,” he murmured. “Are you sure you’re not secretly a lady of quality?”
“Quality? Nah.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Just a keen observer.”
Tulip lamps cast gold reflections on the highly waxed parquet, flanking a runner from the lift to a set of double doors, open onto I Fa’s parlor. Laughter sparkled over the murmur of conversation, punctuated by the snap of glasses biting each other in a toast. A footman bowed them across the threshold.
I Fa’s parlor was all white and gold and tones of peach, long and wide with a low ceiling. It ended in a row of windows looking over the bay. Against the brilliance of the room, the view of the nighttime harbor was breathtaking, spangled with ship’s lights and blinking buoys.
Most of the guests were gathered at the windows. I Fa had placed the tables of food there, where the platters of fruit and caviar were lit to best advantage against the dark vista. A caterer in a bright silk suit poured champagne over a tower of glasses. Cyril scanned the crowd and saw Deputy Commissioner Müller deep in conversation with an intent group of harriers.
The center of the parlor was sunk a few feet deeper than the rest of the room. I Fa held court there, seated on a pouf at the center of a circular couch upholstered in velvet. A long-boned man had his dark head in her lap, his face turned into her belly. Müller’s wife, Maxine, sat beside the baroness, gesticulating with a champagne coupe. Each sweep of her hand threatened to splash her companions. Abandoned lovers and spouses lay across the cushions, no doubt discussing social intrigues as vicious and vital as those of their politically minded companions circulating by the windows.
“Well,” Cyril said to Cordelia, gesturing toward the jeweled tableau of gossips. “There’s the sofa. Shall I get you a drink?”
When she laughed, she sparkled. “You’re a treasure.”
He handed her down the steps. “I won’t be long,” he said. “I promise.”
She settled onto a cushion and stripped off her gloves. A girl in livery offered her a tray of chocolates. Lifting the candy to her lips, she said, “Pigeon pie, you can take as long as you need.”
*
At the bar, Cyril dispensed with his own white kidskins, tucking them into his tail pocket and then lifting a coupe of champagne from the tower. The stem was faintly sticky, owing to the extravagant manner in which the wine had been poured. Transferring it to his other hand, he flexed his fingers, disconcerted.
Müller’s group of hangers-on had thinned, leaving him pinned down by one tenacious gentleman. The deputy commissioner looked drawn and gray, his expression sour. Every few seconds, he would glance over his companion’s shoulder, staring anxiously toward his wife. Cyril knew that look. Can we leave yet?
He lingered by the window, watching Müller’s reflection. Finally, the stubborn petitioner wandered off. Müller winced at his handshake and made for Maxine with the singular focus of a stalking cat. Cyril peeled off from the bank of windows and pursued.
He caught Müller’s arm before the other man made it halfway across the room. “Deputy Commissioner,” he said, offering his hand.
The intense concentration on Müller’s face collapsed into annoyance. Cyril braced himself for a rude reception, but he was pleasantly surprised. Müller reassembled himself and shook hands, a consummate professional.
“DePaul.” Müller looked over the rims of his narrow eyeglasses. He had deep, yellow-brown eyes, like a bird of prey, and a nose to match. Crow’s-feet cracked the skin at his temples. Well into middle age, he was at least ten years older than Commissioner Taormino, which must have put an extra sting in the tail of his thwarted career. “Are you here for work or pleasure tonight?”