Chelsea Mansions Read Online Free Page A

What’s the rate?’
    The two behind the desk had a brief whispered conversation before the woman offered him a price. It seemed very reasonable.
    ‘Fine.’
    The man with the dark glasses suddenly leaned across the desk and thrust out his hand. ‘Toby Beaumont, proprietor, and this is Deb.’
    ‘John, John Greenslade.’
    ‘How old are you, John?’ Toby asked.
    ‘Twenty-eight,’ the man replied, a little puzzled.
    ‘Ah yes.’ Toby nodded, as if something significant had been confirmed. ‘Bags?’
    ‘I’ve been staying somewhere else, but this is the area I wanted. I’ll bring them over later.’

    He returned in a cab towards noon. As he made his way to the front steps he stopped for a moment to examine a large black limousine parked at the kerb. It was a Maybach 62 Zeppelin, very new by the look of it. He’d never seen one before.
    Deb introduced the concierge, Garry, saying he would be delighted to help with restaurant bookings, theatre tickets and anything else John might need during his visit, although Garry, who avoided his eyes and said nothing, didn’t give an immediate impression of delight. She also called Jacko, the porter, to carry John’s suitcase up to his room, but when he saw how Jacko dragged his left leg John said he’d manage just fine himself.
    He liked the room, a bit stuffy under the roof and probably unbearable on a hot day, but with a great view out over the square. He opened the window and the door to let in some air and began to unpack. The wardrobe door creaked as he hung his suit and a couple of shirts on mismatched wooden hangers, then stuffed his other things in the chest of drawers before sitting by the window and powering up his laptop. He checked his emails, then got into Google and looked up Maybach. The list price for a new 62 Zeppelin was 473,200 euros. He gave a little whistle.
    Someone coughed. He looked around and saw an elderly man with his arm in a sling standing at the door.
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ the man said. ‘I heard someone in here and I thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought.’ He had an American accent—New England, John judged, and watched as the man turned and went off down the stairs. But when John looked out of the window he didn’t see him leave the building by the front steps below.
    After ten minutes he locked the door of his room and went down. He spied the American in the guests’ sitting room, reading a morning paper, and went in.
    ‘Hi,’ he said.
    The American looked up as if he’d never seen John before.
    ‘We met upstairs just now,’ John explained, and they shook hands and introduced themselves.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ Emerson said, ‘I shouldn’t have interrupted you. I was a little confused. I knew the last person who had that room, you see.’
    John sat down beside him. ‘Was that the lady I read about?’ He nodded at the paper Emerson was reading, folded to the report of Nancy’s death: bizarre murder of american tourist.
    Emerson nodded with a sigh.
    ‘I’m really sorry about your friend,’ John said. ‘It must be terrible for you.’
    ‘Yeah. I still can’t get my head around it. I woke up and thought, oh, it’s a nice day, and then bang, it hit me.’
    He suddenly looked over John’s shoulder and bit his lip. ‘Uh-oh.’
    John turned and saw the blonde police inspector outside in the lobby talking to Deb. She wasn’t wearing the dark suit she’d had on TV, but a light shirt and pants, and she looked faintly flushed, as if she’d been running. Her features were rather lean, tending almost to severe, he thought, and he guessed that she didn’t eat enough. Deb said something and the cop turned and came into the sitting room, smiling at Emerson, who gave a cautious smile in return and began to struggle out of his chair.
    ‘Don’t get up,’ she said. ‘I’ll sit here.’
    John got to his feet. ‘I guess you two need to talk. I’ll see you later, Emerson.’ He turned to the cop. ‘Hi, I’m John.’
    She