He clicked his heels, extended his hand upward, and repeated the words she had come to despise: “Heil Hitler.”
He had turned before she could lift her hand in response. She closed her eyes and exhaled, pausing before entering the hotel. She wondered if his speedy departure had been deliberate, giving her the opportunity not to salute his leader.
“Maisie.”
The voice was low, and came from her right.
Moving with speed, Maisie took Elaine Otterburn’s arm and with a firm hand led her away from the hotel entrance.
“Never, ever do that again. You must not call me by my name in this country, ever.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
Maisie looked Elaine up and down. She was ill-kempt, and as she pulled her coat around her, a flap of her dress peeped through, showing stains, as if some dark liquid had been spilled on the silk. Kohl was smudged under her eyes, and her hair had not seen a brush or comb that day. Her stockings were laddered, and she seemed unsteady on her feet.
“Elaine, we cannot go into the hotel. Wait—let me get a taxicab, and we’ll go to your flat.”
“No, we can’t go there.”
“What do you mean?”
“We just can’t.”
Maisie paused. She felt goose bumps across the skin at the nape of her neck.
“Elaine, everything tells me that we must return to the flat, now, before anyone else ventures in.”
CHAPTER 10
Maisie slipped her arm through Elaine’s.
“Talk to me about anything, Elaine. We must look like two friends meeting for a cup of coffee, or going about our errands for the morning.”
She hailed a taxi, and had the driver drop them on a side street not far from Elaine’s lodgings. After checking that no one was there—the other young women with rooms in the house were out, and the landlady appeared not to be present—Maisie followed Elaine up the stairs. At the top she had to take the younger woman’s arm for fear that she would stumble.
“Elaine, try to have some control. Whatever happens, we must contain ourselves.”
Elaine looked at Maisie, her head shaking—not to counter her words, but as if she were cold to the bone. She said nothing, but nodded, forcing some measure of dominion over her body. She passed her keys to Maisie, her fingers barely able to keep them in her hand.
Maisie slipped the door key in the lock, turned the handle, and took a deep breath, afraid of what she might encounter. She pushed the door open and gasped. The room looked as if a madman had been released within its walls. Bedclothes had been ripped from the mattress and thrown on the floor. Clothing was strewn atop the pile of linens. Cups left on a tray on the chest of drawers had been smashed. And across the mirror in red lipstick was scrawled the word Hure. Whore.
Maisie looked at Elaine, at the contusion across her cheekbone, her laddered stockings, and the blood on her torn dress. She asked no questions. “Close and lock the door. We must set about cleaning up.”
“I was going to telephone the police, but—”
“It would be best if you didn’t.”
Maisie found a bowl, which she took to the kitchen along the landing, bringing it back filled with water. She had a cloth over her arm, pulled from a makeshift line over the sink where the young women had hung their silk stockings to dry. When she returned to the room, Elaine was sitting on the edge of the bed, the torn robe she’d picked up from the floor held tight in her hands.
“Who would have done this?”
“First, we must sort out your room,” said Maisie. “Then you can tell me what happened. If I thought the police would have any interest, I would leave everything as it is. But I can tell there is nothing here to give us any clue as to the identity of the person who did this, except that.” She pointed to the mirror. “And I want to get rid of it.”
Elaine gasped, tears falling anew as she choked her words. “You think Luther is dead? Do you think he is dead?”