Free Anno Dracula Dracula Cha Cha Cha by Kim Newman Page B

Whizzing past stalled motorists, she waved cheerfully at a chorus of rude horns.
    Clinging to Geneviève’s back, with blonde hair blowing at her face, Kate realised she was at the point of being seduced. When she returned to London, she’d consider buying a scooter. She might cut a tidy figure going around Highbury Corner on a little dream machine like this. She’d draw appreciative sighs outside the coffee bars along Old Compton Street. And she could cut through the knot of Teds who liked to block her way to the launderette.
    They zigzagged away from the Piazza di Trevi toward the Piazza di Spagna, then up a steep side-road. Kate clung to her hat. Geneviève drove her back to the Hassler.
    In the hotel lobby, she reclaimed her suitcase from an imperious uniformed functionary. She wondered if the management had cleared out Count Kernassy’s suite.
    Sergeant Ginko, Silvestri’s pet, was questioning some maids. The investigation must be proceeding along the usual channels, trying to establish something in the Count’s past that would lead to the killer. It wasn’t likely to be a fruitful avenue: she thought Kernassy was murdered for what he was, not for anything he had done.
    Had the news got to Penelope? Was it in the daily papers? Surely, Marcello must have sold the story. Kate would have done in London.
    Geneviève lifted her sunglasses to examine marble and gilt. Rich people with expensive luggage streamed steadily into the lobby.
    ‘You came straight here from Fiumicino? You must like the high life, Kate.’
    Kate shook her head. She felt out of place here, a mouse at a banquet.
    ‘I went along with things because it was easier. As usual, it’s landed me in trouble.’
    She remembered the cadre of bellhops swarming in Malenka’s wake, trying to claim her luggage from Klove. Only half a day ago.
    ‘They say the waiters here are très delicious,’ Geneviève said, peering into the empty, shadowed bar.
    ‘They are,’ Kate agreed.
    Geneviève looked, almost admiring, at her.
    ‘You are a dark horse.’
    Geneviève was fond of English idioms. She picked them up from Charles.
    Kate had an idiom too. ‘When in Rome…’
    ‘I think you are a wicked girl,’ Geneviève said, affectionately. ‘Charles should’ve warned me.’
    It was the first time Geneviève mentioned him. They would have to talk. Soon.
    Geneviève realised it too, and suggested they slip off for gelati. Kate agreed. They left the lobby, Kate carrying her suitcase. Geneviève’s Vespa looked impertinent parked outside the Hassler, so near the Spanish Steps. Geneviève gave her scooter an affectionate little pat, and tipped the doorman to watch over it.
    They walked down the steps, against the human tide. Warm people in summer dresses strolled past. The few early-bird vampires among them wore enveloping robes like desert sheiks. Everyone had huge hats and dark glasses. Kate spotted fashions that would be in London by Christmas.
    At the foot of the steps, a row of young artists — all berets and beards, as if they were dressing the part — sat on stools, doing sketches of the tourists. Kate could never walk past a group like this, in London or Paris, without being tempted. After seventy odd years without a reflection, she had a constant, nagging curiosity about how she looked. She remembered the shadow she’d seen in the waters of the Trevi Fountain, and shivered.
    Geneviève knew a café opposite the house where John Keats had died. It was surprisingly neglected by the tourists who frequented the Museo Keats-Shelley.
    ‘It’s a vampire place,’ she explained. ‘Alive by night.’
    They were given a table under a black awning. The cool shade was delightful. Kate touched her face and found it still hot from the sun. Geneviève ordered in Italian, and two tall glasses of soft crimson ice cream were presented. Kate touched hers with a long spoon, dislodging the cherry on top.
    ‘The management claims they import Abyssinian virgins, but they