Free The Tick of Death by Peter Lovesey

Place, one of those odd little culs-de-sac within a few yards of Piccadilly Circus, yet quite detached from the hub of the Empire, was approached from Coventry Street. It was well-known to the Vine Street police—on whose strength Cribb had served in his time—as a peculiarly rewarding point of duty. Lambert’s, the silversmith’s on the corner, paid the Force thirty shillings a week to have a constable on night watch outside, and in return for keeping his eyes open (or closed, according to circumstances) the fortunate officer could make almost that amount in tips from the distinguished residents of the Georgian houses and three hotels that comprised the street. At the end, it broadened into a small square, in which the Alcazar Hotel was prominent, its Georgian portico projecting on to the pavement, with twin potted ferns at each side of the open front door.
    Cribb paid the cabman and climbed three carpeted steps to the hotel foyer. It was ten years at least since he had last been there, at the night-porter’s invitation, for a glass of something warm in the small hours of a January morning. He was half-prepared to be recognised, for hotel staff have long memories, but he retained a hope that the silk hat and morning suit were sufficiently unsuggestive of helmet and great-coat to preserve his incognito. It chanced that no one was present when he entered, and after a short appraisal of The Bath of Psyche over the mantelpiece, he settled on a sofa to wait. Without knowing the location of Malone’s room, he did not propose to wander aimlessly about the hotel. Nor was he moved to make a rapid examination of the register lying open on the reception-desk; unless there were over-riding disadvantages in the procedure, he preferred to conduct his inquiries in a civilised fashion.
    Just as well, for the receptionist appeared rapidly and without warning from a door behind the desk, a young woman with hair cut square over her brow and loosely knotted behind in the modern style. To his relief, Cribb had not seen her before.
    ‘I do apologise, sir. You haven’t been waiting long, I hope?’
    ‘A few minutes, no more. I believe that you have a Mr Malone, from America, staying here. I was desirous of meeting him.’
    ‘Mr Malone? Oh, yes—the sporting gentleman. I am not sure if he is in. He comes and goes rather, and doesn’t always advise us of his movements. If you’ll kindly wait a moment, sir, I’ll arrange for a page to go up to his suite. Do you have a card, sir?’
    A card! The topper and tails were making an impact. ‘He doesn’t know me by name,’ Cribb explained. ‘But if the boy would care to mention the Metropolitan Athletic Club . . .’
    He made sure he was within earshot when the page reported, and heard the receptionist send him to room 206. He managed to look fittingly disappointed at the news, a few minutes later, that Mr Malone was not in his suite.
    ‘You are welcome to wait, if you have the time,’ the receptionist told him. ‘There is a lounge to your left, and the smoking-room beyond.’
    He nodded his gratitude and moved in to the lounge, a large pink and white room. It had a deserted, Saturday afternoon look. One elderly resident dozed by the window under a copy of The Morning Post. He ventured through into the smoking-room, all leather and mahogany, and quite uninhabited. A baize door to the right of the fireplace attracted his attention, more than likely an entrance used by servants. The chance of getting upstairs by this route was too good to forego. He pushed through the door into a narrow, uncarpeted passage. Some fifteen yards ahead, where it turned to the right, was a spiral staircase. Voices were coming from somewhere, too indistinct for him to make out individual words, but apparent from the tone that two or more female domestics were exchanging confidences. With luck, they would be too occupied with their conversation to disturb him. He hoped so; morning-dress might be an advantage in