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  The maid from the Savoy Plaza became only a tantalizing memory.

  For her part, however, Elizabeth-Anne found she was unable to forget the man she knew only as Larry. Having seen him for mere minutes, she could nonetheless at will conjure up his image perfectly: the solitary midnight blue eye she'd barely glimpsed, the tall, trim physique, the carriage of self-assurance. Unbidden, at any hour of the day or night, she would think of the handsome, one-eyed stranger, and a full vision of him would magically appear in front of her.

  Not so with Zaccheus. There were those times, and they were increasingly common these days, when she was hard put to conjure up her husband exactly the way he had looked. After the years they had spent together, she suddenly found it difficult to remember him clearly. Some indefinable quality was always wrong, and yet she could never put her finger on just what was missing.

  It made her feel angry. And guilty. Zaccheus hadn't been gone much more than four years. He was still her husband - legally and morally - as well as the father of their children. She had no right to sweep him into the recesses of her memory and let a stranger take that honored place of lust and longing. Yet too many things conspired to make the handsome, one-eyed stranger gain preeminence in her waking dreams.

  For one thing there was the eye patch which he wore with such flaunting self-assurance, such pride; it spoke of a defiant, independent spirit she felt was akin to her own.

  For another, there was his honesty, even if she didn't care to acknowledge it. He had spoken up in defense of the hotel staff in front of Mrs. Winter, and she knew, deep down inside, that that had taken courage.

  There had been, too, the way he had spoken to her from the rear window of the Rolls-Royce, with those sensual lips bared into that - was she imagining it now? - damning devil's grin.

  But most of all, it was the trio of events which had piled up, one on top of the other during that fateful twenty-four hour span, which had etched him dramatically and indelibly on the fabric of her life. First there had been the incidents with the photographer and Mrs. Winter. That had been followed by a terrible fight with Charlotte-Anne once she had gotten home. And, as if to make certain that that night could never, ever, be forgotten, the next morning the newspapers had been filled with the news of Lola Bori's tragic suicide. And the photograph - that very same, damned photograph which had caused all the trouble to begin with - had accompanied the articles.

  Together, the events made for the ingredients of one mighty, unforgettable nightmare. And Larry seemed to be at the center of it all.

  She hadn't expected things to turn out the way they had. She had only taken the job in order to acquaint herself with the hotel business. She had quit it because of Mrs. Winter, because of her frustrations, because, too, she had learned all she could as a maid.

  During the subway ride home, all she had been looking forward to was a peaceful, quiet few hours to herself, and then a sleep from which she would awaken refreshed and rejuvenated.

  That was hardly what ensued once she reached the apartment a little past midnight. Her footsteps were heavy as she trudged up the stairs with her bundle of clothes. For a moment she paused on the landing to catch her breath, more exhausted than during any of the previous weeks when she had worked the entire night through. The incidents with the photographer and Mrs. Winter had drained her both emotionally and physically.

  The lights were on in the apartment and Charlotte-Anne's party sounded like it was still in full swing. She could hear the excited chatter of voices and see the crack of bright light under the front door.

  She shifted the clothes in her arms, dug in her purse for her keys, and unlocked the door. At first no one heard her come in. When she walked into the parlor, she saw Ludmila on the chaise, fast asleep. Her head was tilted sideways against one shoulder, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes shut. Her mouth was open, and she was snoring heavily. Charlotte-Anne and her friends sat on a mound of blankets and pillows on the floor, busy giggling over some joke. They listened to Ludmila's snores, whispered something, and burst out into more laughter.

  'Dees. Dees ees zee way I snore,' one of the girls mimicked. She twisted her mouth in a parody of Ludmila's and emitted a nasal snort.

  The others burst into giggles. The moment they became aware of Elizabeth-Anne, however, the laughter subsided.

  'Mamma!' Charlotte-Anne looked up in surprise. Then she jumped to her feet. 'I didn't know you'd be back so soon.'

  'Neither did I.' Elizabeth-Anne smiled wearily.

  'I thought you were invited to stay overnight.'

  Charlotte-Anne paused and emphasized: 'in Southampton.'

  Elizabeth-Anne stared at her daughter. This was the first time Charlotte-Anne had actually dragged her into one of her lies. She wanted to put an end to it right then and there, but she stifled the urge, realizing this was neither the time nor the place to lecture her daughter. She would wait until the next day when the other girls were gone.

  Charlotte-Anne turned to her friends. 'Mamma gets constant invitations to spend weekends at someone's country house,' she said. Then she drew closer to her mother and lowered her voice. 'Why did you come back so soon? Is something the matter?'

  'Nothing that can't keep until tomorrow.' Elizabeth-Anne glanced down the hall at the closed bedroom door. 'Your sisters and Zaccheus are asleep?'

  Charlotte-Anne nodded. It was then that she noticed the bundle in her mother's arms. Her eyes went dark as she recognized the clothes Elizabeth-Anne had worn earlier that evening. Quickly she snatched them out of her grasp, turned around to shield them from her friends, and made a pretense of studying them. 'Why, Mamma,' she said over her shoulder. 'These are the things you left in Southampton last summer. It was so nice of Mrs. Belmont to have kept them, wasn't it?' She forced light laughter. 'But she really should have lent you a suitcase.' With the speed one might dispatch a poisonous snake before it struck, she shoved the clothes behind the curtained dressing alcove. Behind her back, the other girls exchanged curious glances among themselves.

  Meanwhile, without thinking, Elizabeth-Anne slowly unbuttoned her coat, exposing the black, long-sleeved maid's uniform with its white collar, cuffs, and starched apron. She sank wearily down into an armchair, her head back and eyes closed. Despite Charlotte-Anne's transparent charade, it felt good to be home. At last she could feel herself calming down.

  Suddenly she became aware of the girls' animated whispers.

  She opened her eyes. Charlotte-Anne's friends were holding a huddled conversation among themselves, glancing at her out of the corners of their eyes. Charlotte-Anne was standing near the door, trembling and white- faced.

  Elizabeth-Anne looked at her daughter, surprised by the deathly expression in her eyes. 'Charlotte-Anne? What is it?' she said cautiously, wondering what on earth had happened to affect her daughter so.

  Charlotte-Anne looked away. 'N-Nothing,' she mumbled miserably.

  Elizabeth-Anne glanced around the room in confusion. The sudden tension seemed almost palpable. She couldn't understand what was going on, but was shocked to realize Charlotte-Anne had, without a word, been ostracized from her circle of friends. And in her own home, yet.

  The obvious ringleader of the girls had an arresting face, with a pointed chin and hazel eyes. She got to her feet, signaling that the pow-wow was over.

  'It's late, Mrs. Hale,' she said haltingly, refusing to meet Elizabeth-Anne's eye. 'I know we were planning to stay the night . . . ' She glanced at the other girls for confirmation. They all nodded solemnly. 'We'd . . . we'd really like to leave now, Mrs. Hale.'

  Elizabeth-Anne looked startled. She sat forward, her hands grasping the arms of the chair. 'Whatever for?' She gazed from one to the other, but they refused to make eye contact with her. 'I thought you were all having such a good time.'

  'We're . . . I mean, I'm . . . not feeling very well. We'll get our things together and find a taxi. We can go to my house.'

  Elizabeth-Anne glanced quickly at Charlotte-Anne. H
er daughter was trembling as though with ague.

  As the girls prepared to leave, Ludmila awoke with a start and looked around owlishly. 'What time is it? Is it morning already?' she asked sleepily, rolling her 'r's'.

  As soon as the girls left, their footsteps trudging noisily down the stairs, Charlotte-Anne exploded. 'I think I'm going to die,' she wailed. 'Oh God, I'll never be able to face them again. I can't even go back to school.'

  Elizabeth-Anne stared at her. 'What is it?'

  'You mean you don't know?'

  'No, I'm afraid I don't,' Elizabeth-Anne said evenly.

  Charlotte-Anne turned on her mother, her eyes burning with a fierce hatred. The tears were streaking down her hot cheeks and her heart-shaped lips were contorted in pain. 'Just look at yourself, Mamma,' she hissed. 'You came in here and had to flaunt your uniform, didn't you? Your maid's uniform.'

  Dazedly, Elizabeth-Anne looked down at herself. She was still clad in her working uniform. After everything that had happened earlier, she'd forgotten all about it. And now Charlotte-Anne was convinced she had exposed it on purpose.

  'Don't you see?' Charlotte-Anne cried, 'Now they know you're a common maid. That's why the party broke up and they don't want anything more to do with me.' And she looked at her mother with the most intense loathing Elizabeth-Anne had ever seen.

  'Darling, I didn't mean to spoil the party. You've got to believe me. I've had a terrible evening and I simply - '

  'You've had a terrible evening!' The cords in Charlotte-Anne's neck were standing out in bold relief. 'I hate you!'

  'Don't you think,' Elizabeth-Anne said calmly, 'that if you had told the truth instead of making up all those lies, they wouldn't have minded?'

  'Oh, you have an answer for everything, don't you, Mamma? Well, I have an answer for you too.' She stamped her foot. 'I hate you, Mamma. I hate you!

  Elizabeth-Anne stood white-faced and quiet, unable to believe what she was hearing. Perhaps she had been inconsiderate in her exhaustion, but Charlotte-Anne's reaction seemed so out of proportion. 'Darling, please calm down. I'm sure we can talk this over and - '

  'I never want to speak to you again,' Charlotte-Anne sobbed. 'Not for as long as I live.' Then she covered her face with her hands, ran to the bathroom, and slammed the door with such force that the walls shook.

  Elizabeth-Anne stared after her, her head spinning.

  Ludmila waited a moment, then pushed herself to her feet. 'I think,' she announced slowly, her accent still thick with sleep, 'that we go down to my apartment and give her a little time to compose herself.' Her eyes sparkled mischievously. 'It may be Prohibition, but I have saved a few cases of a very fine 1909 Bordeaux. Come.' She patted Elizabeth-Anne's arm. 'I think we could both of us use a drink, no?'

  Elizabeth-Anne looked down into her wine and swirled it around again. It glowed a hypnotically rich, ruby red inside the baronially proportioned, cut-crystal goblet.

  'Well? You drink wine, not watch it grow old,' Ludmila growled. 'It does that in bottle.'

  Elizabeth-Anne smiled apologetically and took a sip. The wine was smooth and fragrant, curiously heady. She could feel it relaxing her tense muscles.

  'That is better.' Ludmila nodded. 'So, now. Let me see. The girls, they quickly desert Charlotte-Anne. And she is angry with you. And you have lost job.' She pursed her lips and shook her head. 'Is not very good day.'

  'You can say that again. And now what do I do?' Elizabeth-Anne's voice was weary. Even Ludmila's dogs seemed to sense the women's moroseness and kept quiet. 'The only reason I took that job in the first place was to see how a hotel is run. From the inside.' She screwed up her face painfully. 'Well, that's over now.'

  Ludmila stared at her accusingly. 'Why not tell me this before?' she demanded sharply. 'I could have told you. You will never see how hotel works, not as maid. What you need, if you want to start hotel, is money. That is all. You simply buy hotel and hire help. Is that easy.' She lit one of her pungent cigarettes and veiled herself inside a noxious cloud of smoke.

  'Money!' Elizabeth-Anne gave a low, deprecating laugh. 'That's the only thing there never is enough of.'

  'But you say you have money saved up.' Ludmila squinted at Elizabeth-Anne through the smoke. 'Is much?'

  'Much?' Elizabeth-Anne's voice was unchanged. 'It depends on what you mean. It's a lot for some people, little for others. But for a hotel?' She laughed bitterly.

  'That does not matter. If you want something bad enough, then you will get it.'

  'It isn't that easy, and you know it. You're always complaining bitterly that you don't have enough money.'

  Ludmila made an irritated gesture with her cigarette. 'Enough! What is enough? Me, I am too old to gamble. If I were younger . . . ' Her gray eyes took on a faraway look and she smiled faintly. 'When I was younger, I gamble all the time. I become a mistress. That was a gamble. I go to court in this country for my lover's money, that was more gamble - But if I had a little money and I was your age . . . '

  Elizabeth-Anne stared at her. 'Yes?' she prodded, afraid to show her quickening interest.

  'You told me you get money every week from the . . . the. . .'

  Elizabeth-Anne nodded. 'Yes, from the tourist court.'

  'Good. And it is enough to live on, to pay the bills?'

  Elizabeth-Anne nodded again.

  'So what you have in the bank is, how you say, mad money?'

  'No,' Elizabeth-Anne corrected her. 'It's what we can fall back on in case something should happen.'

  'How much do you have in bank? Not that I am curious, you understand. Just to see if it is enough.'

  Elizabeth-Anne hesitated. What she had on deposit in her savings account was sacrosanct; it was something you did not advertise, not even to your friends.

  'Please, I only want to help,' Ludmila pleaded with soft urgency. She leaned forward on the siege, took Elizabeth-Anne's hands in her own, and smiled reassuringly. 'If it is hundred dollars or hundred thousand dollars, the amount does not matter to me. It is only what it can do. Do you understand?'

  'Yes, I think so.' She took her hands from Ludmila's and sipped her wine thoughtfully. 'There really isn't any reason why I should keep it a secret from you.' She paused. 'It comes to nearly thirty thousand dollars.'

  'Thirty thousand! My God, then why you worry?' Ludmila's aging, faded-rose features beamed with pleasure. 'Is plenty.'

  'For a hotel?' Elizabeth-Anne shook her head. 'For that I need hundreds of thousands.'

  Ludmila wagged an admonishing finger at her. 'Not,' she said pointedly, 'if you are willing to take little chance.'

  'I'm not so sure I like the way you said that,' Elizabeth-Anne said slowly. 'I never like to take chances, not with my money. I'm not a gambler.'

  'You said you start this tourist court, no?'

  Elizabeth-Anne nodded.

  'And if you start hotel, that is gamble, too, no?' Ludmila eyed her shrewdly.

  'Well, I suppose you could call it that.'

  'Good.' Ludmila sat back with satisfaction and exhaled a plume of smoke. 'First, you must change bank. There is man of East Manhattan Savings Bank who will help us. His name is Vladimir Nikolsky. I know him from long ago, in Russia. He is only White Russian I still see socially. He will know who you can see about good chances instead of bad chances. There are specialists for this. But even before that. . . ' For a long moment she regarded Elizabeth-Anne thoughtfully, one cracked-lacquer fingernail poised on her lips as her expressive gray eyes swept over her friend from head to toe. 'Hmmmm,' she said to herself. 'Yes . . . I suppose . . . '

  Elizabeth-Anne returned her stare quizzically. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'

  'Because,' Ludmila explained patiently, as if to a child, 'it is most important to create an impression. You must look success before you can be success. So first, we do you over. That is all.'

  'Do me over?'

  Ludmila gave a quick nod and stubbed her cigarette out in the Imari bowl she used as an ashtray. She narrowed
her eyes. 'Yes, we do you over,' she stated in such an emphatic voice that Elizabeth-Anne knew it was senseless to argue. Ludmila's mind had been made up.

  7

  Lester Lottoman, the assistant manager of the East Manhattan Savings Bank, pursed his lips thoughtfully as his eyes swept the rows of figures covering the most minute fluctuations in the bank's assets. After a moment he took off his silver-mounted spectacles, rubbed his weary eyes, and pushed the ledger aside. There were times when the endless numbers in need of balancing, checking, and rechecking, repaid him for his vast patience with the heady thrill of accomplishment. That was when he caught an error everyone else had overlooked, because he had the patience of a hunter. But there were other times, such as this, when the numbers all merged into senseless hieroglyphics and bored him to no end.

  'Mr. Lottoman.'

  The sharp voice startled Lester and he jumped, then looked up at the approaching manager of the East Manhattan Savings Bank, Mr. Nikolsky.

  'Mr. Lottoman, this is Mrs. Elizabeth-Anne Hale,' Vladimir Nikolsky said, indicating the woman at his side. 'I trust you will see to it that she receives all the necessary banking attention she needs?'

  Lester Lottoman nodded, looked at Elizabeth-Anne, and half rose to his feet. 'Please, have a seat,' he said, gesturing to the chair beside his desk.

  Elizabeth-Anne sat with a minimum of fuss.

  'I shall be in my office with Madame Romaschkova,' Nikolsky told Elizabeth-Anne with a slight bow. 'When you are finished, please join us.'

  'Thank you.'

  As Lottoman sat back down, he found himself taking an instant liking to this Elizabeth-Anne Hale. She was dressed elegantly, but looked sensible, and carried herself well. 'And what can I do for you, Mrs. Hale?'

  Elizabeth-Anne raised her chin. 'I have close to thirty thousand dollars on deposit in this bank, Mr. Lottoman, as well as a respectable monthly income from a motel I own in Texas.'