I had bought a Ross Macdonald novel at a second-hand bookstore in an alley in Hampstead, something light after Karamazov. There is a scene where Lew Archer slips a five spot to a grimy tee-shirted hotel clerk for a gander at his register. That reminded me of one minor item on my to-do list: check out the hotel Kirk had been staying at. The hotel was around the corner from a small art gallery called the Wallace Collection.   

The Drummond Hotel turned out to be a modestly-sized family run operation in Marylebone, a trendy Central London enclave inconvenient to tube lines, therefore light on tourists. The hotel had a tiny foyer, so small that when you entered it you were immediately in front of the reception desk, as if on stage needing lines. The only possible audience was the girl behind the counter. She looked like a shy, less confident, older version of Natalie Steyning. She smiled in full customer service mode. Her badge said Marie-Christiane.

“A friend of mine stayed at your hotel a few months ago,” I started. That didn’t seem enough. “He died. Here. Near here.”

She made the right sympathetic noises. Now what? I had no plan, so instead just went off on a riff, Eyebeams mode, one of those times when half of you sits back audience-like and watches the show.

 “There’s a book that was with his effects. Here. At your hotel. We’re trying to find its owner. It’s… valuable.” I tried for an easy innocent smile to pave over this lie.

 “How can we be of assistance to you?” She said this in such an inviting way, I imagined some hospitality course in which she finished top of the class. 

“If only we had a way of knowing who my friend called… from here.” 

Her smile tightened into a ‘quel domage’ one. She was sorry but this would be impossible. If I was a guest at the hotel I certainly would not want my records given out to strangers. Strangers who come from the street.

“If I was dead I wouldn’t care,” I said. 

“You wish to talk to the manager?” She smiled again, confident that it would be an equally friendly, equally unsuccessful conversation.

I hadn’t planned any of this: it was forced on me by the push of the small room, maybe the weak pull of her smile.  I had no pretense of being some trench-coated shamus. There was one aspect of this operation, however, where I had had plenty of practice. Women. So I went off on another riff. No, of course she wouldn’t give me that list. She may have noticed I hadn’t actually asked for it. Well, that was the end of it. This list was our last hope so now I was finished. By the way how did she find London? Me, I found it hard to meet people. Yes, Londoners were kind, helpful even, in a way that wasn’t personal. So now only two more nights and I would be out of here. My expenses were being paid, so I could finally have a bit of fun. Hey, you’re French; you know about cuisine. Have you managed to find anywhere that serves decent food? You know, none of these soggy chips that are still a cold mush in the middle, pies with questionable contents, sausages…  

She laughed…warily. Yes, through her French connection there was a bistro not far from here. If I gave Albert and Yvonne her name…

“Look, I’ll meet you there. It will have to be tomorrow night or the next though.”

She looked small behind that desk. I imagined her over from France to improve her English and see London; all she had to show for it was a lot of hard work in this cloister, perhaps a few lonely walks, even fewer treks to tourist sites. She had the inward, closed-in look of a nun confined to her convent. I hadn’t lied about it being hard to meet people.

“You are romantic?” she asked, finally.

Somehow I understood she was asking if this was a date. I told her no.

Her shy smile softened; it was the right answer. We agreed, her with some reluctance still, a time the next evening. I wrote down my name and number in case anything came up. That gave me the opportunity to write down Kirk’s name and the dates of his stay. 

I will skip over our dinner. Marie-Christiane was a young girl, maybe twenty, who approached the male/female dinner-for-two aspect of our meeting like you would the edge of an abyss,  a step-up-to-the-edge fatal attraction, a step-back in horror. The proprietors were certainly on the abyss side, offering a bottle of wine with their compliments, a Saint Amour. Very funny. Yvonne, the hostess, stayed away from us in a hovering, gushing, attentive way. I got shy smiles, lots of practice English, and over coffee an envelope with Kirk’s calls.