The Millionaires' Death Club Page 9

  I instantly labelled the man ‘Jack’ because he resembled the bad guy in any Jack the Ripper movie you cared to choose. He even had a sinister gold-tipped cane.

  The trio, none of whom seemed older than about twenty-one, approached each person in the bar, one after the other. Jack whispered something, there would be a puzzled look, and then either Jack or the person he’d spoken to would take a cream cake from one of the trays and eat it. I glanced at the actors to check their reaction. I thought I detected signs of interest.

  After a couple of minutes, Jack sauntered over to me, followed by his helpers.

  ‘Ah, young damsel,’ he said in a much posher voice than I expected. ‘Can you help a poor man?’ He explained that the expensive cakes his companions were carrying were his last possessions on earth. His voice dropped. ‘I won’t be needing them where I’m going.’

  When I looked into his eyes, I saw something strange there, like a shadow. I was uncomfortable, despite the giggling going on all around me.

  He must have noticed my reaction because he broke into a pleasant smile, but it didn’t last long. Taking a step forward, he came unnervingly close to me and I found myself backed up against a wall.

  ‘Are you willing to risk everything?’ he whispered.

  The question startled me. ‘Er, what are we talking about here?’

  ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ He reached out and gripped my arm. ‘Did no one ever tell you: the last thing you should ever be given is what you most desire.’

  I must have looked alarmed because he retreated and his soothing smile reappeared.

  ‘I’m offering a luxury cream cake to everyone in the bar,’ he said in a different tone. ‘Each person can either accept or decline. If they accept then obviously they eat the cake. If they decline then I have to eat it myself. Those are the rules.’ He peered at me. ‘So, what’s it to be? Will you help me with this burden?’

  I noticed him glancing at Sam and I had the distinct impression he knew exactly who it was even though Sam’s hood was pulled right over.

  ‘What should I do?’ I asked Sam.

  ‘Eat the goddamn thing.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just not hungry,’ I replied to Jack. I was infuriated.

  Jack took off his top hat and bowed. ‘I understand.’ Then the hat went back on and he turned and selected a strawberry tart from the tray. ‘This will be my tenth. I confess the exercise is becoming somewhat tiresome.’ He popped half of it into his mouth. A quick chew then he finished off the rest.

  ‘An Atkins variation?’ I asked, grinning.

  ‘In what spirit is that remark made? One of mockery?’

  ‘It was just a joke.’

  ‘If only you knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘I’m not here to expound my philosophy, just to distribute these cakes.’ He turned towards the boys and gave them the same spiel he’d tried on me. Unlike me, they didn’t hesitate. Each took a cake and devoured it.

  Jack removed his hat and bowed. ‘You are noble gentlemen, quite the best of Samaritans.’

  He went on his way with his two butlers, approaching others in the bar in the same methodical manner.

  ‘I want to watch this,’ Sam said, nudging Jez. ‘Is Heineken Export OK?’

  Jez nodded and Sam then had the cheek to point me in the direction of the bar.

  I was furious at being treated like a skivvy, but I didn’t want to argue. I went to the bar, got three bottles of Heineken, and took them back to the table Jez had found for us. None of us spoke. We sat staring at Jack and his butlers as they went right round the bar performing their peculiar ceremony.

  Usually, people accepted the cake they were offered. It took Jack about twenty minutes to get rid of all the cakes. Everyone in the bar was peering at Jack, trying to understand what was happening. The consensus around me was that it was some Rag-Week stunt by UCL medical students. I wasn’t so sure, and I certainly couldn’t forget the odd look I’d seen in Jack’s eyes.

  Whatever the three men were up to, they’d put on some show and I was disappointed when they left. It had been a relief not having to think up more small talk to keep the actors distracted. I groaned inwardly, thinking I’d be back on duty. I was supposed to love this job or at least be able to make it look like I loved it, but I was struggling hard to sustain my act.

  When Jez tapped my arm I assumed he wanted me to get some more Heinekens.

  ‘We’re following those dudes,’ he said.

  Before I could respond, he and Sam were heading towards the door. I hurried after them, into the humid, dark night. It was five to eleven and the streetlights were on. Jack and his butlers walked at a brisk pace, heading in the direction of Green Park. Jez and Sam set out fast after them. With my high-heeled boots on, I couldn’t keep up. I had to take them off and carry them. The pavement was hard and painful against my feet.

  We passed the Ritz Hotel then arrived at Ritz Corner. Ahead of us, the three men made their way down Queen’s Walk on the eastern edge of Green Park, heading towards St James’s Park and Buckingham Palace. If they were aware of us following them they hadn’t shown any signs. They went past a block of luxury apartments, turned to the left and…

  Gone.

  The properties in this area were ultra expensive, hidden behind large iron gates and thick foliage to keep out prying eyes. Peeking through the spikes of one iron gate, we glimpsed the trio. They were standing outside the entrance of a breathtakingly elegant white-stone mansion that looked like a cross between a Greek temple and an 18th century stately home. Lights picked out its Greek columns, grand windows and the scores of ornate features that decorated its façade. On the mansion’s roof stood seven sculptures: three beautiful angels flanked by four hideous gargoyles.

  In front of the mansion was an enchanting floodlit lawn neatly edged with eye-catching black tulips branded with a broad blaze of golden orange at the petal edges. A stone path led to several wide steps and up to a terrace, where the three men were waiting to be admitted.

  The mansion looked like it once belonged to some great lord, perhaps even a member of the royal family. From what I knew of the property prices in this area, it had to be worth a fortune, maybe seventy-five to a hundred million pounds. Were these guys unbelievably rich? I wasn’t even sure Sam and Jez could afford a place like this.

  Jack tapped on the black-varnished door with his cane. When it opened, he took off his top hat and gave a theatrical bow.

  A party of glamorous twenty-somethings in tuxedos and ball-gowns filed out onto the terrace and formed two lines, the men on one side, the women on the other.

  One face stood out immediately – blond Elvis! I shuddered. Did that mean these others were the City Slickers?

  All the attention was on Jack. After retreating a few steps while the two lines were being formed, he now walked forward with the proud bearing of a soldier. His two butlers patted him on the back while the others clapped and cheered as he made his way past them and into the mansion. It seemed to be some kind of honour parade. They all went inside and the door was firmly shut behind them.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Sam asked. He and Jez started firing theories at each other – freemasons; street performers; a secret society of eccentric gay men and lesbians; a training facility for butlers or a finishing school for eccentric young gentlemen and ladies. A spy academy?

  They stopped jabbering and Sam turned towards me, snapping his fingers.

  ‘You’re some piece of work. That was good…the best.’

  For a second I considered playing along and try to steal the credit but I knew I’d never get away with it. I shook my head. ‘Sorry, guys, nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No?’ Sam seemed surprised. ‘Well, I know one thing, I swiped this from that dude’s pocket.’ He brandished a card in front of us and held it up beneath a streetlamp to let us see. ‘I picked up a few tricks when I did that remake of Oliver Twist as a kid,’ he remarked with a wink.

  We all leane
d in to see the card. It was eggshell white and embossed with gold letters. It said: ‘Lawrence Maybury, One Button. The Top Table.’ Then, in italics, ‘Neither by land nor by sea shalt thou find the road to the Hyperboreans.’ Underneath was a phone number.

  We looked at each other and shrugged.

  Jez took out a silver Vertu mobile phone, so sleek and slimline I wanted one immediately, but I seemed to remember that they cost two and a half grand. He keyed in a number and handed the mobile to Sam while it was ringing.

  Sam listened for a moment before saying, ‘Uh, nothing.’

  ‘You got burned, asshole, didn’t you?’ Jez sneered.

  ‘A guy answered,’ Sam said, ‘and he asked, “What ails you, friend?” At least, I think that’s what he said. I couldn’t think of anything smart to say, then the line went dead.’ He stared at the mansion. ‘Man, I want to know what’s going on in there.’

  Jez nodded.

  ‘Five hundred bucks says you don’t go and find out,’ Sam said.

  ‘Candy from a baby.’ Jez took off his skip cap and shades and walked over to the iron gate. He pushed it open – no attempt seemed to have been made to lock it – and walked right in. He sauntered along the path, up the steps and onto the terrace. When he got to the door, he rang the bell. It opened a moment later and a tall man with floppy dark hair appeared.

  ‘Hey, guess who I am?’ Jez said loudly. The door was instantly slammed in his face. He seemed confused when he came back. ‘Er, do I win the bet?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘So, our mysterious friends don’t want to party.’

  ‘I guess we’ve had our fun,’ I said. ‘Want to do something else? It’s still early. We could go to a casino. I know a private one just round the corner. Only millionaires are allowed to play. Their poker games are a legend. If there’s anything else you want like, er, you know, high-class company, I can make the arrangements. If you’re looking for backstage passes for anything…’

  Jez laughed. ‘Did you hear that, Sammy boy? Our English princess thinks we have to pay for sex.’ He patted my head then instantly checked his palm, no doubt to see if anything revolting had been transferred. ‘And she thinks we have problems getting backstage invites. Newsflash, honey – we’re the first names on the guest-list. No one ever shuts doors in our faces.’

  ‘Until now,’ I said, unable to resist.

  Neither man reacted. It was as if my comment had dissolved in the air.

  ‘Like the man says,’ Sam growled, ‘no one ever closes the door on us. We’re getting inside that joint. Whatever it takes.’

  Chapter 11: Death Wish

  When I went to the Sargasso the next morning, my mind was flitting between the bizarre events of last night and my mission. What could I do to find NexS? As I walked into reception, I found Mencken reading a newspaper. I thought of turning round and going straight back out again.

  ‘So, how are things going with the biggest whales in the ocean?’ he asked. When he realised I hadn’t understood, he said, in a ridiculous Mexican accent, ‘You no understand the lingo?’ Smiling slyly, he reverted to his normal voice. ‘You’ve got Moby Dick on your hands.’ He winked. ‘Dicks, to be more exact.’

  I continued to stare blankly.

  He explained that a whale was a Hollywood term for a major celebrity. A Moby Dick was one of the top ten actors on the planet, a megastar who could open a movie and turn even shit into gold. ‘Well, aren’t Sam and Jez a brace of dicks?’ He obviously knew I wasn’t in any hurry to disagree. ‘Word is they came back excited last night. Did you treat them to a Sophie special?’

  ‘It was a night to remember, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You should be ecstatic. You’ve made it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jez says you’re a cool chick and Sam told me you were hot. If you’ve impressed them then you’re in the fast lane in your Ferrari flicking ash from your Havana cigar, aren’t you?’

  Sam said I was hot? No way. ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Where are the gruesome twosome?’

  Mencken grinned and nodded towards the restaurant. ‘Try the reserved area in the breakfast room. I had a chat with them earlier. Like I said, they were excited. You’re right, though – they didn’t mention you at all.’

  Well, cheers. As I turned, Mencken reached out and clasped my arm.

  ‘NexS,’ he said. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’ I freed myself and hurried away.

  Approaching the breakfast room, I noticed Mencken’s decoy versions of Sam and Jez eating their sunny-side-up fried eggs. Their bodyguards were fending off anyone who ventured too close. As ever, there was a buzz of whispering and gossiping, accompanied by a forest of pointing fingers as people hyperventilated at the presence of Hollywood superstars. It cheered me up that there were so many dumbos falling for the old doubles trick.

  When I reached the reserved area, I soon saw the real deal – Sam looking gorgeous in black jeans and a sleeveless white T-shirt, Jez in baggy hip-hop gear. Their baseball caps and shades were lying on the table in front of them, ready for a quick cover-up.

  They were engrossed in whatever was on TV. Sam noticed me and motioned to me to come and join them. I knew I was expected to say nothing and just look at the TV. As soon as I did, I knew why.

  A photograph of a handsome young guy flashed onto the screen. I watched, wide-eyed. It was Jack from last night. I started to say something but Jez put his finger to his lips and turned up the volume with the remote control.

  ‘Lawrence Maybury’s body was discovered at seven am by the Thames river police,’ the newsreader said. ‘It lay in a black gondola that had drifted down the Thames for several miles before coming to a halt in a reed bank. Numerous sightings of the gondola were reported as it made its way downriver. Two unopened bottles of rare champagne were found next to the body.

  ‘Mr Maybury was twenty-one years old and single. A brilliant philosophy student at Oxford University, he was tipped for a glittering academic career. The only child of Lady Northgate, he was heir to an estate estimated at fifty million pounds. His father was Earl Mansfield, a leading member of the nobility. The earl killed himself when Lawrence was five years old.

  ‘Lawrence’s family gave the police permission to disclose the contents of a letter found on the body. It said:

  “I’ve always been haunted by my father’s death. He was just twenty-six, a brilliant composer, already being hailed as a genius. Finishing the final note of his first symphony, he knew it was a masterpiece. He put down his pen, picked up a razor and slit his throat. When the music was played in public for the first time, it was at his funeral. His blood was still visible on the score. It has never been played since.

  “I can’t think of that music without weeping. Music to make you cry, music to make you die. Why did he do it? He had everything ahead of him. Then I went to the Lazar House and found NexS. At last, everything made sense. When the supreme moment of your life has come, why go on? NexS is perfection. It delivers your once-in-a-lifetime moment – your death.

  “Lacrimae rerum.”’

  The newsreader paused. ‘That’s Latin for the tears of things.’

  The picture cut away to a reporter on the bank of the Thames interviewing various people, but I was already playing back what the newsreader had said. A single word stuck out: NexS. I couldn’t believe it. So, those people at the mansion were Mencken’s Oxford students, and, judging by what the note said about it, NexS more than lived up to its billing.

  I remembered Lawrence Maybury so vividly, especially that remark he made: ‘Where I’m going, I won’t need it.’ Did that mean he was thinking of suicide all along? But in that case why was he so cheerful at the mansion? Why the honour parade? The more I thought about it, the less things stacked up. I’d never heard of this Oxford gang and I hadn’t found out anything about them from my contacts, yet they’d fallen into our lap on the very first night. Now one of them was dead and making national headlines. />
  On the TV, a police spokesman announced there were no suspicious circumstances. He said it appeared to be a clear case of a troubled young man committing suicide, using the tragic example of his own father. The precise cause of death hadn’t yet been ascertained and an autopsy would be held. He said he was as yet unable to shed any light on the meaning of ‘Lazar House’ or ‘NexS’.

  Sam lowered the volume and turned towards me. ‘Amazing, huh? Mencken promised us NexS and, kazam, here it is.’

  ‘Yeah, hard to believe,’ I said quietly. A young man with his whole life ahead of him was dead and NexS suddenly seemed more like poison than pleasure.

  ‘So, NexS delivers your once-in-a-lifetime moment,’ Sam said. ‘What do you know – maybe Mencken has hit the jackpot after all.’

  ‘That was one grand exit,’ Jez commented callously as he pointed at TV pictures showing the black gondola the body was found in. He nudged Sam. ‘If you were checking out, how would you do it?’

  It was a revolting question and I expected Sam to ignore it, but he answered straight away.

  ‘I’d like to drown in a pool of women’s tears.’

  ‘What?’ Jez bellowed. ‘That’s some freaky shit, man.’

  I looked at Sam to see if he was joking. Was he putting on an act? OK, we scarcely knew Lawrence Maybury, but we’d been talking to him within the last twenty-four hours. Anyway, it would take a hell of a lot of tears to fill a pool. Maybe he meant he wanted a tide of womanly emotion to wash over him as he died. After all, he was always surrounded by female hysteria.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘we need to let Mencken know about all of this.’

  He was on his mobile phone when we caught up with him in the foyer.