to serve your every whim, and don't you forget it."
Barbara thought about asking him to brush the dandruff from his shoulders, but she didn't think it was the sort of request that he had in mind.
She moved to open the windows. The room was so stifling that the air seemed to shimmer, and she wished that one of the hotel's mod cons had been air conditioning or even room fans. The air was still. It seemed as if the entire universe were holding its breath.
"Wonderful weather, isn't it?" Treves said jauntily. "It'll bring the visitors here in droves.
Lucky you've come when you have, Sergeant. In another week we'll be booked to the roof. Not that I wouldn't have made room for you. Police business takes precedence, doesn't it?"
Her fingers, Barbara noted, were black-tipped with grime from having opened the window. She rubbed them surreptitiously against her trousers.
"As to that, Mr. Treves ..."
Birdlike, he cocked his head. "Yes? Is there something . . . ?"
"A Mr. Querashi was staying here, wasn't he?
Haytham Querashi?"
It hardly seemed possible that Basil Treves could stand any more at attention, but he appeared to manage it. Barbara thought he might even salute. "An unfortunate occurrence," he said formally.
"That he was staying here?"
"Great Scot, no. He was welcome to stay here.
He was more than welcome. The Burnt House doesn't discriminate against anyone. Never has done. And never will do." He gave a glance over his shoulder towards the open door, saying, "If I may . . . ?" When Barbara nodded, he closed it and continued in a lower voice. "Although to be perfectly honest, I do keep the races separate, as you'll probably note during your stay. This hasn't to do with my own inclinations, mind you. I haven't the slightest prejudice against people of colour. Not the slightest. But the other guests . . .
To be frank, Sergeant, times have been difficult.
It doesn't make good business sense to do anything that might engender ill will. If you know what I mean."
"So Mr. Querashi stayed in another part of the hotel? Is that what you're saying?"
"Not so much in another part, but just away from the others. Ever so slightly. I doubt he even noticed." Treves raised his folded hands to his chest once again. "I have several permanent residents, you see. These are ageing ladies, and they simply aren't used to the way times have changed. In fact, this is almost too embarrassing to mention, but one of them actually mistook Mr. Querashi for a servant the first morning he came down to breakfast. Can you imagine it? Poor thing."
Barbara wasn't sure whether he was referring to Haytham Querashi or the old woman, but she felt she could hazard a fairly accurate guess. "I'd like to see the room he stayed in, if I may,"
Barbara said.
"Then you are here because of his demise."
"Not his demise. His murder."
Treves said, "Murder? Good God," and he reached behind him till his hand came into contact with one of the twin beds. He sank onto it, said, "If you'll pardon me," and lowered his head.
He breathed deeply and when he finally raised his head again, he said in a hushed voice,
"Does it have to be known that he was staying here?
Here at the Burnt House? Will the newspapers mention it? Because with business promising to pick up at long last ..."
So much for his reaction having to do with shock, guilt, or the milk of human kindness, Barbara thought. Not for the first time, she had validation for her long held belief that Homo sapiens was genetically linked to pond scum.
Treves must have seen this conclusion on her face, because he went on quickly. "It's not that I don't care what happened to Mr. Querashi. I do. Indeed I do care most deeply. He was quite a pleasant chap, for all his ways, and I regret his unfortunate passing. But with business about to pick up, and after all these years of recession, one can't take the chance of losing even one - "
"His ways?" Barbara headed off his discourse on the nation's economy.
Basil Treves blinked. "Well, they are different, aren't they?"
"They?"
"These Asians. Why, surely you know. You'd have to, wouldn't you, working in London.
Good grief. Don't deny it."
"How was he different?"
Treves apparently inferred something more than she intended in the question. His eyes started to go opaque and he crossed his arms.
Defences are rising, Barbara thought with interest, and she wondered why he was arming himself.