Murder at the Mayfair Hotel (Cleopatra Fox Mysteries #1)- C.J. Archer Page 0,27

the guests currently staying in the hotel?” I asked her as we waited for the lift.

“Good lord, Cleo, there are so many! We’re not terribly busy, admittedly, but there must be…” Her lips moved as she did calculations in her head. “Tons. Too many to know individually. Why?”

“I was curious. Do you know who would know them all?”

“Mr. Hobart and Mr. Armitage. Father once scolded Floyd for not doing as the managers did and study the reservations book each night to learn the names of the guests arriving the following day. Peter would know too, of course, but after each guest checks in.” The lift arrived, its floor perfectly level with the corridor. John opened the door and smiled. “John knows all the guests too, of course,” Flossy added.

“Only those who travel by my ascending room,” he said, patting the door as if it were a loyal pet. “Not those who take the stairs.” This last he said with a pointed look in my direction as he pushed the lever.

“I like the exercise,” I muttered.

“Was there a guest in particular you wanted to know about?” Flossy gave her hands a little clap. “Oh, I know! There’s a dashing foreign count staying on level two. You ought to know he’s married, Cleo. Not that he’s here with his wife.” She winked.

I had no idea how to interpret the wink, but John smiled. I felt as though I were being left out of a joke.

“Did either of you notice the gentlemen standing near Mr. Armitage yesterday when we got into the lift?” I didn’t want to mention Mrs. Warrick’s name in case it led either of them to suspect I was investigating her murder.

Neither could recall the gentlemen, and I decided to try Peter. Unfortunately he was busy at the main counter where four guests stood. Goliath and three other porters waited nearby with luggage, and Mr. Armitage and Mr. Hobart spoke to the guests. Peter looked worried as he accepted the key off a gentleman.

“Oh no,” Flossy muttered. “It has started.”

“What has?” I asked.

“The exodus. Father’s fears are being realized. We managed to get through luncheon before word about the murder got out, but it seems it’s out now.”

We headed to the luggage counter to collect umbrellas. “I wouldn’t go outside, Miss Bainbridge,” said Goliath as we passed him. “The newspapermen are like hungry pigs.”

The front door was suddenly pushed open and a cacophony of voices surged through along with a figure drenched from head to toe. The door closed behind him, but not before I saw Frank the doorman trying to urge a cluster of men to move along.

The newcomer’s sharp gaze settled on Flossy and me. He strode towards us, leaving a trail of drips behind on the tiles. “Excuse me, ladies, can I have a word? What can you tell me about the murder that took place here last night? Did you know the victim?” He reached into his inside coat pocket and whipped out a pencil and notepad.

Flossy shrank away from him. “Leave me alone!”

Mr. Armitage approached, his face set hard, dark eyes flashing. “Get out or you’ll be thrown out.”

The man put his hands up in surrender. “I’m just trying to make a living, same as you.”

“You are not the same as me. Leave.”

The towering form of Goliath overshadowed us. “Want help, Mr. Armitage?”

“It’s under control, thank you, Goliath. This man was just leaving.” Mr. Armitage grabbed the lapel of the journalist’s coat and forced him towards the door.

Goliath opened it and Mr. Armitage pushed the man through. He stumbled into the other journalists.

“I think Frank could do with your help,” Mr. Armitage said to Goliath.

Goliath touched his forehead in acknowledgement and joined Frank outside. “Move along!” Frank’s voice boomed.

“Are you all right?” Mr. Armitage asked us. His gaze quickly danced over Flossy and lingered a little longer on me.

I dipped my head, suddenly feeling guilty for thinking him involved in the murder. Surely he couldn’t have done it. He seemed far too honorable. But why had he lied to his own father when he’d questioned him about his movements yesterday afternoon?

“Yes, thank you,” Flossy said with a tilt of her chin at the door. “Horrible people, journalists.”

“They’re just doing their job,” Mr. Armitage said.

Flossy seemed a little put out to have her opinion brushed off, but he didn’t notice. He watched the guests at the counter, his features still set, fists clenched at his sides. The smooth man who’d greeted me the day before was