Maddox frowned. “Paid a visit? What does that mean?”
“You know. Needed the old crow’s services. The Coker bitch got rid of her whelp, as you might say. Nearly croaked afterwards, apparently. It even had Mrs. D worried. You all right, sir? You’ve gone pale.”
Once Maddox had left, Oakes appropriated the pork pie. “Waste not, want not,” he said cheerfully, winking at the barmaid as he took a huge bite out of it.
Pour le Sport
Gwendolen had adapted to her new role with surprising alacrity. And Nellie was right—to run a nightclub all you really needed was an orderly mind and to be capable in a crisis. The crises were small （No face powder in the Ladies’！） and frequent （Champagne stocks running low! The club’s patrons drank an inordinate amount of champagne） and were as nothing compared to the challenge of trying to keep a dying man alive. It was true she had a string of questions for Ramsay—Is this really the markup on beer? （Yes） Could I order better-quality soap for the Ladies’ Powder Room? （No, Nellie bought it wholesale）—and so on. It seemed to amuse him how intent Gwendolen was on running an efficient ship.
The only mishap so far was when one of the dance hostesses had suffered a sprained ankle, thanks to a clumsy partner. Gwendolen had bandaged her up and prescribed a stiff whisky. Otherwise, she was rather pleased with her new employment. She could only imagine what the Misses Tate, Rogerson and Shaw would make of it. And as for Mr. Pollock, his head would probably explode if he saw her in her role as mistress of the nightly revels.
The dance hostesses were pleasant girls who handled the clientele with easy grace and at the end of the evening seemed eager to return to their own beds rather than those of the men who had paid to dance with them. Gwendolen suspected that it may be different in the other clubs, particularly the Sphinx, which had a Stygian aura. “Not Greek, Egyptian,” Ramsay said when he had given her the tour. He talked a lot about the curse of Tutankhamun—surely he didn’t believe that nonsense?
Gwendolen had received her first week’s wages yesterday. Ramsay had brought her an envelope full of cash—ten times what she had been paid in the Library. （“You’re surprised?” Ramsay said. “Why else do you think people work for my mother?”）
It seemed wrong somehow to keep these ill-gotten gains, she had no need of money, and so yesterday she had returned to Regent Street for the first time since the “handbag incident,” as she now thought of it, and had quietly handed the money to the blind cornetist. His repertoire had not grown any more joyful in the intervening time.
She had helped him secure the money in the inside pocket of his coat—to leave it in his instrument case would have been an open invitation to theft. He was horribly grateful, almost overcome. In the end she had helped him pack up his cornet and had retired with him to a nearby café, where they drank tea together and she learnt that his name was Herbert but that he liked to be called Bert and before the war he had played in dance bands on the great ocean-going liners, finishing up on the Mauretania. Gwendolen wondered if she could bring him on board her own ship, the Crystal Cup. She supposed decisions like that had to be referred back to Nellie. And perhaps his melancholy spirits would be unwelcome in the Crystal’s dance band. They were a jolly lot, rightly disinclined to introspection.
Given the hours that she now worked （how different from library hours!） she had had some time to pursue her lost lambs, but to no avail. Despite her assurances to Frobisher, she had returned to Henrietta Street, but her efforts to speak to the occupant came to nought. She had, somewhat against her will, gone to see The Green Hat. She had not asked Frobisher but had gone on her own, hoping that, against the odds, Freda might somehow appear on the stage. She did not.
The lambs remained stubbornly lost and, working on the principle that no news is good news, Gwendolen did not report her lack of findings back to York.
After that first social call to the flat （or “inspection,” more accurately）， Gwendolen had not seen Nellie again. Ramsay was the Coker who had been delegated to steer her passage through the protocol of the clubs, a subject on which he was remarkably apathetic. He was writing a novel, he said with some pride. He was green, almost naive, yet Gwendolen couldn’t help but warm towards him, the elder sister in her rekindled.
All this had been duly reported to Frobisher in the Refreshment Rooms in Paddington.
She was back from Paddington by midmorning and had time to consider what would be the most suitable outfit for the afternoon’s excursion. She had been pleasantly surprised by Frobisher’s invitation—it would be nice to get away from the grime of London’s sooty streets, even nicer to get away from them with Frobisher. Although, of course, it would have been nicest of all—the superlative—to have gone away with Niven. She had seen neither hide nor hair of him since she had started work at the Crystal Cup. （“Comes and goes like a tomcat,” Nellie said.） Gwendolen was disappointed yet relieved. She had a core of iron, but he was a lodestone. There could be no sound outcome with a man like that. All would be ruined.