The Secret Tunnel by James Lear Read Free Book Online Page A

manhandled by the Neanderthal Joseph; they were, after all, only trying to do their job. But I was so starstruck, and so taken with Peter Dickinson, that I said nothing. I wondered, vaguely, if Joseph would be part
of the party… I rather liked the idea of watching him fuck Bertrand… The contrast in their height would be amusing… How many men was I planning to have? I was losing count…
    The camera clicked and flashbulbs popped, silverware clinked and jingled, and all too soon this unreal meal was over. Daisy and Hugo left as they had arrived, in a haze of swansdown and diamonds. Taylor looked back over his shoulder and gave us all a cheery salute. The steward started clearing their plates; not a mouthful of food had been swallowed.
    “No, darling,” I heard the mother saying to one of her daughters, “just because Daisy Athenasy doesn’t eat up like a good girl, that doesn’t mean you can leave your greens.”
    Dickinson and Joseph accompanied the stars to their carriage; only the secretary remained.
    “Well, they’re settled now,” he said, pulling up a chair. “May I, gentlemen?” He had an open, friendly face, the skin a little too smooth and shiny, the eyebrows possibly plucked—but there was a look in his eye that I could not mistake. Here was a fellow traveler, in more senses than one.
    “ D’accord .” Bertrand seemed less hostile now, with a couple of glasses of wine inside him.
    “So, gents, what did you make of my charges?”
    “They seem very nice,” I said.
    “Nice?” the secretary spluttered, and wiped his mouth on my napkin, which he plucked from my lap. “No, I wouldn’t describe Hugo and Daisy as nice.”
    “Well, she seemed a bit…tired.”
    “Yes. Miss Athenasy is frequently tired.”
    “Ah.” I suspected some dark secret but was too tactful to ask an employee to spill the beans.
    “She has a little help when she gets in front of the cameras. You know…” He mimed sniffing.
    “You mean she dopes?”

    “Please, Mr. Mitchell!”
    I whispered, “Is that why she doesn’t eat anything?”
    “Among other reasons. Like all actresses, she is obsessed with her weight.”
    “She is already too thin,” said Bertrand. “In Belgium, women have flesh on their bones.”
    “Not that it would interest you too much,” I said, watching the secretary’s face for a reaction. He cocked an eyebrow but made no comment. Bertrand blushed and looked at his hands.
    “I’m sure she will eat in their private carriage,” I said.
    “Yes,” said the secretary, “she will certainly be eating something. Or someone.”
    What was he trying to tell me? There was some scandal afoot, of that I was sure. Perhaps not a crime, as such, or a proper murder mystery, but at least something worthy of my powers of deductive reasoning.
    I thought for a moment and then said, “Joseph?”
    His eyebrows rose even further. “Are you a mind reader?”
    “Me? No. Just a doctor.”
    “I see. The diagnostic mind. You’d make a very good…”
    “Yes? What?”
    He looked slightly flustered. “I was going to say detective.”
    “But how extraordinary! That is exactly what I want to be!”
    “You? A detective? Why on earth?”
    “Oh, I have a passion for crime fiction.”
    “Me too! Allow me to introduce myself.” He pulled out a card—everyone on this train had cards—bearing a coat of arms and the name “Francis Laking, bart.” I knew enough about English customs to realize that this was a minor aristocrat.
    “Sir Francis.” I held out my hand; he took it in a soft, limp grip. “Edward Mitchell.”
    “Oh, really! You can dispense with the sirs and madams.
It’s Francis, if you insist, but everyone, I mean really everyone, calls me Frankie.”
    “And Frankie, you can call me Mitch.”
    “And who is this enchanting creature?” People were looking around, but Frankie didn’t care; he seemed to love the attention.
    “This is Bertrand Damseaux, my…traveling companion.”
    “ Enchanté .”