as a massage-room. Phryne examined herself. They had found her gun, the knife in her garter, and her bathrobe was gone. She was clad in French camiknickers and the rags of her dress, which left her with less clothes than are generally considered sufficient to go bathing in. Sasha was sitting on the floor, where he had been cradling Phryne all night. He was dressed in flannels and a dark shirt, much cut about and torn, and his eyes were hollow with shock.
‘They left us some water; have a drink,’ he suggested. Phryne washed out her mouth with the liquid and then spat it out.
‘Never know what might be in it,’ she said. ‘What happened during the night?’
‘After they locked me in here, they brought you, as well. I feared that you were dead, mademoiselle, but you were not. Two hours or so later someone looked in; I could not see who they were, but they flashed a torch on your face, seemed to recognise you and shut off the light. Since then, nothing.’
‘What did they do to you?’ asked Phryne in her own voice. Subterfuge was not going to be of any more assistance. Sasha opened his shirt, and Phryne saw deep blisters on the smooth skin.
‘Cigarette end?’ she guessed. Sasha nodded.
‘They wanted to know where Gran’mere and Elli are. I did not tell them. But I expect that they will be back.’ His voice was heavy with Slavic fatalism. Phryne felt the stirrings of anger, and wavered to her feet.
It’s morning; they could at least give us some breakfast. Hello!’ she yelled, kicking the door and instantly regretting it— she had bare feet. ‘Hello, yoo-hoo! How about some breakfast!’
The door was wrenched open. The Bull seized Phryne in one giant paw and Sasha in the other. He bore them, unresisting, out of the massage-room, through the hall, and into the room with the pool, where he thrust them into cane chairs.
‘Wait,’ mumbled the Bull, and slammed the door behind him. Phryne at once got out of her chair and began inspecting the exits. The windows were barred, the door locked, and the furnishings were rudimentary. Phryne discovered her feathered mantle flung over a chair. The gun was gone, but her cigarettes were still in the pocket. She lit one for Sasha and they smoked in silence.
‘What are they going to do with us?’ asked Sasha.
‘Probably something pointlessly hideous to make us realise the depths of our stupidity in attempting to dethrone the King of Snow, and then the good old river with the dear old brick, I suspect. Dear me, I wonder who inherits my money? I haven’t made a will. I should have liked to have left it to the Cats’ Home.’
‘No time,’ grinned Cokey Billings from the doorway. ‘But it ain’t the river — too many bodies turn up that way. We’ve got what the King calls “a nice scandalous demise” planned for you, Miss Fisher, and this gigolo.’
‘Do you mean that I’ve waited all this time and I’m not going to meet his Majesty?’ demanded Phryne, outraged.
At that moment, Cokey was pushed aside and the King of Snow came into the room, taking a cane chair with the suggestion of royalty. Sasha gaped. Phryne lit another cigarette.
‘Hello, Lydia,’ she said indifferently. ‘Recovered from your little bout of arsenic overdose?’
Lydia Andrews stared with fevered eyes at Phryne, insulted by her lack of surprise. Sasha grasped Phryne by the arm.
‘The King of Snow — she is him?’ he asked, bewildered.
‘Oh, yes. And she was setting up ever such a neat murder of her husband. Admittedly he is a lout and is wasting the family fortune, but arsenic is such a foul way to die. I would not be astonished if dear old Beatrice and Ariadne weren’t planning a similar demise for their unsatisfactory spouses. These things do tend to run in threes — like indecent exposure and plane crashes. You could at least offer me a cup of tea, Lydia, before you kill me!’
‘What do you mean about my husband? He’s trying to poison me — you suggested it yourself.’
‘Lydia, I may have been caught by your thugs by an elementary mistake — I should never have tried to break in without help, but Sasha is my lover and your friends were torturing him. . you must allow for the natural feelings of a woman. But I’m not stupid. When your maid reported that you had a packet of arsenic in your dressing case, and your hair and fingernails are chock-full of the stuff, any idiot would have seen what you were doing. Little doses, carefully graded, just enough to make you sick, building up your resistance, and then — demise of prominent businessman, arsenic found, wife suspected, then arsenic found in wife, evidence to show that she switched cups on him while taking the evening cocoa, and
‘Fetch tea, Cokey,’ ordered Lydia. ‘Bull, stand there and break Miss Fisher’s arm if she makes a move towards me.’
Sasha had caught sight of the bird brooch which adorned Lydia’s overdressed person. He leaned closer to stare at it. When he had seen it last, it had been holding an orchid on his mother’s shoulder.
‘But why the murder, when you must be making a mint out of the coke trade?’ asked Phryne, to keep the conversation going.
Lydia shuddered. ‘He was making. . demands upon me. He called it his marital rights. He is. . disgusting. He must go,’ concluded Lydia.
Phryne stared at her. She still looked like a porcelain doll: curly blonde hair, pink cheeks, baby-face. There was something indescribably horrible about the dainty way she ordered her men about. Phryne leaned against Sasha, who put an arm around her.
‘You know, I could have sworn that you had designs upon me yourself,’ she commented softly. ‘Do your tastes lie in my direction, Lydia?’
The tea trolley arrived, pushed by a sour-faced Cokey.
‘Shall I be mother?’ smiled Lydia, and poured out. ‘Sugar and milk?’
Sasha and Phryne looked at each other in bewilderment. ‘Milk, but no sugar,’ said Phryne. ‘Strong, if you please, I think I’ve had rather a shock.’
She drank the tea thirstily and ate two cucumber sandwiches. She wondered if the Bull had cut them and muffled a laugh. Sasha drank his tea in complete astonishment.
‘Now, you have a choice, Miss Fisher,’ said Lydia formally. ‘Come in with me, or. . er. . die.’
‘Come in with you? Does that include going to bed with you?’ asked Phryne coarsely. ‘If so, no thank you.’
Lydia blushed. ‘Not at all. It is an excellent business. Overheads are low, shipping charges moderate, and the personnel trustworthy.’
‘How did you get to be the King of Snow?’ demanded Phryne. Lydia fingered the Faberge brooch.
‘I was looking for a good investment, when I was in Paris in the first year of my marriage. I made an acquaintance, a woman, who was thinking of retiring from the Kingship. She had all her markets in Europe, and had never thought of Australia. I had some money from Auntie to invest, and I had to make myself independent of my husband. So I bought the business, outright. The stockists deliver to Paris — I have nothing to do with that — and the merchandise enters as
‘Is Madame Breda in on this?’ asked Phryne.
‘No. She allows us to use her rooms to store the cosmetics of
‘And the chemist’s shop in Little Lon.?’ prompted Phryne, accepting her second cup of tea.
‘Yes, that is our street outlet,’ agreed Lydia, sipping delicately. It was an excellent tea. ‘Come, Miss Fisher, with your connections, we could have a worldwide trade, not just Paris and Melbourne. Millions of pounds are spent on drugs every day. It seems a pity that we cannot. . I believe the term is “corner the market”.’
‘An interesting proposition. What is the alternative?’
‘We will strip you both and put you in the Turkish bath together,’ said Lydia, biting a precise semicircle out of her sandwich. ‘You should suffocate in about three hours.’
‘Won’t that be a little difficult to explain to Madame Breda?’ asked Phryne. Lydia considered.
‘No. We will tell her that you particularly wanted to enjoy your new diversion — I mean him,’ she pointed to Sasha with a pearly forefinger, ‘in a jungle atmosphere. You were so exhausted by transports of lust that you fell asleep — and a terrible accident happened. They may close the Turkish bath, but they will never suspect the
