The Curse of the Singing Wolf Read Online Free

only while he was performing that the tremors
ceased.
    “I say, this is the best meal
I’ve had for some time,” declared Dr Watson enthusiastically,
tucking into some mussels in white wine. “Something simple, done in
a simple style, always goes down a treat. How is your paella?”
    “Wonderful - the chef really is formidable! The menu appears to be an interesting blend of
Spanish and French cuisine. The guitarist is good too.”
    “I cannot believe we are the
only two guests enjoying this first rate fayre. The others don’t
know what they’re missing. I shall make it a point to dine-in every
night. I spoke to the concierge while you were out with the Russian
barnacle and he says the femme de chambre doing my room who
doubles as a waitress when the dining room is full is also Spanish
and she comes out to do a flamenco dance – oh, here she comes
now!”
    Like a true daughter of the
gitanos, the dancer wearing a long, colourful, flouncy garment
carried herself proudly with her head flung back and her back
arched. The provocative flamenco called for a lot of foot-stamping
and robust hand-clapping between interludes of the guitar, a pair
of castanets added to the boisterousness of the performance.
    “Bravo!” applauded Dr Watson
when the baille came to a breathless halt. “Well, what did
you think of that?” he put to his counterpart.
    “Superb!”
    “The Hotel du Palais pales in
comparison to the Hotel Louve!”
    “I’m glad it has worked out so
well.”
    “I am not well-versed with
Spanish culture but I shall make it a point to acquaint myself with
the intricacies of flamenco while we are staying here. I might
start tonight when the dancer comes to turn down my bed.”
    The Countess thought how nice
it would be to have Velazquez turn down her bed while he
educated her on the finer points of flamenco but the femme de
chambre allocated to her room was a thick-lipped,
frizzy-haired, heavy-handed Negress about fifteen years of age. Her
name was Desi and the Countess thought it might be short for
Desiderata. The sweet name was the only thing in the girl’s favour.
She was extremely gauche, bumping into this, knocking into that,
moving as clunkily as a black battleship in a regatta of sleek
white yachts.
    Nevertheless, the Countess was
genuinely happy for Dr Watson. After that bad start at the Hotel du
Palais this holiday was turning out rather well. Another day or two
and all his recent worries would start to melt away. It was time to
tell him that she was going to the opera with the Russian
barnacle.
     
    The final performance of La
traviata meant that the best seats were sold out months ago,
however, the Princess Roskovsky having all the right connections
had managed to secure a private box on the second tier. She was
running late and the two women had just enough time to get to their
places before the lights dimmed and the curtain went up on the
first act. They got out their opera glasses at once and scanned the
rows of seats in the stalls then did the same with the boxes on the
first and second tiers.
    “There’s Prince Orczy,”
whispered the Russian aristocrat, indicating a flaxen helmet of
hair in the fourth row from the front. “He is escorting an American
heiress – Miss Marjorie Mayflower and her mama from New York. They
are wearing new tiaras. I heard they picked them up this morning
from Bisous on the rue des pins .”
    The Countess trained her glass
on the prince first and the coronets second. “Oh, yes, I see, very
nice, but not a match for your jewelled diadem, Princess
Roskovsky.”
    “This old Byzantine thing,” the
old aristocrat dismissed with an airy wave of her silk-gloved hand.
“I did some asking around this afternoon,” continued the Princess,
“and box 2 on the first tier is permanently reserved for the
Singing Wolf.”
    The Countess retrained her
glass. “That must be the vacant box on the other side from us but
one level down. I wonder if she will make an