compartment. Of course he knew where Pindar Street was; London cab drivers know their city better than any other drivers on earth.
He chatted amiably as we headed for our destination. “What an interesting area of the city,” I said. “There are so many parts of London I’ve never seen.”
“Some not especially worth seeing,” he said. “We’re coming into the Liverpool Street Station area now. Many changes going on, ma‘am, but it’s still a grotty neighborhood. Lots of young people moving in ’cause the rents are low, struggling artists and writers and the like. They all used to live on Grub Street, were called Grub Streeters. There’s no Grub Street any longer.” He pointed to what looked like an iron Gothic cathedral. “That’s the Liverpool Street Station, ma’am, and next to it is the Great Eastern Hotel. Not much on amenities, but quite a bargain, I hear.”
I was glad I was staying at the Savoy. There was somthing ominous about the area surrounding Liverpool Street Station, although the streets themselves—residential buildings of varying sizes and shapes dotted with small restaurants and shops—were pleasant enough.
Pindar Street was tiny and slightly curved, running between Norton and Appold, not far from Finsbury Square. We stopped in front of Number 17, four stories tall and, I judged, classical in its architecture, although it was difficult to see much because the street was dark. The only light in the building came from two windows on the top floor.
As I paid the fare, the driver said, “You ought to be careful on the streets, ma’am. There’s been some nasty incidents of late.”
I thought of Lucas’s same admonition and decided to heed the advice of both. “I won’t be here long,” I said. “A brief visit with an old friend.”
“Well, enjoy your stay in London.”
I stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive off, wondering whether I should have asked him to stay until I was safely inside. I suddenly felt isolated and alone. The only activity on Pindar Street seemed to be a small Chinese takeout restaurant on the far corner, its yellow light spilling out onto the pavement in front of it. I then became aware of the faint sound of music coming from one of the buildings near me, dissonant string music with steady, underlying drone tones, accompanied by complex cross-rhythms played on tablas, hand drums used widely throughout the Middle East, India, and Africa. East Indian, I decided, and cocked my head to listen better. I’d introduced an East Indian detective in one of my earlier novels and had steeped myself in the music and culture. Obviously, a mixed ethnic neighborhood, immigrants making their way in a strange city.
I climbed three cement steps to the front door of Number 17, took a tiny flashlight from my bag, and used it to search for the names of occupants, perhaps buzzers. I found neither. Maria had said it was on the third floor, but how could I let her know I was downstairs? The outside door would certainly be locked. I pushed it; it swung open with a groan. So much for that theory.
I stepped into the dark foyer and looked up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, reminding myself that in Europe I was standing on the ground floor; one flight up was the first. A low-wattage bare bulb spilled eerie light over the landing and a portion of the stairway.
I slowly began to climb, my steps deliberate, my eyes and ears at full alert. I reached the first-floor landing, paused, and continued up until reaching the top floor—the third. There were two doors off the landing. Neither had a number. One was painted a glossy fire-engine red, the other a dull black. I recalled that the light from the building had been on the left side as I faced it, which would put it behind the black door. I knocked, and heard someone move in the room. I knocked again, and was aware of further movement. Maria Giacona opened the door. She looked a wreck. Tears had carried whatever eye
He chatted amiably as we headed for our destination. “What an interesting area of the city,” I said. “There are so many parts of London I’ve never seen.”
“Some not especially worth seeing,” he said. “We’re coming into the Liverpool Street Station area now. Many changes going on, ma‘am, but it’s still a grotty neighborhood. Lots of young people moving in ’cause the rents are low, struggling artists and writers and the like. They all used to live on Grub Street, were called Grub Streeters. There’s no Grub Street any longer.” He pointed to what looked like an iron Gothic cathedral. “That’s the Liverpool Street Station, ma’am, and next to it is the Great Eastern Hotel. Not much on amenities, but quite a bargain, I hear.”
I was glad I was staying at the Savoy. There was somthing ominous about the area surrounding Liverpool Street Station, although the streets themselves—residential buildings of varying sizes and shapes dotted with small restaurants and shops—were pleasant enough.
Pindar Street was tiny and slightly curved, running between Norton and Appold, not far from Finsbury Square. We stopped in front of Number 17, four stories tall and, I judged, classical in its architecture, although it was difficult to see much because the street was dark. The only light in the building came from two windows on the top floor.
As I paid the fare, the driver said, “You ought to be careful on the streets, ma’am. There’s been some nasty incidents of late.”
I thought of Lucas’s same admonition and decided to heed the advice of both. “I won’t be here long,” I said. “A brief visit with an old friend.”
“Well, enjoy your stay in London.”
I stood on the sidewalk and watched him drive off, wondering whether I should have asked him to stay until I was safely inside. I suddenly felt isolated and alone. The only activity on Pindar Street seemed to be a small Chinese takeout restaurant on the far corner, its yellow light spilling out onto the pavement in front of it. I then became aware of the faint sound of music coming from one of the buildings near me, dissonant string music with steady, underlying drone tones, accompanied by complex cross-rhythms played on tablas, hand drums used widely throughout the Middle East, India, and Africa. East Indian, I decided, and cocked my head to listen better. I’d introduced an East Indian detective in one of my earlier novels and had steeped myself in the music and culture. Obviously, a mixed ethnic neighborhood, immigrants making their way in a strange city.
I climbed three cement steps to the front door of Number 17, took a tiny flashlight from my bag, and used it to search for the names of occupants, perhaps buzzers. I found neither. Maria had said it was on the third floor, but how could I let her know I was downstairs? The outside door would certainly be locked. I pushed it; it swung open with a groan. So much for that theory.
I stepped into the dark foyer and looked up a narrow flight of stairs to the first floor, reminding myself that in Europe I was standing on the ground floor; one flight up was the first. A low-wattage bare bulb spilled eerie light over the landing and a portion of the stairway.
I slowly began to climb, my steps deliberate, my eyes and ears at full alert. I reached the first-floor landing, paused, and continued up until reaching the top floor—the third. There were two doors off the landing. Neither had a number. One was painted a glossy fire-engine red, the other a dull black. I recalled that the light from the building had been on the left side as I faced it, which would put it behind the black door. I knocked, and heard someone move in the room. I knocked again, and was aware of further movement. Maria Giacona opened the door. She looked a wreck. Tears had carried whatever eye
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