The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro Page A

of the family?’
    The girl looked at her blankly. ‘Oh no, madame. My mother would not let me keep it.’
    ‘Why not?’
    The girl shifted. ‘You will have to ask her, madame.’
    Grace watched as she slipped into the shadows of the hallway and down the stairs. Far below, she heard urgent, muted voices, speaking in French. Then a door closed and there was silence.

New York, 1927
    The proper way to enter a guest’s room is to knock, three times. First, you knock. Next, you knock again, loudly, calling out, ‘Maid service.’ Last, you unlock the door and pause. ‘Maid service,’ you say, knocking one more time. And still, you are likely to walk in on quite a few situations, the least disturbing of which is a guest emerging from the bath.
    It was amazing how many people did hear you call out but didn’t seem to mind. Eva had noticed that as soon as she put on her uniform, she became invisible. And in situations which would have been considered improper if she were wearing normal clothes, she suddenly disappeared.
    This was the procedure Eva followed when delivering extra towels to room 313.
    There was no reply.
    The bathroom door was slightly ajar and she could hear the taps running.
    ‘Maid service,’ she called out again. ‘I’ll leave your extra towels on the bed, sir.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    She put them down.
    There were some cards spread out on the table; in several rows, stacked in groups. Eva had seen plenty of people playing solitaire but she’d never seen a game like this one. But already, she thought she recognized some sort of pattern.
    She moved closer.
    It wasn’t obvious.
    It was more than just suits . . .
    ‘So.’ Mr Lambert was standing in the bathroom doorway, wearing nothing but a bath towel, dabbing shaving foam from his jaw. ‘What would you do next?’
    Startled, Eva grabbed the towels. ‘Sorry, sir.’ She headed for the door.
    He leaned against the bathroom door frame. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
    She stared at him. The towel was wrapped round his waist; he was well built, dark curls against the tawny skin of his chest.
    He smiled.
    ‘Oh!’ She felt herself blushing and handed him the towels. ‘Pardon me, sir.’
    ‘You’re the girl who said hello to me in the hallway, aren’t you?’
    ‘I . . . yes.’
    He nodded to the card game. ‘The way you were looking at that, I thought maybe you were trying to figure it out. Not many people can, you know.’
    It sounded like a challenge.
    ‘Go on,’ he grinned, ‘tell me what you see.’
    She looked again at the cards. ‘They’re prime numbers, aren’t they? Or superior suits, whichever comes first.’
    ‘That’s right,’ he nodded. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve played it before.’
    ‘No, sir. Cards are a bad idea.’
    ‘Most things are. But if you don’t play, then how did you figure it out?’
    ‘I’m pretty good with numbers.’
    ‘Really?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘How do you know you’re good at numbers?’
    She felt suddenly defensive, out of her depth. ‘I’m sorry. I was mistaken.’
    Mr Lambert went to the dresser, lit a cigarette. ‘Do you think I’m going to hurt you or get you into trouble?’
    ‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’
    Mr Lambert smiled. ‘I’m bored. That’s hardly a crime, is it?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘So,’ he sat on the edge of the bed, ‘are you going to answer me or not?’
    ‘I used to work for a family in Brooklyn. The man, he was a professor. He used to work on problems all day long in his study and sometimes, well, he’d leave puzzles on the blackboard.’
    ‘What kind of puzzles?’
    ‘I’m not certain what you’d call them. Number problems. They had patterns and sequences. Some of the numbers were already there and I would try to fill in the blanks.’
    ‘What made him think that a maid could do that? I used to live with household servants and I tell you, most of them could barely make change.’
    ‘Oh no, sir! I didn’t fill them in on the