The Paris Affair

Book 0: Buckingham

by Anton Du Beke

Genres: Sagas; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

In the city of love, a stranger will change everything.

Paris, 1926. A young dancer Ray Cohen arrives from London to compete at the Exhibition Paris. He is led astray by Hugo, a charismatic dancer born of the streets, who introduces him to the city's nightlife and a beautiful stranger called Hannah Lindt. His life is forever changed.

London, 1941. With the heroic Raymond de Guise away fighting in North Africa, his beloved wife Nancy must balance her new position - as Head of Housekeeping at the Buckingham Hotel - with her duties as a new mother to their child. As the war rages on, someone from Raymond's past arrives at Nancy's doorstep, asking for help.

As dark secrets rise to the surface, everything Raymond loves comes under threat. Will tragedy strike?

Release date: October 26, 2023

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 496

Sample

British Military Barracks, Kasr-el-Nil, Cairo

10th December, 1941

The sun had been relentless over the barracks at Kasr-el-Nil, but as evening threw its cloak across Cairo, the ferociousness was slowly being sapped out of the heat.

When the telephone rang in the subalterns’ office, the clerk who took the call was already prepared. ‘Yes, sir,’ he began, ‘I can confirm it’s secure, sir. All the checks have been certified. Yes, sir. He’s waiting right here, sir.’ Then he looked up at the dark-haired lieutenant waiting in the corner. ‘It’s all yours, de Guise. I’m under orders to leave this between you, but rest assured I’ll be waiting outside. You’re to report to the captain as soon as you’re finished.’

As soon as the subalterns’ office door closed, Lieutenant Raymond de Guise bent over the table and put the telephone receiver to his ear. ‘Sir?’

The voice that came buzzing down the line was one that brought such rich, vivid memories back to Raymond. In the oppressive heat of Cairo, it was difficult to recall his days gracing the dance floor at the Buckingham Hotel – but the deep, dulcet tones of Maynard Charles brought its every detail back to mind.

‘Lieutenant, there’s much I’m not able to say of the events that have unfolded over the last few days, but I do have authority to tell you that, thanks to the information you relayed, arrests have been made – and that the dance troupe you once led now has a gaping hole in its heart.’

Raymond exhaled. So, then, Hugo Lavigne was no longer a problem. ‘And my wife …’

‘She was kept at a distance from the action.’ Maynard Charles paused. ‘Alas, your brother-in-law was not so fortunate.’

Panic creased Raymond’s features. Frank might have been a grown man, but in Raymond’s heart he would always be a boy – and boys as innocent, as naïve, as Frank did not deserve to be dragged into this war. ‘Sir, please tell me—’

‘He lives, Lieutenant. He has been shaken up, but no more than that. And yet … Mr Nettleton’s condition prefigures the purpose of my call. You will be aware, by now, that this war of ours is about to take a most interesting turn. London is about to change again. So too the Buckingham Hotel. And our experience in the ballroom has prompted a certain panic in the Office – a panic that we have not, in fact, had eyes and ears where we must; a panic that we have been blind to certain goings-on at the Buckingham Hotel; panic that we have not been as in control of the situation in London as we had thought. The Buckingham is not just the home of displaced governments, Lieutenant. It has become a sorting house for enemy spies, and the last days have shown us how remiss we have been in overseeing the situation.

‘Lieutenant, the hotel is about to be filled with our American friends. I need eyes on them – the eyes of someone I trust – and I am afraid my faith in Frank Nettleton has been tested. He is a brave young man, an impassioned young man – we have much to be grateful for in that – but as a trusted pair of eyes, a man capable of secrecy, lies, subterfuge? Well, doubts abound in the Office. He was foolhardy in the Grand; he was instrumental in the events of that night, but in being so he directly contravened his orders not to insert himself into the action. No, we shall not call on Mr Nettleton’s services again.’

Raymond hesitated. Some inkling of what Maynard might have been asking had begun to stir, deep inside.

‘Lieutenant, have you ever considered that there might be a future for you beyond the infantry? A way to serve your King and Country that does not involve your sacrifice in the desert?’

‘Mr Charles, you might have to be more clear with me.’

‘Oh, Lieutenant,’ Maynard laughed, ‘you’ll have to learn to cope with a little lack of clarity. We are fighting the same war, Raymond, but not with the same weapons. Yours have been the tank and rifle. Mine are guile and secrets, misinformation and whispered words.’ Maynard Charles stopped. ‘Enough, Lieutenant. There is much business to attend to, before the Americans land on these shores. They are to be our allies, of course, but their presence here will present certain challenges and we are all eager to be ahead of the game. Raymond, I am in need of a certain kind of man. A man who has already proven how smoothly he can slip between different worlds. A man of self-assurance and charm; a man whom others might take into their confidence, even while the counsel he keeps is his own. A man who already knows his way around the Buckingham Hotel. My eyes and ears in the Grand …’

In the sweltering heat of the subaltern’s office, Raymond closed his eyes. An image coursed across him: the Grand Ballroom at the height of summer, the hotel buzzing with its new American clientele, the new Orchestra in the ballroom swinging to the sounds he’d first heard in the Cotton Club, that season he’d been in the States.

His wife Nancy, standing framed in the ballroom doors.

His infant son, on whom he’d never yet laid eyes.

‘What do you think then, Raymond? I have already been granted the authority to make this happen. A change of pace, perhaps. A mission, for which you might be the only suitable candidate in all of the world.’ Maynard paused before going on. ‘Raymond, old friend, it should please me no end if you might agree to work for me again …’

The Englishman has danced in clubs before, but none of them quite like this.

There is a different feeling in Paris. He could tell it the moment he stepped out of the train from Calais: something elemental, almost magical in the air. There’d been a valet to receive his suitcase and a car to take him to his digs overlooking the plush Hotel Acacias, where his benefactor has been afforded a room. It was the way the air positively hummed with expectation. The way that, as soon as night-time fell, the City of Lights came alive. How the lobby of the Hotel Acacias was flooded with artistes: writers, photographers, painters and thespians, all of them rushing out to savour the nocturnal Paris air. Not for the first time in his young life, the feeling that he doesn’t belong dogs the Englishman through his days. The Paris his patrons are showing him is the Paris of the Moulin Rouge; the Paris of the Folies Bergère; the Paris of Les Acacias, where his benefactor performs, and the Casino de Paris where he is himself to be entered in competition. But these places are so grand that it only serves to remind him of his own lowly upbringing – and this is something the gentleman who brought him here, the son of a French baron, could never understand.

‘That’s why you need to come to a place like this,’ his new companion says. A Frenchman only a little older than he is, Hugo has the guile of a dancer born to these streets. ‘If you come to Paris and you only see the Moulin Rouge, you haven’t really come to Paris at all. No, if you come to see the lights, you overlook entirely the pleasures of the dark.’

From outside, this place is just a nondescript door between a delicatessen and a cheap riverside restaurant. But Paris is a city of hidden delights, and at the bottom of the narrow stairs the club reveals itself. Even cramped, tiny places like this can pulse with the excitement of the grandest ballroom.

The music from the small orchestra is loud. The lights are low, the air full of smoke.

‘What do you think?’ Hugo says, as they hover on the dance floor’s edge, watching bodies pressed more tightly together than in any ballroom the Englishman has ever seen. No, his eyes are not mistaken; some of the men out there are grasping their partners’ buttocks. He allows himself a wry smile. He has seen men slapped for such infractions in the clubs of Soho; here, in Paris, it signifies joy.

‘I don’t know,’ the Englishman says. ‘I’m sure Georges would disapprove. He thinks I should be back at digs, resting body and mind. I’m meant to dance tomorrow.’

‘You won’t dance tomorrow if you don’t dance now,’ Hugo replies, his eyes sparkling as if, in their depths, can be found all the ancient wisdoms of the dancing world. ‘You need to embrace tonight. Let tomorrow take care of itself.’

Perhaps the Englishman needed little persuasion after all, for he makes no further protest. Soon, Hugo has vanished into the throng – ‘I’ll find us partners, mon ami, while you find us drinks’ – and the Englishman picks his way to the small bar in the corner. The frenetic pace of it tickles his senses. The sound of the singer warbling in a language he does not wholly understand makes it seem yet more exciting and new. He longs to enter the dance floor as he has rarely longed for it before.

And here comes his chance, for when Hugo reappears, trailing from his arm are two young ladies, radiating beauty and life.

‘You won’t believe this, mon ami,’ Hugo begins, ‘but Hannah here has danced at Les Acacias as well. The perfect partner for the night.’

The first of the girls, her face framed in pure black hair, her almond-shaped eyes wide and playful, extends her hand. Because he is in France, and must do as Georges has taught him, the Englishmen plants a single kiss upon it. ‘Charmed.’

‘My friend comes from London,’ Hugo intervenes. ‘Whitechapel, no less. He’s to compete at the Casino de Paris. The Exhibition Paris. Very stately, very grand.’ And Hugo performs a little box-step, perfectly executed, of course – for Hugo has entered the competitions before, and will himself step onto the dance floor at the Casino de Paris before the week is out. ‘But we decided that no amount of grandeur and elegance is enough to get in the mood for dancing. No,’ Hugo grins, and turns the second girl – with her golden hair and long, lithe figure – around, ‘for that we needed to come to a place like this.’

The Englishman is about to ask, ‘Shall we?’, but suddenly realises a vital piece of the conversation has been missed. ‘The introductions!’ he laughs. ‘Hannah, please forgive me. It is an honour to make your acquaintance. My name is Ray. Ray Cohen.’

No sooner have the words left his mouth than his friend Hugo has started rolling his eyes. ‘Ray,’ he says, gently chastising, ‘you forget who you are.’ He turns to the girls. ‘My friend, here, is having something of – what shall we call it? – a crisis of faith in his place as a dancer. This summer, he tours the Continent in the company of none other than Georges de la Motte. Acolyte to the great dancer of our age! Yes, this devilishly handsome young man has been chosen for great things – and the wonder begins this week, at the Casino de Paris. And yet … he still pretends he is not truly part of it.’ Hugo winks at the Englishman now. ‘Ray Cohen would appreciate a dance club as wild as this, but tomorrow you must step into High Society and impress them with your elegance and poise. You need a better name for this world, my friend. You need to start using the name Georges has devised for you. And so …’

Hugo takes the Englishman’s hand in one of his own. In the other, he grips the dark-haired girl.

‘Hannah Lindt,’ he declares, ‘prepare to be taken in hold by my dear friend. Not Ray Cohen, but … Raymond de Guise.’

DISPATCHES FROM THE BUCKINGHAM HOTEL!NEW YORK TIMES, MARCH 23, 1941

By Jackson Ford, your man in LONDON

The Buckingham Hotel was once a playground for the rich and beautiful – and so it remains! – but in Modern Times it has become much more. It is at the Buckingham Hotel that Lord James Lasseter proposed to the American heiress Annabelle White. It is at the Buckingham Hotel that King George VI hosted a coterie of Commonwealth dignitaries before the Balfour Declaration of 1926. And yet, since the Fall of France and Great Britain’s glorious retreat from Dunkirk in the spring of 1940, the Buckingham Hotel has been transformed: this hotel is no less than a fortress in the heart of London, with shelters ten fathoms deep where its staff and residents endure the nightly bombardments; a place where runaway kings rub shoulders with London chambermaids, where princes from fallen realms gather in the cocktail lounges to pore over the events of their old worlds – and, most crucially of all, a bustling headquarters from which exiled governments seek to marshal the resources of their homelands and, one day, restore honour, freedom and justice to a world blighted by the Nazi menace.

At the very centre of all this is the Buckingham’s fêted ballroom, the Grand. For more than a decade, ever since its inception, the Grand has been known as the playground of princes. Now, on any given night, it might be possible to see the retinue of King Zog of Albania dancing with the ladies-in-waiting of the Dutch Queen Wilhelmina; to find members of Charles de Gaulle’s Free French government unwinding over cocktails, before stepping onto the dance floor in the arms of one of the hotel’s fine troupe of dancers. If a hotel can be said to have a beating heart, the Buckingham’s is very clearly located in its ballroom – for it is the lure of the Grand that keeps the hotel’s garlanded guests from being tempted to suites at the Dorchester, the Ritz, the Savoy and the Imperial. In the quest for dominance, the Buckingham has forged itself a reputation for celebrating British triumphs in all their many guises, opening its doors on special occasions not just to the esteemed in Society, but also to the refugees who have flocked to Great Britain, to the heroes of Dunkirk and veterans from every Allied nation.

Until a few short months ago, the tumultuous life of the Grand was soundtracked by the world-famous Archie Adams Orchestra. Dignified, talented Archie Adams has provided music in the Grand since long before the rise of Nazism – but, this year, that is all to change, for the esteemed bandleader has announced his retirement. Will a new bandleader ignite a new age of joy and celebration in the Grand? Or will this change in personnel, and indeed reputation, allow the Buckingham’s rivals to poach their most valuable guests away?

Only time will tell. But, as Europe burns and war intensifies in the colonies of North Africa, time is one of the many things of which the residents of Great Britain – whether that be the lords and ladies of the Buckingham Hotel, or the chambermaids and kitchen porters that do their bidding – are running short.

The first flush of colour was coming to Berkeley Square. The war was eighteen months old, London pockmarked by craters where bombs had scythed out of the sky, but in Mayfair spring still brought out bright purple crocuses and banks of golden daffodils. Every guest to the Buckingham Hotel was greeted with a vista of such vivid colour that, for fleeting moments, it was possible to imagine there was no war on after all.

By the time the Rolls Royce came to a halt beneath the white colonnade of the hotel exterior, its inhabitants were already enchanted. The doorman, upon striding down the sweeping marble steps to open the car door, met two rotund figures – who, it seemed, could not believe their eyes.

‘Mr Allgood,’ the doorman began. ‘We’ve been expecting you. I have orders to take you directly to Mr Knave. The Hotel Director is waiting.’

The plump black man who had been the first to step out of the car was nearly fifty years old, dressed in brown pin-stripe trousers and braces. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow – rather, the doorman thought, like the workmen beavering away on the construction site next door – and the top two buttons of his collar undone. Though the doorman had far too much sense to comment upon it, it seemed to him that the man did not, perhaps, understand the magnitude of the job he was about to undertake. Or perhaps it was simply that he wasn’t yet familiar with the ideas of decorum, etiquette and grace that underpinned the Buckingham Hotel. Of course, Mr Allgood was American – and this, perhaps, explained his laissez-faire attitude, the way he immediately started chewing on the end of a cigar as he took in the hotel’s grand façade.

‘Gee, this place is really something,’ Max began. His accent was flavoured with all of the various corners of the United States where he’d spent his years: New Orleans and Chicago, and latterly the streets of Harlem, New York. The Buckingham had a solid reputation with the wealthier residents of New York. Indeed, one of their number – a Mr John Hastings – had become the hotel’s majority shareholder only last year. ‘Hey, Daisy,’ he called back, ‘take a look at this. Buckingham Hotel? It might as well be Buckingham Palace.’

The second figure who stepped out of the Rolls Royce was not quite as rotund as Max but bore a strikingly similar look. Well, thought the doorman, husbands and wives often grew together. Daisy Allgood stood a little taller than her husband, and was perhaps five or six years younger – placing her squarely in her mid-forties. At least she was dressed in more appropriate attire: her floral dress was a melange of springtime greens and yellows, the diamond ring on her finger was quite startling.

The doorman began to help the Rolls Royce driver unload the boot of the car, depositing various suitcases and leather bags onto the stonework beneath the colonnade, from where the concierges would soon deliver them to the waiting suite. But the moment the penultimate bag came out, Max Allgood spun round and, with his cigar still trailing from his lips, retrieved the final case himself. This, it turned out, was no suitcase full of clothes. The long black case housed the most prized possession in Max Allgood’s life: his trombone, Lucille.

‘Forgive me, but she’ll have to come with me. I don’t let her out of my sight, you see. It’s bad luck.’

‘Then let’s go and see Mr Knave.’

Max’s eyes were full of wonder as he waddled beneath the colonnade and to the white marble steps. ‘This is really going to be something, ain’t it?’ he said to Daisy. Then, directing his attention to the trombone case, he added, ‘Ain’t it, Lucille? To play in a grand old place like this? To have all those eyes on you? Isn’t this where Churchill comes?’

Daisy’s laugh was bold and beautiful. ‘I fancy Mr Churchill’s got bigger things to be doing than perfecting his foxtrot, ain’t he?’

At this, Max started laughing too. ‘Might be a foxtrot’s what the old battler needs. Free up some of those tangles in his head. Figure out a way to win this thing.’

‘I can’t believe we’re here, Max.’

‘I know,’ Max said, voice dropping to a whisper now, ‘but just keep your head. Let’s not upset the applecart. Our luck’s finally changing. Daisy, we’ve finally got a home.’

The doorman gave a loud, deliberate cough.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he announced, ‘but you’ll have to follow me. That’s the guest entrance.’

Max and Daisy looked quizzically at each other, as if they only half-understood.

‘You’ll get the hang of it, sir. I’m afraid we do things a little differently in the old world. If you’ll follow me, our door’s just along the mews here. As a matter of fact, it hasn’t long been reopened – all the devastation next door rather put a dent in our sturdy old hotel. But it’s safe enough now. Come on, I’ll show you myself.’

In the Hotel Director’s office, Walter Knave awaited the arrival of his new bandleader with a mounting sense of unease. Under ordinary circumstances, a post as important as this might be left to the Hotel Director himself to fill – but Max Allgood came at the personal recommendation of both Archie Adams, whose retirement had created the vacancy in the ballroom, and the head of the Hotel Board, whose contacts back home spoke of Max Allgood in the same venerated tones that they spoke of Louis Armstrong, Joe ‘King’ Oliver and Duke Ellington himself. ‘Trust me,’ John Hastings had said, ‘a punt on Max has got to be worth it. Archie’s carried us this far, but we need someone who won’t suffer by comparison. Somebody a little bit different.’ At eighty-three years old, Walter Knave had long ago learned that there were certain things in life about which he did not know best. Music was one of them, and so was dance. But there were other things about which a stately, experienced Englishmen was certain to know better than any young interloper – and the norms of decorum, dignity and deference were surely prominent among them. And yet …

‘The amazing thing is that he’s right here, playing at clubs in Bristol,’ John Hastings had continued. ‘He was on the Continent when the war came. A summer residency in Paris, then touring along the Côte d’Azur. Built himself a little orchestra of musicians culled from the clubs in La Pigalle. They’ve all gone to war now, but Max is right here, playing his trombone for bed and board. It’s an opportunity that mustn’t be missed.’

Walter Knave was, of course, of a much older generation – old enough that, though he was pained to admit it, he had wondered if it was appropriate for an establishment as esteemed as the Buckingham to have its orchestra led not only by a black man, but by an American at that. Yes, that seemed to Walter the important thing: that a man from the New World be invited into this bastion of the old seemed improper somehow. There would be complaints about this – of that, he was certain. The question was how much the old tenets of elegance, etiquette and Englishness counted in an age of upheaval such as the one they had been toiling through since war began. It was true that the hotel was changed – with so many guests from the Continent now taking up permanent stations in its rooms and suites – but was it changed so much that a man of such lowly heritage might be accepted as leader of the Grand? The ballroom, of course, was the Buckingham’s crown jewel. It was the thing that enticed the most valuable guests away from London’s other luxury hotels. Archie’s departure had given those other hotels an opening; just like generals of war, their directors would have sensed an opportunity for attack.

Such were his thoughts when a gentle tapping at his office door announced Max Allgood’s appearance.

‘Enter,’ Walter croaked, and shuffled round to the front of his desk. It was hard not to feel like an octogenarian in moments like these. He would just have to get the cut of the man’s jib, try to understand him a little (as far as an Englishman could understand an American, at any rate), and make sure they had a good, cordial relationship. First impressions were important.

‘Mr Knave,’ the hotel doorman began, ‘might I introduce Mr Max Allgood?’

‘And I’m pleased to meet ya!’ Max beamed. It was remarkable how quickly a man of his girth – and questionable gait, for he seemed to be ever-so-slightly bow-legged as he bouldered into the office – could move. In moments, he was facing Walter, spitting out his cigar into the porcelain ash tray provided, and grasping the older man by the hand. Max’s fist rather dwarfed Walter’s own.

Walter waited until the handshake – an elaborate performance, with at least three acts – was over before he lifted his owlish, bespectacled eyes to the doorman and said, ‘Thank you, John. And perhaps you can kindly ask Mrs Allgood to wait in reception? We shan’t be long. Then I can show both our new residents the Grand.’

At the suggestion that Daisy be escorted away, Max blurted out, ‘Now hang on, Mr Knave. You wouldn’t want me to be without my representation, would you?’ Walter stared at him, as if not quite comprehending. ‘Daisy’s my manager, no less. Where I go, she goes. She’s the best damn manager I ever had – not that that’s saying much, the last lot were thieves and … pirates.’

Walter heaved a sigh. Times were, indeed, changing if a lady was business manager to a musician of Max Allgood’s stature. But change, Walter was repeatedly being told, was the very substance of life. As a matter of fact, it was happening all around him. His new Head of Housekeeping, Nancy de Guise, was not only a married woman, but a pregnant one at that. Even more remarkably, she intended to keep her job when she became a mother, a date which was rapidly approaching.

The problem that kept him up at night was: how much change could his esteemed clientele really accept? The guests at luxury hotels like the Buckingham needed to be indulged and looked after; foisting change on them was not good for business.

But here he was: an Englishman working at the behest of his American director; the war upended everything.

Inviting Daisy to sit alongside Max, he began, ‘Well, Mr Allgood. It seems we both have some adjusting to do. You come, of course, highly recommended. The Head of our Board’s cousins happened to see you performing at this Cotton Club in New York, some years ago. It seems you made a lasting impression. And then there’s Archie …’

‘Oh, old Mr Adams!’ Max beamed. ‘Where is the old rogue? I’d like to shake that man by the hand.’

Old rogue? thought Walter. It must have been one of those strange American idioms he sometimes heard, because Archie was nothing of the sort. A more gentlemanly man could not be imagined. Inwardly, he smarted: this Max Allgood clearly hadn’t grown up among men of etiquette; he would have to learn quickly, if he was to thrive in the Grand.

‘I’m told that orchestras are a little like the regiments of an army. They depend upon a delicate balance of leadership and respect. The musicians in our Orchestra adore Archie Adams. They are, for want of a better word, indebted to him. He’s the one who saw their talent, brought them together, and found them this inestimable home in the Grand. I’m told that, under other circumstances, the Orchestra would follow Archie wherever he went. But Mr Adams leaves us for the quiet contentment of retirement, and the lady who is to become his wife – the lady, I might point out, who ran our Housekeeping department for many long years. It stands clear, then, that the Orchestra cannot follow. They have all been promised work here for as long as it lasts, but they need new leadership.’

‘And here I am,’ grinned Max. ‘Now, Walt, I know what you’re trying to tell me—’

Again, Walter smarted. ‘Please, Mr Allgood. We respect the civilities here. My name is Mr Knave.’

Max was about to blurt out an apology tinged in laughter, but Daisy – clearly a good representative – saw what was to come and intervened. ‘Mr Knave, rest assured: Max has led a number of different orchestras in his time, and studied under the very best. The Creole Jazz Band back in Chicago. Cab Calloway’s Orchestra. Our own various outfits, over the years. Max knows people. We can make this work.’

‘We’ve got a couple of promising young musicians waiting in the wings too,’ Max chipped in.

There was silence in the room, until at last, Daisy said, ‘But that’s for another season. Some seasons down the line, I should think.’

‘One thing I must make abundantly clear,’ said Walter, with a new severity in his tone. ‘This is the Buckingham Hotel: the seat of exiled kings and fallen governments. I may not know music, but I know this hotel – and I take the business of its survival very seriously indeed. I need to know you can rally the musicians Mr Adams leaves behind, Mr Allgood. I need to know you can win their trust and respect – and, dare I say it, their love – swiftly.’ He paused. ‘I need to know you can behave in a way fitting to the longstanding, valuable reputation of this hotel.’

The way Max’s eyes goggled hardly filled Walter with the confidence for which he was grappling – and yet, what more could he say? ‘We have high hopes for you. Please don’t let us down.’

‘Mr Knave,’ Max declared, ‘I have high hopes for me as well.’

‘Well, then,’ said Walter. ‘Follow me, and I’ll show you your new home.’

As Walter made his way through the office door and into the hallway beyond, Max picked up his trombone and whispered to Daisy from the side of his mouth: ‘How did that go?’

‘Well, we didn’t blow it yet. But we’ve got to keep that promise, Max. And you know, as well as I do, how it’s always ended before.’

Max gave a crumpled smile. ‘Darling, we’re in London now. It’s different here. They got grace.’

By now, Walter Knave was picking his way into the Buckingham’s opulent reception hall, through the check-in desks and past the golden elevator cage. On the other side stood a marble archway, decorated in a florid design. Mr Knave paused in its shadow, to allow Max and Daisy time to catch up. ‘Imagine them, Mr Allgood, all flocking down here. Lords and ladies, the grandest in the land – all anticipating your music. We intend to make your debut as leader in the Grand quite an occasion. The passing of the torch from one generation to the next. I’m told it will cause quite a ripple when our guests discover that Archie Adams, the pianist extraordinaire, has left his Orchestra in the hands of a trombonist.’

Mr Hastings had told him, ‘That horror, that intrigue, it’s just the kind of new flavour we need!’ – but, even now, Walter wasn’t sure. A strange sense of trepidation was coursing through him as they approached the ballroom doors.

The great mahogany doors at the end of the passageway opened at Walter’s touch. Then, as he stepped aside, the Grand revealed itself, in all its glory.

Max Allgood had played in some spectacular venues before, but the opu