1 Murder Offstage Page 15

  ‘I say! It’s all go for you two, isn’t it? This has just arrived for you. A rather ghastly thing, isn’t it? It looks like an invitation to a funeral! But you know, black is all the rage just now…maybe it’s a party invite?’

  Pattie laughed gaily and trooped off, but Posie’s heart was hammering hard again, for the silver crescent moon embossed on the outside of the black envelope was unmistakeable.

  She forced herself to rip the thing open. She read the typewritten page:

  Dear Posie,

  You seem very keen on finding me. That article today in the Associated Press was a nice touch, but not very subtle. Perhaps you think I am holding onto some items which you consider valuable? Perhaps I am.

  But you won’t find me anywhere; however hard you look. Not even here among the newspapers. It is rather I who will find you.

  Don’t be a nuisance, there’s a good girl. If you had taken me up on the offer of my drink, none of this would have been necessary.

  CDR

  So, he had spies everywhere. Even here; even now. But where? Was he watching her right this very minute?

  And what about Len? Had he now been kidnapped too? She thought with a quick dash of surprising comfort about the service revolver Len carried with him everywhere, and how he had never failed her yet.

  Heart racing, she looked around the Archive Room quickly and bundled up the photos and press cuttings into her bag, desperate to be gone.

  How dare you play games with me, wherever you are, she felt like shouting aloud. How dare you steal my cat, and my friends. For wasn’t that horrible black note surely an admission of exactly that?

  And then came a surprisingly clear voice in her head, countering her fear: I will find you.

  I will find a trace of you somewhere and I will bring you down.

  ****

  Back at Grape Street, Babe was just tidying her desk, turning the lights off and jangling her office keys in readiness for leaving. She looked up like a startled rabbit as Posie burst through the front door. All venomous thoughts of Babe had evaporated, and truth be told, Mr Minks was now the very last thing on Posie’s mind.

  ‘Gee, I was just leaving, Miss. Say, anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Tell me, Babe. Has anyone been in touch today for me or Mr Irving? Any messages?’

  Babe shook her head slowly, ‘Not a soul all day. Sure has been quiet here without y’all.’

  ‘Nothing from a lawyer who wanted Mr Irving to take photos for him?’

  Again the shake of the head.

  ‘Fine, you can go.’

  Posie had half an hour to spare before she needed to leave again for Scotland Yard. To calm her shredded nerves she spread out the cuttings from the Associated Press on her desk, sieving the stuff frantically.

  Most of it was useless, the same articles Inspector Oats had already gathered together in his file. She tossed aside photos she had seen before, rummaged through clippings she had already read. She placed them all in a big brown envelope ready to send back to the newspaper. Only one item remained.

  It was a short story, no more than a paragraph really; original copy from 1915. It mentioned a counterfeiting squad who had flooded London with fake pound notes in the summer of that year, then disappeared without a trace. Lucky Lucy was mentioned as having used a fake pound note herself in an upmarket hat shop on Regent Street. When caught and questioned she had professed no knowledge of the forgery, and before any serious charges could be brought against her, she had promptly disappeared.

  What was really interesting about the scrappy little piece, however, was not the story itself, but a single line in it from a character reference for Lucy, a local man who was quoted as saying, ‘I can’t believe it of her, and I won’t believe it either. We’ve been neighbours these last few years and a nicer, bonnier girl you couldn’t hope to meet.’

  On the back of the newspaper cutting were a few of the journalist’s original pencilled notes. Posie managed to read:

  Source: Harold Sharp – 9, Winstanley Mews, SW3.

  Posie had no idea if it was important or not.

  The story sounded too fantastic to be true; probably invented for the empty summer-season when there was little in the way of news that year, except for the horrors of the Great War.

  But she told herself it couldn’t hurt to chuck it in her bag, maybe check it out later.

  She left the safety of her office again with a decidedly heavy heart, wondering what fresh surprises the night would bring.

  ****

  Sixteen

  Both of the Inspectors looked happy in their own ways. Inspector Oats was practically rubbing his hands together in glee, desperate to share his news. With a good grace Inspector Lovelace indicated he should, indeed, go first.

  ‘Lots has happened, let me tell you,’ Inspector Oats smiled at both of them.

  He explained that the trawl through the diamond sellers of Hatton Garden had been fruitless as most of them were top-notch and all above board. But then Sergeant Rainbird had had a breakthrough: he had reported that one of the shop owners, a Mr Ronald Eames, was acting ‘mighty fishy’ when questioned about his possible links to diamond smuggling. With no evidence to charge him, he had left Mr Eames to sweat it out for a bit. But Oats and Rainbird had returned fifteen minutes later, by the back entrance to the shop, with a full escort of uniformed policemen.

  ‘And what do you think we found?’ Inspector Oats asked, his eyes boggling. He thumped his fist on the table, grinning.

  ‘We found Eames going down a trapdoor hidden in a tiny cupboard, carrying envelopes stuffed full of uncut diamonds and other suspect jewels, probably all stolen. No paperwork for any of it, of course! And where do you think the ruddy trapdoor led to?’ His eyes glinted with triumph.

  ‘Somewhere inside the La Luna club?’ said Posie, certainly.

  ‘Ay, that’s right,’ Inspector Oats said sniffily, some of his thunder stolen at the wrong moment. ‘It turns out there are even more wretched little tunnels running under that place than we first thought…all cleverly hidden…the place is like a beehive. So Eames is sitting in a cell here, but so far he won’t talk. Won’t give us any names or addresses. I’ve even promised him a degree of leniency in his own sentencing if he testifies against anyone in Lucky Lucy’s gang, or anyone else involved in this malarkey. We know there must be more.’

  He went on:

  ‘I went on to the theatre next. It was closed up, but I found some of the orchestra sitting in their so-called Green Room, looking mighty worried, all talking froggy-froggy to each other. You were right; most of them are Belgians. I asked if any of them had been at the La Luna club the night before, or if anyone could give me details about the owner of the theatre. Needless to say, they all clammed up. So I arrested them all.’

  ‘What? All of them?’ asked Inspector Lovelace, eyebrow raised. ‘On what grounds? Being Belgian?’

  ‘Withholding evidence,’ said Inspector Oats, smugly. ‘And those who had passports with them have surrendered them. All Belgian. Our immigration boys here are going through them now, checking dates of entry in and out of the country, comparing them with known jewel thefts both here and in Belgium. We should be able to liaise with the Belgian police about that.’

  ‘You have been busy,’ Posie said cleverly. ‘And did you find anything interesting, apart from the orchestra, at the theatre itself?’ She was thinking of Dolly Price and Mr Minks, and quite possibly Len now too: it had occurred to her that the theatre, with its countless hidey-holes, could be a perfect place to hide kidnapped victims.

  ‘Not a sausage. Not a diamond either. We stripped the place clean. I tell you what though,’ Inspector Oats tapped his nose confidentially. ‘Your Theatre Manager Mr Blake is a bit of a secret drinker by the look of things. I’ve never seen so many empty bottles in one place!’

  ‘Anything else to report?’ said Inspector Lovelace efficiently.

  ‘I’ll say!’

  Inspector Oats had saved
the best for last.

  Tasked with raiding the Soho house where Lionel Le Merle had lived, the Inspector and some uniformed bobbies had surprised the few residents who hadn’t been moping around at the theatre. A tall, shabby townhouse in a seedy dark street, it had been rented for almost a year as a place to billet the theatre staff in. Twenty-odd tiny cramped rooms identical to that of Lionel Le Merle were searched, yielding up nothing but some personal effects and the odd Belgian passport. Nothing untoward.

  It was as the police were leaving the Soho house that Inspector Oats had struck gold: he had noticed one of the men who lived in the house lingering in the hallway, glancing nervously backwards and downwards, as if fearful that some great secret was about to be uncovered.

  ‘So what do you know?’ Inspector Oats nodded, ‘I ordered my men to re-search the whole ground floor; tear up the carpets if they had to, pull off all the pictures on the walls. And that’s when we got lucky!’

  Underneath a long mirror, one of the policemen had uncovered a hidden door, cut into the wall, cleverly concealed. Once opened, it revealed steps down to a cellar which, when investigated, had thrown up a few surprises all of its own.

  ‘Not diamonds. Not guns. Not drugs. But what do you think?’ Posie was just starting to guess but she didn’t want to make the same mistake as last time and pre-empt the Inspector. She shook her head dumbly.

  ‘Long tables set up, with specialist inks and papers, and a great big printing press in one corner of the room. They’d been careful not to leave anything too incriminating lying around, but any idiot could see we’d stumbled into a forger’s paradise. An illegal racket making fake money! I’ve no actual proof, of course, because they were careful not to leave any of the printed money at the scene; they must distribute it out from somewhere else. But I seized what I could and arrested everyone in that house too. I’ll watch them squirm for a bit and see if they come up with some details for me.’

  Inspector Oats was looking happier than Posie had ever seen him. She hesitated a second before opening her bag and planting the small ancient clipping from the Associated Press on the table.

  ‘Oh my gawd!’ gasped Inspector Oats. ‘It’s been going on since 1915?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but one of the people who could have told you was Lucky Lucy herself. She was definitely in on this. Do you remember what the Pathologist said at the Inquest – that she had callouses on her hand typically associated with writing, or printing? A surprising amount for an actress, he said. I bet sure as bread is bread that they were the result of printing fake notes! She was heavily involved in all of this stuff, poor girl.’

  ‘Goodness! It’s quite a racket we’re uncovering here. Diamonds and money! Bigger than we first thought: this should please the Commissioner,’ said Inspector Lovelace calmly. He pulled a list towards him. He was rather a fan of lists.

  ‘What about your news?’ Posie asked. The Inspector shrugged:

  ‘Bad news first. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the information from the Land Registry about whose name and information is on the lease of the theatre. And our lads have been around to No 11, St James but no joy; the management there swears they have never heard of a Count della Rosa, let alone having him as a member on their books.’

  He continued more happily. ‘But everything else has been very promising. Forensics confirmed that there are minute traces of diamond carbon in one of the music cases we seized, so that’s a relief. Even better, the Belgian police have come up trumps: they have confirmed Lionel Le Merle as being a Belgian national, not known as having any criminal record. They have also confirmed that Georgie le Pomme was a Belgian national too, without any criminal convictions to her name, but with a decidedly racy past by all accounts!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They have her listed as a worker at the Belgian Mint; she trained there as an apprentice from an early age. But her real love was for the theatre. She took spells as a jobbing actress in Brussels, at a number of different theatres over the years.’

  ‘That all fits,’ nodded Posie excitedly. ‘So she must have found forging bank notes very easy!’

  ‘And that’s not the best of it!’ laughed Inspector Lovelace, reading a police telegram. ‘I found out what she was doing when she left England during the Great War. In fact, she was working for the Belgian government, of sorts!’

  ‘Don’t tell me; she was a spy?’ bellowed Inspector Oats in disbelief.

  ‘No. Even more ludicrous! She was paid by them to entertain the Belgian troops in the trenches! She was part of some fancy shindig which was basically a magician and a couple of assistants. She was one of the assistants. Very popular by all accounts, too. Can you believe it?’

  Both Posie and Inspector Oats shook their heads.

  ‘But there was something fishy there too. Apparently, although nothing was ever proven, this group of entertainers were suspected of arms-dealing. Stealing their own government’s weapons and selling them to the Germans. But as I said, nothing was ever proved for certain, although the Belgian Commissioner is practically willing to bet his life that they were double-dealing and the magician’s troupe was just a front. Which would make them traitors.’

  Inspector Lovelace clumped his telegrams together.

  ‘In fact, the Belgian Commissioner tells me he even has a glossy press-photo of this Georgie le Pomme as part of the magician’s troupe. I’m certain it’s the same girl, Lucky Lucy. He sent it out today. It will arrive first thing tomorrow.’

  Inspector Lovelace went on to confirm that the Belgian police had expressed regret that the bullets from the Belgian revolver could never be traced, and that they had, as Posie had suspected, never heard of a Caspian della Rosa.

  Inspector Lovelace sighed:

  ‘Let’s look on the bright side anyway. At least now we can provide the Coroner with the correct names for two otherwise unidentified bodies in the morgue. But I agree, it’s frustrating about della Rosa. We really need a break…everywhere we look draws a blank.’

  ‘He knows it too,’ said Posie, biting her lip in annoyance. She produced the horrible black letter she had received earlier in the evening and thrust it forwards for them both to read, explaining her fears about Len’s disappearance too.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Inspector Lovelace, shaking his head.

  ‘This fellow seems to have a good grasp of your movements; it seems as if he’s got people on your tail at all times. And I can’t work out why he cares so much, either; why harangue you so much? From tonight you’re going to have a police escort home, Posie. No arguments. In fact, I’d prefer it if you would stay at home tomorrow. I’ll leave a bobby with you outside your house all day long. I think it’s safer.’

  Posie exploded with rage:

  ‘Do you really expect me to sit at home and wait while there’s a cold-blooded murderer on the loose? Whoever it is has killed once already and has now taken my friend, and quite possibly my cat, and even Len! You wouldn’t have got half as far in this case without my help, and now you’re threatening to keep me locked up at home!’

  Inspector Lovelace did his best to calm her down, muttering soothing noises and telling her how grateful they were.

  ‘Of course I can’t force you to stay at home,’ he said, with the remnants of a worried frown on his face. ‘It’s just that we seem to be dealing with a dreadful and clever enemy here, or enemies. I wouldn’t want you hurt, but it’s up to you how you act, of course. And don’t worry about Len; he’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. Right, let’s call it a night for now. Pick up again tomorrow. And don’t think I’ve forgotten Dolly Price, or your, er, cat. We’ve put out descriptions across London. It’s a priority, I assure you.’

  Just then there was a loud persistent banging sound and the floor seemed to shake a little. Then came shouting and screaming.

  ‘What on earth?’ asked Inspector Oats, stupefied. He looked at the clock. It was almost eight o’clock and the station should have been sl
eepily shutting down for the nightshift right about now. The ruddy-faced policeman from earlier put his head around the door and grimaced apologetically.

  ‘Sorry guv’nor. I’ve got some trouble down in the cells. Apart from the awful overcrowding, that is,’ and here he flashed a look of pure malice at Inspector Oats.

  Turning back to Inspector Lovelace he went on:

  ‘That man Blake, the Theatre Manager. I don’t know how it’s happened, sir, but somehow he’s blind drunk. He’s asking for you. Wants to talk. You’d better come quick.’

  ****

  Seventeen

  ‘What do you want, Blake? Make it snappy.’

  Posie was observing from a side-room, through a two-way mirror. Oats had gone for the night.

  Two uniformed bobbies stood sentry at the door of the interview room, and Mr Blake was sitting upright with some difficulty on one of the regulation hard wooden chairs. His green velvet jacket looked crushed and soiled, and there were horrible-looking stains over his white dress-shirt.

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ he slurred, clutching at the table to steady himself.

  His face looked sweatier and paler than the last time Posie had seen him, and it occurred to her that Mr Blake must be very, very drunk indeed. Even by his standards. She grinned: the moonshine Len had bought had obviously done the trick.

  Inspector Lovelace sighed. He was not a man to enter into bargains, and he did things by the book. ‘Nothing is in this for you, I’m afraid, apart from the knowledge that you are being a good, law-abiding citizen. Helping the police with their enquiries.’

  Mr Blake squinted at him. He was having trouble focusing.

  ‘I still don’t understand why I’m here. What have I done exactly? What grounds have you arrested me on? I’ve been here almost twenty-four hours!’

  Without knowing it, Mr Blake was asking a very good question. Posie felt Inspector Lovelace’s unease. By law he only had another twelve hours to hold Mr Blake in custody, unless he charged Blake with something concrete. And there was nothing really to charge him with, so he was probably going to have to let him walk free. Inspector Lovelace remained calm, however, crossing his arms authoritatively: