Murder Offstage (13 page)

‘What if the gang are actually all Belgian? Or mostly
Belgian?’ Posie nodded in excitement, more sure of herself now.

‘We know that the theatre players were swapped last year,
and almost a whole new orchestra and cast were brought in overnight, including
Lucky Lucy. I reckon Count della Rosa took over the theatre as a cover for
his smuggling activities, but he was very clever. He only brought in people who
were
unconvicted
smugglers, with no complicated records or criminal
pasts; “clean” people who would never really be questioned by HM Customs or the
Belgian Customs when they were making trips in and out of Belgium concealing
diamonds in their music cases!’

‘
Why
would they never be questioned? What do you mean
by “clean” people?’ asked Inspector Lovelace, bemused.

‘Because I bet all of the theatre workers are Belgian
themselves, carrying totally genuine Belgian paperwork. The reason you can’t
find anything in the official records
here
about Lionel Le Merle or
“Lucy Gibson” is that they were both Belgians! I bet the Belgian police can
help you out though. Telephone them! Ask them for anything they have on a
violinist who matches Le Merle’s description, give them his name too. And send
them Lucy’s photograph. Maybe they’ll be able to tell you her real name?’

A flash of realisation suddenly hit her: perhaps Lucy had
been lying to Rufus about almost everything else but Posie was suddenly certain
he had known her by her real, Belgian name. She felt stupidly, ridiculously
relieved for him. As if it mattered now, anyhow.

‘No, even better! Give them the name Georgie le Pomme. That
was her real-life name! When she got involved in Count Caspian’s high-octane
smuggling ring it became important that she had a “clean” record for travelling
about the place, so she stopped being famous Lucy Gibson and re-invented
herself, reverting to her roots. Rufus said he even saw some official paperwork
with that name on it. He didn’t recognise it though: perhaps it was a Belgian
passport?’

‘No,’ said Inspector Oats obstinately, shaking his head, ‘I
don’t accept your theory. There’s no way Lucky Lucy was ever anything other
than full-blown English. In all the years I’ve been after her, no-one has
ever
reported her as having a froggy-sounding accent. She was the real, British
deal.’

‘But that’s where Count Caspian really scored a hat-trick!’
said Posie, her eyes ablaze. ‘For in Lucky Lucy Gibson he got a Belgian
national who was not only a five-star jewel thief but a first-rate actress as
well! It would have been as easy as anything for her to put on a British accent
for all these years. Bet my life on it!’

Inspector Lovelace gasped, but his hand was already on the
telephone. He covered the mouthpiece, looking up:

‘Anything else I should ask the Belgian police?’

‘It’s a longshot, but you could ask them if they have ever
heard of Count della Rosa? It’s a shame we don’t have a photograph of him to
send them, but never mind.’

Inspector Oats fled, shaking his head in disbelief.
Inspector Lovelace started to bark instructions at the International Operator
in surprisingly immaculate French.

FRENCH! Of course! Posie realised suddenly that most of her
tit-bits of information so far had come from good old Dolly, who had been
handily listening in to whispers at doors and corners, hearing things people
had said indiscreetly in front of her at the theatre. And all because they
hadn’t realised she understood their common language. But she
did
understand: Dolly had said she spoke fluent French; her mother was French. She
would have understood the language of the cast and orchestra without even thinking
twice about it, as naturally as breathing. So naturally in fact that she
wouldn’t have thought to mention it…

Just then there was the tinkle of the tea trolley, a welcome
sound. Posie was just wondering what sort of biscuits were regulation fare at Scotland
Yard when her heart flipped a beat; she suddenly saw that the tea-lady was also
responsible for delivering the afternoon’s newspapers.

A fat wad of the lunchtime editions were slapped down
roughly on the Inspector’s desk. First up on the pile was the
Associated
Press
, with its glaring headline, penned by Sam Stubbs:

‘LUCKY LUCY
DEAD – KEY SUSPECT IS COUNT DELLA ROSA!’

Inspector Lovelace was just finishing up his
conversation with the Belgian police when his eyes caught sight of the upturned
newspaper. His face froze, and Posie swore that under his freckles he had
turned a pastier than normal white. He flicked his eyes up for a moment at
Posie and she read disappointment and confusion there:

‘
Oui, oui, merci
.
J’attends
. I look forward to
hearing from you.
Au revoir
.’

She waited, steadfastly, heart thumping
–
Would he
understand why she had done it?
– when there was an urgent banging at the
Inspector’s office door.

A bobby put his head around the door and Inspector Lovelace
slammed his telephone back in its receiver.

‘What?’ he snapped at the man with an unaccustomed
sharpness.

‘You’d better come quick, sir. Two lads are beating each
other to a pulp in Reception. One of them’s well known to us, guv’nor. It’s
that young Lord Cardigeon wot spent the last two nights here in our cells! The
way he’s heading just now he’s about to spend another here tonight!’

Rufus
?

Posie and Inspector Lovelace clattered to their feet, the
newspaper unheeded.

What on earth was happening now?

****

Fourteen

Rufus and Len were glaring at each other across the
tiled Reception of Scotland Yard, each man pinned at the arms by a burly
officer in uniform, held at opposite sides of the room.

Both had stopped struggling and were giving each other looks
of pure hatred. A trickle of blood ran down from Len’s nose.

‘
LEN
?’ snapped Posie in surprise. ‘What on earth is
going on?’

Her voice echoed around the room loudly and the Duty
Sergeant looked up in surprise. A small cluster of people had been waiting
patiently in turn on a long wooden bench, each holding a pale orange numbered
ticket. They now swivelled around in unison to watch what could potentially be
an exciting new development unfurl before them.

Inspector Lovelace sighed and gestured down the corridor to
a large interview room, making a sharp zipping motion across his mouth at all
of them. When they were settled on hard wooden chairs in a dark room with bars
at the window he asked what was happening.

‘DOLLY PRICE!’ shouted out both Rufus and Len in unison, an
edge of panic in their voices, shooting angry glances at each other.

‘Hold on. Hold on fellas, one at a time. Rufus first,
please.’

Rufus explained in a snivelling wheeze that the previous day
he had invited Dolly Price for lunch at Lyons Cornerhouse. Today, at one p.m. sharp.
She had seemed eager to come. More than eager, in fact. And then she hadn’t
turned up.

So he had waited and waited, and got more and more nervous.
He hadn’t got her home address, but he knew she worked at the theatre, of
course. It was nearby.

‘So I went there, hoping there was some explanation. But the
place is all boarded up: there’s a big sign outside for punters saying “SHOW
CLOSED TONIGHT”. Anyway, I found a way in, and walked around and around the
dressing rooms and the Wardrobe Department, but everything was deserted.’

Rufus started coughing and wiped a phlegmy mouth with the
back of his shirt sleeve. He had obviously got soaked in the rain several times
so far that day, and Posie noticed that his shirt was still damp, sticking to
his skin, and a fiery colour was burning in two spots on his otherwise pale
cheeks. Posie was concerned: the combined effects of going cold turkey for the
last three days with a possible case of bad flu could prove fatal for Rufus.

‘So then I really panicked. It felt
wrong
. I knew
Posie was here at Scotland Yard; that she might know Dolly’s home address. So I
headed here as fast as I could. That’s when I ran into
him
in Reception,
making his wild allegations…’ He indicated sharply at Len in distaste. ‘You
see, I know something’s wrong. By jove, it
must
be. Dolly would never
have stood me up like that.’

Len hooted with laughter and rolled his eyes. ‘How do you
know, you fool? You only met her for the first time yesterday! I don’t know why
you care so much, she’s a nasty double-crossing piece of work. You should have
learnt your lesson with Lucky Lucy. Fingers burnt and all that. Idiot! You’re
unbelievable!’

‘Don’t you dare make your horrible accusations again in
here!’ shouted Rufus.

‘Is that all?’ Inspector Lovelace interrupted. ‘Go home,
both of you. I’ve never heard anything so stupid. I’ve got plenty to do, chaps,
so please…’

‘You haven’t heard me out!’ snapped Len in disbelief. ‘I
didn’t just turn up here to brawl with Cardigeon, you know. I’ve got something
to show you. Something I showed Cardigeon in Reception, that’s when he went and
punched me. It’s conclusive evidence!’

With this he brought out something silver and glittery from
his trouser pocket. With a flourish he placed it on the interview table between
them. Posie gasped and turned it over in her hands:

‘It’s Dolly’s cigarette case! Where on earth did you get
this, Len? She never goes anywhere without it!’

Posie snapped it open. It was still half-full of Dolly’s
thin, black cigarettes.

‘She must be in trouble! She’s addicted to these! She must
have dropped it!’ whispered Posie nervously. Len folded his arms:

‘I found it at the
La Luna
club. After the Inquest
this morning I decided I would go back there, have another nosy around and see
what I could find.’

‘That was strictly out-of-bounds,’ said Inspector Lovelace,
outraged. ‘It’s a police crime scene! My men are still searching it! It should
be taped off, secured. There should be uniforms guarding it! How did you get
past them?’

‘I told the rozzer at the entrance that I was a police
photographer. I just waved my camera in his direction and said I’d left my
white coat down there; said I needed a couple of last-minute photos. That’s the
thing with photographers, you see, we can get into most places other people can’t…We’re
almost invisible; almost anonymous.’

Inspector Lovelace waved him on wordlessly, his face set in
an angry line. ‘What did you want to find there anyhow?’

It was Len’s turn to colour a little. He blushed, and
sighed:

‘I was looking for something I thought might be down there,
something stolen from the Grape Street Bureau, possibly by Lucky Lucy or her
gang…or by Dolly Price…’

Inspector Lovelace’s eyes had widened. ‘
What
,
exactly? The whole truth, please, Irving.’

‘A cat. If you must know. Posie’s cat.’

For a long minute there was silence in the room. Len rubbed
his eyes wearily. He briefly described the theft of Mr Minks, the arrival of
the blue letter with the shaved cat hair that morning.

‘Anyway, I didn’t find him. I scoured the place back and
forth, including the hidden rooms behind the bar. And it was in one of them,
kicked under a table near the back, that I found this. Recognised it at once,
of course. Wretched silly girl was only flashing it around yesterday under our
noses...’

‘So what do you think it proves, exactly?’

‘Well, Inspector. I’d say it was pretty damning evidence
against our girl Dolly. She’s in on it with them. Part of the gang. I’d
suspected it for a few hours, actually. I said so yesterday to Posie; I said
Dolly was a bad hat. But Posie wouldn’t believe it. I reckon Dolly works for
this della Rosa chappie, stole the cat and also planned to lure us to the
nightclub…but we foiled her plan, we got away…’

‘But
why
, you noddle!’ cried Posie. ‘Why would she do
that? It doesn’t make sense.’

Len shrugged. ‘Who knows? But it failed last night. She
escaped with the rest of them behind that sliding mirror-thing when they
realised they were outnumbered and the game was up. And she dropped this on the
way. That’s why we haven’t seen her since…’

Inspector Lovelace was standing at the barred window,
thinking.

‘Posie’s right, Len,’ he said quietly. ‘It doesn’t make
sense. Dolly Price doesn’t fit the type of person the Count had working for
him. We know more about that now. She wasn’t Belgian, a criminal
or
a
jewel expert…It makes more sense to me that somehow Dolly’s been kidnapped and
whisked away by these people. Maybe the cat is not all they’re going to
blackmail you with. Have they made threats about taking anyone else?’

Posie nodded, hanging her head. She brought out the flimsy
blue letter from her handbag.

‘There,’ she said apologetically, sliding it across the
table. ‘I didn’t realise how serious…’

While Inspector Lovelace read it she had another horrible
thought. Something half-forgotten becoming clearer:

‘Oh my days! I’ve just remembered. I heard them talking last
night in the club,’ she said in a small voice, avoiding Rufus’ eye. ‘I heard
Caspian della Rosa telling his companion that he had the “prize”. I think he
meant the Maharajah diamond. He went on to say that he had “
an extra little
prize
” and that he would “
save it as a reserve
”. What if that extra
prize was Dolly?’

Inspector Lovelace was nodding warily. ‘I think you’re
right.’

Len was glowering silently but was starting to look panicked,
too. Rufus was beyond words. Inspector Lovelace took control: ‘Before we assume
she’s been kidnapped, or start wondering
why
, we’d better just check
she’s really not at home in bed with a cold or something.’

Everyone nodded, disbelief etched on every face. Inspector
Lovelace shouted down the corridor for a policeman to come running.

‘So, do you have her address then, Posie? Where does she
live? In one of those women-only hostels?’ Inspector Lovelace indicated that
the ruddy-faced, fat policeman who had appeared should write it down in his
black leather fob-book.

‘No!’ wailed Posie. ‘I don’t know her address! I only met
her for the first time on Monday night!’

She looked up at the barred window in despair, wanting air
and light. She hated feeling like she was in a prison.

Then she turned and smiled in relief.

‘But YOU have it, Inspector. On police file. Dolly was a
suffragette. She told me she had been in prison somewhere in London before the
Great War because of it. I know she lives in the same flat now as she did back
then. Please hurry. I feel dreadful that I didn’t realise she was in danger
before.’

****