Murder Offstage (15 page)

She had lost him.

Posie stumbled back inside, utterly defeated and on the
verge of wild, hysterical tears. She crouched down at her table in the Archive
Room and tried to breathe normally.

She was just gathering herself together when Pattie, the
immaculate receptionist, came bustling towards her. Pattie was holding a stiff
black envelope outstretched in her hands, and she waved it under Posie’s nose:

‘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
sleepily 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.’

****