Murder Offstage (18 page)

‘Well, he’s done just that!’ snapped Inspector Oats.

Lovelace sighed. ‘There
is
a real-life Count Caspian
della Rosa. He’s a respectable Swiss aristocrat and he somehow managed to catch
sight of the story in the
Associated Press
. He’s contacted the
Commissioner at Scotland Yard and is saying we are slandering his good name by
handing out his name to the press! He’s furious! He says he had nothing to do
with any of the events over the last few days, still less to do with the death
of Lucky Lucy. He’s pulled rank and sent across all of his family papers going
back hundreds of years, attesting to who he is. He’s also sent sheaves of
fancily worded lawyer’s documents: he’s going to sue us if we carry on pursuing
him as a possible suspect. We’ve been told not to investigate him further and
not to mention his name again under any circumstances.
Ever
. The
Commissioner has gone wild at us. It’s a dead end.’

‘But has anyone actually met him?’ pressed Posie. ‘It could
all be nonsense, a load of guff. He could just be brazening it out from afar,
scaring you off with legal nonsense. Have you seen him in the flesh?’

Both Inspectors shook their heads. She explained about the
Belgian press-photo and Cecil Chicken. ‘It’s him!’ she stated excitedly. ‘It’s
the Count operating under a silly pseudonym!’

‘Have you considered you’ve been looking at this the wrong
way around?’ said Inspector Lovelace carefully. ‘That this Mr Chicken is using
Count della Rosa’s name as a cover?
That Mr Chicken really is just Mr
Chicken
. Perhaps it’s malicious; he has something against this Swiss Count,
wants to tarnish his name? Maybe Count della Rosa really
is
the victim
in all of this…’

Inspector Oats grunted. Posie stared at them both; she
didn’t believe that explanation at all. She was never wrong. In fact,
they
were quite wrong, she was sure. But there was no time for argument now: they
needed action, a way forwards.

‘Anyhow, you need to ask here for this Mr Chicken’s home
address. We need to interview him. Locate him…find him. He’s your prime
suspect, not to mention he might now be holding Dolly and Len as hostages, or
worse!’

A snarly, malicious voice wheedled beside them. It was the
pinstriped Manager. He had been listening in on their conversation. He bowed
and scraped and said that while he would be pleased to assist them in whatever
way he could, he could not release any information on club members, especially
not home addresses and such-like. If they wanted to view the Members’ Address
Book, the police would need an official Search Warrant.

Inspector Lovelace groaned and snapped that he would be back
personally within a couple of hours with the necessary paperwork. Behind him,
Posie caught sight of Rufus listening intently to the whole conversation: a
look of grim determination spreading across his face. But she didn’t have time
to ask Rufus what he was thinking about, for they were all unceremoniously
ushered out.

Outside on the pavement Inspector Lovelace clambered into
one of the police cars, but not before telling Posie to take great care and to
await further instructions. He instructed one of the six policemen to stay
behind with Posie as an armed escort and not to leave her side. It was the same
fat and ruddy-faced constable from the police cells.

Watching the police cars hurry off down the yellow stone
road towards the Palace of Clarence House, Posie turned towards ruddy-face and
smiled at him with a heavy heart. In truth she felt like a prisoner, but she
was too polite to indicate her displeasure. Together they set off at a jaunty
half-pace through the crowded streets of Piccadilly, towards the welcome haven
of Grape Street.

With a stab of icy dread, Posie thought for a second that
she heard footsteps tailing her again, clipping the stone pavement behind her
in what was by now a familiar echo. But again, when she turned around there was
no-one there.

The policeman cleared his throat:

‘Looks like snow again, Miss.’

He was right: the temperature had dropped sharply and above
them the clouds were darkening.

The sky was coloured by a very strange light, like a huge
glittering bruise. It suddenly reminded Posie of the Maharajah diamond which
she had held for perhaps two or three minutes in total.

She knew she would never forget it: all the twisted and
wonderful colours it had contained, all the promise and all the terror.

****

Twenty-One

Posie stared out her office window at the pigeons
flying past, blurry purple smudges against the grey buildings.

She had left ruddy-face sitting in the waiting room and he
had made himself busy by stoking up the fire. ‘Don’t worry, Miss,’ he smiled.
‘I’m just out here if you need me. I won’t budge.’

Babe was doing heaven only knew what and Posie hadn’t the
energy to question her. On the way through she had had a vague impression of
the girl sitting in her office, a magazine-worthy vision in parrot-green silk
and satin, yet another huge sparkly piece of jewellery fastened at her throat.

Posie cooled her throbbing head against the pane of glass
and bit her fingernails.

She spied her carpet bag and for something to do she tipped
the contents all over her desk. At the very bottom of the bag was the
scrunched-up 1915 story from the
Associated Press
. Posie turned the
clipping over: she remembered that the journalist had written his source on the
back, a neighbour from the time.

Yes, here it was:

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

Posie breathed slowly, linking what she knew so far.

Lucy had disappeared just after this story was published, in
summer 1915. By the time of her departure, the neighbour had apparently lived
next door to Lucky Lucy for several years already. Posie knew that Lucy’s
criminal activities had started in London in 1911, and so the dates worked out.

And, although she had no solid evidence for it, Posie
thought it was a pretty fair bet that the man calling himself Caspian della
Rosa had been here too, in London, alongside her, during the years from 1911
until 1915. In fact, Posie was willing to hedge her bets and say that Caspian
della Rosa had been the mastermind behind
all
of Lucy’s activities;
running the counterfeiting gang, plotting her moves to steal pieces of
priceless jewellery. They had looked inseparable in the Belgian press-photo.
Even in 1915 theirs was not a new love.

‘He was living here with her,’ Posie muttered to herself,
certain of it.

‘And if he’s as rich as he seems to be, keeping a Mews House
in an expensive part of London for the last few years would be no skin off his
nose. I bet he still has the same house. Why should he have moved? No-one has
ever tracked him down there before. Sure as bread is bread that is where he is
now.’

She dived into her desk drawers, looking for her street-map
of London. She unwrapped it and flung it across the floor, thumbing through the
index of postal districts on the side of the map. She found SW3, and took a
pencil from her desk. She ringed Winstanley Mews. It was in Chelsea, just off
Sloane Square, near the river. One of the most expensive places in town.

Irritatingly, just then there was a knock at the door.

‘Miss Posie,’ said Babe, poking her sleek oiled head around
the door. ‘I need to tell you something.’ She looked guilty as hell. Posie sat
back on her haunches and nodded grimly.

Babe played with her hands, twisting them over and over.

‘It’s about your cat,’ she said, staring at the floor. ‘I
sure didn’t mean him to be kidnapped or anything, but I kinda feel responsible
for it. I feel bad.’

‘Why?’ asked Posie with what she hoped looked like an
authoritative raise of her eyebrow. Babe stared moodily out of the window.

‘A man arrived on Tuesday evening, just as I was locking up.
He asked me to do him a favour; to deliver a letter to you. He told me to put
it on your mat first thing on Wednesday morning, as if it had arrived
hand-delivered. He was most particular about the timing. Said it was
important.’

‘It was the blue letter from Lucky Lucy, you mean? The
threat? The one with the cat hair in it?’

Babe nodded. ‘The very same.’

Posie frowned. ‘So he must have already abducted Mr Minks
when you were locking up then, if the cat hair was already inside the letter?’

‘Guess so.’

‘There’s no way he could have exchanged or intercepted the
letter later on?’

‘No,’ Babe shook her head adamantly. ‘I had it with me all
night, in my purse, which never left my side. It stayed right where it was.
With me. At home. All night long.’

Posie stared at Babe. It pained her to admit it but the girl
looked like she was telling the truth. ‘And you didn’t recognise the man?’

Babe shook her head and edged for the door.

‘What did he bribe you with? As payment for delivering the
letter?’

Babe looked shifty, but Posie stared her out: someone as
mercenary as Babe could not be expected to do something for nothing.

‘He gave me five pounds.’

Posie was almost speechless – this was more than a week’s
wages. ‘Anything else memorable?’

‘Oh, gee. Yes! He smelt of mints. Almost overpoweringly so.’

Posie gasped and covered her mouth. ‘He smelt of
peppermints? And was he short and stocky and wearing quite cheap clothes? With
messy hair? Was he carrying a tennis bag?’

It all fell into place: it
must
have been the strange
client who had come and gone so suddenly on Tuesday afternoon.

Babe scrunched her face up with the effort of remembering.

‘No. He was wearing an expensive tuxedo, an evening suit.
Wealthy clothes. I can’t remember his face. Forgettable. And you’re wrong about
the smell. It was cat-mint he smelt of, now I come to think about it, not
peppermints. Cats go crazy for it: my old Aunt Ada in Dalsto…well, anyhow, she
used it and her house sure stank of it. I’d know the smell of it anywhere.’

The secretary retreated, closing the door behind her.

Posie exhaled slowly. So now she knew
who
had taken
Mr Minks, and
when
. And it had been done craftily, on Tuesday afternoon,
right under her nose…while she was in the office. Like a magic trick. How could
she have been so stupid not to see it before? The cat must have been
transported away in the sports bag, and what if the tennis racket had actually
been some sort of net for catching the cat with if he had proved troublesome?
Not that the visitor would have needed it, for Mr Minks had been drawn instantly
to the smell of the cat-mint, worn so strongly and deliberately on the
stranger’s skin. It had been irresistible…a sort of drug.

Was this yet more proof that Caspian della Rosa (she would
not
call him Cecil Chicken) was involved up to his ears in this? He must have used
yet another lackey. Some other associate, some willing dogsbody in his pay.

She turned back to the map.

What should she do? She wanted to leave immediately, to find
the house in Winstanley Mews, but common sense for once prevailed and she knew
she should tell the ruddy-faced policeman about her findings. They should then
go to Inspector Lovelace, share the knowledge with him and then storm
Winstanley Mews together with a professional crack-team…

Outside, the waiting room was strangely empty. Babe was
thumbing through the pages of a cheap fashion magazine in her office when Posie
stuck her head in:

‘Where is the policeman?’

‘It’s lunchtime, Miss. He’s just popped out to buy a packet
of sandwiches,’ she said righteously. ‘Said he’d only be gone five minutes or
so.’

‘That seems strange. He was under strict orders not to leave
me.’

Babe shrugged.

For some reason an ominous and unusual dread spread up
through Posie’s stomach. She turned and stood uneasily in her small, neat
waiting room. She tidied the papers on the coffee-table. The minutes seemed to
stretch on forever. She stood as if rooted to the spot, watching the heavy
fresh snow hurling itself at the window. The British Museum was out there
somewhere in the street beyond, obliterated under the whirling white-out. The
world, and everything certain in it, was being silenced yet again. Covered up.

A loud clanging noise started up downstairs and then came
the sound of the front door, three storeys below, being hurled open. Raised
unfamiliar voices from the ground floor started shouting her name.

Male voices, authoritative voices:

‘Miss Parker. Police! Police! Come quickly! We’ve been sent
by Inspector Lovelace.’

In a second, Posie had grabbed her coat and bag and was
heading for the glass-stencilled front door of her office. She raced down the
stairs, past the group of office workers who were milling around on the first
floor, smoking. She bumped headlong into the thin lanky mass of an unfamiliar
uniformed bobby who was on his way up to meet her.

‘Ah, there you are! We have a lead!’ he said excitedly,
taking Posie’s arm. ‘We have to go at once!’

‘Where is the original policeman who was stationed with me?’
she asked as they came out onto Grape Street. A large black car with another
policeman in it was parked against the kerb; the engine was running and the
driver, with a waterproof hat pulled down well over his face, was busy scraping
off the gathered snow from the windscreen with a small piece of black
cardboard.

‘Oh, we don’t have time to wait for
him
!’ said the
lanky policeman airily. ‘This is urgent.’

Posie found herself escorted up into the high leather back
seat of the car, pressed hard up against the body of a second policeman. The
lanky policeman swung up beside her quickly and pulled the door closed. She was
sandwiched in. The driver jumped in quickly. He took off his hat and turned to
face Posie. She gasped in sick fear and felt ice spread up through her veins.

Through the glass divide Caspian della Rosa winked at her
and gave a treacherous sneer of a smile. She started to struggle violently, and
felt a rough black hood suddenly thrown over her head. Her bag was snatched
away from her and her hands were tied together deftly with a thin rope that bit
hard into her wrists.

The car started to move off. She had walked right into a
trap.

****