Murder Offstage (8 page)

The Earl bristled and for a moment it seemed as if he was on
the verge of punching Len, when a sharp knock on the door fortunately halted
proceedings.

‘Come in,’ Posie shouted, expecting Babe to make herself
useful for once. But she was wrong. It was Dolly, big-eyed and looking like
some kind of exotic bird. She was clutching a blue letter and a telegram in her
tiny hand. Posie smiled a vexed greeting.

‘Postman!’ Dolly trilled cheerfully, coming into the now
very overcrowded office. Everyone stared at her.

‘These letters were downstairs, on the mat. I thought I
should bring them up.’

‘Bad time, is it?’ She passed the letters to Posie and lit
up a cigarette. ‘You seem very busy in here. Lovely office, by the way.’

Posie started to rip open the telegram, but she was
conscious of Rufus, who had now moved from his place propping up the desk and
had sidled around to Dolly’s side. He moved as if he was in a dream or under a
spell, and he took the battered cigarette case unconsciously from Dolly’s
hands, much to her surprise. He held it to his lips, all the while looking at
Dolly as if in shock.

‘Dash it all, I had one of these once,’ he whispered.
‘Almost the very same thing in fact. I wore it in my breast pocket at the
battle of Ypres and do you know what? The ruddy thing saved me! It stopped a
bullet going right through my heart. Took the full force. I always said it was
my lucky charm after that.’

‘What happened to it?’ whispered back Dolly, as if in a
trance.

‘I lost it my first week back in London.’ He laughed sadly.
‘Had it stolen from me when I was half-cut one night, over at the Dog and Duck
in Holborn. My luck’s never been the same since.’

‘Really?’ she breathed back, captivated.

For once, the Earl and Len seemed to agree on something and
both let out a great derisive snort.

Rufus and Dolly stood only inches apart, as if a magnetic
force were holding them together. Len started muttering about how gullible
people were, believing in the power of possessions.

‘Who the devil
are
you anyway, girl?’ the Earl asked
Dolly rudely.

Dolly snapped out of the trance quickly and stammered out
her name and her position at the theatre as if she was being interviewed for a
new job.

At the mention of the Athenaeum Theatre the Earl emitted a
low groan and gave Dolly a venomous stare before turning to Rufus:

‘Wretched boy! Step away now! You seem to have a thing about
bottle-blondes, and if there’s some unsavoury connection to the theatre, so
much the better. You’ve had your fingers burnt once, my boy. Dash it all –
can’t you learn from your mistakes?’

Meanwhile, Posie had read the telegram and passed it to Len.

He read it aloud:

NOT BEST PLEASED TO GET YOUR TELEGRAM THIS MORNING.
WHY YOUR SUDDEN INTEREST IN
LA LUNA
?

OF COURSE I KNOW ABOUT IT. IT’S THE HOTTEST CLUB RIGHT NOW
IN LONDON.

THE LOCATION IS A SECRET. HALF MY UNDERCOVER BOYS ARE READY
TO CASE THE JOINT AS SOON AS WE GET A TIP-OFF. STAY OUT OF IT POSIE. PLEASE.

BEST, R. LOVELACE

P.S. I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF THIS COUNT DELLA ROSA CHAP
YOU ASKED ABOUT. NOT A DICKY-BIRD.

Dolly beamed.

‘But that’s exactly what I’ve come about! I hurried over as
fast as I could. When I got back to the theatre I happened to be passin’ the
Green Room. The wind section of the orchestra were all in there. I thought I
heard the words “
La Luna
” muttered, so I took it upon myself to hang
around outside the door. And I was right,’ she nodded proudly.

‘One of the men told another that “it” was on tonight, that
they would go after the performance was finished. And not to forget the oboes.’

‘The oboes?’ Len repeated, gobsmacked. ‘What does
that
mean? Is it a code? You sure you heard right?’

‘Mnn-hmnn,’ said Dolly, nodding, blowing smoke rings. Rufus
was still looking at her adoringly. Posie shook her head in disbelief, trying
to sort out facts from what seemed like chaos.

‘Hang on a minute, Dolly,’ she said calmly, ‘did you happen
to get an address? An  indication of where the club might be? Any clue?’

‘All I heard him say was “the usual”. And then “four sharp
raps”.’

Posie let out a defeated sigh. ‘What a shame! So near and
yet so far! I’m sure the nightclub is at the heart of this mystery. Too bad we
can’t locate it.’

‘Well, never mind. Let’s just follow them,’ Len said simply.
‘Easiest thing in the world. I spend my life shadowing people. We’ll follow on
in a taxi behind these orchestra chappies when they leave the theatre and see
where they go.’

Dolly was nodding enthusiastically. ‘I’ll come with you.
Give you a sign when they leave,’ she announced and looked hopefully over at
Rufus, egging him on in the action. He started to beam back but the Earl
positioned himself between Rufus and Dolly like a small round boulder:

‘You’ve enough on your plate, young fellow, without getting
even further mixed up in bad goings-on. Don’t forget, you’re still out on bail!
Tonight you are staying with me at No 11, St James. No drinks, no action. An
early night is in order.’

For once, Posie was inclined to agree with the Earl.

‘Fine, let’s do it,’ Posie said, hearing resolve in her
voice. ‘But I need to telephone Inspector Lovelace. This is the tip-off he’s
been waiting for. I owe him this favour. He can follow on from the Athenaeum
Theatre in an unmarked car. I’ll tell him to be subtle.’

‘If you must,’ sulked Len half-heartedly, for he and the
police were on no great terms. He liked to go things alone.

‘You know, Posie lovey, you’ll need a disguise tonight,’
said Dolly as Posie was buttoning up her tweed coat again, ready to run downstairs
to an office on the corner where they let her use their recently installed
telephone equipment.

Posie turned and smiled. ‘You know, I was just thinking the
same thing. Caspian della Rosa has never seen Len, but he’s clearly marked my
card. If he’s mixed up in this, as I think he is, then he’ll probably be there
tonight, so I should either sit this one out or change how I look if I’m
serious about searching for Lucky Lucy.’

‘I could dye your hair blonde, like mine? It’s all the
rage,’ Dolly offered eagerly. Posie shook her head and laughed:

‘You’re not a Wardrobe Mistress for nothing – I’m sure
you’ll find something convincing for me.’

Just as she was about to leave, secretly hoping that
everyone else would take her cue and leave too, she heard Rufus explode behind
her in an almost wild scream.

‘What is it, deary?’ Dolly was asking.

‘By jove, it’s from HER!’ he was stammering. ‘The blue
letter! It’s her handwriting! I’d know it anywhere. It’s from my fiancée. It’s
news!’

Posie stepped back into the room: she had totally forgotten
about the blue letter.

****

Eight

They crowded around the desk. The letter in its pale
blue envelope was addressed to Posie, so she opened it with her father’s old
college letter-opener. They all peered to read:

Dear Miss Parker,

Stop sticking your nose into matters which don’t concern
you.

Take this as a warning. Get off my case. IF NOT, YOU WILL
BE SORRY.

Someone you love will be badly hurt, or worse.

Yours,

LL

‘Nice tone she has,’ Len said, arms crossed. ‘Talk
about theatrical!’

Posie turned the envelope over. ‘Look! It was sent by this
morning’s post. It has a London postmark on it too. So she hasn’t gone far
then. Unless of course…’

‘Unless WHAT?’ shouted the Earl. Rufus had gone white, and
silent.

‘Unless Lucky Lucy wrote it, and someone else posted it,’
Posie said thoughtfully, ‘or, perhaps she was
made
to write it.’

Posie sniffed at the paper. It was cheap, thin notepaper;
the sort you could buy at any Post Office counter, as delicate as tissue. There
was something familiar about the smell, too: a chalky, sulphurous smell which
reminded her of something recent.

‘What’s that smell?’ she asked Len, shoving the letter under
his nose.

‘It’s zirconium! The element used to make the flash for
taking photos! I’d know it anywhere. When I have to use it in my line of work I
can’t get the smell off my hands for days – even scrubbing with carbolic soap
is no use.’

‘So? What does that prove?’ asked Rufus, confused.

Posie remembered the bright white light on the steps of No
11, St James yesterday, the smoky tang in the air afterwards.

‘I think it proves that Lucy, or her accomplices, have been
following me. Staying abreast of whatever I’ve been up to.’ Posie briefly and
rather reluctantly told them about the footsteps she had heard the night
before, the photographer outside the club.

Len groaned. ‘You should have told me this earlier. The
whole thing looks much more sinister now we know she’s got you directly in her
sights. I was hoping this might be an empty threat.’

‘That’s why the police need to be involved,’ Posie said
reassuringly, patting his arm. The letter didn’t really worry her in the
slightest.

Len merely rolled his eyes.

Posie frowned at Rufus. Something was niggling at her brain:

‘You sure you don’t want to tell me whatever it was from
earlier? Something you had discovered?’

He hung his head and grimaced. ‘It’s nothing. It can keep.’

‘Fine, then. If you’re sure. I’ll keep you up to date with
developments at the nightclub tonight. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even find Lucky
Lucy for you?’

Rufus smiled but there was no hope in his eyes.

‘I wish you’d ruddy well stop calling her Lucy,’ he said,
miserably. ‘I even saw her official documents once. I think it was a passport,
but not one I’d ever seen before: it said
Georgie
on it. Georgie le
Pomme.’

****

It was ten-thirty at night and Len and Posie sat
together in the back of a parked cab. The road alongside the Stage Door outside
the Athenaeum Theatre was very dark. It was quiet enough for them to hear the
sound of the audience spilling out of the theatre around the front.

‘Almost time,’ said Len, squinting at the luminous dials of
his wristwatch in the dark.

Behind them sat another parked cab, but this one was driven
by a police-driver, and filled with Inspector Lovelace and two of his
underlings from Scotland Yard, all dressed in black dinner suits.

Posie had her eyes fixed on the Stage Door, which so far
hadn’t opened once. She felt strange, and she knew she looked strange: the
proof had been when she had got into the taxi twenty minutes earlier and Len
had fixed her with an incredulous, wide-eyed look before turning quickly away
without commenting. She wore a long black wig fixed at the nape of the neck in
an exotic bun, and her skin had been wiped twice all over with dark walnut tanning-
oil, banishing her pale English-Rose complexion immediately. Dolly had
tut-tutted when Posie had protested that it was all hideously over the top:

‘No, no, lovey! Who cares if you look like a flamenco
dancer? The thing with theatrical people, you can never be too over the top.
The key is to blend in among them – it’s a whole other level. If you’re dressed
down
you’ll stand out.’

So Posie found herself armed with dark sunglasses, a very
garish red lipstick and a low-cut crimson gown in a clingy mousseline fabric,
all courtesy of Dolly. Strings of glittering fake red pearls covered her
modesty a little up top, but she found herself wishing for a sensible pair of
shoes and a skirt she could actually move her legs in.

Len had come as himself tonight, but he looked more than
usually gorgeous: he wore a dinner suit and sported a red rose in his
buttonhole. Posie had never seen him look so lovely. Just now he reminded her
of a nervous bloodhound, ears and eyes and all senses visibly alert for any
sign of action, his whole body tensed in anticipation of the next move; she
felt his desire to pound the pavements, pace the streets, get close to the
action.
He must be like this when he works as a shadower
, she thought to
herself briefly with a stab of wonder, and she felt relieved that she only ever
had to see him in his more cheerful, relaxed, off-duty hours. He was starting
to make her feel nervous.

Suddenly, the Stage Door was flung open and four men came
out quickly, their dark silhouettes picked out against the bright light of the
inside. Then they were hugging the wall and melting into the shadows of the
night. Out of nowhere a dark cab with no headlamps bumped against the kerb
where they were lurking and the four men bundled in, in a frantic hurry. They
seemed weighed down with musical instruments.

‘Start up the engine!’ hissed Len to the driver. ‘Follow
that cab! Remember, no headlights. Go!’

‘What about Dolly?’ asked Posie fearfully, chewing one end
of her sunglasses. Len just shrugged, and as the engine shook itself into life
and they started to move off, the Stage Door flew open again and a tiny figure
shot out, hurling itself towards them. Posie opened the door wide and a
breathless Pierrot Doll jumped in. Behind them the second taxi full of
policemen had started moving, and as they turned they saw it was following
closely behind, bumper to bumper.

‘I can’t believe you were gonna go without me!’ Dolly
squeaked, adjusting her black skull hat which had come askew.

‘Shhh! Keep your voice low,’ Len whispered at her, crossly.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispered Dolly to Posie, the
painted black eyebrows on her white grease-painted face rising comically. Posie
sniggered, ‘I think he’s in work mode. He can’t see the funny side of anything
right now.’

Len ignored them both and a nervous silence settled in their
cab. The snow meant less than the usual amount of people were out and about in
town, but the roads were still fairly busy with groups coming out of theatres
and restaurants. The cab ahead of them swung out of the Theatre District and
passed through Trafalgar Square before turning onto the Strand. It started to
pick up speed and drove along at a fair old pace.

‘Keep your distance! Keep your distance! We can’t have them
know we’re following them!’ said Len to the driver as the cab up ahead passed
by the Law Courts and the entrance to Fleet Street. St Paul’s, the greatest
cathedral on earth, glowed like a beacon in the distance at the top of Ludgate
Hill.

All the newspaper buildings and printing presses in London
were crammed together here on Fleet Street and Posie noticed how the lights in
most of the buildings were still on, casting long blue shadows out over the
snowy street. Vans were parked waiting and lads with carts and horses were
standing ready outside most of the buildings. There was a frantic, festive
Christmassy atmosphere.

‘Late-night copy,’ said Len knowledgably, glancing up
quickly at the huge art-deco black and white clock which dominated the entrance
to the
London Evening Press
building they were passing. It was almost
eleven o’clock. ‘Tomorrow’s morning editions are coming hot off the press right
now. Now, hang about…where’s he heading now? This is very roundabout!’

The cab up ahead had turned quickly left and was racing up
Chancery Lane, taking its bends and corners at speed. At the top it hurtled
onto High Holborn and then turned another sharp left before the Holborn
Viaduct. This part of town was much quieter as it mainly consisted of office
buildings and residential flats. 

The cab in front was now noticeably slowing down, and
ambling along next to a deserted snowy square. In the darkness ahead it came to
a sudden halt. There was a flurry of movement as the four men got out and the
cab skittered off again into the night.

‘Wait!’ ordered Len. ‘We’ll count to ten before we get out.
Understand? We can’t just jump on them. We need to
follow
them, not
ambush them.’

Their own taxi moved in stately darkness to the same kerb,
and they got out. The police cab behind them did the same, and deposited
Inspector Lovelace and his two tuxedoed Sergeants on the pavement before
sailing off again to wait in the shadows. There was no sign anywhere now of the
four men from the theatre.

Posie kept off her dark glasses; she needed all of her keen
eyesight right now to try and squint at the place they had come to. It didn’t
seem much, to be honest: a small quiet cobbled square surrounded on two sides
by snow-clad skeletal trees, a few empty iron benches scattered around the
place, and a shuttered wooden cabin at the back on the left, with a large
painted sign saying ‘TEAS AND SANDWICHES SOLD HERE’. It was a typical workers’
lunchtime spot.

The square was illuminated weakly by one street lamp which
cast a fragile amber glow over the frozen snow. There were no people anywhere.
It was very dark and there was no moon above them.

Inspector Lovelace came up behind them, his Sergeants
hanging back. When he had first learnt of the outing that afternoon he had
spent almost half an hour trying to dissuade Posie from having anything to do
with it, and when he realised she wouldn’t be shaken off lightly he had finally
given in with a begrudging acceptance. He didn’t look too happy at the total
lack of any sign of the nightclub, but to his credit he didn’t try and
apportion any blame.

‘Looks like we lost them, eh?’ he said flatly, blowing on
his hands for warmth.

‘Never mind. It was always a longshot. I guess they realised
they were being followed; so they jumped ship and scarpered. Thought they’d
lead us a merry chase across town first. There’s nothing here. We’re way off
the mark. Let’s be heading homewards.’

‘No,’ whispered Len, shaking his head, and holding back his
ear as if he was listening for birdsong.

‘Listen carefully. Can you hear that? What’s that noise?’

They all looked at Len as if he were slightly mad, but then,
in the quiet of the snowy silent square, they heard a distinct but muffled
BOOM.

Then again, at regular slow intervals: BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.

‘It’s a bass!’ whispered Dolly excitedly. ‘Or maybe a drum.
It’s music, anyhow. Nightclub music! But from where? This place is dead as a
dodo.’

They all started frantically looking around the dark square.

‘Rainbird! Binny! Off you go!’ instructed Inspector
Lovelace.

The two men headed over to the sandwich hut, reminding Posie
of a couple of flat-footed black crows trying not to skid across the ice. They
came back bemused when they found nothing.

Then Posie and Dolly walked around the whole square, leaning
on each other so as not to go flying on their heels on the puddles of black
ice. And then Posie saw it, ahead.

‘That
must
be it,’ she muttered to herself, and
headed over to the very back of the square, at the far left, next to the
sandwich hut.

A black wrought-iron staircase led downwards, with an
old-fashioned gothic Victorian sign welded into an arch above:

GENTLEMEN

 ‘It’s just a toilet!’ hissed Dolly, following her
friend’s gaze, peering down uncertainly. At the bottom of the dark, damp
concrete steps was an old wooden trapdoor covering a space no bigger than two
foot square. The trapdoor looked damp and rusty around the edges. The toilet
had obviously been boarded up years ago. At the top of the steps, near their
feet, was a length of metal chain and a broken padlock, kicked to one side in a
slushy pile of old sandwich wrappers and cigarette ends.

‘No. It’s a
closed-up
toilet,’ Posie said, ‘there’s a
huge difference.’

Just then there was another BOOM, this time very close. They
felt the ground tremble just a little underneath their feet. Posie rushed
across and herded the group back towards the old toilet in a state of some
excitement:

‘It’s here! I’m certain of it.’

Inspector Lovelace looked uncertain. ‘There’s no light
though, is there? I’d expect to see light coming up from the cracks…’ He was
studying the trapdoor from the top of the steps. Just then there was another
BOOM.

‘Yep. It’s here all right,’ nodded Len, looking pleased as
punch. Inspector Lovelace nodded too and snapped into action:

‘Rainbird, go and get back-up, urgently. Find a telephone
and call the Yard: we need armed men here in plainclothes. We also need lads
from the drugs squad, the liquor squad and our specialist in late-night
licences. I’m sure this lot are breaking every rule in the book. Everything
about this place is illegal, and I’m going to pin them for it.’

‘Are you calling for Inspector Oats to come too?’ asked
Posie, fearfully.

‘Nope,’ he shook his head. ‘This hasn’t got anything to do
with him. Not yet.’