She voiced her observation to Rollo. “Perhaps it was just his age that kept him indoors after all.”
“Perhaps,” offered Rollo. “But I think there’s more to it and that’s why we’re here. I’m hoping –”
Suddenly there was the sound of elevator gears grinding and pinging to a stop. Poppy clutched Rollo’s arm. “Someone’s here!”
Her eyes flicked around the bathroom, looking for somewhere to hide. Rollo might fit into the laundry basket… Then a key turned in the lock.
Rollo patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Miz Denby. It’s all arranged. Come on, let’s go meet her.”
“Her?” mouthed Poppy and followed Rollo back into the living room.
Clambering from her knees to her feet was a negro woman in her sixties wearing a grey mackintosh, black skirt, hat, and gloves. She brushed down her skirt as she stood, then closed the door on the web of police tape.
“I see you let yourself in, Mr Rolandson,” said the woman.
“I did, thank you, Mrs Lawson. Here’s your key.” He walked across the room and placed the key on the woman’s outstretched palm. She took it and put it into her handbag, snapping the catch shut.
“May I introduce Miz Poppy Denby, my assistant. Miz Denby, this is Mrs Nora Lawson, Prince von Hassler’s housekeeper.”
Poppy crossed the space between them and reached out her hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Lawson.”
The older woman looked at Poppy curiously then offered her hand in return. “Good day to you, Miz Denby. He brought you with him from England?”
“Yes he did. We’re here for three months.”
“Lucky for me I caught him then.”
“Caught him?”
“Yes. He’s one of the only ones I’d trust. Back in 1910 Mr Rolandson here helped catch a negro man’s killer. Do you remember that, sir?”
Rollo looked surprised. “So that’s why you agreed to see me.”
Mrs Lawson nodded. “Yes siree. You’re not like those other white reporters. You look for the truth.” By now she had released Poppy’s hand and was indicating a cluster of black leather and chrome armchairs. “Your boss here, Miz Denby, did not believe that a negro man had killed himself.”
“As he had clearly been beaten to death, it was obvious,” said Rollo, heaving himself up onto a chair as Mrs Lawson and Poppy lowered themselves onto a sofa.
“Not so obvious to those who would not see,” answered Mrs Lawson, folding her gloved hands in her lap. “And that’s what I think might happen here too – that there’ll be a cover-up.”
“Oh?” said Poppy. “But the medical examiner has already suggested it wasn’t self-inflicted. They can’t cover it up now.”
Mrs Lawson nodded, pursing her lips. “So I hear. But that don’t mean the police’ll do anything about it. Or at least it won’t be high on their list of priorities to do something.”
“And why’s that?” asked Poppy.
Mrs Lawson looked at Rollo.
“Because, Miz Denby, Mrs Lawson here thinks the police don’t want it in the papers. If it’s declared a murder it will get onto the front page, not just the obituaries – and certain people don’t want that.”
“But why wouldn’t they want that?” asked Poppy, puzzled. “And who are these ‘certain people’?” Poppy’s lack of sleep was catching up with her and it was slipping into her tone.
“Because, Miz Denby,” answered Rollo, patiently, “Mrs Lawson tells me the prince was a homosexual. And he’d had relationships with a number of high-profile people. People who would not want that sort of thing to be known. People with the power to put pressure on the police to sweep the death of an already old man under the carpet.”
“That’s right,” intoned Mrs Lawson. “Now while I didn’t approve of his… his behaviour, Prince Hans was a goodly man and he don’t deserve to die like this and he don’t deserve for it to be covered up just so.”
Poppy blinked a few times, giving herself time to absorb the new information.
“Righteeo. I see. But isn’t it already out there? Haven’t the next of kin now been informed it wasn’t an accident? Surely they would want justice to be done.”
Mrs Lawson gave a snort. “Next of kin? If you mean that good for nothing nephew of his, that’s exactly what he wouldn’t want.”
Bingo! Poppy cleared her throat and tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “So you’ve met him? Count von Riesling?”
“Yes, ma’am, and a more slithery snake in the grass I ain’t never seen.”
If you’re talking about Alfie Dorchester, I couldn’t agree more. “So… what exactly does this count look like?”
“Tall, dark hair, white… Why do you want to know that, Miz? It’s got nothing to do with nothing.”
“Well, I –”
Rollo interjected. “It might just help us with another story we’re working on. I think we might be able to help each other here, Mrs Lawson; that is what you want to do, isn’t it?”
The older woman pursed her lips again for a moment and then nodded her assent. “If I can, I will, sir.” Then she got up and walked towards a sideboard. She opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph and brought it back to Poppy and Rollo. She held it to her chest.
Oh, turn it round!
“This was taken at Christmas. When Prince Hans thought Otto was here to say he was sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” asked Rollo.
Mrs Lawson looked at him gravely then answered: “For blackmailing him for the last three years.”
Poppy’s heart sank. Three years? Then it can’t possibly be Alfie after all.
“About him being a homosexual?” probed Rollo.
Mrs Lawson nodded. “Yes – some. But more about who he had… well – you know – done unnatural things with. Prince Hans did not want to hurt anyone. Not his friends. And definitely not the people he loved. Otto – who lived in Monty… Monty…”
“Carlo,” prompted Poppy.
“Yes, that’s right. Monte Carlo. Somewhere in Europe, I think. Well, Otto wrote Prince Hans and said he needed money. He was a gambler and a drinker and a general ne’er do well and he’d lost his family money. So he thought his rich uncle might help him out. But Prince Hans told him to get off his lazy – his lazy… Well, ma’am, he told him to get a proper job.”
“Good for him,” nodded Rollo approvingly.
“That’s what I thought too. Until the letters started coming, threatening to tell all unless Prince Hans sent him money. Oh, the poor man! It nearly broke him. Not financially…” Mrs Lawson gestured around the apartment. “He had more than enough, but it nearly broke his heart. He hadn’t seen his nephew since he was knee high to a grasshopper – and then this.”
“And is that when he stopped going out?” asked Poppy.
Mrs Lawson lowered her chin to her chest. After a moment she raised it again and spoke in a small, quiet voice: “It destroyed him, Miz Denby. He became a shadow. A sad, sad shadow. He was always full of life, the prince. He never acted like an old man. Not until that boy started writing him…”
“So,” probed Rollo. “What happened when Otto arrived? Around Christmas, you say?”
“End of November. Soon after Thanksgiving. Completely out of the blue. The prince didn’t even recognize him. It had been years since he’d last seen him – his late sister’s son, I think. He’d been sent to school in England.” She nodded at Poppy. “Same place you’re from, Miz.”
Poppy smiled in acknowledgment and waited for the housekeeper to continue.
“Prince Hans said it had ruined his German.”
“What did he mean by that?” asked Rollo.
“The way he spoke it, more English than German, I think – with an English accent, y’know? The prince mentioned it – more than once.”
Poppy’s ears pricked at this. “May we see the photograph please, Mrs Lawson?”
The older woman unfurled her arms, turned the photograph around, and let the two journalists see it.
> Poppy gasped. Seated on the very sofa where she was now sitting was a frail old man: a shadow, as Mrs Lawson had said, of the man in the other photographs Poppy had seen. And beside him, sitting tall and erect, was none other than Alfie Dorchester, with his hair dyed black.
“Great Scot!” said Rollo and jumped up, pointing a stubby finger at the photograph. “Is that Otto von Riesling?”
“It is,” replied Mrs Lawson. She almost spat the words.
Rollo turned to Poppy, his eyes wide with excitement. “You were right, Poppy! By Jove you were right!”
Mrs Lawson’s eyes narrowed. “What you going on about? Right about what?”
Poppy was just about to tell her all about Alfie Dorchester when Rollo put up his hand to silence her. “Excuse me, Poppy, may I?” His tone did not suggest it was a request.
Poppy acquiesced.
“Sorry, Mrs Lawson. I’ll explain. Miz Denby and I have met the count before in London, but he had a different name. He might have been involved in something dishonest – we’re not really sure…”
Not really sure? I’m quite sure!
Rollo gave Poppy a warning look. She held her tongue.
Mrs Lawson twisted her lips in disdain. “Doesn’t surprise me, Mr Rolandson. Not an honest bone in that boy’s body.”
“Well, nothing has been proven, Mrs Lawson. But we’ll see what we can do to make sure the police do not sweep the prince’s death under the carpet. That we can assure you.”
Mrs Lawson smiled thinly, her wrinkled cheeks lifting towards her grief-faded eyes. “Thank you, sir. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
Rollo nodded. “Yes, there is. Firstly, do you know if the prince left a will?”
“Yes, he did. It’s with his lawyer. I can give you his name and address.”
“Good, good. And the second thing: do you know where Otto von Riesling lives? I gather it isn’t here…”
Mrs Lawson shook her head. “No, it isn’t. But I’m not sure where it is, exactly. Somewhere near the factory…”
“Factory?” asked Poppy.
“Yes. The garment factory. In the Garment District. The prince signed it over to Otto at Christmas – hoping that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t. He kept coming back for more money…”
Mrs Lawson stopped as tears welled in her eyes. Rollo reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief.
“Thank you, sir,” she sniffed.
After allowing her a few moments to compose herself Rollo probed again. “So the prince signed a factory over to Otto.”
Mrs Lawson nodded, clearing her throat. “Yes. At least his share in it. That senator from Long Island owns the other half.”
“Senator Spencer?” asked Poppy, remembering something that Toby had said about the prince and his father being in business together.
“That’s the one. The lawyer should be able to tell you more. He might also have Otto’s address. Hold on a moment.”
The housekeeper went to the telephone table, pulled out an address book, and wrote down a name and address on the back of one of Prince von Hassler’s gold-trimmed calling cards.
She held it out to Rollo, who took it. But she didn’t let go. “Promise me you’ll find out who killed him, Mr Rolandson.”
Rollo looked up at the woman and said gently, “I’ll do my very best, ma’am.”
CHAPTER 25
It was approaching five o’clock by the time Rollo and Poppy stepped out of the yellow cab at the 87th Street townhouse. On the drive over they had discussed what they had learned from the mortician and Mrs Lawson, and decided on a plan of action for the next few days.
They agreed that they could not start writing articles about a police cover-up until they were sure there really was one. So far they only had Mrs Lawson’s suspicion to go on. “I’ll be able to see on Monday,” Rollo said. “The crime reporter will submit his copy for subbing and I’ll find out then which way they’re playing it. If it’s murder, it’ll be in Monday’s paper. If not, well…”
“Who’s on the crime beat for the Lexington Avenue area?” asked Poppy.
Rollo laughed. “A fella called Tony Steele. But he called in sick on Friday. Flu. He’ll probably be off most of next week.”
“What’s so funny about that?” asked Poppy.
“Not funny ha-ha. Funny ironic. You see, your pal Paul Saunders is the first stand-in for anyone who’s sick. That’s probably where he was on Friday. And why he had the von Hassler file in his desk.”
“Not just to torment me then?” asked Poppy as the cab turned left into Park Avenue.
Rollo grinned. “Not just – but I’m sure that was a bonus.”
The journalists agreed that nothing could be done now until Monday. The lawyer’s office wouldn’t be open until then and neither would the Carter Shipping office. Poppy reminded Rollo that she wanted to continue following that story too – she needed to find out if Mimi Yazierska was in the country illegally and, if so, if she could help her in any way without getting the young woman into trouble with the authorities. She wasn’t sure whether the two stories were linked, but it did seem odd that Alfie Dorchester was at the party where those foreign girls were possibly being forced to have sex with men. There was also the new revelation that Alfie now co-owned a factory with the Spencers. Exactly how the stories intersected – or if they actually did – would hopefully come to light as she and Rollo continued to dig.
But for now, Poppy had the night off. She yawned as she stepped into the entrance hall and gave Morrison her coat. The butler informed her that her aunt and Miss King were going out to the theatre, that Delilah had telephoned to say she was staying for the rest of the weekend at The Lodge and she’d be back on Monday, and that a telegram had arrived for Miz Denby.
Poppy took it from him and read it out loud to Rollo. As expected, it was from Marjorie Reynolds, about Otto von Riesling in Monaco. “On the case STOP Will need few days to investigate STOP Love to all STOP”
“Well, no new developments there,” observed Rollo. “Looks like we’ve got the night off then. What are your plans?”
Poppy yawned again. “Dinner and then an early night, I think. And you?”
Rollo frowned. “My mother is in town.”
“Oh. Will she be coming here?”
Rollo shook his head. “No. She’s not staying the night. I’m meeting her at the Astoria for dinner. Then she’s going to the theatre with friends.” He smiled wryly. “I’m not invited.”
Poppy gave him a sympathetic look. He laughed. “It’s all right, Miz Denby. I’m a big boy now.”
Poppy slept like the dead. She was awakened by a knock on the door and a call of “Poppy darling, are you awake?” and then Aunt Dot wheeled herself into the room. Poppy shuffled up to sitting, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
“Ah, Aunt Dot, sorry I wasn’t up when you got in last night,” yawned Poppy. “Did you have fun at the theatre? And Morrison said you were invited to the Algonquin Round Table. Rollo told me all about it. He said it’s a gathering of the finest literary and political minds in the city – and the wittiest social commentators. Harpo Marx… Noel Coward… Dorothy Parker… Quite an honour to be asked. Was it fun?”
Poppy readied herself to hear all about Aunt Dot’s fabulous day with the intelligentsia of New York City, but surprisingly the older woman just said: “Yes, fun, lots of fun. But I’ll tell you about it later. There’s something I need to ask you first.” Her voice was serious.
Poppy frowned. “Of course. What is it?”
“I was wondering if you might take me to see Elizabeth Dorchester today. Just you and me. Gertrude doesn’t know her, and Delilah – well, what with everything that happened with Elizabeth and her mother, it could be a bit awkward. But I really need to see her.”
“Of course,” said Poppy, pulling a bed coat over her shoulders. “But is a surprise visit wise?”
Dot shook her head. “No, it’s not. She might still be… fragile – mentally, emotio
nally. I sent a letter a couple of days ago.” Aunt Dot held up an envelope. “She sent a reply yesterday.”
“Does she want to see you?”
Dot nodded. “Yes. She has a settlement house over in Chelsea. She’s trying to help the immigrant women.” Dot smiled. “Typical Elizabeth. After all she’s been through, she still wants to help people.”
“When is she expecting us?”
“Lunchtime. She said she’d do an English Sunday roast. Yorkshire puddings and all!”
Poppy’s tummy grumbled. “Ooooh lovely! All right, no trouble. Do you want me to order a cab?”
“I’ve already done it. It’s coming in two hours.”
The yellow cab wound its way through the Garment District – an area to the west of Fifth Avenue that had been zoned for fashion houses and factories. The cab driver told them that businesses had been forced to move from the “better” parts of Manhattan. “City Hall stopped issuing permits. They wanted to keep all the immigrant fashion factories in one place. Your friend doesn’t live here though. She’s in Chelsea, just south of here, ma’am. We’re entering there now. Just the other side of 34th Street.”
They drove past the imposing entrance to Penn Station, which Poppy had passed through the previous day, and then left onto Ninth Avenue.
“Do you think that’s why Elizabeth settled here? Because it’s got the same name as where you all lived in London?”
Dot smoothed down the collar on her fur coat. “I’m not sure,” she said. “It doesn’t look quite as comfortable as our Chelsea, does it?” Poppy looked out of the window: no, it didn’t. It was a bustling semi-industrial area where tenement houses stood cheek-by-jowl with workshops and factories. Market traders sold their wares from barrows and horse-drawn carts jostled for space with motorized delivery vehicles on the potholed roads. The cab stopped at a junction as a man in a flat cap, grey shirt, and braces manoeuvred a rack of clothes across the road, wheeling it skilfully around the muddy depressions.
“You’ve got dock workers to the west and garment workers to the north,” explained the cab driver. “It’s not the best of areas for two ladies like you to visit. Are you sure your friend gave you the right address?”
The Death Beat Page 18