She waited a few moments and listened to the whirrs and clicks of the exchange, before a female voice declared “Connecting” and a male voice answered, “Carter Shipping, how may we help you?”
“Ah, good day. I wonder if you can help me. I travelled recently on the Olympic and I am trying to get hold of a fellow passenger. We met briefly and agreed to get together for lunch here in New York. But, well, I seem to have lost her contact details. Might you have them, please?”
“Well,” came the reply, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t usually give out our passengers’ details. We honour their privacy.”
Poppy had prepared herself for this. “I understand, completely, and I’m grateful you take this sort of thing so seriously. However…” she allowed her voice to crack a little, “… I – I just want to thank this lady for her kindness. You see I was upset about something – the recent passing of my brother – and she was so kind to me. Please, could you make an exception, just this once?”
There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line, followed by: “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Poppy, trying not to sound triumphant. “The name is Mimi Yazierska… No, I’m not sure how that is spelt… I think it starts with Y-A-Z, but it could also be Y-I-Z. Can you check both? Thank you… Oh, and she was travelling with her younger sister… No, I don’t know the name. But it might help you if there are two Yazierskas together – easier to spot, perhaps?”
The man asked her to wait while he found the correct ship’s manifest and muttered to himself as he went through the list. Poppy imagined him running his finger down the column of hand-written names.
“Aha! I think I’ve got it, ma’am. There is a Miriam Yazierska – you were right, Y-A-Z – and an Esther Yazierska who embarked at Southampton. Do you think that might be them?”
Miriam… Mimi… it has to be. “Yes, that sounds like the right lady. Foreign. Russian perhaps…”
There was another pause and then: “Ukrainian. From Yalta. But…” The man’s voice took on a puzzled tone. “She and her sister were travelling steerage class. I’m not sure how you could have met them. Are you sure it’s the right name?”
Poppy laughed – hopefully engagingly – and answered, “Oh, I got lost one day. You know how big the ship is. I couldn’t find my way back to my cabin and took a wrong turning…”
There was silence again and then the sound of a muted conversation. Poppy imagined a hand over the mouthpiece as the clerk spoke to someone else.
Eventually he spoke to her. “May I ask your name please, ma’am?” Poppy’s heart sank. Should she give a false name? Despite the little pantomime she’d just engaged in, lying did not come easily to her. “It’s Denby, Miss Poppy Denby. You’ll see I am on the manifest too.”
“Indeed, I see that. I see too that your occupation is listed as ‘journalist’.”
Poppy laughed again, trying to keep the tone light. “It is! I’m working here for a few months.”
The hand went over the mouthpiece and more mumbles were heard. “I’m sorry, Miz Denby. If this is about Seaman Jones, we have nothing more to say. The port authority has cleared us of all on-board negligence and the immigration authorities have cleared us of all wrongdoing too. Those two women escaped from the island on their own. It had nothing to do with Carter Shipping. As ever, our reputation remains impeccable. My supervisor here tells me that if anything contrary to that appears in your newspaper you will be hearing from our lawyers. Good day.”
The line went dead. Poppy stared at the telephone, wide-eyed. Good heavens! What on earth was all that about? And then her newshound nose began to twitch. She grabbed the pencil and wrote down, verbatim, as much of the conversation as she could remember. She must show this to Rollo! She circled the words “Seaman Jones”, “port authority”, “immigration”, and “escaped from the island”. Seaman Jones, Seaman Jones. What had he said the day she visited him in hospital? Something about it not being his fault… that other people were doing it too… Doing what? Something to do with immigrants escaping from Ellis Island? But how could Seaman Jones have helped the Yazierska girls escape? He was unconscious when they arrived in port. In fact, hadn’t he been taken off the ship the evening before the passengers disembarked? Yes, that’s right… so what did he mean? And why had the Carter clerk made the connection between Jones and the girls? Or had he? Perhaps they were two separate incidents that he just mentioned at the same time… Hmm, no, I think there’s something else going on here. I need to speak to Seaman Jones… and I need to track down those girls.
CHAPTER 28
Poppy filled Rollo in on the conversation with the Carter office as they met to go to lunch. He agreed that there was something fishy going on and that they should investigate further.
Then he told her what he had discovered about the von Hassler affair. Paul Saunders had indeed filed a story that morning announcing the news of the prince’s death, as well as a pre-written obituary. There was no mention of foul play; just that the elderly aristocrat had slipped in his bathroom. The next of kin, Count Otto von Riesling, was quoted as saying he was deeply saddened by the news of his uncle’s death and asked for privacy in order to come to terms with his grief.
“Come to terms with his grief?” blustered Poppy. “He was kicking up his heels at a party only twenty-four hours later!”
“Indeed,” observed Rollo. “But the good thing for us is that Saunders is in touch with him. If we can’t get contact details from von Hassler’s lawyer, I will ask Judson Quinn, as senior editor, to compel him to tell me where von Riesling is.”
“Do you think Quinn will do that?”
Rollo nodded, picking up his briefcase and accompanying Poppy to the lift. “I hope that by the time we’ve spoken to the lawyer this afternoon we’ll have enough to take to him. Quinn’s a good man and an even better journalist. I know he’s been told to keep me in my place and not let me do any – how did he put it? – career-furthering work, but he’ll see things my way. I’m sure of it.”
The lift shuddered to a halt on the ground floor.
“Whoa! Slow down, Miz Denby,” Rollo called after her as she all but sprinted out of the contraption.
“Sorry, Rollo.” She slowed down and waited for him to catch up with her in the middle of the foyer. Then they picked up some lunch-on-the-go at the nearby bagel shop and ate it en route to the mid-town office of Barnes and Abramowitz, Prince von Hassler’s lawyers.
Rollo had called ahead, saying he had some information pertaining to the estate of the prince. He had told them that the prince’s housekeeper, Mrs Lawson, could vouch for him.
“Blasted lawyer called my bluff and said he’d have to get a reference from her first!”
“And did he?”
“Yes. Seems like Mrs L. is mentioned in the will so he had her contact details.” He chuckled. “She said I was her adviser!”
Poppy brushed away some crumbs from her lap onto the floor of the subway platform as they sat waiting for the next train. “In what capacity?”
“I’m not sure,” said Rollo, “but it seems to have done the trick and we’ve got an appointment with Barnes at half-past one.”
Poppy looked at her watch. “We’ll go well over the allocated time for our lunch break.”
“Oh, to hell with our allocated time! We’re on a story, Miz Denby. And if they fire us, they fire us. We can go freelance – sell the story to the highest bidder!”
Poppy chuckled at Rollo’s enthusiasm. He was right. The New York Times didn’t formally employ them. They could do what they liked. Poppy doubted she would be as brave as to tell them to stick their job, but as long as Rollo was on her side – and she had a job to go back to in London – she was prepared to throw caution to the wind.
“Freelance it is then!” She laughed and clutched at her cloche hat as the train steamed into the station. Then she surged forward with the rest of the passenge
rs and jumped onto the over-full carriage, pulling Rollo up behind her when his short legs struggled to negotiate the high step.
He tipped his bowler hat and grinned up at her. “Much obliged, Miz Denby, much obliged.”
Half an hour later and Poppy and Rollo were seated in the waiting room of the teak- and leather-clad offices of Barnes and Abramowitz. The room was lined, floor to ceiling, with weighty tomes of legal interest, and, although it was a mild spring day in New York City, a log fire roared in the grate. The wood smoke mingled with a faint aroma of tobacco and whisky, while the firelight played on the cut-glass surface of a crystal decanter and silver tray. Poppy felt she was in a gentlemen’s club.
She knew without Rollo having to tell her that she would be expected to play the role of the pretty young assistant, there merely to take notes and not offer opinions. It was a game she had played before, and one she had frequently managed to turn to her advantage when pompous older men underestimated her intelligence, or let something slip when she innocently asked them to explain something “beyond her female understanding”. It was a game Rollo enjoyed immensely.
A young man in a grey pin-striped suit showed them into the office of the senior partner, Mr Barnes. Barnes sat behind a huge desk embossed with green leather and brass studs. A brass reading lamp was on, lightening the gloom but casting shadows across one side of a jowly face. Barnes, a rotund man, looked like something out of a Dickens novel, Poppy thought: out of time and out of place in this most modern of cities. The offices of an Old World-style lawyer, thought Poppy. An unsurprising choice, she supposed, for a European aristocrat.
He stood as they entered, appraising them from under a pair of unruly eyebrows. He looked first down at Rollo then up at Poppy, then gave an almost inaudible “hmm”. “Mr Rolandson, thank you for coming.” He walked around the desk and reached out his hand. Rollo shook it firmly.
“May I introduce my assistant, Miz Denby,” said Rollo, gesturing to Poppy.
Barnes turned towards her and gave a curt nod. “Miz Denby.”
Poppy nodded back. “Mr Barnes.”
“Take a seat,” he said and walked back around the desk.
Without being instructed, Poppy took out a notepad and pencil.
Barnes frowned. “Your assistant will be taking notes?” he asked, addressing his question to Rollo. “I thought you were here to give me information, not to take it.”
Rollo leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “I thought we could, perhaps, exchange some information.”
Barnes pursed his lips. “Rolandson. Rollo Rolandson. I thought the name was familiar. You used to work for the Times, didn’t you?”
Rollo nodded. “I did, yes. Left to cover the war. Then bought a paper in London.”
Barnes drummed his nails into the green leather desktop. “A bit off your patch, aren’t you?”
Rollo inserted his thumbnail under the edge of his middle nail and made a little clicking sound in syncopation with the rhythmic thrum of the lawyer’s fingers.
Poppy held her breath.
“I’m back for a few months. Helping Judson Quinn out while Archie Weinstein is away.”
Barnes stilled his fingers. “Quinn’s a good man.”
Rollo silenced his clicking. “The best.”
All he has to do is ring the paper and ask to speak to Quinn and we’ll be busted, thought Poppy. But she also knew that he was only likely to do that once they’d left and by then they would have the information they needed – or not. Either way, their “freelance” activities would be exposed. Rollo, it seemed, thought it was a risk worth taking.
The lawyer pursed his lips and made a little popping sound with his mouth as he opened a file and perused the contents. Without looking up he said: “Mrs Lawson said you were her representative. Is that correct?”
“It is,” said Rollo.
The lawyer jerked up his head and looked directly at Poppy. “Is that correct, Miz Denby?” His tone had turned from curious to interrogative. It reminded Poppy of the barristers she had seen at work in the court cases she’d attended the previous summer.
Poppy’s knuckles whitened as she gripped her pencil. But she held his gaze. “It is, Mr Barnes. Mrs Lawson has requested that Mr Rolandson assist her in relation to Prince von Hassler’s death.”
“Assist in what way?” asked Barnes, still looking at Poppy. Was Rollo going to interject? Should she answer? She flicked her eyes to the right to try to get some clues from her editor.
But none were forthcoming, other than the click, click, click of his nails that had resumed. He trusts me, Poppy reminded herself. He trusts me to say the right thing.
“Mrs Lawson believes her employer’s death will not be properly investigated and that no one will listen to her concerns, as she is a negro woman and he was an elderly homosexual man. She has asked Mr Rolandson to speak on her behalf.” She could have added that she was also speaking on behalf of Mrs Lawson, but she did not. Instead she said: “If her suspicions are true – and they come out, either in our newspaper or another – it could delay the reading of the will. So we thought you would be interested in helping us clear up this matter as quickly as possible in order” – her hand was beginning to quiver – “in order to minimize any further delays.”
Barnes lowered his eyebrows and renewed his drumming. Then he turned his attention to Rollo. “You’ve rehearsed her well, Rolandson. Sounded almost spontaneous.”
Rollo continued clicking. He did not correct Barnes’s patronizing assumption. Poppy had not expected him to.
“So,” Barnes continued, addressing only Rollo, “you know about my client’s predilections. No doubt that will soon be all over the papers.”
Rollo stopped clicking. “That is not why we are here, sir.”
Poppy smiled slightly at Rollo’s use of the collective pronoun.
Barnes’s lips pursed again. “Then let’s cut to the chase, Rolandson – why are you here?”
Rollo uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. Poppy had seen him do this before. He was about to take control of the interview.
“Well, Mr Barnes, sir, I thought you’d never ask.” Then he grinned his biggest Cheshire Cat grin.
Poppy tried not to chuckle.
Barnes did not look amused but clearly his curiosity had got the better of him. He leaned back in his chair and moulded his shoulders into the leather. “Go on.”
“Miz Denby, do you have that photograph please?”
Poppy reached into her satchel and took out the picture of Alfie Dorchester and Hans von Hassler, now removed from its frame. Rollo had asked Mrs Lawson for it before they left the penthouse.
Rollo took it from her and passed it over the desk to Barnes. “Do you know this man? The one with your client?”
Barnes took it from the editor, gave it a cursory glance, then passed it back over the desk. “Otto von Riesling. Von Hassler’s nephew.”
“And heir to his fortune.”
Barnes’s lips pursed and then he templed his fingers. “Possibly.”
“And have you actually met the man?”
“I have. Twice. The first time, before Christmas –”
“To sign over the deeds to the garment factory,” blurted Poppy, before she could stop herself.
Barnes’s head snapped around to look at her, then he returned his gaze to Rollo.
“And the second was on Friday morning. The police contacted me to tell me of my client’s unfortunate accident and asked for details of his next of kin. I telephoned von Riesling myself to tell him and then met him at the mortuary to identify the body.”
Rollo nodded. “So you know where to reach him?”
“I do.” He closed the file in front of him. “So that is why you have come. To get in touch with von Riesling. I’m afraid I cannot give you his address. Client confidentiality.”
Rollo leaned back and resumed his clicking. “But von Riesling is not your client. Von Hassler is. And your first loyalty shou
ld surely be to him. To protect his rights and his reputation – even after death. Isn’t that what lawyers do?”
Barnes cleared his throat, clearly not enjoying being lectured on the responsibilities of his profession. “It is. Until my duty of care has been dispensed.”
“And when will that be?” asked Rollo.
“Once the will has been read and the estate tied up.”
It was Rollo’s turn to temple his fingers. “And what if that was delayed?”
“Delayed? What might delay it?”
Rollo smiled benignly over his fingertips. “Well, as my assistant has already told you, Mrs Lawson suspects her employer’s death might not have been an accident. That surely would delay the reading of the will and the wrapping up of the estate now, wouldn’t it?”
Barnes resumed his drumming. “It would. However, it’s a moot point.”
“Moot, how?”
Barnes opened the file and extracted a document on a letterhead from the coroner’s office. “Because this morning I received the official autopsy report and it has been declared an accidental death.” He put the report back into the file and closed it again. “Case closed.”
Rollo, his fingers still templed, his eyes still on Barnes, said, “Miz Denby. Do you have the notes you took at the mortuary on Saturday?”
Barnes’s eyes flicked to Poppy.
“I do, yes.”
“Would you be so kind as to read them to Mr Barnes here? I think he might finally be interested in what you have to say.”
He was interested. Very interested. And he was more than interested to hear that the man claiming to be Otto von Riesling was an imposter. He told Poppy and Rollo that he had been shown a birth certificate authenticating the count’s identity. However, he agreed with the two journalists that this could have been either forged or stolen.
No doubt, thought Poppy, if it ever came out that he and his firm had been duped, it would do no good for their reputation. So she was not surprised when he looked relieved to hear that the British Foreign Office (in the guise of Marjorie Reynolds) was busy tracking down the real Otto von Riesling in Monte Carlo. And he most emphatically agreed that the reading of the will should be delayed until the real Otto von Riesling was found.
The Death Beat Page 20