“All right. Thanks, Delilah. Sorry to get you up. You going back to bed now?”
Delilah yawned again. “No, I said I’d take Dot for an audition. Don’t know if she’s told you yet but the radio station has been in touch; said they loved us both and want us to do another show. Dot is beside herself.”
Poppy smiled. “I bet she is. Tell her good luck from me, please, and I’ll hear all about it tonight. Where does that leave you though? Will you not go to California if you get it?”
Delilah sighed. Poppy could imagine her in her white satin dressing gown, draped across the Chippendale chair that sat next to the telephone table in the hall. “I don’t know, Pops. I’ve still got to speak to Miles.”
She sounded downhearted. “Oh Delilah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to confuse you. Look, let’s have a girls’ night out tonight. Maybe we can go to Chester’s.”
Delilah perked up immediately at the mention of the speakeasy. “Oh yes, Poppy, let’s! Shall I meet you after work?”
Poppy looked up and saw Rollo enter the office. He held her notebook aloft.
“Yes, I’ll ring you to arrange a time. All right, I’ll speak to you later. I’ve got to get back to work. Good luck at the audition!”
Poppy and Delilah said their goodbyes and Poppy put down the telephone.
“What was all that about?” asked Rollo, taking a seat at Poppy’s desk. Poppy picked up her notes on the film producers and joined him. They were the only two people in the office so she felt free to talk.
“Hold on… I’ll tell you in a minute. Just got to write something down…” She wrote down as much as she could remember of the telegram that Morrison had read out and then made a note “confirm with original” beside it. She put down the pencil and said: “There.” She passed it to Rollo.
He read it, twice, then looked up at Poppy, a huge grin on his face. “Bingo!”
“That’s the gist of it, yes,” Poppy grinned back. “So I was thinking we should probably let the lawyer know. What do you think?”
Rollo scratched his scalp. “Yes, yes we should. But we need to be careful how we time this. If the lawyer gets a court order to re-open the coroner’s inquiry that might block – or at least obfuscate – our investigation. We need a bit more time to sniff around before the suspects are alerted that we’re on to them.”
Poppy nodded. “Yes, that’s what I thought too. So what should we do?”
Rollo took out his own notebook and pencil and tapped on the cover. “For now I think we stick to the plan we discussed with Quinn. But let’s be very careful how we go about it. I’ll head over to the mortuary. There was a traffic accident this morning. Some poor schmuck was run down by a taxi on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 34th Street – again – and traffic safety folk are calling for some kind of light system to be installed. As if the city is just made of money! I’ll use that as an excuse to chat to our mortician friend. I’ll let it be known here that that’s what I’m covering – and that Quinn has authorized it.
“Meantime, you go see Elizabeth Dorchester. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t. She’s a friend of the family etcetera etcetera. I’ll let it be known around here that Quinn has authorized you to do a couple of feature articles. The first one will be on settlement houses.” He hooked his thumbs into his braces and leaned back in his chair. “Perfectly plausible.”
Poppy never ceased to admire how Rollo could think on his feet. He didn’t seem to go through all of the agonizing and ruminating that she did. Or maybe he did, but hid it well. Perhaps one day she too might do the same…
She nodded slowly. “Yes. Good plan. I’ll head over there now.” She started gathering her things, packing them into her satchel.
Rollo stood up and stretched. “And I’ll head across to Bellevue Hospital as soon as the photographs of your notes are developed. I wonder…” He paused. “Let’s meet up later.” He looked around. “But not here.” He tapped his nose and winked. “Walls have ears.”
Poppy agreed. “Where then?”
Rollo wrote down an address. “Here. It’s a diner near the lawyer’s office. We can swap notes, assess where we are, and then decide whether or not to tell Barnes about Marjorie’s telegram. I’ll swing by home on the way there and pick it up from Morrison.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” agreed Poppy. “What time?”
Rollo looked at his watch. It was approaching eleven o’clock. “Say two o’clock for a late lunch?”
Poppy nodded. “It’s a date.”
Now that Poppy was officially on the job, she could have taken a taxi. But she could not bring herself to spend so much money. Besides, it was one thing for Rollo Rolandson, former star reporter of The New York Times, war correspondent, and now senior editor of a London newspaper, to justify travelling in style; she was a mere cub reporter who, until this morning, had been writing obituaries. No, she would use public transport to get to Elizabeth’s house in Chelsea; more specifically, a bus that first wove its way through the Garment District.
The vehicle turned left and right through the maze of narrow streets – slowing down for horse-drawn carts and belting out its horn for idling traffic to get out of its way. On either side Poppy watched as row after row of tenement houses, warehouses, and workshops went by. A group of young women sitting on a step caught her eye their hair up in scarves, their dresses covered by aprons. They were eating bread and butter and sharing a cigarette – might Mimi and her sister be among them?
Poppy realized she hadn’t told Rollo the latest information about the prostitute story. She would do so when she met him later for lunch. She wanted to do some more research on the film producers and Black Horse Productions. She wondered if the Times had a Jazz File on any of them. Or perhaps there might be some information at the New York City Library. She would ask Rollo to suggest a way forward.
Something else she had been meaning to do, but hadn’t because of all the excitement around Marjorie’s telegram, was to have a good jaw-wag about potential suspects for the murder. Of course, Alfie Dorchester topped the list, but as she’d learned from her previous two big stories, the most obvious suspect was not always the correct suspect… Nonetheless, she felt she and Rollo had not done the same degree of thinking-through as they normally did. Up until today they were having to sneak around to do their investigations, whereas in London they both had free rein to do whatever they liked.
So, Poppy, think it through. Top of list: Alfie Dorchester. Now what about motive, means, and opportunity?
Poppy took out her notebook and scribbled some notes.
#1 ALFIE DORCHESTER
Motive: To inherit fake uncle’s fortune. But wouldn’t he have inherited anyway when old man died? Why now? Might have wanted to speed it up. Or maybe uncle discovered he was imposter. Killed him to keep his secret. All the new connections he’s making in NYC would be lost. But… wouldn’t death turn spotlight on nephew? Not as killer. Heir. Unwanted attention might expose fraud – exactly what’s happened! So would killing uncle be best thing for him? No, if thought out properly. Spur of the moment? To keep him quiet? Or Alfie just too thick to think it through?
Poppy drew a little smiley face beside the last note and chuckled to herself.
Means: Don’t know. Murder weapon uncertain. Any blunt object? Easy to find in apartment. If police found something with blood on it would they be able to say it was just an accident? Surely not. Much harder to sweep under carpet. So… did killer take murder weapon away with him?
Opportunity: Did Alfie have key to “uncle’s” apartment? Check with Mrs Lawson. Or did old man let him in? No sign of forced entry. Where was Alfie on Thursday night? Does he have alibi? How can we find out? Did doorman/concierge of Lexington Avenue apartment building see anyone go up? Has anyone asked? Police might have… NB interview doorman! NB2 get time of death from coroner’s report – lawyer has copy.
Poppy paused and looked out of the window to check the bus’s progress. It was just passing Penn Station. She wasn’t sur
e where to get off. “Excuse me,” she asked another passenger. “Where do I get off for Chelsea Square?”
“Three more stops,” was the answer. She thanked the man then hurriedly made some more notes before she lost her train of thought.
#2 THE REAL OTTO VON RIESLING
Motive: To inherit fortune. To pay off gambling debts. Already shown he is nasty piece of work by sending blackmail letters to uncle over last three years. That couldn’t have been Alfie. Had to have been real Otto. But… sold title. But… didn’t seem to think it was serious. Still very slim…
Means: Same as for Alfie.
Opportunity: Hard if in Europe… unless… hired hitman? Hmmm.
#3 MRS NORA LAWSON, HOUSEKEEPER
Motive: Didn’t lawyer say Mrs L. would inherit if nephew didn’t? Dies, gets sent to prison for murder? He can’t inherit fortune if proven he’s offed his uncle. Might be motive for Mrs L. to kill prince and frame nephew. Strange how she was pointing fingers at him before case had been officially declared accident or murder…
Poppy thought for a moment of the quiet black woman, apparently stricken with grief. But, Poppy had to admit, at the time she’d thought the woman’s dominant emotion was anger, not grief. Why?
She wrote a final note under motive: unlikely but not impossible.
Means: Same as others – or could have cleaned up and put it back in its place if from apartment.
Opportunity: Better than anyone! Again, must speak to doorman.
The bus was just pulling away from stop number two. She wrote a final quick note.
#4 ANY OF THE PRINCE’S FORMER/CURRENT LOVERS
Motive: Was he threatening to expose someone? Sodomy illegal. Scandal could ruin careers. Who were his lovers? How can we get list? Mrs Lawson? Lawyer?
“Here’s your stop, miz,” said the helpful passenger. Poppy thanked him and rang the bell.
CHAPTER 34
Poppy stood at Elizabeth’s front door, trying to resist the temptation to slip her thumbnail under a sliver of peeling paint and rip it off the timber. After a few moments the door opened to reveal the bright and bouncy Helena, jumping from foot to foot as if she needed to use the lavatory. “Mees Poppy!” The girl leapt forward and threw her arms around Poppy. Poppy, laughing, gave the young Italian a hearty squeeze in return.
“Hello, Helena! Is Miss Dorchester here? Miss Liza?”
Helena pulled away and skipped down the hall. “Yes, yes, come!”
Poppy followed, shutting the front door behind her. Helena led her down the hall and past a couple of open doors. Through one Poppy saw four young people – two teenage boys and two girls – poring over books and newspapers in what appeared to be a small library. Through the other door three women were packing baskets of “essentials”: toothpaste, soap, underwear, and female sanitary products, while a toddler played on the floor. Settlement house business, thought Poppy. I definitely want to do a feature on this after these other stories go to press.
Soon they were in the kitchen where she, Aunt Dot, and Elizabeth had shared a Sunday roast a few days earlier, and then through the back door. They stepped into an enclosed yard with a gate at the back leading, Poppy assumed, to a rear alley.
“There she is!” said Helena, then scampered back into the house before Poppy had a chance to thank her.
A clothesline was strung from the corner of the house to the back wall, and standing in the middle of the yard, her sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, was Elizabeth. She was hanging up washing that had just been put through a laundry mangle. It’s funny seeing the daughter of an English lord looking like an East End washerwoman, thought Poppy. And to think it’s all voluntary. Remarkable woman.
Elizabeth dried her hands on her apron and pushed a long strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Poppy, hello. I didn’t know you were coming today.”
Poppy smiled. “Yes, sorry, I would have called but I didn’t know your telephone number – or even if you have one.”
“We don’t,” said Elizabeth. “I use the one at the post office. But let me finish hanging this out then I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I’ll help you,” said Poppy and bent over and picked out a cotton shirt-waist dress.
Elizabeth passed her two wooden dolly pegs.
As the women worked in tandem, Poppy asked Elizabeth if she had made any progress tracking down the illegal immigrant prostitutes.
“I have actually. I was going to try to ring you this afternoon. But now you’ve saved me the trouble – and the nickel.”
Poppy smiled at the aristocratic woman’s penny-pinching. “So?” she asked, picking out a pair of cotton bloomers that had been patched more than once.
“Magriet Fashions. The corner of 36th and Ninth. It’s got a legitimate workforce, but my source tells me there’s a loft workroom kept separate from the rest. It’s run by illegals who live in a dormitory on the premises. Apparently a handful of the girls are sometimes let out to do other business. My source says they’re dressed up to the nines and are picked up and dropped off at funny hours.”
Poppy absorbed the information. “Yes, it sounds suspicious, doesn’t it? Have you been into this Magriet Fashions?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I’ve tried before, but the guards won’t let anyone in. Everything’s behind lock and key.”
“But you’ve spoken to some of the girls?”
“Some of the legals, yes, but very reluctantly. I only got one of them to talk because she’s the cousin of young Helena and she appreciates what I’ve done to help the family. But she told me if anyone found out she’d talked she’d be out of a job. So, Miss Lady Journalist, I need your word you will not allow that to happen. Nothing must come back to me or the workers. Can you do that?”
Poppy nodded. “I can. Thank you.”
There were two tea towels left at the bottom of the basket. Elizabeth gave one to Poppy and hung the other one up herself.
“Good. Then let’s have a cup of tea before you go.” She gave the peg bag to Poppy, picked up the empty basket, and turned towards the house. But as she did someone stepped out of the kitchen and into the yard.
“Oh Lizzy! Just thought I’d drop in to tell you… dear God! Poppy Denby!”
Poppy dropped the peg bag, the wooden dollies scattering across the paving. “You!” she screamed, her voice ricocheting off the brickwork like a Gatling gun. There, standing in the doorway of his sister’s kitchen, was none other than Viscount Alfie Dorchester.
“Poppy, calm down.” Elizabeth clutched Poppy’s shoulder.
Poppy shrugged her off. “You knew? You knew he was here?”
“Yes. But it’s not what you think. Let’s have a cup of tea and we can talk about it.”
Alfie stood nervously on the doorstep. “Maybe I should go, Lizzy.”
“Go where?” screamed Poppy. “To your dead uncle’s apartment? To plot how you can wangle the old man out of more money? Or perhaps you want to figure out how you can continue to avoid facing justice in England for your disgusting crimes?”
“Now that’s enough, Poppy,” said Elizabeth, standing, hands on hips, between the hysterical Englishwoman and her brother.
“You’re absolutely right it’s enough!” screamed Poppy, her hands on hips a mirror image of Elizabeth’s. “I cannot believe you are defending him! After all he’s done to you! After all he’s done to me! Just what is going on here?”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes and then raised them again. “I know. I, more than anyone, have reason to hate him – so surely that must mean something that I’ve given him the time of day. Please, Poppy, let me put the kettle on; listen to what he’s got to say. He’s just as shocked as you are at old von Hassler’s murder. And he even has some information that could help you with the prostitutes at the garment factory. Please, Poppy, listen to him. It’s all I ask.”
Poppy felt as if she was going to faint. There was Alfie, his blond hair dyed black, standing on the kitchen step like Mephistophel
es. And his sister – the woman he had tortured for years and years and years – was defending him. There was only one answer: she had lost her mind. There had been signs of it back in London – which Poppy had refused to accept – but it was true: Elizabeth Dorchester was certifiably insane.
She spun around and pinned Elizabeth in her gaze. “I trusted you!” Then she ran to the back gate and heaved it open. Without looking back, Poppy Denby fled into the back alley, leaving a massacre of pegs scattered in her wake.
CHAPTER 35
Poppy’s hands were shaking as she spooned sugar into her tea, spilling more on the tablecloth of the diner than into her brew. Rollo took the spoon from her and scooped more sugar into her cup and stirred it. Then he brushed the spilled sugar into a napkin and folded it, placing it on the side of the table. “I’m sorry, Rollo,” Poppy whispered, her voice thick with tears.
“That’s all right,” said the editor, “you’ve had a huge shock.”
Poppy nodded and, still trembling, brought the cup to her lips.
“Now, should I order for us both?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Rollo looked at his protégé with sympathy. “I’ll order a steak and pickle sandwich for you then, and if you don’t eat it, I’ll ask the waitress to wrap it up in a doggy bag.”
Poppy nodded.
Rollo called over the waitress and gave the order of two steak sandwiches and salad on the side.
“So,” he said, “let me get this straight. Elizabeth actually knew that Alfie was here in New York and has been covering for him?”
She nodded again. Words were beyond her for now.
“And he – and she – seemed to know something about the murder of von Hassler. Confirming, perhaps, that it is murder and not just an accident. Alfie, of course, claiming he didn’t do it. Hmmm… not sure what to do with that for now. We need to wait and hear what information Quinn comes up with about who put the lid on this thing. If we tell the police what we know before we have that intel to hand, it could just get swept under the carpet again. I’ll check in on him after the meeting with the lawyer.”
The Death Beat Page 24