The Death Beat

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Poppy looked up, more alert than she’d been for a while. “So we’re going to the lawyer then?”

  Rollo nodded. “I think so, yes. The one thing we haven’t followed up on yet – and I think he can help us with this – is to find out who all the owners of the garment factory are. What did you say the name was? Magriet Fashions?”

  “Yes,” said Poppy and summoned up a weak smile for the waitress as she arrived with the sandwiches. The woman smiled back, looking relieved that the distraught young woman was finally pulling herself together.

  “Thanks,” said Rollo, and picked up his knife to cut the sandwich in half. He gestured with the blade, offering to do the same for Poppy.

  “Yes please.” The tea was beginning to work its magic. Poppy thought she might be able to manage some food after all. Rollo smiled approvingly as she picked up the sandwich and took a small bite.

  “I think you’re right about these two stories being linked,” Rollo continued. “It’s too much of a coincidence that Alfie is involved in both. Did I hear you right? Elizabeth said Alfie knows something about the prostitutes too?”

  Poppy nodded, unable to speak this time because her mouth was full of a juicy piece of steak.

  Rollo held his sandwich in both hands, ready to take a bite. “Then we definitely need to find out more about the ownership structure of the place. Who else is involved? Who knows what’s going on there? Is it just the Spencers? Do they know what’s actually happening at their own factory, or are they owners in name only? That wouldn’t surprise me. Theo is busy with his senatorial work – it takes up the bulk of his time now. As far as I know, he’s become very hands-off with his various business interests in recent years. So who has he put in charge in his absence? And do they know about the prostitution ring and/or the murder? Or is it, after all, just Alfie who connects the two stories on his own? We won’t know until we do a bit more digging.”

  Rollo took a large bite and started to chew.

  Digging, yes: that’s exactly what they needed to do. Poppy put down her sandwich, wiped her hands on her napkin, and reached into her satchel to retrieve her notebook. “Not that I don’t think Alfie is the prime suspect in this, Rollo, but I’ve been wondering whether or not we’ve adequately considered other scenarios. I don’t want to be blinded by my personal prejudice in all this.” She opened the notebook to the pages she’d written on the bus, brainstorming the motive, means, and opportunity of various suspects in the von Hassler murder.

  Rollo put down his sandwich and picked up the book. He perused the notes, grunting approvingly and tapping various phrases with his fingernail. He looked up at Poppy, smiling, a bit of pickle stuck in his front teeth.

  “Excellent work, Miz Denby. I couldn’t have done better myself.”

  Poppy felt a small quiver of pride. “Thank you, Rollo; that means a lot to me.”

  Rollo’s finger tapped the note relating to the doorman knowing who went up or down in the prince’s building. “This is just around the corner. We can swing by there before we go and see Barnes. Shouldn’t take us more than a few minutes.”

  Poppy nodded her agreement before taking a much larger bite of her sandwich.

  Rollo grinned. “I see you’ve got your appetite back.”

  237 Lexington Avenue, a ten-storey apartment building, was one of the most swish addresses in New York. Rollo listed a who’s who of Manhattan elite in the short walk over there, all of whom either lived permanently at the address or kept a flat there for when they were in town. One of the names caught Poppy’s attention: Howard Parker.

  “The film producer?” asked Poppy. “From Black Horse Productions?”

  “Yes,” agreed Rollo as the two journalists negotiated a gap in the traffic to cross the road and approach the entrance of the building. “Have you heard of him?”

  Poppy said she had only just heard the name that morning, and went on to tell Rollo what Delilah had told her about the producers.

  Rollo stopped a few paces out of earshot from a doorman. “How very interesting.”

  “And he lives here?” asked Poppy.

  “Not all year round, no. He’s one of the fellas who keep a place here for when they’re in town. Like most film people these days he splits his time between the east and west coast. And you say he was at the party? Did you see him?”

  Poppy tried to picture the four men she had seen in the library. “I think so, but I’m not sure which one he was. There were three younger men, and one older – my guess would be that was him. He seemed to be in charge.” Poppy described the man with mutton-chop sideburns.

  Rollo grunted. “Sounds like it might be him. I’ll show you a photograph of him when we get back to the office and you can identify him properly. Hmmm, very interesting – very interesting indeed. Let’s see what the doorman has to say, shall we?”

  Poppy and Rollo approached the man who was wearing a top hat, tails, and full livery.

  “Good day to you, my good man,” said the editor in the poshest accent Poppy had ever heard. She stifled a smile. “I do believe there may be an apartment available in this building after that most unfortunate accident. The penthouse?”

  The doorman raised his hat in greeting. “Good day, sir. I don’t know if it is available yet. Or whether it will be. I believe the prince’s nephew might be taking it over. It’s still early days.”

  Rollo nodded sympathetically. “Of course, yes, a dreadful business. Very upsetting for everyone involved.”

  The doorman nodded, his face sinking into an appropriately concerned expression. “Yes, it was.”

  “Was it you who found the body?” asked Poppy. “I’ve never met anyone who found a dead body before…” Poppy allowed her blue eyes to widen into what she hoped looked like unbridled admiration.

  The doorman visibly straightened, proud of his small role in an important story.

  “Forgive my niece; she’s new in town and thinks America is exactly like they show in the movies.” Rollo winked at her.

  Poppy took the hint. “Oh yes! The movies! I heard that Howard Parker lives on this street somewhere. Is that true?”

  The doorman smiled indulgently at the eager young English girl. “Oh yes. And in this very building! We have a lot of famous people who live here, miz. If your uncle does manage to get the penthouse, you’ll be in the very best company.”

  Poppy’s mouth opened in awe. “Oh uncle, did you hear that? Howard Parker lives here! Was he here the night the prince died?”

  The doorman said that he was. And that Mr Parker was just as shocked as everyone else.

  “A terrible business,” Rollo agreed, then tipped the doorman handsomely. The man doffed his hat before turning his attention to a car pulling up. Poppy carried on playing the part of the wide-eyed innocent as a well-heeled couple emerged from the vehicle. “Oh uncle, look! Is that Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford? Oh, do get us that apartment!”

  Rollo chuckled before leading his “niece” away.

  Mr Barnes ushered them into his office as soon as his assistant told him they were there. He opened a silver cigarette holder and offered it to his guests. Poppy declined; Rollo accepted, leaning in to allow the lawyer to light it.

  Then Rollo laid Marjorie’s telegram on the green leather desk. Barnes picked it up, read it, and drew on his cigarette. He held the smoke in his mouth for a while, then slowly exhaled. “Thank you for this. It’s the evidence I need. The question is, when do I alert the police that he’s about? Because I must do that. He’s a fugitive from justice, you understand. British justice, to be fair, but it’s just a matter of time until a request for an arrest warrant is brought by the Brits. And…” he re-checked the telegram, “if I’m not mistaken, this ‘Marjorie’ is Marjorie Reynolds of the British Home Office.” He tapped his ash into the onyx ash tray, looking at Rollo over the desk.

  “It is,” Rollo conceded.

  “Hmmm,” said Barnes. “Yes, I can use this. I will need to get a court order to re-open the
coroner’s investigation into von Hassler’s death though. Any further word on who put a lid on it?”

  Rollo shook his head. “I went to visit the mortuary again, to speak to the fella who initially told me the prince had not died of natural causes. But he has suddenly, and unexpectedly, taken leave. His colleagues don’t know when he’ll be back. Very suspicious. However, Judson Quinn is looking into it via his contacts too. He thinks he’ll have something by the end of the day.”

  “Good,” said Barnes, rolling his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. “However, Alfie Dorchester is another kettle of fish. The moment I alert the police, he will be a wanted man. Not in the von Hassler case necessarily, that’s still up in the air, but the fact that he has been impersonating Otto von Riesling and seeking to benefit financially from it. That’s fraud and potentially blackmail – before we even add murder to the charge sheet. And as far as I can tell, alerting Alfie that we’re on to him might not be what you want at this stage of the investigation. Am I correct?”

  Rollo drew on his own cigarette and exhaled. “You are; however, developments this morning might make that a moot point.”

  “Oh?” said Barnes, tapping another tip of ash into the tray.

  “Yes,” said Rollo and went on to explain how Poppy had come across Alfie only a few hours earlier at his sister’s house in Chelsea.

  Barnes leaned back in his chair, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. “So, he’s probably on the run anyway. He no doubt thinks Miz Denby here would waste no time going to the police. Is that right, Miz Denby?”

  “Yes and no,” said Poppy. “I haven’t been to the police. I’m not sure yet if that is the best thing. I do want him to face justice, but I’m aware that timing in this is important – particularly because we don’t yet know if the New York police are to be trusted on this.”

  Barnes leaned forward and tapped some more ash into the tray. He smiled. “Congratulations, Rolandson; you’ve trained her well.”

  Of course not one word of this was directed at her. Yes, Rollo had “trained her” – in newsgathering technique – but she was not an automaton.

  Rollo put his cigarette in the tray. “I’m afraid, Mr Barnes, Miz Denby has a mind of her own. And one I greatly respect. If we were to go to the police about this, I would like to have her opinion, and to consider it carefully. Poppy, what do you think?”

  Poppy was silent for a moment. Eventually she spoke. “The cat’s out of the bag, I think. If Alfie wants to run, he will have done so. The moment I left he would have thought his time was limited. If he had any sense he’d have packed a bag and been on the first train out of here.” She looked at her watch. “Three hours later, I think he’ll already have gone. Alerting the police will only get Elizabeth into trouble. On the other hand, if she has been harbouring a fugitive…” Poppy put her palms together and twiddled her fingers.

  “So what to do…” Rollo crushed out the stub of his cigarette and exhaled. “As you say, Poppy, I think the cat’s out of the bag with Alfie. So Barnes, if you can alert the authorities regarding an arrest warrant, they might still be able to catch him. The details can be worked out later. Regarding the cover-up of the von Hassler murder, if you can give me until the end of the day, I can see what Quinn can add to this.”

  Barnes nodded. “I can do that. Is there anything else?”

  Poppy and Rollo looked at each other and shared a knowing glance. “Actually, yes,” said Rollo. “You arranged for the transfer of deeds from Hans von Hassler to his – supposed – nephew, Otto von Riesling, relating to Magriet Fashions. Is that correct?”

  Barnes templed his fingers. “It is. Up until today I had no legal reason to doubt Otto von Riesling was who he claimed to be. He produced a birth certificate, his uncle vouched for him…”

  Rollo raised his hands. “We are not apportioning blame here. Perfectly understandable. I accept that. However… what we’d like to know is who else has shares in Magriet Fashions. Was it only Hans von Hassler and Theo Spencer, or is there someone else?”

  Barnes popped his lips against his fingertips. “Hmmm. I’m assuming here you already know something.”

  “And you’d be right,” said Rollo.

  Fibber, thought Poppy. We don’t know anything for sure.

  “Well,” said Barnes. “Then I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that the third shareholder in Magriet Fashions is the film producer Howard Parker.”

  Rollo nodded sagely. “No, Mr Barnes, thank you. That comes as no surprise at all.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Back at The New York Times, Poppy and Rollo went straight to Judson Quinn’s office. As they arrived, a red-faced Paul Saunders was just leaving. He made no effort to avoid a collision and rammed into Poppy with his shoulder. Poppy staggered but retained her balance.

  “Steady on, Saunders!” called Rollo.

  “Leave him; it’s all right. I believe Mr Quinn has had a few words with him.”

  “You’re right.” Judson Quinn appeared in the doorway. He looked pale and tired. Poppy noticed his left arm drooping more than usual. “Come in, come in.”

  “So…” said Rollo, cocking his head back towards the door. “Has Saunders got his marching orders?”

  Quinn shook his head wearily. “No, just a dressing down. There’s no evidence that he was aware of the cover-up; just lazy journalism.”

  Poppy nodded. Yes, that was fair. She didn’t like the man much, but he didn’t deserve to lose his job if he wasn’t guilty of a cover up. “So did you find out who was responsible?”

  Quinn closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Poppy and Rollo waited. He opened them and met Poppy’s concerned gaze with a wan smile. “My contacts in the NYPD – that’s the police, Miz Denby – said word had come from above. They had not actually found any evidence of foul play, so were not really covering anything up – that’s their excuse anyway – but they were told to wrap up the case as quickly as possible. In other words, not to look too carefully in case they did find anything. The actual cover-up, it seems, was directed at the coroner’s office.”

  “Yes,” agreed Rollo, and told Quinn that the mortician was now “on leave”.

  “You have the notes, though,” probed Quinn, “about the first autopsy report? A judge will no doubt want to see them.”

  “Agreed. I’ve given the von Hassler lawyer copies of the photographs I took of Poppy’s originals. He’ll use them in his application to have the case re-opened. Poppy and I may also have to swear affidavits, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Quinn frowned. “Don’t do it without one of our legal boys being there. Remember Barnes is not your lawyer and does not have your – or the paper’s – best interests at heart.”

  Rollo agreed and asked Quinn to arrange a meeting with the legal team. Quinn said he would.

  “So…” pressed Rollo, “if the police are clear, but the coroner is dirty, who gave the order from above? The police chief or the chief medical officer?”

  “Neither,” said Quinn, pushing his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose. “Apparently it was political.”

  “City Hall? Why?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Higher. I don’t have any corroborating evidence yet, but my sources tell me that influence was applied from a senator’s office.”

  “Senator Spencer?” asked Poppy, her mind racing, trying to piece it all together.

  Quinn raised his one good hand. “I wasn’t given a name. So that, for now, is just a guess.”

  “A very educated guess,” observed Rollo. “But what would his motivation be, if it was him? Why would Theo Spencer want to stop an investigation into von Hassler’s death?”

  Poppy was flicking through her notebook, looking for the interview with the housekeeper, Nora Lawson. “Mrs Lawson said she thought there was going to be a cover-up because von Hassler was a homosexual and certain people would not want their association with him to be known.”

  “You think Theo Spencer might
be a pansy?” Rollo grinned. “Oh, my mother would just love that!”

  Quinn laughed but then added the caution: “We have no proof that he is… homosexual – or for that matter involved in this in any way. And for something as inflammatory as that, we would need cast-iron evidence.”

  “Agreed,” said Rollo.

  Poppy chewed her lip. “You know, at the time I thought the whole thing very strange. Mrs Lawson was crying foul before anything had happened. How did she know this would be the case? I think she might know more than she’s telling us. And, let’s not forget, she has a motive for ensuring Alfie Dorchester – or who she thought was Otto von Riesling – goes down for murder.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?” asked Rollo.

  “If you recall, Barnes told us she was the secondary beneficiary of the will. If von Riesling was prohibited from inheriting because of his involvement in his uncle’s death, she would get it all.”

  “Great Scot!” declared Quinn. “That’s a motive if ever I’ve heard one.”

  “And means, and opportunity…” added Poppy.

  Rollo twiddled his thumbs together. “She certainly does appear suspect, doesn’t she? Either she killed the prince herself or knows for certain that Alfie did… but how would she know? Was she there? Did she see him? Did Alfie visit his uncle that day? Or did anyone else? These are probably questions we should have asked when we first met her. But we were distracted by other concerns… Water under the bridge… Another visit to Mrs L. is definitely needed. Righto…”

  Rollo started gathering his things then stopped, raising his index finger as something occurred to him. “Another thing I’ve been thinking about is the murder weapon. Either the killer brought it with him or something in the apartment was used. Who better than the housekeeper to know if something was missing or had been moved? Apart from the police activity in the bathroom, everything else appeared ship-shape. Would you agree, Poppy?”

  Poppy nodded. “Yes. It was a very tidy apartment. She probably would know if something was missing.” She grimaced. “You would think the police would have checked already, though, wouldn’t you?”