by Shéa MacLeod
“And Dottie and Harry both knew and worked with Derby Jones,” I pointed out.
“Did Kitty know Mr. Jones?” Aunt Butty wondered as we climbed into the car and I started the motor.
“Good question. We should go have a look at Kitty’s place. I have a feeling she knew more than she was letting on,” I said. I pulled into traffic to much blaring of horns and barreled down the road heedless of pedestrians.
Kitty’s flat proved to be a short drive from the morgue. Before we knew it, we were pulling up to the rather dilapidated building. I was nervous about leaving my car alone. “Perhaps you should stay here,” I suggested.
“Nonsense.” Aunt Butty strode down the pavement to where a couple of lads were playing some sort of game with tin cans. “You there!” They stared at her. I could imagine how things must have looked from their angle. “I will give you each one of these,” she waved a coin at them, “if you guard that motorcar,” she stabbed a finger in the direction of my vehicle, “with your lives. When I return there had better not be a scratch on it.” And without waiting for an answer, she whirled around and marched back toward me.
“How do you know they’ll do it and not just steal my tires?”
“Trust me.” There was a glint in her eye. “They’ll do it.” I’d no doubt those boys had seen the same glint and that they’d do exactly what Aunt Butty told them to.
“Very well,” I sighed. “Let’s go.”
“Are you sure the place will be empty?” Aunt Butty puffed up the rickety stairs behind me. I kept having visions of the treads giving way and us plunging to our deaths.
“Not totally,” I admitted. “She said she lived with her current boyfriend, but hopefully he won’t be at home.”
He wasn’t. No one answered our knock. It was but a matter of a minute or two before I had the lock picked and we were standing inside Kitty’s flat.
It looked very much like it had the day I’d visited previously. The sink was full of dirty dishes, underclothes were strung on a line to dry, and the place smelled of dust and rotting foot.
Aunt Butty wrinkled her nose. “Appalling. How will we find anything in this mess?”
“Very carefully. Why don’t you look around in here and I’ll search the bedroom?”
“Fine with me. Based on the state of this room, I don’t want to see what the bedroom looks like,” she said.
The flat was one of those horrible places that didn’t have its own loo. One had to jaunt down the hall in one’s nightclothes and hope one’s neighbor wasn’t taking his own sweet time. I was very glad I didn’t have to live in such a place.
The only room other than the kitchen area was the bedroom which was just big enough for a double bed. There wasn’t even space for a wardrobe or nightstand. Instead, there were pegs along the wall from which hung numerous dresses, cardigans, cheap purses, and overcoats of varying thicknesses. Shoes were thrown haphazardly under the bed.
A shelf had been nailed to the wall on one side of the bed and appeared to serve as a sort of dressing table. There was a small mirror, a bottle of drugstore perfume, a chipped glass containing a couple of well-worn lipsticks, a box of powder, and a couple pots of inexpensive face creams. There was also a hatpin cushion, currently containing a single cheap enamel hatpin, its head in the shape of a flower. Which didn’t mean anything. I didn’t know a single woman who didn’t own at least one hatpin.
What there wasn’t was any sign of a man living there. I found that very odd, seeing as how Kitty had claimed to live with her new beau.
Perhaps he’d split once he heard she’d died. Only there was no indication of that being the case as the pegs were all full. I would have thought he’d have at least used one, which would now stand empty. And there was no space for male footwear beneath the bed, nor any sign any had been there. The only empty space was just large enough for a single pair of shoes. No doubt the ones Kitty had been wearing when she was killed.
Which left one option. Kitty had lied about the boyfriend. Either she had one, but he didn’t live with her, or she didn’t have a boyfriend at all.
Option one made little sense. If she had a boyfriend, why would she lie about him living with her? I could see her lying about such a thing to Dottie, wanting to make it appear as if she was over her betrayal, but to two perfect strangers? There would be nothing in it for her.
Option two, on the other hand, made a lot of sense if she were trying to divert suspicion. If she had a boyfriend and was happy in her new life, she’d have no reason to harm Dottie in revenge for stealing Archie. However, if she didn’t have a boyfriend and was still pining for her lost love, killing Dottie suddenly became a real possibility.
Except for one thing. The murderer had killed three people, and Kitty had hardly done herself in. No, I was still betting on Derby Jones.
I took a last look around, checking every pocket and even under the pillows. Nothing. So I knelt on the threadbare rug and began turning over shoes. I only had three left when a bit of paper fluttered out of one. It landed on the floor face down.
Dropping the shoe, I scooped up the bit of paper and turned it over. It was a photograph of Dottie and Kitty standing together in front of the Natural History Museum. Both had wide smiles on their faces. Kitty’s eyes sparkled with laughter while Dottie... well, someone had drawn a slash of red lipstick right through Dottie’s face.
Chapter 14
Later that evening, Chaz, Hale, and I gathered at Aunt Butty’s flat to review our findings so far. When Hale arrived, I beat Mr. Singh to the door and dragged Hale into the tiny box room Aunt Butty claimed was a “study” but was really more of a nap room. It was nice to have a moment to ourselves before rejoining the madness that was our lives.
Over boulevardiers, which Chaz mixed up despite Mr. Singh’s protestations that cocktails were his purview, we discussed the facts of the case so far. Including my and Aunt Butty’s trip to Kitty’s. I told them about finding the photo and my conclusions about Kitty’s lies, along with my realization that she couldn’t be the murderer anyway.
“And what about you, Aunt B,” Chaz drawled. “What did you find?”
“Precious little. There was a biscuit tin with a few shillings and a receipt from a pawnbroker for a men’s pocket watch.”
“Probably stolen,” Hale said dryly.
“Maybe from the mysterious boyfriend of whom no one can find hide nor hair,” Chaz suggested, taking a long swallow of his cocktail.
“So we are at an impasse,” I said with a sigh. The idea made me melancholy. If I couldn’t find the real killer, and soon, I’d no doubt North would find an excuse to lock me up again.
“Buck up,” Hale said softly, running a finger down my bare arm, resulting in a shiver. “Things will come out all right. They always do.”
He had a point. Things had seemed very dark after he’d left France to marry Dottie. I’d been sure that was it. I would never see him again. And now, here he was.
I felt the tiniest stab of guilt. I shouldn’t be so glad a woman was dead. No one deserved that. Not even the terrible Dottie. But she had used her lies to steal Hale away, and that was unforgiveable. If you’ve got to lie to get or keep your man, there is something intrinsically wrong with your relationship to my mind.
Of course, I reminded myself, Dottie wasn’t like me. I had enough money I didn’t need a man. But a woman like Dottie... she’d probably felt she had no choice. That she needed a man to make her way in the world. Still, she could have easily found someone else, not lied about a pregnancy to get her way. I couldn’t say I was entirely sorry she was gone.
I dragged my attention back to what Aunt Butty was saying. “—of course, what we need to do is get into Derby Jones’s office.”
“Oh, no.” Chaz sat bolt upright. “The two of you should stay away from Jones. He’s dangerous. We already found that out. Look what he did to poor Harry.”
Poor Harry, indeed. Stabbed through the heart with a hatpin. Ghastly. And all he’d
done was tell us the truth. That is, if him spilling the beans was the reason he’d been killed, which I assumed it was. What other reason could there be?
“We don’t know for sure that Jones killed Harry.” I played devil’s advocate. “It could have been someone else.”
Hale gave me a look. “You don’t believe that.”
I sighed. “No, I don’t. But there’s only one way we’re ever going to prove anything.”
“I agree,” said Aunt Butty, swinging one leg over the other as she drained the last of her cocktail. “North is useless. We have to do this ourselves.”
“There’s safety in numbers,” Hale pointed out. “How about you all come see my band perform tonight. Then afterward, we’ll see about digging the dirt on this Mr. Jones.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. Hale didn’t often go on our little adventures with us, usually because he was busy performing.
“Hey, I’ve got as much stake in this as you do.”
True. It was his wife who’d been killed, estranged or not. And if he felt for me even a fraction of what I felt for him, my being charged with murder wouldn’t go down easily. “All right, it’s a plan.”
Chaz groaned. “Overruled again.”
Aunt Butty snorted. “Amusing, seeing as how you’re usually the one up to your eyeballs in Ophelia’s shenanigans.”
“Maybe we should bring Mr. Singh along, too,” I said, eyeing Aunt Butty’s mysterious butler who was currently mixing up more cocktails.
He bowed elegantly. “I live to serve.”
“What about your chauffeur, Simon Vale?” Chaz suggested. “He was in the army, wasn’t he?”
“Wonderful idea, dear boy,” Aunt Butty approved.
That meant there were six of us against Derby Jones and whatever goons he had with him. Hopefully it wouldn’t matter, and we’d be able to sneak in and out without him noticing. Facing Mr. Jones was simply not on the agenda.
Aunt Butty clapped her hands in delight. “Let the first investigation of our murder club commence.”
I groaned. “I think we need a better name.”
THE LION CLUB WAS MUCH as I remembered it from my failed date with Varant. I felt a little pang over the fact I hadn’t seen or spoken to him recently. I hadn’t had much of a chance to thank him for getting me out of jail the first time.
It wasn’t the sort of pang one feels over losing a loved one. But more a pang of relieved guilt when one is about to get out of an awkward entanglement. While I thought Varant was rather dishy and was often useful to my “little adventures,” as Aunt Butty called them, the thought of becoming Lady Varant made me squeamish. And Varant was not the sort of man to accept any arrangement other than marriage.
I wondered if he’d be terribly upset with me, or if he, too, would be relieved. It was hard to say with Varant. He was a bit of an enigma.
Shoving thoughts of Varant aside, I focused on the energy in the room. The band was playing a zippy number, Hale really pounding away at those ivories. Aunt Butty was on cocktail number three, her foot tapping along to the beat as dancing couples swirled around us. Chaz was chatting up a sultry young man at the bar, while Mr. Singh was outside with the car. He’d insisted that such an upscale establishment was no place for a butler.
It was late—or early, depending on how one looked at it—and exhaustion pressed heavily on me. I’d had a very long day after an even longer and sleepless night. I wanted nothing more than to be tucked into my warm bed, with the promise of hot cocoa in the morning.
Instead, I’d donned a rather simple black evening dress, a pair of matching t-straps, and a single pearl strand necklace. While I’m no Aunt Butty, the outfit was boring even by my standards. It was, however, perfect for a night of breaking and entering.
We waited until last call was announced by an elegant gentleman in a black tuxedo, before gathering our coats and exiting the building. Aunt Butty’s chauffeur, Simon, brought the car around. Mr. Singh sat next to him looking somber. I hoped he wasn’t upset about our asking him to join us. I’d seen Mr. Singh in a crisis before, and the man was astonishingly steadfast and a quick thinker. Just the sort of person you’d want with you on a crime spree.
We piled in the back and Simon motored around to the back entrance where we waited for Hale to put in an appearance. About twenty minutes later, he finally did, much to our relief. The car was a bit chilly, despite the valiant efforts of the heater and multiple layers of clothing.
He popped in beside me and wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “All right, boys and girls, are we ready to commit a felony?” he asked as Simon pulled away from the curb.
“Hardly that,” Aunt Butty sniffed. “We’ve no intention of stealing anything, and therefore it’s simply trespass. A civil matter at most.”
“You English sure do have a different way of looking at things,” he said easily.
A few minutes later, Simon stopped the car in an alleyway a few blocks from Jones’s club. The place was narrow and stank of rotted garbage and stale urine, but it was the perfect location to conceal a vehicle as obvious as Aunt Butty’s bright red 1929 Rolls Royce Phantom.
We all clambered out, and this time Mr. Singh joined us. Only Simon stayed behind to guard the car and enjoy a cigarette. I didn’t smoke and found the habit vile, but for once I almost wished I was staying behind with him. Instead, I girded my loins and joined the others on the pavement.
We found a good spot where we could keep an eye on the Apollyon but could remain unseen by anyone exiting the building. The club was dark, which unfortunately meant nothing. Based on previous experience, they shut the light off shortly after last call to avoid an influx of drunks looking for a new drinking hole. Shortly after that, they’d kick out their inebriated patrons, and shortly after that, the employees would exit out the back door. Based on my watch, the employees should be leaving right about now.
Sure enough, the back door banged open, and half a dozen people sauntered out. Their voices carried on the chill night air. They strolled by us, smoking and chatting about events of the evening and who was doing what after getting some sleep before they splintered off in various directions, disappearing into the night.
“I didn’t see Jones,” Chaz muttered. “Or his goons.”
“Nor did I,” I said. “Maybe he wasn’t there tonight.”
Hale snorted. “Unlikely. Word on the street is he never misses a night. Likes to keep a tight rein on things.”
“Makes sense,” Aunt Butty said. “After all, if your ill-gotten gains were tied up in such a business, wouldn’t you want to keep an eagle eye out?”
“You got that right,” Hale agreed.
“What do we do then?” I asked no one in particular. “How do we get Derby Jones and his goons out of the building? If they’re even in there.”
“Carefully,” Chaz muttered.
I made a face at him. “Don’t be an ass.”
“I could go knock on the door,” Aunt Butty suggested. “Tell them I’m lost.”
Hale shook his head. “They’ll never believe you. You’re not exactly the sort of person that usually hangs out in this part of town.”
“I suggest we wait for one hour,” Mr. Singh spoke up at last. “It is unlikely that Mr. Jones would stay longer than that. It should be sufficient time for him to count the night’s takings and mark them in his books. Once that is done, he will most likely be on his way and we will be able to enter without incident.”
It was the most amount of words I’d ever heard him utter at once, and naturally it was the most logical suggestion. So we waited. Meanwhile, my toes grew numb and my feet turned to blocks of ice. I was beginning to wish I’d worn my fur-lined boots. Why hadn’t I thought of that? They would have been out of place in The Lion’s Club, of course, but I could have kept them in the car and worn them for our investigation. I refused to call it breaking and entering. It wasn’t. While it may be trespass, it was for a good cause.
And if North bought that, I had a bu
cket of sand to sell him.
At last, the back door banged open and a hulking, gorilla-like shadow appeared. As he moved into the light cast by a nearby streetlamp, I realized it was one of Jones’s goons. He stopped on the pavement, looked right and left, then turned and gestured.
A moment later, Derby Jones and Goon Number Two joined him. They were all heavily muffled in thick, wool trenches, knitted scarves, and bowler hats pulled low over their brows, but their builds and features were nonetheless unmistakable.
“We should probably wait a few,” Chaz suggested. “Make sure they don’t come back.”
The minutes ticked intolerably on. At last, when it had been five minutes, I gave up. “Come on. Let’s go. We can’t stand here all night.” And without waiting for an answer, I strode across the street.
Chapter 15
Naturally, the alley door was locked. No surprise there.
“I could pick it,” Chaz said. “Might take a while.”
“What about the window?” I assumed it led to a cloakroom.
Hale squinted up at it. It was set high in the wall. “Not sure any of us could reach it. Not unless you’ve learned to fly recently.”
I snorted. “Don’t be a ninny. One of you can hoist me up.”
Hale and Chaz exchanged glances.
I propped my hands on my hips. “I’m not that heavy.”
“No, my lady, you are not,” Mr. Singh said. “I am certain I could lift you easily.”
I gave the boys my haughtiest Lady of the Manor look. There. Take that.
“However,” Mr. Singh continued, “the window is quite small. I don’t know that you will fit.”
“Of course, I will! Easy peasy. Come on then.” I waved him closer to the brick wall and hoisted my skirt.
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Butty murmured.
“This is not going to go well,” Chaz muttered.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” I said. “Right, then, Mr. Singh. Ready when you are.”