“Are you sure the theatre won’t mind you borrowing it, Delilah?”
“Not at all! I would have given you one of mine, but you are a couple of sizes bigger than me.”
Poppy raised a recently plucked eyebrow.
“Not that you’re big. Good heavens, I’d never say that. It’s just that –”
Poppy laughed at the petite beauty beside her. “I know you wouldn’t. I am bigger than you. In all directions. How do you keep so slim?”
“Ciggies, darling!” said Delilah and produced a foot-long cigarette holder. “Want one?” she offered Poppy.
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
Delilah didn’t take offence but posed with the cigarette holder held between two fingers and her legs crossed at the ankle as she took in her handiwork. “Divine!” she declared again.
If anyone was divine it was Delilah, thought Poppy. The actress wore a black velvet shift dress with silver threads running from neckline to hem, finished off by a fringe of tassels in alternating black and silver. She wore silver satin shoes and an elaborate diamante headdress. Her black hair had been recently cut and the square bob framed her heart-shaped face beautifully. Her make-up was as exotic as it had been the first time Poppy met her and her dark brown eyes smouldered like polished ebony.
Poppy rubbed her lips together, unaccustomed to wearing make-up, but not wanting to offend her new friend. “I don’t know, Delilah. Don’t you think it’s a bit much? I’m not used to wearing all of this.”
“It looks like a lot now, darling, but when you’re in the club the lights will be dimmer and you will look like a ghost unless you put on a bit of slap. Trust me.”
Poppy smiled nervously. She had already lost the argument about going out on a “school night” when the Lord knew she needed an early night. She had tried to tell Delilah that she was exhausted from her new job, but the girl had pouted and declared that she had absolutely no one else to go with, as she was currently between suitors and it was too late to rouse any of her girlfriends.
“And I must go, darling. I must! I’ve heard Mr De Mille might be there. And even Mr Chaplin!”
Poppy knew that she referred to famous film directors and assumed that she wanted to try to catch their eye. Poppy didn’t have the heart to disappoint her.
“All right then, I’ll come. But I must be back before midnight.”
With a clap of her hands Delilah proceeded to jazz up Cinderella, and within an hour they were both ready to go to the ball.
Aunt Dot and Grace both declined to accompany them. They were subdued after their emotional recollections and said they would both go to bed early. Grace checked that Poppy had her key and then locked the door behind them as they left.
Out on the street Delilah looked longingly across the road at the Electric Cinema Theatre and declared that one day she would grace the screens like Mary Pickford and Clara Bow. Poppy had no doubt that she would.
Oscar’s was thrumming; the music burst out of the club in spurts as the double brass-plated doors opened and closed. As usual, the queue to get into the hottest spot in town went halfway around the block. Delilah made her way to the front with Poppy in tow and caught the eye of the doorman, who winked at the two girls and ushered them in. Inside, the roar of the partygoers duelled with the raucous ragtime of the band. Dinner was over and the dancing had begun. But instead of taking to the floor, Delilah made her way to the bar.
“Can I get you anything?” she shouted at Poppy.
“Champagne?”
“You have expensive taste!” Delilah laughed and ordered two glasses of pink bubbly from the barman, who also winked at her. Poppy wondered if he and the doorman were two of the suitors Delilah had spoken of. But Delilah, it seemed, had her sights set a lot higher.
“There he is!” She clutched Poppy’s arm and directed the blonde girl’s gaze.
In the middle of the floor, surrounded by bright young things, stood Charles Chaplin: film director, producer and actor. Poppy had seen him recently on the silver screen when she had accompanied her aunt to the Electric Cinema. Apparently he was in London to promote his new film The Kid– the first time he’d been back in England for ten years. Poppy had been following his story in The Globe and knew that he received a lot of criticism as a “draft dodger”. However, the fawning socialites seemed to have forgiven him. As had Delilah.
“Oh! Isn’t he a dream? He looks nothing like the Tramp. That silly moustache must just have been a costume. Hold on, I’m going to get his autograph.” And before Poppy knew it, Delilah had left her at the bar and sashayed her way through the crowd to whisper something in Chaplin’s ear. Chaplin looked down at Delilah and gave her one of his most dashing smiles, then kissed her on the cheek and signed the napkin she proffered.
“She knows how to make an impression, doesn’t she?”
Poppy turned at the sound of the upper-class male voice to see a man in his early thirties sporting a tuxedo, white bow-tie and black and white snakeskin jazz shoes. He had slicked-down blond hair and light grey eyes and held a cigarette in one hand and a glass of whisky in the other – which he raised to Poppy.
“If you didn’t already have a drink, I would offer to buy you one.”
“Thank you,” Poppy said, flushing. She wasn’t really sure if it would be considered “fast” to accept a drink from a strange gentleman in a club, so was grateful she didn’t have to make the decision.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” He leaned in closer. Poppy could smell the whisky on his breath. She wondered if he was squiffy.
“I’ve been once before.” She clutched the stem of her glass tightly.
“I’m sure I would have noticed if you had.”
Poppy shifted slightly, but did not want to make a scene. The man did not take the hint and moved in closer still. He put an arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear, “You look swanky.”
She ducked from under his arm, spilling some of her drink down the front of his shirt.
“Oh, you little slapper!”
“I beg your pardon, sir! That was an accident. But your arm around my shoulder was not. You, sir, are a cad.”
“Take that!” said Delilah, joining her friend and pulling her away from the bar. “Stay away from him, Poppy. He’s no gentleman.”
But the “gentleman” in question was too busy dousing his shirt front in soda water and dabbing at it with a bar towel to respond with more than an “Oh, shut up, Delilah.”
“Who’s that?” asked Poppy as the dark-haired girl found them a table near the bandstand.
“A former suitor. He showed his true colours before I let him put his shackle on me.”
Poppy looked alarmed and Delilah laughed and pointed to her ring finger on her left hand.
“A shackle is an engagement ring. Don’t they call them that in Northumberland?”
“I’ve never heard it before.” The girls sat down. “So he asked you to marry him?”
“He did, but he was drunk. Even if I hadn’t said no, his father wouldn’t have let him go through with it.”
“Why’s that?”
Delilah shrugged and pursed her lips. “Long story. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but tonight I don’t want to think about Alfie Dorchester.” Then she giggled. “Who needs an Alfie when you can have a Charlie!” She produced the autographed napkin excitedly.
But Poppy hardly focused on the scrawled signature. Had Delilah really said Alfie Dorchester? Poppy looked across the club at the young aristocrat at the bar – who by now had recovered from the spillage and was making a move on another unaccompanied young lady – and saw immediately the similarity between him and the man she had met that morning. My, my, thought Poppy. The plot thickens.
It was just before midnight when Poppy managed to convince Delilah it was time to go home. They waved to Oscar, who made Poppy promise to give his regards to her aunt, and stepped out of the overheated foyer into the cool Chelsea night. A bank of camera flashes nearly
blinded them.
“It’s not them!” someone shouted and was greeted with a barrage of expletives.
“Who did they think we were?” asked Poppy as the girls scurried aside.
“Dunno. Could be anyone. I saw Suzanne Lenglen inside. And of course Chaplin.”
Delilah took Poppy’s arm and the two girls started heading up King’s Road, which was double-parked outside the jazz club for at least a quarter of a mile. Taxis and chauffeured private vehicles were picking people up and, incredibly to Poppy’s mind, dropping people off. It seemed as if Oscar’s only started warming up after midnight. They were well away from the scrum of photographers when Poppy stifled a yawn.
“Past your bedtime?” said a familiar voice from the curb.
Poppy squinted through the dim gaslight. Her heart sank. Alfie Dorchester was sitting in a silver Bentley racing car that was more suited to the tracks of St Moritz than the streets of London.
“Do you want a lift?”
“We’re fine,” said Delilah tersely.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” drawled Alfie. “I’ve already had you. I want to try your little friend.”
Delilah gave a sharp intake of breath, then exhaled slowly.
“Just ignore him,” whispered Poppy, and the two girls kept on walking.
But Alfie wasn’t one to give up easily. He vaulted out of his car and stood in front of them, blocking their way.
“Excuse me,” said Poppy and shifted to the left. Alfie moved too.
“Come on, cherry, I bet you taste sweet. Just one little kiss for Alfie.” He reached out his hand to touch Poppy’s face. Before she could react, Delilah had slapped his hand down.
“Keep your filthy paws off her.”
Alfie rounded on Delilah and caught her wrist in his hand. “Ohhh, still the little vixen, I see.”
“Let – go – of – me!” hissed Delilah through gritted teeth.
“Let go of her!” ordered Poppy. Alfie just laughed.
Like father like son, thought Poppy. She grabbed his arm and tried to force him to let go of Delilah. Alfie pushed her away with his other hand. She stumbled but held her ground, then pivoted round on her Cuban heel and brought the other down on his foot. He yelped, let go of Delilah and raised his hand to strike Poppy.
Suddenly a camera flashed, stopping Alfie mid arc. “What the hell?” He pulled out of the blow and stepped away from the girls.
“I think we might just have our front page pic, eh Lionel?”
Poppy’s heart raced. Daniel! He stepped into the gaslight and rounded on Alfie. A small, mousey man in an oversized evening suit scampered after him. “Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Rokeby,” the man squeaked. “I’m sure the viscount was only jesting.”
“Lieutenant Rokeby to the rescue,” observed Alfie. “Stand down, soldier.”
Daniel turned on him and Poppy could see it was taking every bit of his self-control not to swing the heavy camera case at him.
“The war’s over, Dorchester. Go home.”
“Rokeby!” squeaked Lionel again. “I’m sure the viscount has a perfectly reasonable explanation…”
“I’m sure he does. He specializes in reasonable explanations. Don’t you, Dorchester?”
The two men – one blond, one dark-haired, of equal height and build – stared at each other like champion boxers sizing each other up for a fight, while Lionel scurried around, wringing his hands, like a match referee.
Poppy had had enough drama for one night and simply wanted to get home. “It’s all right, Daniel. We’re fine. Aren’t we, Delilah?”
“Yes, we’re fine. But thank you for your help, sir. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn’t intervened.”
Alfie shot Delilah a venomous look but then allowed a serpentine smile to turn up the edges of his thin mouth. “My apologies, ladies. A misunderstanding. There’s no need for this to go any further, is there, Lionel?”
“Absolutely not. This is not the sort of thing we put in the entertainment section of The Globe, is it, Rokeby?”
Daniel took a step back but raised his camera box. “The camera doesn’t lie, Dorchester. Stay away from these girls.”
Alfie nodded mockingly. “Aye, aye, lieutenant.” Then flicked a salute at Delilah and Poppy and vaulted back into his Bentley.
Relieved, the girls thanked Daniel and, less effusively, Lionel for their help.
“I’ll walk you home,” said Daniel and swung the camera case over his shoulder.
Suddenly there was a roar from outside Oscar’s. “Charlie!” someone screamed. Lionel started running and called to Daniel over his shoulder. “Come on!”
Daniel looked back at the girls, uncertain what to do.
“Go,” said Poppy decisively. “We’ll be fine.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yes!” Poppy pushed him playfully.
He grinned and raised his hat. “Good night then, ladies,” he said and then ran to catch up with Lionel.
Poppy and Delilah watched him go.
“My, my, Poppy. Who is your knight in shining armour?” Delilah took Poppy’s arm and they continued up the street as nearby church bells struck twelve.
“Oh, just someone I work with,” said Poppy nonchalantly.
CHAPTER 12
The next day at work Poppy could barely keep her eyes open. It didn’t help that she spent most of the morning in the fusty atmosphere of Rollo’s office where she finally started to tackle the mountain range of files. Rollo left her to it as he was organizing Bert’s funeral and fielding some follow-up questions from the police. He instructed her to leave anything that was either on or within two feet of his desk. Everything else was to be sorted first by date, then alphabetically by slug. A slug, Poppy learned, was a short codename for a story that appeared on each piece of copy and on the back of related photographs. So, for instance, her Midsummer Night’s Dream article was slugged “Midsum’” and the publicity photographs and the poster she’d been given by the theatre were called Midsum pic. 1, 2, 3, etc. Another code she learned was coined by Rollo and specific to The Globe: JF.
“It stands for Jazz Files,” said Rollo. “It’s what we call any story that has a whiff of high society scandal but can’t yet be proven. We’ve got a whole filing cabinet of them downstairs, going back twenty years. We hang on to them because you never know when a skeleton in the closet might prove useful to a story we’re working on now.”
“Downstairs” was the morgue archive on the third floor. After a few hours of sorting, Poppy piled her files onto a wheeled trolley and took the lift down to the third floor. The lift bell clanged and she pulled back the concertinaed iron grille gate. She held it open with one hip and pulled the trolley backwards onto the landing.
“Need a hand there?” It was Daniel.
Her heart skipped a beat. But she kept her voice casual as she said, “If you can keep the gate open, that’ll be a help, thanks.”
Daniel did as he was asked, then closed the gate. The lift bell clanged again and the arrow above the door moved from 3 to 2 to 1 to “G” then to “B” – basement. Suddenly Poppy was reminded of Bert’s accident and the query she had regarding the lift. Daniel must have thought the same.
“I’ve asked Rollo, by the way, and he said he didn’t see anyone getting in or out of the lift on the fourth floor. I was on the second, so that just leaves this one. I was just heading in to see Ivan.”
“Who’s Ivan?”
“Hasn’t Rollo introduced you yet?”
Poppy shook her head.
“Hmmm,” said Daniel. “He should know better than to send you in without forewarning. Ivan can be, how should I say, temperemental?”
Temperemental, eh? If Poppy hadn’t been so tired she would have been intrigued by this mysterious Ivan. But this morning she didn’t really care. She just wanted to offload the files, then have a cup of coffee before the editorial briefing scheduled for midday.
“All right; I’ll do it
then,” declared Daniel and like the day she first met him at the station, he took the trolley from her without asking and pushed it through the double doors, expecting her to follow. Why should I? she thought grumpily. He has a habit of pushing me around, doesn’t he? And just because he’s charming and good looking he thinks he can get away with it. Well, let me tell you something, Mr Daniel Rokeby, I can look after myself. I can… But she didn’t have the energy to make a feminist statement, and meekly followed.
“What do you think you are doing?” someone bellowed in a thick, Russian accent.
Poppy stopped in her tracks. “I – I –”
“Not you. Heeem!” A large bear of a man with shaggy grey hair and an unkempt beard stood arms akimbo in the middle of the morgue.
“Calm down, Ivan. I’m just dropping off some files.”
“Dropping off? Dropping off? How many times have I told that Yankee? There is no dropping off! Appointments must be made. Applications submeeted! I have a seeestem! Ya ne vyezzháyu! I ’ave ’ad eeenuff!”
Then he grabbed a mackintosh and fedora hat from a hat stand and stormed out, leaving Poppy quaking in his wake.
“Is that him?”
Daniel grinned. “That’s him. Ivan Molanov. A White Russian émigré. Don’t worry – he’s just blowing off a little steam. He’ll probably be going to hunt down Rollo.”
“Golly! Should we warn him?”
“Rollo? Nah, he can handle himself.”
“He’ll probably sack him if he talks to him like that!”
Daniel laughed. “Rollo sack Ivan? Hell’ll freeze over before that happens. No, they’re old sparring partners. Ivan needs this job or he’ll be in trouble with the Home Office. They’re under pressure from the Bolsheviks to send back any ‘traitors to the Revolution’. An unemployed Rusky on the streets of London would be easier to round up than the employee of a London newspaper.”
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