The Kill Fee

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  CHAPTER 17

  The man who once owned a bearskin coat stepped out of the Art Deco lift and onto the landing outside his Kensington penthouse flat. He scratched around in his new sheepskin coat pocket and found the key to the rented accommodation. He opened the door and immediately checked to see if the cigarette paper he had left in the lintel was still there. It was. Good, no unwelcome visitors. Unless of course they had come in through the balcony door… He flicked the secret catch on his cane and released the rapier, holding it like a French fencer as he approached the sliding glass doors. Seeing that neither the blinds nor the windows had been disturbed, he lowered the razor-sharp blade, sheathed his rapier and placed it with his hat and coat on the stand near the door. Then he poured himself a large whisky.

  Whisky in hand, he went into his bedroom, kicked off his Italian leather shoes and slipped on a pair of slippers, then plucked a red satin smoking jacket from a hanger behind the door. The man was looking forward to a night in. He had been working non-stop in the run-up to the exhibition, the exhibition itself and then in the aftermath, trying to get the egg to his fence.

  He had tried again tonight, but once more Oscar’s was filled with people who might recognize him. Perhaps he would go in the morning, before his day job; he wasn’t due in until around eleven, so that should give him plenty of time. The man was starting to get very anxious. It did not usually take this long to pass on merchandise. The longer he had it on his person, the greater his chance of getting caught. And now this business with Princess Selena. Good grief. Why couldn’t that woman keep her nose out of other people’s business? Even in death she was causing trouble. Or at least Poppy Denby was. Just his luck that the reporter was the one to find the body. That girl would never stop digging until the truth was out. Hopefully he’d be gone before it got to that. Hopefully…

  He ignited a gas wall-heater, took a cigarette from an ivory and onyx cigarette box, bent down and lit it from the blue flame. Sucking the nicotine into his lungs, he started to relax. The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. Yes, a night in would do him the world of good. He ran a finger down a pile of gramophone records, stopping at a Tchaikovsky – no, he’d had his fill of Russians. How about some Brahms? Or – ah – yes, some Gershwin. Something New World. He opened the leather folder, took out the disc and placed it on the turntable. Then he wound up the lever, lowered the arm and smiled as the crackle and hiss turned into a melody.

  He topped up his whisky, then lay out full stretch on his leather sofa, sucking on his cigarette until his heart rate steadied and the stresses of the last few days ebbed away. But then a knock at the door jarred him back to his former state.

  “Who is it?” he called. No answer. Another knock.

  Sighing, he sat up, swung down his legs, perched his cigarette on a black marble ashtray, and shuffled towards the door. He made sure his left hand was in easy reach of his cane, put the security chain on the latch and then opened the door.

  A beautiful, dark-haired elf stood outside, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Delilah? What is it?” He immediately unhooked the chain and opened the door.

  She threw herself at him, sobbing.

  JULY 1918, YEKATERINBURG, RUSSIA

  Nana Ruthie scaled the wall around the Ipatiev compound and forced her way through the brambles and ivy, not caring that thorns tore her flesh and ripped at her clothes. She was greeted by a yapping dachshund and a sleepy child. She wasted no time gathering their meagre belongings and hurrying them in the direction of the railway yard, not forgetting to retrieve the key from under the rock where she had hidden it. But as she stood up, brushing the Ural dust from her knees, Fritzie started barking and pulling on his lead. Little Anya struggled to hold him, and he broke free, running along the wall, following a scent or sound only he could detect. Anya ran after him. Nana Ruthie called out for her to stop, but the child did not obey.

  Cursing in English and Russian, Nana Ruthie ran after her. They scampered around the corner of the wall and then through a hole in the masonry that Nana had not seen before. Oh dear God, they were going into the Ipatiev grounds where – if Nana was not mistaken – the Russian royal family had just been murdered.

  “Anya!” Nana screamed.

  “I’m getting Fritzie,” Anya yelled back. “I won’t be long.”

  Nana clawed at the stone and mortar, trying to make the hole big enough so she too could crawl through. “Come back now!”

  But the only answer was a scream from Anya and furious barking from Fritzie – which was silenced with a thud and a yelp. “Fritzie!” screamed Anya.

  Nana sat on her backside, lifted both legs, and kicked at the loose brickwork with her hobnail boots. Pain shot through both her ankles and knees, but she kept on kicking.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Broadwood. I’ve got them.”

  Nana stopped kicking and looked up to where she heard a male voice speaking in English. It was the man Selena had called Nogovski. He was perched on the wall, looking down.

  “Tell her you’re safe, Anya.” The man spoke to the child in Russian.

  “I – I’m safe, Nana, but Fritzie –”

  “Fritzie will be fine, my little poppet, as long as you do what you’re told.”

  Nana could not see Anya through the hole, but she didn’t sound as if she were far.

  “It’s all right, Anya, I’m here. Don’t be scared. Everything will be all right.” Nana tried to keep her voice calm.

  “Indeed it will,” said Nogovski, his voice light and playful. “As long as your Nana gives me her key. Now, Miss Broadwood, don’t waste our time by telling me you don’t have it. What good fortune that little Anya should stumble across my path! I knew her father well. She has his eyes, you know. And I can’t believe she still has that little dog! Now, Miss Broadwood,” he continued in English, “I think it would be best if you came through the front gate – it’s much more decorous for a lady of your age. Anya and I will meet you there. Come, poppet! And yes, you too, Fritzie!”

  MONDAY 22 OCTOBER 1920, LONDON

  Poppy was glad to be heading home. After her meeting with Rollo she had typed up the lead for the following morning, filed it with the editor and left him to choose a front page pic from Daniel’s photos. Daniel was at a parents’ evening at his eldest child’s school.

  It was 9.30 p.m. when Poppy got off the bus at the top of King’s Road and walked to her aunt’s house at 137, opposite the Electric Cinema. A crowd was gathered outside the cinema, including some police cars. Poppy wondered which moving picture star was making an appearance tonight. But as she got closer, she realized the crowd was not outside the cinema but her house. And on the pavement, wrapped in a blanket, was Aunt Dot with her companion Miss King, who was pouring tea from a flask and offering it to her employer.

  “Aunt Dot! What are you doing out here?” Poppy ran the last few feet and knelt down beside her paraplegic aunt.

  “Oh Poppy! You wouldn’t believe it. But these – these – monsters arrived an hour ago and tossed us out!”

  A line of Bobbies blocked the entrance to the townhouse and Poppy could see shadows moving behind the curtains of the three-storey building.

  “We didn’t toss her out, miss,” said one of the Bobbies. “We asked her to vacate the premises so the forensic lads could do their job.”

  “The forensic lads?” queried Poppy.

  “They’re searching Selena’s bedroom. And the rest of the house. What they expect to find, I have no idea!”

  “Fingerprints, gunshot residue, Fabergé eggs…” offered Miss King.

  “Surely if there had been a Fabergé egg in my house I would have seen it. Besides, it has already been stolen from Selena. Don’t the police read the papers?” She glared at the Bobby who had spoken, daring him to contradict her. His unfashionable handlebar moustache twitched, but he didn’t speak.

  Poppy sighed. “Excuse me, constable. My name is Poppy Denby. This is my aunt, and I also live in this house. I have had a l
ong day at work and I would like to go inside and have my supper.”

  “I know who you are, miss. You’re the press, and you’re not allowed in.”

  “But it’s my house!”

  “Actually, darling, it’s my house, but they don’t care about that either.”

  Poppy took her aunt’s hand and squeezed it – it was freezing. Poppy saw red. “Now listen here. I demand to speak to DCI Martin immediately. My aunt – sorry, Aunt Dot – is not a well woman and it will not look good for the police if tomorrow’s morning paper reports that an invalid was left to freeze to death on the street while the police stood by and did nothing.”

  “She has a blanket. She has tea. She –”

  The door behind the three Bobbies opened and Detective Chief Inspector Jasper Martin and a team of men carrying briefcases and bags – the forensic lads, Poppy assumed – filed out of number 137.

  “DCI Martin!”

  Martin held up his hand. “Not now, Miss Denby. Anything I have to say to the press will be to your editor, not to you. And that will be at an official briefing, at my convenience, not his.”

  Then he stopped in front of Aunt Dot and Miss King. “I apologize, Miss Denby, Miss King, for the inconvenience. You may go back in now.”

  “Did you find anything?” asked Miss King.

  “That has still to be determined,” said Martin, and he led his team to the nearest Black Mariah and climbed in. After the police had pulled away, the crowd began to disperse, until only Poppy, Aunt Dot and Miss King remained.

  “Well, we’d better get in then,” said Poppy.

  “Actually, darling, could you do me a huge favour?”

  “Of course, Aunt Dot.”

  “Can you go and check on Delilah?”

  “I can telephone her. Why?”

  Miss King cleared her throat and busied herself screwing the lid back on the flask.

  Aunt Dot twirled a curl of hair around her finger. “Er, no you can’t. You see, I’m in a bit of a fix with that. Since Grace left I’ve had some trouble keeping up with paying all the bills – who knew there were so many? – and our telephone’s been – it’s been –”

  “It’s been cut off,” said Miss King, packing the flask into a basket hanging from the back of Aunt Dot’s wheelchair.

  “Ah, I see. Why didn’t you say something before? I could have done that for you,” said Poppy.

  “I didn’t know! But look, can we sort that tomorrow? I’m worried about Delilah.”

  Poppy felt a cold chill seep through her red mackintosh. “Why? What’s happened to her?”

  Aunt Dot squeezed Poppy’s hand. “Oh nothing! Nothing like that. But these – these dreadful policemen – scared her, I think. She popped around here after coming from Oscar’s and saw us being tossed out. She objected, just like you did, but then that awful constable with the moustache – you know, you could hang twins from that thing – told her that they were there because a killer was on the loose and she should be thanking them, because she could be next.”

  Poppy stifled a giggle.

  “It’s not funny, darling. You might have taken it with a pinch of salt, but Delilah is like me, she’s got a fertile imagination – it’s what makes her such a good actress – and she, well –”

  “She got spooked,” finished Miss King.

  “Spooked?”

  “Yes, that’s a good word for it, Gertrude, a very good word. She got spooked. She ran off. Can you pop down the road and see if she’s all right? It shouldn’t take more than half an hour…”

  Poppy considered that in half an hour she could have had a light supper, a shower and be preparing for bed; but her aunt’s large blue eyes, filling with tears, won her over. As they always did. Poppy let out a sigh that sounded more like a groan. “All right, Aunt Dot. I’ll go. But can you rustle something up for me when I get back?”

  “I will,” said Miss King and then pushed her employer up the ramp and back into her ransacked home.

  CHAPTER 18

  Poppy arrived outside Delilah’s apartment building ten minutes later. It had originally been a Georgian townhouse, like Aunt Dot’s, but a property developer had converted the three-storey building into six tasteful flats catering to Chelsea’s well-to-do single set. The rent was far more than your average young actress could afford, but Delilah also had an allowance from her father, who owned a string of hotels in Malta. Poppy knew that when the time came for her to leave Aunt Dot’s and get a place of her own, it would never be anywhere as grand as this. Delilah had asked her recently if she might consider moving in. But she couldn’t think of leaving Aunt Dot while Grace was still in prison. After she was released, it might be a different story…

  With these thoughts in mind, Poppy rang the bell for Delilah’s second-floor apartment. No answer. She rang again. Still no reply. She looked up to see if Delilah’s lights were on: darkness. Poppy was not worried. Delilah had a colourful social life and could be out at any number of clubs or friends’ houses. Certain that Selena’s death was linked to the Fabergé egg, Poppy didn’t consider for a moment that the young actress may have fallen foul of the “killer on the loose”. Her father, of course, had been stepping out with Selena, but Delilah had told Poppy at the theatre that he had sailed back to Malta the day after the exhibition.

  Poppy scratched in her satchel and pulled out a notepad and pencil. She wrote a quick note asking Delilah to let Aunt Dot know that she was all right at her earliest convenience, and could she do it in person, as the telephone at number 137 was out of action? Poppy folded it and pushed it through the bronze flap of Flat 3’s post box, then turned to walk away – straight into a man’s chest.

  “Oh, pardon me, I didn’t see you there –”

  “Miss Denby?”

  Poppy took a step back as she realized who it was she had bumped into: Comrade Andrei Nogovski. Her heart skipped a couple of beats.

  “Mr Nogovski!”

  Her omission of “comrade” was deliberate. She waited for him to correct her; he didn’t. Instead he raised his hat in greeting.

  “Good evening, Miss Denby. Have you also come to visit Miss Marconi?”

  Poppy busied herself buckling up her satchel. “Also?”

  “Yes. I’m here to see her too.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “As you know, Miss Denby, Miss Marconi doesn’t always keep sociable hours.”

  Poppy couldn’t argue with that, but she resented the implication that her friend’s character might be considered questionable.

  “Well, I doubt Delilah would let you in at this time of night – if she were in, which she isn’t.”

  “Ah, that’s a pity. I needed to speak to her about her father.”

  “Her father?”

  “Yes. And his association with Selena Romanova Yusopova.”

  “And what has that to do with you?” she blurted. Poppy was tired and easily irritated. If Andrei Nogovski took offence at her tone, he did not show it. Instead he smiled and offered her his hand.

  “Miss Denby, I believe we have got off on the wrong foot. I apologize for being so rude to you at Oscar’s last evening. Like you, I was tired. It had been a long day. I should not have taken it out on you.”

  Poppy was uncertain if he was truly sorry, but her curiosity got the better of her. This, after all, was the man who had attracted her attention by playing both sides in the Russian power game. She wanted to talk to him with regard to the exhibition story – and of course the subsequent murder of the former keeper of the infamous Fabergé egg. She would be a fool to snub his olive branch, whatever his motive for giving it. She reached out her hand and shook his. “Apology accepted, Mr Nogovski.”

  He smiled and crooked his arm. “Then, Miss Denby, may I escort you home? We can talk on the way.”

  “Thank you, Mr Nogovski. That’s very kind.” She refrained from adding that King’s Road was as safe as a schoolyard at this time of the evening, with so many theatre, cinema, club and restaur
ant goers walking by. Instead, she slipped her arm into his and allowed him to match her stride as she turned towards her aunt’s house.

  Their shoes crunched through the autumn leaves that spilled through the wrought-iron railings encircling the oak trees lining King’s Road. The wind was picking up and Poppy thought they’d just get back before it started to rain. Nogovski appeared only to have a cane with him, not an umbrella. Perhaps she would lend him one.

  “It looks like rain,” he observed.

  “It does,” agreed Poppy.

  Weather out of the way, silence resumed. She wondered if she should fill it or wait for him. She had a lot of questions, but she instinctively knew a man like Nogovski would feel more comfortable if he directed the conversation. It would make him feel in control. It suited Poppy’s purposes to allow him to feel that, so she held her tongue.

  “So, Miss Denby…”

  Poppy smiled to herself.

  “How well do you know Victor Marconi?”

  “Not too well. He’s a friend of my aunt’s and, of course, Delilah’s father. I’ve met him a few times socially.”

  “Ah yes, your aunt. If I am not mistaken, was she not a famous suffragette?”

  “She was.”

  “And what was Victor Marconi’s association with the women’s suffrage movement?”

  Poppy expected Nogovski already knew this. But she played along. “Nothing, apart from that his wife was a member of the WSPU and belonged to the Chelsea Six, the cell that met at my aunt’s house before the war.”

  “The wife that died.”

  “That’s right. Gloria. Delilah’s mother.”

  “Yes,” observed Nogovski, with a tinge of humour in his voice, “I read all about it in The Daily Globe.”

  “I didn’t know The Daily Globe reached Russia,” countered Poppy, matching his tone.

  “Not the newsstands, no, but my department receives special deliveries.”

  “So you knew all about me before you arrived in London.”