The match sputtered out. Poppy squeezed her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Rollo struck another match and they continued.
“Oscar told me that he hadn’t known the shop had been sold and that he hoped it wouldn’t cause any problems. ‘Why would it?’ I asked. We were a block away from the club and as far as I could tell there was no connection between the two. Well that, Miz Denby, is where I was wrong. Oscar swore me to secrecy – promising me tip-offs when leading socialites visited the club – and then took me down to the club cellar. Behind a wine rack there is a door that opens up into this tunnel. It leads, for a quarter of a mile, under King’s Road, and comes out just behind the newsagent.”
“But what’s it for?” asked Poppy, her fear beaten into submission by her curiosity.
Another match expired. Another was lit.
“Prohibition,” said Rollo. “Or at least the fear of it. During the war there was talk of introducing a ban on alcohol on the home front – or if that failed, raising the price of a liquor licence so high no one would be able to afford it. Tommies on leave were drinking themselves motherless and it was considered unpatriotic for civilians to be partying while the boys abroad were dying in droves. Then across the pond, the great U S of A announced plans to start banning the commercial sale of alcohol, and many thought it would come here too. If you recall, Miz Denby, that was one of my concerns at your job interview when I heard you were a Methodist.”
Poppy did indeed recall it. She had wondered at the time why Rollo appeared more concerned by her religious convictions than her journalistic knowledge.
“But why the tunnel, Rollo?” she asked as they rounded a bend and felt the floor cant upwards.
“Insurance,” said Rollo as his match went out. Poppy froze, trying to control her breathing. Rollo lit another. With a rasp and a hiss, the tunnel was illuminated again. Rollo peered up at her. “Are you all right, Poppy?”
“Uh-huh,” said Poppy, not very convincingly.
Rollo smiled sympathetically. “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”
Something scuttled over Poppy’s foot. She yelped. Rollo took her hand and hurried her along, going into lecture mode to distract her. “So, as I was saying, when Oscar bought the club three years ago, he, like many others in the hospitality trade, feared they would go out of business if prohibition came in. He arranged for this tunnel to be dug to ensure he could still get deliveries. He did a deal with the former owner of the paper shop and has kept the tunnel a secret ever since.”
Just before the next match went out, they rounded another bend and came face to face with a wooden door. Poppy reached out over Rollo’s head and touched it, willing it to open. Rollo squeezed her hand and then felt around for the latch. Seconds later the door edged forward, flooding the tunnel with light. Poppy let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Rollo raised a finger to his lips. “Quietly. We don’t know who’s on the other side. Let me look first.” He did, easing the door open an inch at a time. “Looks like the coast’s clear. But –” he looked up at Poppy – “don’t get a fright, Miz Denby; they haven’t moved the body yet.”
Poppy nodded. She had seen dead bodies before. She would cope. She followed Rollo through the gap in the door into Oscar’s wine cellar. Rollo pushed the door closed behind them and Poppy noted that it was disguised as a wine-rack. At first glance no one would suspect the rack actually swung open. If someone entered or exited the cellar by the tunnel they would need prior knowledge of the secret doorway; it was not likely to be found by accident.
The door from the club to the cellar was closed and there was no living person in the room. However, on a bed of broken glass and spilled wine was the corpse of the barman illuminated by the paltry glare from the overhead light. His eyes had been closed, posthumously. He lay on his back, his limbs splayed and his white shirt soaked red. It was difficult to tell how much of it was blood and how much wine. But his face had a long slit down the cheek, suggesting a blade had been used.
“Do you think it was the rapier again?” whispered Poppy.
“Possibly,” said Rollo, tiptoeing across the carnage towards another wine rack. He pulled up a whisky barrel and clambered on top of it, then peered through the rack.
“Over here, Miz Denby.”
Poppy followed, careful not to get her shoes wet in the blood and wine.
“Look here,” whispered Rollo. He pulled back his shaggy head to reveal a peephole through the wine rack and into the room beyond. Again, without prior knowledge no one would have known it was there. She peered through into what she assumed was the club manager’s office. Seated at a desk, flanked by two uniformed Bobbies, was Oscar Reynolds. His usually immaculate attire was in disarray, his bow-tie undone and his gold-rimmed monocle, usually perched cockily in his eye socket, hanging limp against his blood-soaked shirt.
Across the desk was DCI Jasper Martin, his hands folded across his rotund belly, with his thumb hooked into his pocket-watch chain.
“How did you know?” asked Poppy.
“Oscar showed me. He had it put in to keep an eye on the cellar.”
“Because of the tunnel?” asked Poppy.
“Because of theft,” said Rollo. “It happens in all pubs and clubs. Oscar wanted to keep an eye on his staff.”
Poppy looked over her shoulder at the body on the floor. What had Marjorie said the man’s name was? Watts? As Poppy had suspected, it was the same barman who had been at the exhibition – a man in his early forties, of medium height and build. Beyond that, Poppy knew nothing about him.
“Do you think Oscar found him stealing alcohol and they had an altercation?” asked Poppy.
“No, I don’t,” said Rollo, close to her ear. “I’ve known Oscar for years. He’s incapable of hurting a fly.”
“But what if the fly was attacking him?” asked Poppy, peering at the defeated-looking man through the peephole. But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t the case. Oscar did not appear to have any injuries. If he had been attacked, surely there would be some kind of visible wound. There was blood on his shirt, yes, but that was most likely the barman’s. “So what’s the alternative? A third man?”
“That’s what I think, yes. And whoever it was must have known about the tunnel. How else could he have got away without the delivery man seeing him? And another thing: I smelled cordite before I lit my first match back there. Someone had been through the tunnel not too long before us.”
Poppy shuddered, thinking she had been walking in the footsteps of a murderer. “Then why haven’t the police searched the tunnel?” asked Poppy.
Rollo shrugged. “Oscar probably hasn’t told them. He won’t want the police to know about it. I doubt he’d reveal it unless he really had to.”
“Well, I should think clearing your name of murder would qualify as a good ‘had to’,” observed Poppy.
Rollo shrugged again, then his hand gripped Poppy’s shoulder. “Coppers at the door,” he whispered.
Poppy cocked her head to listen. She heard a “Give us a hand with the stretcher, Bill.”
“They’re coming to get the body,” said Poppy.
“We don’t have much time,” agreed Rollo.
Rollo jumped off the barrel, toppling it in the process. His ripe expletive was drowned in the crash. Poppy helped him up and they ran to the secret door. On tiptoes Rollo reached up and released the catch, then pushed Poppy into the tunnel as the door to the club opened, revealing a pair of Bobbies holding a stretcher.
“What the –”
“Run!” hissed Rollo. “I’ll hold them off.”
“But –”
“Run! That’s an order. And tell Ike he’s in charge.”
Rollo pulled the door shut behind them. Poppy heard bottles smashing and the door to the tunnel rattling.
Poppy ran. She didn’t have any matches, so she had to feel her way along the wall. The floor sloped downwards, the tunnel turned. She heard smashing and swea
ring behind her and someone shouting, “It’s the Yankee dwarf!” And then more shouting, some of it in an American accent. The tunnel angled upwards and turned again. It must be close, it must be – “Ow!” Poppy collided with the metal ladder. Her cheek bone throbbed, but she didn’t stop. Up the ladder she went, then she pushed on the hatch and it swung open. She pulled herself up into the fresh Chelsea air, then slammed the fake manhole cover shut, silencing the commotion in the tunnel. She heaved an overfull bin on top of the cover, realizing as she did it that she would be trapping Rollo inside too. But she knew the dwarf had no chance of outrunning the policemen. He would be arrested. Again.
Poppy caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass panel of the paper shop back door. She looked a mess. But no time to worry about that now. At full pelt she ran down the alley and into King’s Road, and back towards the front of the jazz club. As she approached, she slowed to a walk, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. She spotted Daniel, corralled with a group of reporters and photographers, Lionel Saunders from The Courier among them.
Daniel’s eyes widened as he saw her. “Poppy! What the –”
“They’re coming out!” shouted Lionel.
“Get the pic,” said Poppy to Daniel. “I’ll explain later.”
Daniel frowned but readied his camera and muscled his way to the front of the pack, using his height to get the best vantage point. Poppy stayed behind, listening to the flash of bulbs and the barrage of questions hurled at the police and their prisoner.
“Where’s the body?”
“Why did you kill your barman, Oscar?”
“Can we have a statement, Inspector?”
Suddenly, a collective gasp went up from the journalists, and Poppy heard an incredulous: “It’s Rollo Rolandson in handcuffs!” And then all hell broke loose.
CHAPTER 24
Once Rollo and Oscar were bundled into the Black Mariah – Oscar looking morose, Rollo grinning from ear to ear and winking at Poppy and Daniel – the photographer pulled Poppy out of earshot of the other journalists and demanded to know what was going on.
Her cheek throbbed, and the dust and cobwebs on her hat and coat from her subterranean adventure burned her eyes, making her sneeze. She dusted herself off as best she could, spanked her hat and examined the welt on her face in her compact mirror. Ouch. That was going to leave an impressive bruise.
“So?” demanded Daniel. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you on the way back to the office.” Poppy took his arm and led him back to the motor, ignoring the curious stares from rival journalists.
“Where’s Marjorie?” she asked as he opened the passenger door of the Model T.
“She’s off to Scotland Yard to demand Oscar’s release. But don’t change the subject; I want to know what happened to you and Rollo. Why do you look like you’ve been run over by a bus, and how on earth did Rollo get inside the club – not to mention get himself arrested?”
He shut her door, put his camera in the boot, cranked up the engine and then climbed into the driver’s seat. Poppy used the time to consider her options. Was she able to tell Daniel about the tunnel? Rollo said he’d been sworn to secrecy. But he’d told her about it – on a need-to-know basis. Could she tell Daniel? Would she be betraying a confidence? Surely the tunnel was no longer a secret. The police now knew about it, so Oscar’s contingency plan for getting booze into the club was obsolete. Yes, she decided, she’d tell him. It had caused no end of problems the last time she had to keep something from him when she was working on a story. She didn’t want a repeat of that. There was more than their professional relationship at stake.
“Rollo took me through a secret underground tunnel.”
“He what?” asked Daniel, incredulously.
Poppy explained what had happened in the tunnel and the cellar. “And then I ran into a ladder,” she said, gingerly touching her cheek.
“Is that a euphemism for Rollo putting you in unnecessary danger?” asked Daniel, barely controlling his fury.
“No, it’s exactly what happened. I ran into a ladder. And it hurt. A lot.” She pouted, giving him the little-girl-lost look that he normally found so amusing.
But it didn’t work. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his lips tight. “I will kill that stupid little Yankee when I get my hands on him! He’d better pray the coppers keep him in jail, because he’ll be looking at the inside of a coffin if they ever let him out!”
“It’s not his fault, Daniel. He was just following the story. We both were.”
“By putting you in danger.”
“I wasn’t in danger. And neither was Rollo.”
“He got arrested!” shouted Daniel.
“And look how happy he was about it.” Poppy’s voice rose to meet his. “I wouldn’t put it past him if that was his plan all along. At least now he’s on the inside of the investigation and will have a chance to speak to Oscar about what really happened.”
Daniel slowed down and turned right onto Victoria Street. When they got back into the flow of traffic he turned to Poppy, his face still flush with anger.
“But he had no right to drag you along with him.”
“He didn’t drag me. I chose to go with him. I could have said no at any point. I didn’t. And besides, he made sure the police didn’t catch me. He protected me. Not that I needed protecting…”
“But you do need protecting. You’re just a –” He stopped speaking and bit his lip.
Poppy felt a rush of anger. “I’m just a what? A woman?” Daniel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say you’re just new on the job. You’ve got a lot to learn.”
“And I am learning. On the job. And I’m grateful that Rollo doesn’t molly-coddle me the way you do.”
Daniel turned to her and momentarily took his eyes off the road. A taxi blared its horn as the Model T veered too close. Daniel swore and got the vehicle under control as they passed the Palace of Westminster and approached the intersection to the Victoria Embankment.
“I molly-coddle you, Poppy, because I love you. I will worry about you. I will be angry with anyone who puts you in danger. And that includes you. But if that’s not what you want…”
He left the ambiguous threat of break-up hanging in the air while he slowed down to allow a family to cross the road at a pelican crossing. The children were squabbling and the mother tried to intervene while carrying a big bag of shopping.
Is that my future? thought Poppy. If I marry Daniel, will I be expected to give up work to be a mother to his children? Would he consider it inappropriate for his wife to be gallivanting around London following news stories?
“That’s not fair, Daniel. Don’t make this about us. It’s not about us.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked.
She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out of the window.
Poppy and Daniel arrived back at Fleet Street in silence. As they parked in the alley behind The Globe offices Daniel looked across at her with furrowed brows, but looked away again when she tried to meet his eye. He was cross with her. And she was cross with him for being cross with her.
But she didn’t have time to deal with it now. As Delilah had pointed out there was a killer on the loose, and Poppy had an article to write before deadline.
She got out of the motor and without a backward glance walked through the basement where the printing presses were churning out the evening edition, and pressed the lift button for the fourth floor.
“Poppy!” Daniel called. But she ignored him, pulling the gate shut and leaving him to field the knowing looks and comments from the printer staff.
Poppy examined her swollen cheek in the lift mirror. It was beginning to turn purple. She thought of covering it with a bit of make-up, but decided against it. First, it was too tender to touch; secondly, she was rather proud of it. It was her war wound from the journalistic trenches and she would wear it like a badge of honour.<
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The lift stopped at the third floor and Poppy braced herself to meet whoever came in. It was young Vicky Thompson, carrying some files.
Vicky gasped. “Miss Denby! What happened?”
“I had a run-in with a ladder.”
“Golly! Are you all right? Do you need to see a doctor?”
“No, I think I’m fine, Vicky. It’s just bruised.”
“Cor blimey, you’re gonna have a right shiner!”
Poppy chuckled at Vicky’s slip back into Cockney. The seventeen-year-old was the daughter of a window cleaner and a washer woman from the East End of London. Poppy had met her on the Dorchester story in the summer and had given the girl a chance to have a career. Vicky had jumped at it and for the last few months had been trying to sound as posh as she thought she ought to for a job on Fleet Street. Poppy – who had a Northumbrian accent herself – had tried to tell her that she needn’t be ashamed of who she was or how she spoke, but to no avail.
“Actually, Vicky, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I need a couple of Jazz Files.”
Vicky grinned. “Way ahead of you, Miss Denby.” She passed the files to her. They were for Adam Lane, Oscar Reynolds, Andrei Nogovski, Vasili Safin and Arthur Watts.
“How did you know?”
The lift stopped at the fourth floor and the two women got out. On the landing Vicky cocked her head towards the newsroom and said: “Mr Molanov sent me up with the Rusky ones. Then the darkie asked for the rest.”
Poppy frowned. Vicky had not quite got over the fact that she was working with a West Indian gentleman who was her senior. Where Vicky came from in the East End, boarding houses had signs outside declaring “No Jews, Irish or Negroes”. Come to think of it, some of the posher establishments in the West End had the same.
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