by Shéa MacLeod
“And you definitely told her why you were there?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“And he for sure heard you?”
I thought on it. “Pretty sure. He was close enough he could have heard, and he gave me a strange look when I passed him.”
“Alright, so he overhead your phone call and knew you were there investigating. So he calls his goons, has you kidnapped to try and get you to drop it. We still don’t know why, and it still doesn’t lead us to why someone would want to kill him.”
I sighed. “No, it doesn’t. We need to talk to John Goode as soon as possible!”
WE MADE A QUICK STOP at my house, where I changed faster than I probably had in my entire life. Hale had already left for his gig, so I scribbled a note just in case he returned before I did, and we were on our way to one of the clubs where Chaz assured me the theater crowd hung out.
The club was located in the West End, wedged between an aging theater and a tall building of indiscriminate use. It was narrow but deep with low ceilings, smoky air, loud music, and too many bodies shoved into one space. I began to sweat almost immediately. I know a lady isn’t supposed to admit to such a thing, but it’s true nonetheless.
After getting drinks—watered down to the point of being fruit juice— from the bar, we huddled together at the edge of the room. There was so much color and movement and bare flesh, it was enough to send a person into a fit.
“What’s the plan, old thing?” Chaz asked.
“Let’s split up. Ask around about Mr. Goode. Surely someone here knows him. I mean Molly Malloy is his main squeeze, for goodness sake.”
Chaz stuck one hand in his trousers pocket and sauntered along next to the bar, occasionally stopping to chat to this person or that. Meanwhile, I edged my way through the press of people on the other side of the room “accidentally” trodding on various feet.
“Oh! I say!” A portly gentleman lifted his monocle and peered at me.
“So sorry!” I said cheerfully. “Such a crush, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.” His gaze zeroed in on my rather impressive cleavage.
“Do you know a Mr. John Goode?” I asked.
“’Fraid not. Will I do?” He waggled his bushy eyebrows which were in dire need of a trim.
I gave him a pained smile. “’Fraid not. Johnny’s the jealous type.” And I slipped away before he could do anything other than leer. Which, of course, would have earned him a handbag upside the head, but I was in a hurry and didn’t want to get sidetracked.
The next foot belonged to a blousy blonde who was dressed like a twenty-something but was definitely long past fifty. “Watch it, ducks. These shoes weren’t cheap.” Her pink painted mouth twisted into a frown before smoothing out, as if she remembered frowning gives a person wrinkles.
“Sorry, darling,” I said with a giggle as if I were tipsy. As if I could get tipsy on these ghastly drinks. “Such a mad crush, don’t you think? I can’t find my friend for the life of me.”
“Oh, who are you looking for, ducks? I know just about everybody who is anybody.” She stuck out her hand. Every finger had a cheap ring on it that glittered in the dim light. “Carole Bardeau.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “Ophelia Trent.” I gave her Aunt Butty’s current legal last name. Typically, she went by the title of one of her former husbands—the second, or was it the first? —but her last husband had been plain Mr. Trent, so it seemed an easy enough name to co-op. “I’m looking for John Goode.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, John. I know him. Isn’t he a peach? But I thought he was off to Brighton with Molly Malloy. They’re an item, you know.” She eyed me carefully as if I might combust with rage.
I waved airily. “Oh I know. In fact, my aunt and I ran into them down there. Lovely couple, don’t you think? But I could have sworn he said he was headed back to London.”
“He might have done, but I haven’t seen him,” she admitted. “If I do, should I tell him I ran into you?”
“Don’t bother yourself,” I said. “If I don’t catch up with him tonight, I’ll ring him up.”
Sometime later, Chaz and I met back up near the bar.
“Any luck?” I asked Chaz.
“Ran into one of his cronies. He’s at a private club tonight. I got the address.”
“Well that’s just swell,” I said snarkily. “They don’t let women into private clubs.”
“They’ll let me and my good friend, Oscar, in.” Chaz’s eyes twinkled.
“Who the deuce is Oscar?” I’d never heard that name mentioned.
He threw his head back and laughed. “You, darling. Want to play dress up?”
I’D ONCE SEEN A PICTURE of Marlene Dietrich in a men’s tuxedo. She’d looked marvelous. Very daring and oddly feminine. Unfortunately, in my case, we weren’t going for feminine, and I had far more in the hip department than the lovely Marlene.
I won’t go into the humiliating details of having one’s bosoms strapped to one’s chest or trying to make one of Chaz’s evening suits look like it was meant to fit me, but suffice it to say, things were not going well.
“Maybe you should go on your own,” I said, staring at my reflection. It wasn’t encouraging. I couldn’t get the trousers fastened properly, and so they sagged alarmingly low. The shirt hung loosely off the shoulders but strained in the chest. I couldn’t even do up the last few buttons.
“Buck up, old thing. We’re in this together. Besides, I don’t know what Goode looks like. It’ll be easier to spot him if you’re there.”
I sighed heavily. “Fine, but this is simply not going to work.” I tugged at the shirt that hung off my shoulders and clung to my stomach.
Chaz snapped his fingers. “I have an idea.”
He disappeared into his bedroom and shortly returned with the most garish, out of date evening suit I’d ever seen. It was tan with thick, burgundy stripes and a fat tie to match. Shudder. It also came with a shirt in an appalling shade of ochre.
“It was my uncle’s,” he said, holding it up. “I borrowed it for a fancy-dress shindig.”
“It looks rather... large.”
“Well, Uncle Bill was a portly gentleman,” he admitted. “But I’m thinking we can make it work.”
“Making it work” involved having a pillow strapped to my front before being cinched into Uncle Bill’s trousers with a rather worn-out looking belt. I managed to tuck the shirt over that fairly easily, but I was still swimming in the jacket. Chaz pulled out a pile of linen napkins to serve as shoulder pads, which sort of worked.
I glared at my reflection in the mirror. There was nothing glamorous about it. I looked like a lumpy bump. “I look ridiculous.”
“That’s because we’re not finished.” Chaz rolled his eyes. “We need to do something about that hair. Maybe we could just stuff it under a hat.”
“And when we go inside, I’ll have to take it off. Then what?” My hair, being a head of chin-length curls, was not very mannish.
“We could cut it short.”
I snorted. “Not on your life.”
“I don’t suppose you have any short wigs or anything?”
“’Fraid not,” I admitted.
“Well, perhaps slicking it back into a queue would work. Very old fashioned, but what can you do?”
“Whatever you must.” I didn’t love the thought of my hair being pomaded flat but needs must.
So while Chaz handled my hair, I washed the makeup off my face. The result was rather dubious. My face was not nearly plump enough to account for my rather large fake stomach. My bone structure was a bit too refined and my skin too smooth for a man’s.
“The lighting will be dim,” Chaz assured me, “and they’ll be well in their cups by now. Besides which, people see what they expect to see.”
“And they expect to see a fat man with poor taste in clothes?”
He ignored my sarcasm. “They expect to see men of the middle classes, likely with creative
or bohemian tendencies. That is the sort of person Goode spends his time with. They won’t be expecting a woman. Not in their precious inner sanctum.”
I sighed. “Very well. I suppose we’d better go now before I call the whole thing off.”
Chaz donned his overcoat as it was rather chilly out. I had no overcoat since Chaz’s were too small to fit over his uncle’s clothes. Although I did borrow one of his hats which was only slightly large on me.
The private club wasn’t far from Chaz’s digs, and so we decided to walk. Along the way, we discussed our plan which more or less amounted to me looking around for Goode and pointing him out.
“And then what?” I said.
Chaz shrugged. “Play it by ear?”
“I suppose.”
Getting into a private club could be varying levels of difficult. Fortunately in this case, the doorman was easily bribed with a five-pound note, and we were soon inside a bar not unlike the previous one. The difference being the only women present were serving girls in outfits which left little to the imagination.
Despite most of the denizens wearing mid-range off-the-rack suits that had simply been altered by a tailor, I didn’t exactly blend in. They still aped their betters, wearing dark colors and straight lines. I rather stuck out like a peacock among pigeons.
Everyone turned to gape at me. I kept my shoulders back, head up, and tried to infuse a manliness into my walk, even while I felt one of the napkins sliding out of its place. I did a sort of one shoulder shrugging thing and managed to keep it from sliding further. Meanwhile, Chaz introduced me loudly to everyone as “My friend, Oscar.”
I went to get myself a drink, feeling in dire need of something to stiffen my spine, but Chaz quickly drew me away. “Need to keep a level head, love.”
“Wonderful.” My tone was bone dry.
At last I spotted our quarry in the far corner, chatting to a couple of men who looked to be around his age. And, based on their bearing, I was guessing former military. How interesting. It was too dark to make out their faces, but from the closeness of their bodies, I was betting these men had known each other for some time—and they were definitely up to something.
“Should we confront them?” I murmured. That had been our plan, after all, but suddenly I doubted these men would tell us anything. I had a very bad feeling about them. They looked quite banal. So ordinary. But my stomach turned at the dark expressions on their faces.
“Maybe we should,” he said. “Might stir the pot, so to speak. Jar something loose. Though I can tell you’re not terribly fond of that idea.”
“I just think maybe we should try and eavesdrop on them first,” I said.
“How? Their table is in sight of everyone. They would see us coming.”
“A distraction, my dear chap. See how either side of their booth is neatly partitioned off with a wooden screen?” The dividers easily reached a good two to three feet above the seated men’s heads, allowing the illusion of privacy.
“Of course.”
“Well, if you cause a commotion on one side of them, that’s where their attention will go. They’ll lower their voices and move toward the other side of their booth, away from you. Eventually, when they realize you and your friends don’t care a wit for them, they’ll raise their voices. Meanwhile, I will have crept around to the other side to listen in. I won’t be able to see them, but I should be able to hear something.”
“Brilliant!”
And so it would have been if all had gone to plan. But as these things are wont to do, it went awry almost immediately.
Chaz did his part splendidly. Within minutes he had insinuated himself into the group at the table next to Goode’s and ordered everyone a round of drinks. A short time later, his table had grown increasingly loud and increasingly drunk, drawing attention of everyone in the place, including John Goode and his compatriots. This gave me the perfect moment to slip around to the empty table on the other side.
I’d nearly made it there, when the napkin chose this very moment to continue its slide to doom. I tried to shrug it back into place again but somehow managed to lose my balance.
A gentleman seated at one of the tables scooted back his chair quite suddenly into my path, and I stumbled straight into him. I went sprawling head first right in front of John Goode. He stared straight at me, and I could tell from his expression that he recognized me. He just wasn’t sure where he’d seen me or who I was, but he knew me.
And then someone said, “Good gosh!”
And another, “What the devil?”
And finally, “It’s a woman!”
I realized by the breeze against my overheated skin that the buttons on Uncle Billy’s shirt had burst open on impact and the pillow—along with the piles of napkins—had flopped out and burst across the floor. I now lay sprawled on the dirty floor with my lacy chemise showing, covered in feathers.
Before I could do much more than scramble to my feet, I was surrounded by black uniformed waiters and frog marched toward the door. I managed to turn around and wave for Chaz to stay. Hopefully he knew that meant I wanted him to continue investigating.
“Madame,” the butler sniffed as he shoved me out, sans hat or pillow, “this is a gentlemen’s establishment. Females are not allowed.”
Before I could protest—females were obviously allowed if they were dressed like floozies—he’d slammed the door in my face. And there I was, standing on the street, wearing men’s clothes that were far too big, and drenched from head to foot—for at some time it had started raining in earnest. I heaved a sigh. No cab was going to pick me up in this state, and Chaz was still inside, so I slogged to the red telephone booth on the corner and rang Aunt Butty.
It was Mr. Singh who answered. He asked no questions other than where he should collect me. Within minutes, I was climbing into Aunt Butty’s motor.
“You should have called me earlier,” Mr. Singh said in the closest he’d ever come to a reproach. “I could have helped.”
I sighed. “You’d have stuck out in there like a sore thumb.”
“I could have played the part of your manservant.”
“It isn’t the sort of place where the members have servants,” I pointed out.
“Ah. That would have complicated things. But at the very least, you should have kept someone apprised of your location.”
“Indeed. I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you first, though. Things went a bit awry.” I told him about my disastrous attempt at eavesdropping.
I could have sworn I saw his lips twitch. “Perhaps Mr. Chaz will have better luck,” he said.
“One can only hope. He certainly can’t have worse.”
Chapter 12
I stayed up waiting for Chaz to stop by or ring, but it grew increasingly late and, at some point, I nodded off only to be roused by Hale returning from his gig. I vaguely recall him kissing me on the forehead and murmuring something before padding softly away.
I must have dosed off again because I was woken some time later by the ringing of the telephone. I sat up, realizing I’d fallen asleep in my dressing gown in front of the fire in my sitting room. The sofa was surprisingly comfortable. Had I dreamt about Hale coming home?
Maddie appeared looking a bit paler than usual. “Milady, there’s a man on the telephone for you.”
“Oh, good. Chaz at last!” I rose and strode from the room.
“No, milady. Not Mr. Chaz. It’s... I don’t know who it is but he...” She twisted her hands together. “He’s not very nice.”
“Alright then.” I scooped up the receiver and said in my most imperious tone, “Yes?”
“Is that Lady Rample?” The voice was gruff, common, and vaguely familiar.
“Indeed. Who is this?”
“Never mind who this is. I’ve got your boy.”
I blinked. My boy? “I’m sorry, but you have made a mistake. I don’t have children.”
“Don’t be stupid,” the mystery man snarled. “I mean that one with you i
n the club last night.”
Chaz. Whoever it was knew I was the woman who’d dressed up as a man. But how? It was not John Goode. His voice was smoother, more upper class. But he must somehow know this man for he was the only person who could have guessed it was me. He likely realized who I was once it was revealed I was a woman and had been hauled out.
“Is he alright?” I demanded.
“Right as rain. But he won’t stay that way unless you do as I say.”
“What do you want?” I snapped.
“I want you to bring whatever you think you’ve found on the Emily Pearson case to this address.” He rattled it off. Thankfully I always kept a pad of paper and a pencil on the telephone table. “Be there by noon today, or he gets the axe.”
“That seems a bit dramatic. How do I know you’ll keep your word?” My tone was cool, but my heart was racing a mile a minute.
“You don’t,” he said slyly. “But if you don’t come, he’s definitely dead.” And he rang off.
I stood there a moment, staring at the phone in my hand.
“Milady? Is everything alright?” Maddie whispered.
“No. No it isn’t. Maddie,” I thrust the receiver at her, “ring Mr. Singh. Tell him I need him immediately.”
“Yes, milady. What will you be doing?” She stared at me with big eyes.
I gave her a grim smile as I tightened the sash of my robe. “Preparing for war.”
HALE AND I MET MR. Singh in a little neighborhood park not far from the address the kidnapper had given me. Mr. Singh had brought with him a briefcase which looked very official.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Documents. You said the kidnapper wanted documents, so I took the liberty of including some.” He nodded to the briefcase.
“What are they really?” Hale asked.
On the drive over, I’d caught him up on the details of our case, leaving out some of the more hair-raising moments. I’d tell him later, but for now I didn’t want him focused on me and not our mission.