The Death Beat
THE DEATH BEAT
“Manhattan, beware! Formidable reporter Poppy Denby enjoys a luxury voyage across the Atlantic. Her indefatigable and entertaining search for truth reveals the seediness and glamour of 1920s New York.”
Frances Brody, author of the Kate Shackleton mysteries
Text copyright © 2017 Fiona Veitch Smith
This edition copyright © 2017 Lion Hudson
The right of Fiona Veitch Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Lion Fiction
an imprint of
Lion Hudson IP Ltd
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Road
Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com/fiction
ISBN 978 1 78264 247 3
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 248 0
First edition 2017
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Cover image © Laurence Whiteley
For Rodney and Megan. Always.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Characters
The New Colossus
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
The World of Poppy Denby: A Historical Note
For Further Reading…
Courtesy of the University of Texas Libraries, The University of Texas at Austin. From The Automobile Blue Book, 1920.
Courtesy of the University of Texas Libraries, The University of Texas at Austin. From The Automobile Blue Book, 1920.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Readers of the Poppy Denby books will know that our heroine gets by with a lot of help from her friends. So I would like to dedicate this third adventure in the series to friends old and new. To my “old” friends at Lion, Kregel, and the Association of Christian Writers: thanks for your unwavering support for Poppy and her author. And to my new friends at the Crime Writers’ Association: thank you for honouring Poppy by short-listing The Jazz Files for the CWA Endeavour Historical Dagger award and introducing our flapulous sleuth to a whole new audience.
Writing a Poppy Denby book requires months of research. I am always surprised at how generous people are in supporting me, freely, with their expertise. An enormous debt of gratitude goes to Professor Vincent Cannato, Associate Professor in history at the University of Massachusetts, Boston, for his insight into immigration to the USA in the 1920s. I would also like to thank Professor Richard Hand of the University of East Anglia for his knowledge of American radio drama. Thanks too to Keith Jewitt for introducing me to the flapulous feminist icon Annette Kellerman. In addition, the publicity departments at The New York Times and the Lyric Theatre, New York, have been very responsive to my queries.
A special word of thanks goes to a group of friends I’ve known since we all studied at Rhodes University, South Africa. Twenty-five years on, and scattered around the world, I am delighted to be able to keep in touch with you all through social media. Thanks to Louis Brandt, now a solicitor in England, who advised me about early twentieth-century divorce law; and Michael Carklin, now the principal lecturer in drama at the University of South Wales, who introduced me to Professor Hand. Also to Michelle Shaw, a freelance journalist who now lives in Canada, for sending me the wonderful book on the Roaring ’20s in America. I hope Poppy and her friends will still be in touch a quarter of a century down the line.
Immense thanks to the team at Lion – particularly Jessica Tinker and Julie Frederick – who although going through turbulent times have managed to keep a steady ship. Also to members of the team who have sadly moved on: Remy, Jess, Rhoda, Andrew H.W., Andrew W., and Tony; your support for Poppy has not been forgotten. And finally, to my wonderful family for their unwavering love and patience: I promise I’ll get the dinner started as soon as I’ve finished the next chapter…
CHARACTERS
FICTIONAL CHARACTERS (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)
LONDON
Poppy Denby – arts and entertainment editor at The Daily Globe, London. Our heroine.
Mavis Bradshaw – receptionist for The Daily Globe.
Vicky Thompson – assistant to The Daily Globe archivist.
Rollo Rolandson – owner and managing editor of The Daily Globe. A native New Yorker.
Daniel Rokeby – photographer at The Daily Globe. Poppy’s beau.
Ike Garfield – senior journalist at The Daily Globe.
Ivan Molanov – archivist at The Daily Globe.
Archie Weinstein – one of two associate editors for The New York Times, currently in London trying to buy an interest in a British newspaper.
Delilah Marconi – Poppy’s best friend. Actress, singer, flapper and Bright Young Thing.
Dot Denby/Aunt Dot – Poppy’s aunt. Former West End leading lady and suffragette. Now in a wheelchair.
Gertrude King – Aunt Dot’s companion.
Alfie Dorchester – Disgraced aristocrat, wanted for attempted murder, on the run from police.
Marjorie Reynolds – British Member of Parliament, minister of state for the Home Office, secretly works for the Secret Service (psst: don’t tell anyone).
THE SHIP / NEW YORK
Captain Gilbert Williams – Captain of the Olympic cruise liner. Admirer of Dot Denby.
Estie / Esther Yazierska – Jewish Ukrainian refugee with a learning disability.
Mimi / Miriam Yazierska – older sister of Estie. Former maid to White Russsian aristocrats.
Anatoly Pushtov – White Russian aristocrat.
Dr Toby Spencer – orthopaedic surgeon at Bellevue Hospital, Manhattan. Son of US senator from Long Island.
Miles Spencer – cousin of Toby Spencer. Film director.
Senator Theodore Spencer – US senator from Long Island. Friend of Rollo Rolandson’s family.
Amelia Spencer – wife of Theodore Spencer. New York socialite and philanthropist.
Seaman Jones – third-class steward on the Olympic.
Judson Quinn – associate editor at The New York Times, holding the fort when Weinstein is in London, and editor in chief Charles R. Miller (real historical character) is out of town.
Paul Saunders – journalist at The New York Times. Cousin of Lionel Saunders, former arts and entertainment editor at the Globe.
Chester Wainwright – owner of Chester’s Speakeasy, Greenwich Village, Manhattan.
Count Otto von Riesling – expat playboy from Liechtenstein. Heir to fortune.
Prince Hans von Hassler – millionaire businessman, philanthropist, member of the New York Eugenics Society, formerly of Liechtenstein. Uncle of Otto.
Kat – Ukrainian immigrant. Workshop supervisor, Magriet Fashions.
Slick – manager at Magriet Fashions.
Helena – fourteen-year-old Italian immigrant, housemaid at Chelsea settlement house.
Elizabeth Dorchester – sister of Alfie Dorchester, daughter of British lord, former suffragette, friend of Dot Denby, owner of Chelsea settlement house.
Mrs Lawson – housekeeper of Prince Hans von Hassler.
Mr Barnes – lawyer of Prince Hans von Hassler.
Morrison – butler for the Rolandson family in Manhattan.
Howard Parker – film producer.
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS (CAMEO APPEARANCES)
Rudolph Valentino – Italian American silent moving picture actor and heart-throb. Star of The Sheik (1921).
Annette Kellerman – champion Australian swimmer and swimsuit designer. Star of synchronized swimming-themed moving pictures. First woman to appear naked on film (A Daughter of the Gods, 1916). First woman to be arrested for wearing an “indecent” one-piece bathing suit (Boston, USA, 1907).
Dorothy L. Sayers – Christian apologist, playwright, and mystery novelist, whose first novel, Whose Body?, was published in New York in 1923. Literary heroine of the author.
Dr Carl G. Jung – Swiss psychiatrist and one of the fathers of psychotherapy. His ground-breaking article “Personality Types” was published in New York in 1921.
Theda Bara – American silent moving picture actress, best known for her starring role in Cleopatra (1917).
THE NEW COLOSSUS
EMMA LAZARUS, 1883
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
CHAPTER 1
The ferryman lit a cigarette and waited. He would get into trouble, no doubt, but he didn’t care. It was cold, it was late, and the fog that mingled with the sewage fumes, cloying to the shore of the little island, would kill him long before any Lucky Strike. Besides, it wasn’t his health his employer was concerned about but rather that the red tip would alert the harbour patrol that something was amiss.
And something was amiss; the ferryman was certain of that. Even though he tried not to think where his illicit cargo ended up when he dropped it on the big island after every trip, when he climbed into bed and placed his hands on his wife’s pregnant belly, he feared that he knew. The child would kick against his hand. His wife would stir. And he would think of the jar in the kitchen cabinet that when full would pay for a ticket west. And then, reminded once again of why he was doing what he was doing, he would shelve his conscience again.
He heard the crunch of gravel that signalled footfall at the top of the stone steps. And then, one at a time, his “cargo” made their way down to the jetty and he helped them into his boat, their faces pale and fearful in the swirling fog.
MONDAY, 1 APRIL 1921, LONDON
The sun rose over London. And for the first time in a week the pea soup fog – known to locals as the London Peculiar – cowed in the face of its optimism. The sulphurous smog slinked its way back through the streets and alleys, past monuments and churches, over barrows and under motorcars until it slipped into the Thames like a wayward child returning to its mother. The face of Big Ben smiled over the City as the wheezing Londoners started their morning commute.
Poppy Denby got off the bus at the bottom of Fleet Street, intersecting with the stream of passengers emerging from Blackfriars tube station. A paper boy brandished a copy of The Daily Globe from his stand, declaring: “Thousands of miners stop work today – read all about it!” Poppy did not have to read all about it; she’d just seen it, first-hand. She shuddered to think what this was going to do to the country, but she didn’t blame the miners one bit.
The misery she’d witnessed in the mines around Morpeth had not reached the capital, and commuters went about their daily routine as if a state of emergency had not just been called and the whole country was not about to grind to a halt.
Poppy passed St Bride’s Church along with black-robed solicitors and barristers heading up to the Temple Inns of Court. As always, she gave a splash of colour to proceedings. Yes, there was bad news abroad; but there was always bad news. And despite what she’d just seen on her recent trip home, and fearing there was more to come, Poppy nonetheless felt a bubble of joy within her. It was spring and in its honour she wore a bright yellow daffodil in her lapel, offset, rather charmingly, by the sage green of her new suede coat.
She had purchased the coat at Harrods with her friend Delilah the previous day. Delilah, the daughter of a Maltese hotel magnate, had bought far more than a new coat, but Poppy had been pleased with her purchase. Oh, and of course the cloche hat she had bought to match. And the shoes… she felt a little guilty about the shoes. They were far more than she could really afford on her reporter’s salary – even with the clothing allowance she received for being arts and entertainment editor – but nonetheless, she’d given in to Delilah’s “Oh darling, aren’t they just the cat’s whiskers!” After all, the whole purpose of the shopping expedition had been to cheer up her poor old chum, so Poppy just didn’t have the heart to say no.
The green Cuban heels clicked on the Fleet Street pavement. “Morning, Sarge!” she called out to the disabled war veteran selling carved wooden crosses outside the Empire Tea Rooms.
“Morning, Miss Denby!” he called up from his folded-up blanket that cushioned his bandaged stumps. His furry friend, a bull-dog named Reginald, snuffled Poppy’s hand as she reached down to give him a pat and toss some coins into his master’s bowl. She would have stopped to chat with Sarge – no doubt he’d have some strong views on the miners’ strike – but it was nearly half-past eight and Poppy wanted to get an early start.
“I’ll see you later, Sarge!”
“You have a good day, Miss Denby!”
“I will!” She smiled and Sarge soaked in the sunshine.
It was Friday morning and she had to put the finishing touches to her copy for the Saturday morning edition. Poppy prepared herself to ascend the six marble steps into the offices of The Daily Globe. In the nine months since she’d been employed on the London tabloid the thrill of those six steps had not worn thin. She noticed a smudge on the brass straps around one of the marble globes that flanked them and took out a handkerchief to wipe it clean. She was proud of her newspaper and even more proud of the articles she had contributed to it – not least the two huge exposés that had set her up as one of the best up-and-coming investigative journalists on Fleet Street. But those sorts of stories were exhausting, and she was grateful that she’d had a few months of “ordinary” events to cover: gallery openings, book reviews, film premieres, and celebrity interviews. It was a giddy world and she loved it.
She took in a lungful of spring air – hoping not to inhale too much pollution – and walked into the foyer.
Her heels clicked across the black and white marble floor on her way to the lift. En route her eye caught a new statuette in a marble alcove, carefully positioned to enhance the Art Deco theme of the atrium. The concentric geometric frames gave the illusion of depth, and the mirrored back of the al
cove reflected multiple versions of the brass Isis. It was Isis, wasn’t it? Poppy leaned forward to look.
“Rollo brought it in this morning. A gift from Miss Reece-Lansdale, apparently.” The explanation came from the direction of the reception desk.
“Morning, Mavis! You’re back! Did you have a good holiday?”
“Morning, Poppy! I did, thank you. Mr Bradshaw and I took in the sea air in Brighton. How was your Easter break?”
Poppy took a surreptitious look at the black lacquer clock hands embedded directly on the white wall. Should she give Mavis the long story or the précis? Her Easter break, spent with her parents up north in Morpeth, had been… interesting. She’d spent most of the time helping them with a soup kitchen for the families of miners at Ashington Colliery who were struggling to make ends meet on the pittance they were paid. It was in stark contrast to the high society life she was now living and had reminded her to count her blessings.
It was the first time she’d been home since arriving in London the previous summer, and her parents were itching to hear all about her new job… and the new man in her life. But this did not go as well as she’d hoped. Poppy had been prepared for their concerns about the dangers she’d recently faced in her two big stories, but she had not been prepared for their objections to Daniel. She sighed inwardly… The précis, definitely the précis.
“It was lovely to be home, Mavis. Nothing like home-cooked food, eh?”
Mavis looked at her shrewdly. “Well, isn’t that lovely. You’ll have to fill me in on it all over a nice cup of tea.”
“I will!” declared Poppy, heading for the lift. “But I need to finish a story by deadline or Rollo will have my guts for garters!”
Mavis laughed. “Best you do that, Poppy. He’s not in the best of moods…”
“Thanks for the warning,” Poppy offered as she opened the concertina gate and pressed the button for the fourth floor.
It had taken a while for Poppy to get used to her editor’s mercurial moods, but she’d learned to stay out of his way as much as possible when he was in one of them and only offered sympathy if he asked for it. She’d also learned not to approach him before he’d had at least his second cup of coffee – which he should be having about now. Rollo was always the first to arrive and the last to leave the office and Poppy respected his work ethic immensely. But his problem was that he played as hard as he worked, and he often came into the office without having been home. Poppy suspected that Rollo’s foul moods were usually preceded by a night at his club. And her suspicions were usually correct.