The Kill Fee Page 21

  “I am,” said Adam.

  “And Poppy’s. You know Poppy Denby, don’t you?”

  Adam nodded, wondering where this was going.

  “Then can I trust you not to tell the police what I’m going to tell you now?”

  Adam wondered if Oscar was about to confess to him that his club was used to fence stolen goods. Did Oscar know all along? Arthur had always thought the dandified owner didn’t have a clue. But to Adam’s surprise, Oscar showed him a tunnel, dug in case of Prohibition.

  As the secret door swung open, Adam heard the barrel man come back down the stairs with someone in tow. “He’s in there. That’s where it happened.”

  Adam was just about to pull Oscar into the tunnel with him, when the club owner whispered: “Find the man in the homburg. He’s my only alibi,” and then shut the secret door and turned to face his accusers.

  CHAPTER 27

  Adam made sure he was out of earshot of the cellar before he struck a match. Yes, it was indeed a tunnel. He had been in New York when Prohibition came in there and had no doubt that half the establishments in the city wished they had made similar contingency plans. He applauded Oscar on his forward thinking. However, it seemed as if the tunnel had recently been used for more nefarious purposes than slipping in a bit of illicit booze. How had the man in the homburg known about it? Had he come in that way and met with Arthur? Had Arthur known about it and used it for his fencing activities? Had he arranged to meet the Russian in the cellar? Adam had no way of knowing. Nor did he know what he would do if he came face to face with the Russian in the tunnel.

  There had been no light before he struck his match. Or had there? He allowed his match to go out, then waited. Listened. Just the scuttling of rats. Adam calculated that by the time it took the barrel man to go upstairs and for him to go down and hear Oscar’s explanation, it must have been about five minutes. Before that, according to Oscar, he had been trying to revive Arthur. Another five minutes perhaps? That would have given the Russian at least ten minutes, possibly more, to make his escape. And unless he intended to come back into the club in the immediate aftermath of Arthur’s murder, there would be no reason for him to stick around.

  Adam lit another match and continued along the tunnel, trying to figure out what was going on as he went. Why had he killed the fence? Why had he killed Selena? Was it because they didn’t have the egg? That clearly wasn’t the reason he’d killed – or orchestrated the killing – of the family in Moscow. The egg had still been in the safe when Adam arrived at the residence, and the family were already dead. If all the man had wanted was the egg surely the lady of the house would have given it to him. Or perhaps she had and he had found what Adam’s employer had found: that there was something missing. And then had he put the egg back into the safe? It didn’t make sense. Unless he was trying to cover his tracks. No, the Russian did not want the eggs – he wanted what was inside them. And for that he was prepared to kill.

  This man was not going to stop until he had found whatever he was looking for. With a shudder, Adam thought about all the people in London close to him – Stanislavski and Delilah chief among them – and one of them had already had an attempt on his life, however inadvertent. Adam still could not figure out why the chocolates in Selena’s dressing room had been poisoned, but they had been, and the man he admired most in the world had nearly died. Intentionally or not, people close to him were being picked off by this mad Russian and it was time to stop him. But first he needed to check that Delilah was safe.

  The tunnel began to slope upwards and Adam sensed it was coming to an end. The match went out just as he reached a metal ladder. He stopped to listen again. Was that the sound of sirens? Adam felt his way up the ladder and pushed on the hatch above. As light flooded into the tunnel, Adam unsheathed his rapier and climbed out, fully alert and ready for any possible attack. But none came. He found himself behind a line of skips and bins near the back entrance of a paper shop, the hatch cleverly disguised as a manhole cover. Did the proprietor of the paper shop know about the secret tunnel? He must. And he must have been paid to turn a blind eye. Good. That’s just what Adam needed.

  Checking again to make sure the coast was clear, his ears ringing with the wail of sirens from police vehicles pulling up at the jazz club, he slipped down the alley and followed the back streets to Delilah’s apartment building. She lived on the second floor. He didn’t risk going around the front in case the police or any nosy neighbours spotted him. Instead, he climbed the fire escape and used the key she had given him to slip in through the back door.

  He didn’t expect her to be there; he just needed to use her telephone to call the theatre to check that she was all right. But as he stepped into her kitchen he knew something was wrong. Delilah’s flat was usually immaculate. Mrs Jones the cleaning lady kept the place spotless, and Delilah, despite her laissez faire attitude to the rest of her life, was exceptionally organized in her domestic sphere; so open kitchen cupboards were not to be expected. Adam unsheathed his rapier as he pushed the door open to the rest of the flat. It was chaos.

  Bookshelves and stacks of gramophone records had been overturned, cushions and sofas sliced open and their guts spilled. Adam searched frantically through the carnage, but to his relief Delilah was nowhere to be found. His breathing slowed… a little.

  The telephone lay under a scattering of Vogue magazines, its cord cut. Why? Had the Russian – and Adam had no doubt that it was the Russian in the homburg who was responsible – been hoping that Delilah was home and had cut off all chance of her calling for help? His stomach tightened. Had she been home? No, it was impossible. He had seen her get into the cab to Waterloo and there wouldn’t have been time for her to go there and get back, surely. Or had there? He checked his watch. Quarter past one. Yes, it was possible. His stomach clenched even further. He needed to get to the Old Vic to find out. He checked the bedroom and bathroom one more time – just in case he had missed something – and then headed back down the fire escape and towards his motor car.

  He thanked God for his foresight in parking away from Oscar’s. A glance down King’s Road told him the police had moved into the jazz club with force. Poor Oscar. His only hope was to prove there was another man in the cellar. And Adam would help him do that, if he could, but first he needed to find Delilah. His arm, slashed by the Russian’s rapier, ached, and the Fabergé egg in his inside pocket burned. The thing was a curse, he was sure of it. And as soon as he found Delilah he was going to get rid of it – even if it meant tossing it in the Thames.

  He cranked the motor of his Model T Ford and jumped in as the engine burst into life, then headed in the direction of Chelsea Bridge.

  It was nearly two o’clock by the time he had negotiated the London lunchtime traffic and pulled up outside the Old Vic. As he passed the Waterloo railway station he realized it would have been quicker to catch the train or a bus. Too late now.

  He parked the car outside the stage door on Webster Street, and slipped into the theatre. It was quiet backstage, far quieter than it usually was in the middle of rehearsals. The rehearsal room itself was empty, as were the dressing rooms, including Delilah’s. A handwritten notice had been posted on Selena’s door – “Stay out. Crime scene. Entry only with permission from DCI Martin, Metropolitan Police” – signed by the theatre manager, Lilian Baylis. Adam tried the handle. It was locked.

  Then Adam heard voices coming from the Green Room. Of course. That’s where they’d all be, having a late lunch. Adam pushed open the door to find half a dozen or so crew and cast members lounging around. A couple were playing cards, another was going over his lines between bites of a sandwich. But no Delilah. There was, however, the props manager, Jimmy Watts, reading a copy of The Daily Globe. Oh dear, thought Adam, no one has told him yet. He would have to be the man to do it, but first he enquired whether or not anyone had seen Delilah. The consensus was that she had been there earlier but was very “out of sorts”. She had paced around for a good
hour then left.

  “She was waiting for you, Lane,” said the man with the sandwich, running his tongue along his lip to mop up any stray crumbs. “Where the deuce have you been?”

  “Who was running rehearsal?” asked Adam.

  The card players chuckled. Then one of them said: “Miss Baylis asked Roy to do it, but he refused, saying as assistant director he might be next on the killer’s list. We told him Selena was a one-off. It was probably a crime of passion and the chocolates had been meant for her too.”

  The card players didn’t seem too worried about a homicidal maniac on the loose and turned from their amateur sleuthing back to their game of pontoon.

  Ah, but they don’t know about Arthur Watts yet. It’s not a one-off. But neither are they likely to be the next targets. They know nothing about the egg. But Uncle Jimmy might… and the killer might have come to the same conclusion…

  “So,” he continued, “any idea where Delilah might be?”

  The occupants of the Green Room shrugged and grunted. No one knew where the girl had gone. The knot in Adam’s stomach tightened even further as his mind flicked through various scenarios. But the thought that was still uppermost in his mind was Arthur Watts lying dead on the cellar floor.

  “Er, Jimmy, might I have a word with you please? In private?”

  Jimmy lowered his newspaper, the front page ablaze with the news of Princess Selena’s death under Poppy Denby’s byline. “What’s afoot?” he asked.

  Adam left the theatre at the same time as Jimmy Watts. He had offered the props manager a lift to Chelsea, but the man had declined, saying it would be quicker to catch the train. After first absorbing the shock of the news of his nephew’s death, Jimmy had asked why Adam had been allowed to leave the scene of the crime so quickly. Surely he would have been held there with everyone else to be questioned by the police?

  I never thought of that. I’ll have gone and made myself a suspect now. He tried to recall the people, apart from Oscar, who had seen him there: the barrel man, the cleaner and possibly some of the kitchen staff. Great Scott! The police will be after me in no time.

  He had to get out of London – and soon. But he couldn’t go without first finding Delilah and ensuring she was safe. He gave a wishy-washy explanation to Jimmy – that the props man seemed to take at face value – then parted ways with the grieving uncle.

  As Adam cranked the motor, he swore with every turn. “Where the hell is Delilah?” Then Jimmy Watts’s newspaper came to mind. Poppy Denby! he thought, and plotted his route to Fleet Street.

  CHAPTER 28

  Yasmin Reece-Lansdale’s chambers were as swish and exotic as Poppy had expected. They were greeted by a doorman wearing top hat and tails, who welcomed them into the foyer of one of the best addresses in Whitehall. The polished white marble floor and walls acted like a prism, bouncing the reflected light emanating from recessed alcoves. Poppy felt as if she were in an ice palace. But as they exited the lift into the suite of offices occupied by Yasmin and her legal partners, the globe spun from the arctic north to the sultry Middle East. The walls were hung with silk tapestries made – Yasmin told her – during the classical period of the Ottoman Empire, and Poppy’s scuffed shoes sank into the plush pile of a Turkish carpet. Poppy thought she should be walking in stockinged feet, but as Yasmin didn’t, neither did she. Inside Yasmin’s chambers, the globe shifted ever so slightly again, to Egypt. Poppy knew that the renewed interest in the archaeological excavation of the pyramids was causing a fashion flurry in London – exemplified by Delilah’s apartment and wardrobe – but this was the real thing. Yasmin was half-Egyptian and the décor and objets d’art were all original, not a reimagining of an art deco designer.

  Rollo flopped onto a divan uninvited, kicking off his shoes and tucking his short legs under him, but Poppy waited. Yasmin smiled at the younger woman, acknowledging the courtesy. She indicated a suitable seat and Poppy took it. Then she picked up her thoroughly British telephone and requested tea and sandwiches be sent in. It was nearly six o’clock, but clearly Yasmin’s assistants worked as late as she did.

  While they were waiting for the tea to arrive Yasmin opened a cocktail cabinet – greeted by grunts of approval from Rollo – but shut it firmly after removing an ice bucket and a linen napkin. “Put that on your cheek, Poppy. You won’t be able to see out of that eye soon unless you get the swelling down.”

  Poppy took it gratefully. She filled Rollo and Yasmin in on what had happened in the tunnel and outside the club as she pressed the cool, damp cloth to her face, then, as the tea arrived and was poured, listened to Rollo’s retelling of his stint in the slammer. As she had already gathered from Ike Garfield, Rollo had heard Oscar’s version of events that there was a third man in the cellar, but that he hadn’t seen who it was.

  “If Oscar is to be let off, we need to find that man,” said Yasmin, adding a slice of lemon to her tea. Poppy, like a good northern lass, reached for the milk jug. “As he is now my client,” Yasmin added.

  “Hold your horses,” Rollo interjected. “Oscar’s your client as well? Is there anyone in London who isn’t your client, Yazzie?”

  Yasmin smiled at him indulgently. “No one who matters, sweetie, no.”

  Behind her napkin, Poppy smiled at the repartee between the couple. They really were a good match for each other.

  She put down the ice pack, her cheek sufficiently numbed, and sipped her tea. The cups were rimmed with gold leaf. She had no doubt that it was genuine.

  “So,” continued Yasmin, “what were you trying to tell the police?”

  Poppy put down her cup and reached for her satchel. She took out Adam Lane’s Jazz File and outlined her suspicions about the young actor – highlighting the fact that he had been in the same cities at the same time as the Fabergé eggs had been stolen. She then went on to discuss Arthur Watts and the possibility that he was a fence. Rollo grunted at this, saying his sources had told him much the same thing. They all agreed that it was highly probable that Watts had been killed by someone hoping to get his – or her – hands on the stolen Fabergé egg.

  Then she told Rollo and Yasmin the highlights of her conversation with Marjorie Reynolds that morning and the hypothesis that one of the eggs contained sensitive information that could negatively expose the royal family, and another egg, the key to open the first. Rollo’s ears pricked at “sensitive information” and Poppy could see him ruminating over the juicy gossip that it might contain.

  Could Rollo be trusted not to splash the information all over the morning newspaper if it came into his hands? Probably not. And why should he not? She knew that his view – which she partially shared – was that the royals should not have any kind of special privilege when it came to reporting the truth. If they’d got something to hide, and The Daily Globe found it, why shouldn’t they expose it? But what if that information was as sensitive as Marjorie Reynolds had suggested and royal families could actually fall? The ripple effect might cause such social and political unrest that Europe could be thrust back into war. Poppy shuddered at the thought.

  “Well, go on,” said Rollo, sitting up on his divan and leaning forward, eager to hear what else Poppy had discovered.

  “How certain is Marjorie that that’s what’s in the eggs?” asked Yasmin.

  Poppy shrugged. “I’m not sure. I doubt she shared with me everything the Home Office has on this, but I think her words were “we believe they contain”. So I think the probability is high that that’s what’s in them.”

  “Or that’s what people think is in them and they are prepared to kill because of it,” offered Rollo. “In the end it doesn’t really matter. Wars have been started on less.”

  Yasmin and Poppy nodded in agreement. Rollo’s ominous words echoed Poppy’s own thoughts on the matter. The eggs were dynamite.

  “You’re representing the Russian royals on this, aren’t you?” asked Poppy.

  Yasmin pursed her lips. “I’m giving them legal advice during the in
vestigation into the exhibition theft, yes. But I’m afraid, Miss Denby, that I can’t divulge any information about what they’ve told me regarding the eggs, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “Of course that’s what she’s after. That’s what we’re all after, Yazzie. Come on, toss us a bone. Do the Romanovs and the Yusopovs know what was in the eggs? Do they suspect that was the reason they were stolen? What do their spies say?”

  “Mr Rolandson,” said Yasmin with mock chastisement. “This is a refugee family who fled a war zone with only the clothes on their backs!”

  “Oh really?” said Rollo, turning to face his girlfriend. “So the rumours about rolled-up Rembrandts and jewels sewn into bodices are all false?”

  “Scurrilous lies!”

  “So you’ll be doing all this pro bono then?”

  Yasmin scowled at him.

  “Just as well Oscar and Marjorie Reynolds can afford a few bob. Your fee for keeping Oscar from the gallows might just keep you from the poor house too.”

  Poppy chuckled, imagining the elegant solicitor in one of the city’s poor houses.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” said Yasmin, opening her briefcase and taking out a sealed envelope. She passed it over the table to Poppy. “Marjorie asked me to give this to you earlier. She said it was the thing you’d asked her to do.”

  Rollo craned his neck to have a look. “What’s that then, Miz Denby? Top secret files from the Secret Service?”

  Poppy laughed. Her cheek didn’t hurt quite as much as it had earlier. “No. Just something I asked Marjorie to look into. It’s –” Poppy paused, stopping herself from blurting out exactly what it was. Perhaps it was best that she look at it privately first, before Rollo and Yasmin got the wrong end of the stick. Or the right one… and that was more worrying. “I asked her to look into something on my aunt’s behalf,” she lied lightly, hoping her bruised face would mask her deception. She slipped the envelope, unopened, into her satchel. Yasmin and Rollo didn’t look worried. Poppy breathed a sigh of relief. “So, how is Marjorie?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from the contents of the envelope once and for all.