An hour later and Delilah had already established herself as the girl to dance with. She had even joined the illicit Ziegfeld chorus line for a few numbers. Poppy had done a couple of turns on the dance floor, one with a surprisingly nimble Rollo, but now was content to sit and watch. She needed to use the powder room. She surveyed the club and assessed where she thought the facilities might be housed then excused herself to Rollo – who was enjoying a fat Cuban cigar – and skirted the dance floor. Just as she was passing the door to the courtyard entrance it opened, and a new group of guests was escorted in by the surly doorman.
“Miz Denby!” said one of them.
It was Miles Spencer. Behind him was his cousin, Toby, who grinned and raised his top hat. “Well hello, Poppy! I was hoping to see you again, but didn’t expect it to be so soon! Are you here with anyone?”
Poppy nodded towards her table. “Rollo and Delilah,” she said. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
The group were passing their coats and hats to a concierge. There were six of them: four men and two women. Introductions were made. The ladies were Trixie and Jemima Adams, sisters, and the other two gents, Richard Wainwright – nephew of Chester – and Count Otto von Riesling from Liechtenstein. Poppy shook hands with each in turn until she came to the count. The man was a step or two behind the others, making a fuss of unbuttoning his overcoat.
“Otto, old man, shake a leg,” said Toby. “This is the lovely lady I was telling you about. The one from the Olympic who was such a trooper with that poor fella in the engine room. Poppy, this is Count Otto von Riesling.”
Poppy prepared to greet the final member of the party, a welcoming smile on her face. But as he turned towards her, having finally offloaded his coat to the concierge, she felt a wave of nausea flush over her. The music dimmed and Toby’s voice took on a distant air as she stood facing a man in his thirties with jet black hair and moustache, and piercing blue eyes.
“Poppy, this is Otto von Riesling,” Toby said again, and waited for the two to shake hands.
The count stood up very straight, his eyes, she was convinced, flashing recognition. He put out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Polly Denny,” he said in a German accent.
The nausea had now subsided and it was replaced with a surge of red-hot anger. “It’s Denby. Poppy Denby. As you well know, Viscount Dorchester.”
She snubbed his hand, pointed a finger at his chest, and turned to the rest of the Spencer party. “This man is not Count Otto von Whoever-he-says-he-is; his name is Alfie Dorchester. Viscount Alfie – Alfred – Dorchester. Son of Lord Melvyn Dorchester of Windsor, and a fugitive from British justice.”
Anger flashed again in the blue eye, and his lips – under what must have been a dyed moustache – tightened into a thin line.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said the count. “Wainwright, I suggest you ask your uncle to vet his guests more carefully. Either this young woman has had too much to drink or she’s just escaped from an asylum.”
Toby, Miles, and the other three guests looked bemused. Poppy’s hands were now on her hips, her voice raised. “And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Dorchester, seeing you kept your poor sister locked in one for seven years!”
“Good Lord, Poppy. What are you saying?” asked Toby.
“I’m saying, Dr Spencer, that this friend of yours has you duped. How long have you known him?”
“I – I – don’t know,” answered Toby, looking intently at his European companion. “How long is it, von Riesling? Four or five months?”
The count turned his back on Poppy and addressed his companions. “It does not matter. You do not have to answer this woman’s questions. Wainwright, call your uncle.”
Wainwright junior looked flummoxed. His eyes flitted from his friend to Poppy and then across to the bar where the rotund figure of his uncle could be seen talking to other guests.
“Yes, Mr Wainwright, that’s an excellent idea. Call your uncle. I’m sure he’d want to know that you’ve brought an attempted murderer into his club,” said Poppy, positioning herself between the count and the door, in case he tried to escape.
“Attempted murderer?” asked Wainwright, his voice high. “I’m sure you are mistaken, Miz Denby. A case of mistaken identity.”
“No, Mr Wainwright; it is not! This man is Alfie Dorchester. He tried to murder me – twice; and Delilah; and a woman called Grace Wilson, and his own sister, once. Along with his father, who is now in prison. But this man…” She turned to point at the count again.
He was no longer there but was grabbing his coat and hat from the concierge.
“Where do you think you’re going?” screamed Poppy just as the club music came to an end. All eyes flashed towards her, including Delilah’s and Rollo’s. She shouted over to them: “It’s Alfie Dorchester!”
Rollo and Delilah jostled for a view. But they were too far away to see the dark-haired count properly. Poppy tried to hail them but then the count stepped right in front of her, so close she could smell his sweat.
“Get out of my way, madam. I will not stand here and be accused of such an outrage,” he said. Although he retained his accent, Poppy was sure she could hear the clipped English tones of her nemesis underneath.
“I will not get out of your way. I’ll –” But her voice was silenced as he roughly pushed her aside and threw open the door.
“Steady on, old sport,” said Toby. But before he could intervene, the count was gone and a voice bellowed across the club: “Eighty-six, eighty-six!”
All hell broke loose.
Poppy ran towards the courtyard entrance to catch up with the count, but she was blocked by the large doorman. “It’s a raid, Miz. They’ll be here in a few minutes. Go that way.”
He pointed to the stampede of revellers heading for a door to the left of the bar. She could not see Delilah and Rollo in the throng.
“Come on, Poppy, let’s go,” said Toby, who was still at her arm. His tone was no more than civil; cold even. He’s probably upset by the scene I made, thought Poppy. Well, bully for him!
She was going to say “Thanks, I’ll make my own way” but an ungentlemanly shove by the doorman pushed her in the direction of the exodus, and she was caught up in the flood, Toby close behind her. As she passed the bar she noted the drinks cabinet revolving on some mechanism and being replaced by a shelf of tea caddies. Waiters were clearing bottles and glasses off tables with military precision, then passing the crates to a man in a hatch on the floor – in the place where the piano had been a few minutes earlier. The piano would roll back when the hatch closed. It, in turn, would lead to an underground cellar and perhaps even a secret tunnel like the one at Oscar’s Jazz Club in London.
Poppy’s journalistic mind took all of this in as she was pulled and pushed towards the exit. A woman tripped on her heel and fell. A friend pulled her up and dragged her along as she cried: “My shoe! They’re Ferragamos!”
Poppy wondered what the police officer who found it would think. Would he search for her like the prince for Cinderella – and slap a pair of bracelets on her instead of a ring?
Poppy was pushed through the Bedford Street door onto a residential street. Incredibly, taxis were waiting for some of the guests – pre-ordered? Other guests knocked on doors and were hauled inside – pre-arranged? The rest, like Poppy, ran as quickly as they could while the caterwaul of police sirens filled the night. Toby Spencer called to her from a cab. She pretended not to hear and ran on. A surge of anger shot through her. What relationship did Toby have with Alfie? What game were they playing with her?
She joined a giggling crowd of flappers and fops who’d clearly done this before, and navigated the maze of alleys and streets through Greenwich Village. Toby was left far behind. And only the Lord knew where Alfie Dorchester was. But she would find out. By Jove she would find out.
She allowed herself to be carried along with the throng until finally she was reunited with Rollo and Delil
ah at the entrance to the Eighth Street subway. Together they descended the steps into the station, holding themselves like naughty school children as they passed a pair of police officers and tried not to laugh. They only had a few moments to wait until the uptown train pulled in, and, with a group sigh, they climbed on and found a place to sit.
The carriage was half full of refugees from Chester’s, the atmosphere electric. Rollo and Delilah joined in with a round of “Mama! He’s Making Eyes at Me”; Poppy remained silent.
As the song came to an end, Delilah looked at Poppy apologetically. “Sorry, Popsicle; I got carried away. I know you were getting upset before the raid. You thought you’d seen someone who looked like Alfie Dorchester. That must have been quite a shock.”
Poppy’s brows came together in a scowl. “Not just someone who looked like him, Delilah – it was Alfie Dorchester himself. The real McCoy, as they say here in America.”
“How sure are you that it was Alfie?” asked Rollo, his face suddenly serious. “From what I could see the fella had black hair. Alfie’s blond.”
“It was dyed,” said Poppy. “A good job, but it was dyed. It was him; I’d know those eyes any day.” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “We’ll report it to the police – as soon as we’re off the subway.”
Rollo shook his head and lowered his voice. “And tell them what? So far you are the only person who thinks it’s him. His friends know him as… whatever he called himself –”
“Count Otto von Riesling.”
“So it will be a matter of his and their word against yours. And unless you have some evidence other than you thought you recognized someone you last saw a year ago, who according to all sources is still in Monte Carlo, and now he turns up at an illegal speakeasy that you can’t actually admit you were at – unless you want to get yourself, Chester, and the whole damned lot of us arrested – you haven’t got a hope in hell of anyone taking you seriously.”
“But it was him.” Poppy’s voice caught with unshed tears.
Rollo cleared his throat and nodded. “I believe you, Poppy. But going to the police at this stage is not an option. We’ll need more proof. And where we’re both going on Monday morning will be the best place to get it.”
CHAPTER 16
FRIDAY, 12 APRIL 1921, OFF ELLIS ISLAND
Mimi and Estie huddled in the prow of the rowing boat – Estie because she had been told it was a game of hide and seek and Mimi because the ferryman had warned her that the police would put her in prison if she didn’t. Although her English was not very good, she knew enough to understand that what they were doing was illegal and there would be severe consequences if they were caught.
When they reached land they were ushered into a wagon and hidden under sackcloth while the ferryman strapped in his old nag. She was kept in the backyard of a coopery – for a small monthly fee – while her master was at work. The cooper chose not to mention the ferryman’s unusual cargo he occasionally brought back from Ellis Island, just as the ferryman chose not to mention the smell of cheap liquor coming from some of the cooper’s barrels.
Unlike Poppy and her friends, the sisters did not travel in a bright yellow taxi up Broadway, oohing and ahhing at skyscrapers in the mid-morning sun. Instead, they traversed the cobbled back roads beside the great Hudson River, winding through the poorly lit docklands of the lower west side.
Through the meat district and up past the Hudson Docks, Mimi could hear women’s voices calling out to the ferryman: “A dime a time.” She’d been through enough docks on her journey west from Yalta to visualize the scene: poorly dressed women, their faces painted, offering all they had for all they could get.
There had been times when she thought she would end up doing the same, but somehow she had managed to avoid it. She had judiciously rationed out the valuables stolen from the villa and, when they ran out, washed dishes and cleaned tavern latrines. Estie helped her without complaint, happy to be thought important enough to be given a job to do.
Although Mimi worried for a minute that she and Estie might be headed towards a similar fate, she reminded herself that the lady at Ellis Island had told her there would be decent work to do. She hadn’t said exactly what it was – or if she had, Mimi hadn’t understood the English words – but she had understood enough to know that she and Estie must work for some time – months, years? – in payment for their entry into the so-called “Land of the Free”. So she would work – but only until she found Anatoly. And then he would pay the people so she could leave… and they could get married… and they could live happily ever after…
“A dime a time!” croaked a whore.
“You dumb Dora,” answered the ferryman.
MONDAY, 15 APRIL 1921, MANHATTAN
Poppy, Rollo, and Delilah were on the subway heading to Times Square. It was just past eight o’clock on Monday morning and the train was full of office workers and schoolchildren. The snappier dressers in their pinstripes and derbies were uniformly hidden behind the financial pages of the Times; the flat caps and baggies shared the sports pages between them. Poppy could see that someone called “The Babe” was declaring that the Yankees were on track to win the World Series. Rollo explained that the headline was referring to baseball – similar to English rounders, but people actually paid to watch it – and no other countries were playing: the “World” was just America.
Teenage girls in pinafores and straw boaters giggled at a young lad sporting an enormous pimple on the end of his nose while he looked out of the window in embarrassment. Poppy glared at the girls; they lowered their eyes in shame.
Rollo was reading the inside pages of the Times. He chuckled and pointed a stubby finger at an article halfway down column three: “Wets escape raid on Village speakeasy – Drys cry police pay off”.
“We made it into the papers, ladies. Fame at last, eh?”
Delilah giggled. Poppy smiled wryly: not quite the way she wanted to get into the news. But, she had to admit, the night had been fun – at least until her shock encounter with the fake count.
After getting home safely on Saturday, the three of them had chewed over their options regarding Alfie Dorchester and decided that Rollo was right: nothing could, or should, be done until Monday. They also decided to keep it a secret from Aunt Dot and Miss King, as Poppy’s aunt was already emotionally fragile, and news that the man who attempted to kill her loved ones was loose on the streets of New York might be too much for her. So Poppy spent the rest of the weekend pretending everything was all right.
On Sunday, she accompanied her aunt to the nearby Park Avenue Methodist Church – pointed out to them by Rollo. Between singing Wesley hymns, she wondered what the folk would think if they knew she had spent the previous evening running from the police and drinking, illegally, at a scandalous speakeasy. She knew what her parents would think.
Why was she there? She had got out of the habit of going to church in London. She told herself it was because she was often working, but the truth was, she didn’t really know how her new life would be judged by the congregation. What did it mean to be a good Christian? Did her new love for clothes and music and going to the theatre and dancing in jazz clubs now disqualify her? She didn’t know. She just didn’t know.
The train pulled into Times Square Station. Poppy stood up, gathered her satchel, and prayed for help on her first day on the job. Yes, she still prayed. Despite her unease in church, faith was still part of her life. And boy, did she need that now. Apart from the pressure of trying to find evidence that a Liechtensteinian count was actually the British aristocrat and fugitive Alfie Dorchester, there was the small matter of fitting into an entirely new newspaper in an entirely new city on the other side of the world.
Thank heavens she had Rollo with her. He would know what to do. He would be able to direct her, help her, advise her. She would have reached out and held his hand – like a child needing affirmation from an adult – but it wasn’t the appropriate thing to do.
&n
bsp; Up the subway steps and onto Broadway, she and Rollo bid goodbye to Delilah. Delilah’s session started at ten o’clock, so she had plenty of time. She said she would take in the Square and jump back on the subway to 34th Street Station, then walk down to the Astoria via Macy’s, where she would buy a new hat to match her lilac and white frock. Her “old” hat had not been in a proper hat box and had got squashed in the trunk on the way over. “That’s what I get for last-minute packing!” she confessed.
Poppy gave her friend a cuddle, wished her happy hat hunting, and told her to break a leg. “Does one still break a leg on the wireless?” she wondered.
Delilah giggled. “I don’t know! But I’ll soon find out.” Then she skipped off to window-shop around the square.
“Righto,” said Rollo, as Delilah turned a corner. “To work we go.” He led Poppy south and then west along 43rd Street, explaining as they walked that One Times Square no longer housed the editorial offices, although it was still owned by the paper.
“Don’t be overwhelmed when you see the building,” he warned. “It’s eighteen storeys high and the editorial department alone is spread over six floors.”
Golly, thought Poppy. The Globe is only four floors – the entire building. If she was already nervous, then this made it ten times worse.
As if reading her mind, Rollo stopped at a pedestrian crossing and turned to her: “Don’t worry, a newspaper’s still a newspaper. You’ll fit right in.” Then, as a gap cleared in the traffic, they crossed the road.
Five minutes later they arrived at the imposing edifice of 229 West 43rd Street. En route Rollo told her that the entire company employed eighteen hundred people, had a daily readership of just under half a million, and an editorial staff of around two hundred. The Globe had only ten. Back home in London Poppy was called the “arts and entertainment editor” – implying that she had an entire department under her, but in reality she was a staff of one. At The New York Times they had separate editors for book reviews, music, drama, society, and art, with a staff of twenty working under them. Poppy would be one of the staff. Rollo would be working as a sub-editor, housed on another floor, but he said he would get her settled in before he started work.
The Death Beat Page 11
