They entered the building and signed in at a formal reception desk. Poppy was disappointed to see it was not manned by a motherly Mavis Bradshaw clone, but a dour-looking gent in a grey suit. The foyer was buzzing with staff arriving for the day shift and bleary-eyed workers knocking off from the night. “All the news that’s fit to print” – the company’s motto – required round-the-clock attention.
Rollo and Poppy caught the lift – or “elevator”, as the Americans called it – to the sixteenth floor. Poppy had never been so high in the sky. She wondered if she would feel dizzy if she looked out of a window. But before she could check herself for vertigo, Rollo ushered her through an enormous newsroom, abuzz with typewriters and the sound of telegraph tickers. In London, if Poppy or any of the Globe staff needed to send or receive a telegram they had to walk to the nearest post office on Fleet Street. Here they had their own system installed. “They were one of Marconi’s first customers,” Rollo informed her. “Delilah’s Uncle Elmo,” he added, as if she didn’t know.
Some newspapermen looked up from their desks as the young blonde woman and the dwarf passed. A few of them raised their eyebrows appreciatively; one or two greeted Rollo by name. They asked to be introduced to the “dame”, but Rollo brushed them off with a laugh and a promise of a catch-up later. “This is Miz Denby, one of London’s finest young journalists. But I want to introduce her to Judson first.”
Judson Quinn, Rollo had told her, was one of the two associate editors who ran the paper under the editor-in-chief, Charles R. Miller. Miller was currently visiting the Washington office while the other associate, Archie Weinstein, was in London trying to buy the Globe.
Rollo knocked on a door at the end of the newsroom.
“Enter!” came the reply.
He opened the door and stepped aside to usher Poppy in. She walked into an office that was far tidier than Rollo’s back in London. The walls were graced with framed front pages of the Times, showcasing the greatest journalistic scoops of the last thirty-five years. Along one wall was a bank of filing cabinets, and another two were decked with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the spines smartly aligned like soldiers on a parade ground. In the alcove of a bay window – sporting a dizzying view of mid-town Manhattan – was a large desk, covered with ordered stacks of files, photographs, and galley proofs.
A sparsely built man with thinning grey hair got up from his chair. Poppy noticed a slight weakness in his left side and arm, while his face drooped slightly on one side. A stroke? Poppy wondered. But behind his wire-rimmed spectacles, Judson Quinn’s brown eyes were as sharp as tacks. “Well, if it ain’t Rollo the Rogue Rolandson!” He reached out his right hand. “And this must be Miz Daredevil Denby.”
Rollo laughed and Poppy flushed as she took Quinn’s hand. “I don’t know what Mr Rolandson has been telling you, Mr Quinn, but I’m sure it’s all a gross exaggeration.”
“That you single-handedly put a corrupt lord behind bars, embarrassed Marie Curie, saved the life of Constantin Stanislavski, and fought off the entire security detail of the Russian Embassy?” His eyes twinkled. “Surely none of that is an exaggeration, Miz Denby.”
“Let’s just say a bit of journalistic licence has been applied,” observed Poppy.
Judson Quinn gave a lopsided grin and turned his attention to Rollo. “You’ve grown!” he said. Poppy winced at his insensitivity. But Rollo just laughed and patted his belly.
“London food ain’t as bad as they said it would be,” he quipped in a fake cockney accent.
“Jellied eels, quick as yer please, guv!” countered Quinn in an even worse rendition of an East End lilt. And the two men doubled up in mirth. Poppy couldn’t help smiling at the two old chums. She had always been under the impression Rollo had left The New York Times with bad blood. If he had, it certainly wasn’t with Judson Quinn.
Eventually the two men straightened up and turned to Poppy. “I’m sorry, Miz Denby, it’s just been a while since I’ve seen your editor. We were cubs together – did he tell you?”
“He didn’t,” she said. Rollo shrugged.
“But,” said Quinn, taking a step back, “unfortunately our friendship has to stop at the office door; as I’m sure Rollo understands.”
Quinn looked over his spectacles at his old chum. Rollo shifted slightly from one foot to the other and nodded. Ah, thought Poppy, there is something hanging over them.
“Rollo can tell you about it himself, but just to say my senior, Mr Miller, and my colleague, Mr Weinstein, are not quite as fond of old Rolandson as I am. And, although I’m in charge when they’re not here, they have made it clear that I am not to give either of you cushy jobs for the next three months.”
“Cushy jobs? What the hell do they think we want? Walnut-lined offices?” asked Rollo. His voice was jocular but there was an edge to it.
It was Quinn’s turn to shift from foot to foot. But with his weak left side it ended up as more of a lurch. Poppy almost reached out a hand to steady him, but he regained his balance without her help.
“You know what I mean, Rollo. Nothing ‘career furthering’. You’ve just got to be kept busy, that’s all, until it’s time for you to go back to London. So you’re going downstairs to copy tasting and Miz Denby here will go on the Death Beat.”
Rollo rocked back on his heels and crossed his arms. “Suppose it could be worse.”
There was a knock on the door and a bald man with a flush-red face popped his head around.
“Ah, Saunders, just in time,” said Quinn.
“Saunders?” Rollo said in disbelief, then he turned towards his old friend. “Oh, Judson. Why didn’t you tell me?” Rollo’s voice was cut with disappointment.
Quinn avoided his eyes and went back to his desk. He sat down and absently started straightening a pile of papers.
“I’m sorry, Rollo. A personal request from Weinstein.”
Rollo strode over to the desk and placed both hands on it, leaning in towards the associate editor. “And you didn’t have the tackle to stand up to him?”
Quinn slumped to one side and with an obvious effort straightened himself again. Poppy reached out a restraining hand and placed it on Rollo’s arm. She didn’t understand why he was so upset, but clearly Quinn’s health was not able to withstand much more.
“Rollo…”
Rollo’s muscles relaxed under her touch. “Sorry, Poppy. Quinn. Don’t worry; I’d be delighted to work with Saunders.”
He turned around to face the bald man still standing in the doorway, sporting a self-satisfied smirk. His voice was flat as he said: “Miz Denby, may I introduce Paul Saunders.”
Saunders reached out his hand. Poppy took it, nervously. It was limp and clammy. The obligatory shake over, she started to withdraw; then, suddenly, his grip tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Good day, Miz Denby. I believe you know my cousin, Lionel. Lionel Saunders. Oh, he’s told me sooooo much about you.”
CHAPTER 17
FRIDAY, 19 APRIL 1921, MANHATTAN
It had been a long, hard week working on the “Death Beat” – journalistic slang for the obituary column. Poppy was tasked with scouring the daily police reports of deaths in the city to see if anyone notable had died overnight. If they had, she had to access their files – similar in set-up to the Jazz Files they had at the Globe – and write up an obituary. Prominent celebrities, business leaders, and civil luminaries who were known to be ill or infirm already had pre-written obits that just needed to be updated on their actual death. Anyone seventy years or older automatically had one written. Poppy spent most of the week writing up draft obits for people due to turn seventy in 1921, from a list provided by Paul Saunders.
Saunders, although physically nothing like his British cousin, was every bit like him in spirit and he set about making her life as miserable as he could, with snide remarks and a refusal to answer even the most legitimate of questions. “If you’re such a hot-shot reporter, missy, find out for yourself,” he answered when she asked where the
ladies’ rest room was.
Rollo was convinced that Paul Saunders was the source of the Department of Immigration’s files on Dot and Delilah, and that Lionel was Paul’s source in London.
Lionel had been working at the Globe when Poppy first joined the paper in June 1920. They had immediately got off on the wrong foot and he had gone out of his way to undermine her at every opportunity. But soon the undermining turned more sinister and it became clear that Saunders was acting on behalf of some very dangerous people. Once the case was closed there was insufficient evidence to link the former arts and entertainment editor to any crimes, but Poppy, Rollo, and the rest of the staff at the Globe believed him to be involved. Rollo fired him and gave Poppy his job. But Lionel still had lots of influential contacts on the London social scene and he soon got a job at the Globe’s rival, The London Courier. Since then he had tried to scoop Poppy on every story. And now, here he was by proxy, trying to make her life as miserable as possible in New York.
But Poppy refused to let Paul and Lionel Saunders win. Instead, she set about looking on the bright side of her time on the Death Beat. So, although Rollo muttered and moaned about his humiliating come-down from editor-in-chief to a mere copy taster, Poppy realized she was darned lucky to be working on a paper as famous as The New York Times, in any capacity.
The work itself, although tainted by Saunders’ spiteful comments and obstreperous behaviour, was fairly interesting. Poppy enjoyed research, and although she would have preferred not to be tied to her desk – with the whole of New York to explore – she relished finding out about the lives of the rich and famous. There were some extraordinary people living in the city, many of them world-famous, and here she was having a little glimpse into their fascinating lives.
One of them was Melvil Dewey, the director of the New York State Library, and the man who had invented the Dewey Classification system. Even in London they used it! It was thanks to Mr Dewey that Poppy was able to find her way around her library so easily – which helped immensely when she needed to do some quick research for a story she was working on. Mr Dewey would be turning seventy in December and she set about writing a glowing obituary from the information she found on file. As she finished, she hoped it wouldn’t be needed anytime soon.
It was just before lunch. Poppy had not yet had the latest crime report for the night before. It should have arrived first thing in the morning and Poppy suspected Saunders had deliberately kept it from her. He’d done it before – two days earlier – and she had got into trouble with the departmental editor for filing late copy. She had seen Saunders smirking at his desk. She had decided, then, to take the moral high ground and not publicly accuse him, knowing there was no evidence to back her up. Wednesday and Thursday passed without incident and she began to wonder if she had misread the man. But now that it had happened a second time, she knew her initial suspicions were correct. She would speak to Rollo about it at lunch. Perhaps he could have a word with Mr Quinn on her behalf.
She looked over to Saunders’ desk and noted that the bald head was not bent over the blotting pad as usual. And, she further noted, his hat was not on the hat stand either. Hmmm, dare I?
The Lord helps those who help themselves, she thought, and then giggled to herself. Poppy was sure snooping around a colleague’s desk was not what her mother meant when she used the maxim, but that’s exactly what she was going to do.
There were two other journalists in the room. One was typing furiously, trying to meet deadline; the other had his back turned, talking loudly on the telephone while standing looking out of the window, cigarette in hand. It was now or never. Poppy got up quickly and went over to Saunders’ desk. She skimmed through the pile of papers in the in-tray: nothing there. She checked each bit of copy on the desk: again, nothing. Then she turned her attention to the two drawers. The first was filled with stationery: ink bottles, blotters, and red pencils, along with a half-jack of Johnnie Walker whisky and a pack of Lucky Strikes. The second drawer, however, was full of files, and right on top was a single sheet of paper entitled “New York City Crime Report, Thursday 18th April 1921”.
Poppy’s heart skipped a beat. So he had kept it from her! After a quick glance to see if anyone was watching, she removed the sheet of paper. She intended to gloss over it to see if there was anything of note, then replace it. She would ask Rollo to spread the word that Saunders had been seen putting the report in his drawer. Rollo still had friends on the paper and a word in the right ear would be all that was needed for the rumour to get around. Then, hopefully, it would reach Mr Quinn’s ear – or the ear of the departmental editor – and they would challenge Saunders on it and perhaps ask him to open his drawer. It was all unpleasantly underhanded – and Poppy didn’t feel comfortable doing it – but after being on the paper only five days she knew her word alone would not be enough.
She skimmed the report – yes, there had been a notable death. At least she assumed it was notable because it was located in a posh area of town called Lexington Avenue. When she started on the Death Beat Rollo had given her a run-down of areas she was to concentrate on, where she was likely to find the residences of the rich and famous. If she wasn’t sure, she was to ask him. This, of course, should have been Saunders’ job – to guide her through the who’s who of New York society – but he had made it crystal clear that he would rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than help the woman who had almost ruined his cousin’s career.
Poppy turned her attention to the report. The body of an eighty-three-year-old gentleman had been found in his penthouse apartment on Lexington Avenue: Prince Hans von Hassler of Liechtenstein. The circumstances of his death were described as “suspicious but as yet unexplained”. Liechtenstein? The hairs on the back of her neck quivered.
Alfie Dorchester – that’s where his alias came from too. Surely that can’t be a coincidence…
All thoughts of framing Paul Saunders were driven from her mind and replaced with an image of Alfie posing as Count Otto von Riesling from Liechtenstein. How many aristocrats from a tiny Alpine principality can there possibly be in New York City? She didn’t know, but she was jolly well going to find out. She folded the page and was just about to shut the drawer when she noticed the top-most file – a Death Beat file labelled “Prince Hans von Hassler”.
She scooped the file from the drawer and slotted it under her arm. Two can play at this game, she thought, and plucked her hat and coat from the stand.
“This fella was in his eighties,” said Rollo between mouthfuls of bagel filled with roast beef and pickle. “I saw the report this morning. Passed it on to a crime reporter. The old boy’s housekeeper found him collapsed in the bathroom. He’d hit his head and there was a lot of blood. She reckons he was attacked, but there’s no evidence of a break-in and the geezer could just have hit his head when he fell. We’ll see what comes of it.”
He took another bite of his bagel and swilled it down with coffee as thick and black as crude oil.
“Geezer?” asked Poppy. She chuckled. So Rollo hadn’t quite left London behind.
They were sitting in a diner just off Times Square. As Rollo demolished his lunch and ordered seconds, she nibbled at her own bagel – with a more modest filling of cheese and tomato – and read through the information on the dead man in the Death Beat file.
Prince Hans von Hassler had lived in New York for twenty years, having come to America as a younger man to make his fortune in the Mount Baker Gold Rush of 1896. And make his fortune he did, founding and owning a very lucrative mine. But the harsh conditions of the northwest did not suit the cultured European and, as soon as he could, he put a manager in charge and “retired” to a penthouse on Lexington Avenue, where he had lived ever since.
Von Hassler, who lived off earnings from the family estate in Liechtenstein – of which he was the sole heir – as well as his gold mine, was wealthy enough to be ranked in the top echelons of New York society. Although becoming quite the recluse in more recent years, he
was a generous benefactor of the arts and community projects.
“Oh look!” said Poppy, picking up a photograph. “Here he is with Amelia Spencer. The caption says it was taken in May 1910 at a gala dinner for the Eugenics Society. Is this the same eugenics thing you were telling me about on the ship?”
Rollo banged down his coffee cup and took the photograph from Poppy. He flicked it over, read the caption, and gave it back to her. “Yes.” His voice was cold.
“Golly,” said Poppy, “surely that doesn’t mean –”
“Amelia Spencer is a supporter of eugenics?” he said bitterly. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it means, Miz Denby.”
Poppy looked at her editor, noting the furrowed brows and tensed neck. “Ah, so that’s why you don’t like her.”
Rollo whipped his head up to look at her. “Who said I didn’t like her?”
“You could have frozen haddock when the two of you met on the Olympic. I just didn’t know why.” Poppy picked up the picture again and looked at the beautiful Long Island woman – who would then have been in her mid-forties – and the elderly prince, still tall and upright, despite his seventy-odd years.
“But I thought she was a socialist,” offered Poppy.
Rollo stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “No, not a socialist. Far from it. But she did campaign for women’s suffrage and as such rubbed shoulders with lots of socialists like your aunt and the Pankhursts.”
“So where does eugenics fit into it?”
The Death Beat Page 12
