by Shéa MacLeod
As I exited the ladies’ room, I was eager to get back to Chaz and tell him what I’d found out, but my way was blocked by a gorilla of a man. His cheap suit jacket strained against a thick chest and shoulders wide enough to block the hall.
“Pardon me,” I said, trying to move around him, but he stepped over to block me. I glanced up to find cold, dead eyes staring at me from an emotionless face. My stomach turned.
“Mr. Jones would like to see you.”
I ADMIT TO SOME TREPIDATION as the beefy gentleman in the too-tight suit led me through the maze-like warren of narrow hallways that made up the back of the Apollyon. Chaz had no idea where I was, and I had no idea how to find my way out of this mess. What if Derby Jones discovered who I really was and decided to do away with me? Or worse. What if he thought I really was a tart?
Frankly, I was beginning to think this had been a terrible idea. Who’d thought this caper up, anyway?
Oh, yes. Me.
With an inward sigh, I straightened my shoulders, steeled my spine, and marched on. To the gallows, as it were.
At last I was ushered into what I could only assume was the inner sanctum. It looked like any number of studies I’d seen in any number of upper-class houses. Dark wood paneling. Plush armchairs in dark wine velvet to match the drapes. Carpeting thick enough to break an ankle. And a massive rosewood desk behind which sat one Derby Jones.
Aunt Butty had shown me a picture of him in the paper before we left the house. He’d been accused of one crime or another though it hadn’t seemed to stick. He was handsome in a brutal sort of way with a strong jaw, a nose that had been broken once or twice, a scar across his upper lip, and surprisingly thick eyelashes. He eyed me, his eyes the icy blue-green of the ocean. It made me shiver in trepidation, though I was fairly certain I didn’t show it.
“Mr. Jones, I presume?” I said saucily in my broad country accent.
He stared at me a beat longer, then inclined his head. He didn’t get up, as a gentleman should when a lady entered the room, but sat, fingers steepled, eyeing me up and down. “I am. And to whom do I have the pleasure?”
I propped a hand on one hip and eyed him back measure for measure. If he thought he could stare at me like a side of beef, well, I could do the same. He wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes, either, though he was no Hale.
“Maddie,” I said, giving him my maid’s name. She’d no doubt throw a teacup at my head if she found out.
One eyebrow went up. “Just Maddie? No last name?” He didn’t look at me like a man who was thinking of getting my clothes off.
I shrugged and took a seat in one of the velvet chairs. They actually weren’t as comfortable as they looked. “What’s the point? You’re not interested.”
“You’re right.”
I was surprised he admitted it.
“What I am interested in is why you’re questioning my people.”
My people. As if he owned them. Maybe in a way he did. Men like him bought and sold people all the time in one way or another.
“I’m trying to find out about my friend, Dottie. I know she used to spend time here.” Only a partial lie. Lies are always better when they carry a grain of truth.
“And?” Those cold, appraising eyes never left my face. Not since that first perusal of my body. I almost wished he’d look somewhere else. Anywhere else. It was unnerving.
“Well, she’s dead. Somebody killed her.”
His expression remained impassive. No hint of surprise. “And you think someone at my club killed her.” It wasn’t a question.
“Honestly? I don’t know. It could have been her husband or her boyfriend or that awful Kitty person,” I said, ticking off random suspects. Hale might be innocent, but Derby Jones maybe didn’t know that. “I was hoping maybe I could find something out here. Something that would point me in the right direction.”
“Why don’t you leave it to the police?”
I snorted in a very unladylike fashion. “Please. How many times have the police arrested you?”
“Fair point.” He actually cracked a smile and went from brutally handsome, to downright charming.
No wonder women swooned over him. I’d never understood why women liked bad men until that moment.
Clearing my throat, I crossed my legs, something Lady Rample would never do, but something that Maddie the Tart probably would. “I know she was cheating on her husband.” I knew no such thing, but I figured a person like Dottie must have been. She’d stolen her best friend’s boyfriend, after all. “I’m trying to find out who it was and thought someone might have seen her here with him.”
“And why do you want to find this man, if he exists?” Jones asked.
“Because maybe he knows something. Or maybe he killed her.”
“He didn’t.” His tone was very sure.
“How do you know that?” I demanded.
“Because I was Dottie’s lover.”
Chapter 10
“Well knock me over with a feather,” I finally managed. How had Louise been so wrong about Jones’s type? I was now regretting my word choice. I didn’t think Derby Jones was the sort of man to take being accused of murder very well.
“You seem surprised,” he said. “Don’t you think Dottie would find me... desirable?”
The way he said that last word gave me a shiver. I had a terrible feeling he might be trying to seduce me. “Actually, I thought it might be the other way around. I’ve heard you have a type.”
“Oh, I do.” This time he did get up. He slowly stalked around the desk until he stood right behind me. His hands came up to rest lightly on my shoulders, thumbs caressing the soft skin of my throat.
A shiver went through me as I imagined those big hands wrapping themselves around my neck and squeezing the life out of me. I’d no doubt Mr. Jones could kill easily and without compunction should he decide it was necessary. Had he thought it necessary to murder Dottie?
“You do?” I managed not to squeak, but only just.
“Ah, yes. I like a woman who is strong. Independent. Beautiful.” His hands slid down my bare shoulders. “One who isn’t afraid of her beauty.”
In other words, one who didn’t mind showing off the goods. Definitely fit Dottie. But independent? That didn’t. Dottie had been the sort desperate to get her claws into any man she could.
His hands slid all the way to my elbows. I was afraid I’d have to slap those hands off me, but I didn’t want to stop him from whatever admission he was about to make. Because I was sure he was about to say something important.
“I can see why Dottie fell for you,” I said a little breathily.
“Unfortunately, she wasn’t woman enough to handle me. Even before her untimely death.” This time his face was pressed awfully close to mine. So close, I could smell cinnamon on his breath. Which was surprising. I’d expected smoke or booze. “Are you woman enough to handle me?”
I held back a smirk. He’d no idea. “How do I know you didn’t kill her?”
“I could swear it to you.”
“Would you be lying?”
“I would never lie to such a beautiful woman.”
I almost burst out laughing. Laying it on just a bit thick there. “Then tell me the truth.”
“Very well.” His lips were inches away from my jaw. “Dottie and I were lovers for a time. It was brief. Casual. And then we both moved on. I did not kill her. Had no reason to.”
And there it was. He’d have killed her if he’d felt there was a reason. No doubt about it. But he, surprisingly enough, seemed to be telling the truth.
“Now, let’s talk about you and me.” His voice was low and sultry. Filled with dark promises.
I stood up so fast, he staggered backward. I turned to face him and gave him a cool, accessing look. “I’m very flattered, Mr. Jones, but I’m afraid you’re not my type.”
And I sashayed from the room, leaving the man gaping behind me.
IT TOOK THREE TRIES to find my way back to the
club. Without Derby Jones’s goon to show the way, I kept getting lost. One time I ended up in the men’s room. Fortunately, it had been sans men at the time. Another time I nearly locked myself in a closet. But at last I found the chaos of the dance floor.
I careened across the crowded space until I found Chaz. Grabbing him by the sleeve, I dragged him toward the door. “Come on. We’d better go before he changes his mind.”
“Until who changes his mind?” he shouted over the music.
“Derby Jones.”
His eyes goggled. “You met Jones?”
“Hurry. I’ll tell you all about it once we’re outside.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Mr. Singh rose from his table. As we passed the bar, I noticed the barman staring at us. The look on his face was equal parts fear and suspicion. Very strange. Still, I didn’t have time to mull it over. For all I knew, Derby’s goon was already on his way.
After collecting our coats from the coat check girl, we exited the club. It was late, and the streets were empty. A light drizzle frizzed out my wave and dampened my shoes.
“Now tell me—”
“In the car.” I hustled him faster.
We were halfway down the block when the club door banged open and someone shouted, “You there!”
I couldn’t be sure if it was the goon or Jones, but either way, I didn’t want to stop for a chat. Instead I shouted, “Run!”
We ran full tilt for the car, leather soles slapping on pavement, echoing off the walls of the brick buildings surrounding us. Behind us I heard a shout, but I didn't dare turn around to look.
Chaz was ahead of me. He yanked open the car door and held out a hand. Too late. Somebody grabbed me from behind, fingers sinking into the soft flesh of my upper arm.
I tried to yank my arm free, but to no avail. Lifting cocktails does not exactly give a person a lot of muscle tone. Instead, I trod on my attacker’s instep with my heel. He let out a yelp, and his fingers loosened. I whirled around and bashed him over the head with my handbag. He hit the deck like a ton of bricks.
Unfortunately, a second goon loomed close, glowering fiercely as he jumped over his fallen comrade. However, Mr. Singh melted out of the darkness, landing a fist on the man’s jaw.
Without further ado, I ran for the car and jumped inside. Chaz slammed the door behind me and dashed around to his own side of the car. "Go! Go! Go!"
Needed no urging. I revved the engine and gunned it. The car took off with a lurch and screech of tires. A quick glance in the rearview mirror showed both goons on the ground. Mr. Singh had disappeared.
"Mr. Singh to the rescue. What the devil did you hit that other goon with?" Chaz asked, hanging on to the strap.
“Aunt Butty insisted I put a brick in my bag," I said.
"You're kidding." He grabbed my bag, pulled it open, and peeked inside. "No brick."
"Of course not. I didn't have a brick. But I figured a book would do just as well."
He pulled out a fat tome upon which was written in gold letters The Complete Works of Shakespeare. "You mean this book?”
I grinned. "That's the one."
"You'll be lucky if you haven't killed him."
"Well," I sniffed, "he shouldn't go around grabbing ladies. He only got his just desserts."
But as we zoomed into the night, I couldn't help glancing in the rearview mirror from time to time, keeping an eye out for goons. The roads remain clear, or at least as clear as they ever got in London, but I had a bad feeling it would only be a matter of time before Derby Jones was on my tail.
Chapter 11
Once our pursuers were well out of sight, I rounded the block and headed back toward the club.
“What are you doing?” Chaz demanded. “They’ll see us.”
“No, they won’t. They’ll think we’re long gone.”
“So what’s the plan?” he asked as I parked the car halfway down the block with the bonnet pointed at the club.
“The barman,” I said. “He knows something. I’m sure of it. The club will be closing soon, so we’ll wait here until he comes out.”
“And then what? Kidnap him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Though the thought had crossed my mind. “We’re just going to pull him aside and question him. I have a feeling he’ll tell us a lot more if he knows his boss isn’t watching.”
“I doubt he’ll tell us anything at all,” Chaz groused. “You don’t cross Derby Jones. Not if you like your limbs intact and working.”
Great. Not only had Jones sent his goons after me, but he probably considered what I’d done crossing him. If he found out who I really was, he’d probably break my shins. Or worse. But I couldn’t think of that now. I needed to focus on clearing my name.
It was late. I was cold. And I’d give anything for a drink. Sans that option, I could use a snack. I rummaged around in my handbag for some mints or something but came up empty.
“Open the glove box door,” I ordered.
Chaz sighed, but did as told.
“Anything of interest?”
He shuffled things around. “Road map. Extra pair of driving gloves. And a nearly empty tin of boiled sweets.” He rattled it.
“Give it over.” I pried off the lid and popped a sweet in my mouth. I offered him one, but he shook his head.
“You think Jones is behind Dottie’s death?” Chaz asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He’s definitely capable of killing someone, but the manner of her death doesn’t seem his style. Probably more likely to shoot someone or drop them in the Thames. Stabbing someone with a woman’s hatpin seems... unlikely.”
“Did he admit to having an affair with her?”
“Surprisingly, yes,” I said.
“Why surprisingly?”
“He didn’t seem the sort to just admit it. And Louise was very specific about his type. Something just felt off.”
He eyed me. “You had a hunch.”
“Yes, I did.”
He sighed. “And now I get to freeze my nether regions off, waiting on a barman who may or may not know something interesting.”
“Buck up,” I cheered him. “It’s not everyone who gets the chance at a stakeout.”
“North would have a fit if he knew what you were up to.”
“Let him.” I crunched the last of the boiled sweet and selected another. “If I leave it up to him, I’ll be hanging from the gallows in no time.”
“Don’t be dramatic, love. They don’t hang ladies. At worst you’ll end up in Bedlam.”
“Lovely,” I said dryly. “I could use a holiday.”
The doors of the club swung open, and patrons spilled out onto the street, some staggering, likely from copious amounts of cheap alcohol. Finally, the last one left and the light above the door switched off.
“He’ll have to clean up,” I said, “but it shouldn’t be long now.”
About twenty minutes later, the door opened again, and the barman exited the building and strolled toward us. His head was down, hunched against the cold, hands jammed in his pockets.
As he drew even with us, Chaz swung open the door and stepped out onto the curb right in front of him. The barman muttered something—either an apology or curse, it was hard to tell—and started to go ‘round him. Only Chaz grabbed his arm. “We need to talk.” He shoved the poor man in the backseat of my car before he could protest.
“Whatcha want?” he demanded, staring at us with wide, frightened eyes.
“We ain’t gonna hurt you,” Chaz said in a rather unconvincing rough accent, “if you tell us what we want.”
“What do you want? Who are you?”
I turned around, and he got a good look at my face.
“Oh, it’s you.” He seemed to relax at least a little.
“I saw you inside,” I told him. “It looked like you wanted to tell me something.”
“I saw you talking to Mr. Jones,” he said. “You know him?”
I shook my head. “No, but I
knew Dottie Hale.” A little white lie. “I wanted to know if he knew what happened to her. He said he didn’t. Claimed they were lovers.”
The barman snorted. “There weren’t no love lost between those two.”
“Why do you say that, er, what’s your name?” Chaz asked.
“Harry.”
“Nice to meet you, Harry. I’m... Maddie,” I said, once again giving him my maid’s name. “And this is my partner, Jimmy.” Seemed like a good name for a tough.
“Right. Well, trust me when I say Mr. Jones weren’t havin’ relations with the likes of Dottie Hale.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“Well, she were a regular weren’t she? Came in nearly every day. Drank a bit. Flirted with this one or that one. Sometimes got real close, if you know what I mean.”
Chaz and I exchanged glances. We did know.
“Jones don’t touch the likes of that no how. If he’s with a woman, she better not be with anybody else, you get my drift?”
“We do,” Chaz assured him.
“Why would Jones lie to me then?” I mused. “He claimed they were lovers.”
Harry snorted. “Opposite of that, more like.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He leaned forward. “If Mr. Jones finds out I told ya, he’ll kill me.”
“He won’t find out,” Chaz assured him.
“You didn’t hear this from me,” Harry said, “but that Dottie stole money from Mr. Jones. He were that furious, he swore he’d get her.”
“Get her?” I had a bad feeling I knew exactly what Derby Jones had meant by that.
Harry nodded. “If you ask me, Derby Jones killed Dottie Hale.”
IT DIDN’T SURPRISE me to find someone accusing Derby Jones of murder. In fact, I was quite certain he was capable of just such a thing. Question was, was he guilty of this particular murder?
