Who's Sorry Now?

by Maggie Robinson

  Rinaldi shrugged, then winced. “Could be. Those girls are everywhere, ain’t they? Stuffing fur coats into their knickers right under the salesman’s eyes. Walking out of jewelry shops with a whole tray of sparklers. You have to admire ’em for it.”

  “You might, but I’m afraid I don’t.” The women were clever and attractive, used numerous aliases, and usually got off with just a warning, or a very short stay in one of His Majesty’s prisons. The mill job sounded more like their male friends’ work, though. The women were compatriots of a male gang that was known for its brutal style. Anything was fair game, though the men usually stopped just short of murder.

  As Rinaldi could attest, if he would confess to what happened to him.

  “Look, Freddy, I’m prepared to make a deal with you. Something’s going on, and the Thieves’ Den is smack in the middle of it.”

  “Believe what you want. I told you, I got nothing to say.”

  Dev rose. “Suit yourself. I hope the next time you and your…friends get together, you come out on top.”

  Damned stubborn idiot. The police couldn’t protect him if he wouldn’t protect himself.

  Instead of waiting for the lift, Dev took the stairs two at a time. He’d been stuck indoors too much lately poring over paperwork and needed the exercise.

  What he wouldn’t give for an evening filled with foxtrots, Lady Adelaide Compton in his arms. She’d told him on the telephone she planned to go to the club tonight, and he hoped she wouldn’t fall afoul of any criminal element present. He’d recognized a few of the false names the Dollies used to escape incarceration when he was going over the membership list.

  Dev shuddered. Lady Adelaide could have been a victim just like Rinaldi if she’d arrived at the Thieves’ Den a half hour earlier. Fortunately, she’d had the presence of mind, once she’d checked the man’s pulse, to run across the street to the tobacconist’s to call an ambulance, then the Yard, instead of using the club’s phone. The perpetrator could still have been at the scene, and Dev told her to go straight home. She was gone when he and Bob arrived.

  He would have liked to catch a glimpse of her, even under such unprepossessing circumstances.

  Damn, but he was a fool.

  He checked his watch. The Thieves’ Den opened at eight, though most of the action happened closer to midnight. Even if another crime had been committed, Dev had decided to let the club open as usual. Two of his youngest men would circulate in the club tonight, trying to blend in. He doubted they’d succeed. The best he could hope for is that they’d be ignored. They were to keep Lady Adelaide in sight as much as possible without arousing suspicion.

  He hailed a taxi outside the hospital, expense account be damned. He couldn’t very well return to the Thieves’ Den in the ambulance he’d arrived in, and Bob had left in their police-issued car.

  There was a pall when he entered the club. A few of the waitstaff appeared shell-shocked, their expressions familiar to Dev after the Somme. According to Bob’s quick briefing, no one knew anything about why Rinaldi would be attacked. The band was not due in for another hour, so their questioning would have to wait.

  Under her make-up, the club’s hostess Trix was pale as a ghost, her crimson lips the only spot of color on her face. She was dressed for the evening, even though it was still daylight. Her mostly-sheer red dress left little to the imagination.

  “Miss Harmon, can we speak in the office for a few minutes?” Dev asked.

  “Why? I’m really busy, what with Freddy laid up.” Her usual girlish dimpled charm was absent.

  “I won’t take up much of your time.”

  “Oh, all right.”

  She led the way to Rinaldi’s office, which was, frankly, a mess. It doubled as his bedroom too, and a cot with a mound of blankets was shoved in a corner. Papers covered every surface, and empty coffee cups were stacked on the desk itself. “Is it always like this, or did the intruder toss it?”

  Trix looked around and shrugged. “I can’t tell. Freddy is not the neatest.”

  “Yet you keep meticulous records of attendance every night.”

  “Sure. We send out invoices every week. The members don’t like to be bothered to pay cash when they’re out celebrating. We cross tabulate with the bar bill and remind them what they owe.”

  “And they pay promptly?”

  “Most do.”

  “What are the consequences if they don’t?” Dev knew that rich people were notorious for not meeting their financial obligations. Many a dressmaker or tailor had gone out of business waiting for payments that never arrived.

  “We’ve only been open for five weeks. It’s a little early to tell. But Freddy won’t carry them forever, if that’s what you’re asking. They’ll be kicked out of the club if they get too far in arrears, no matter who they are.”

  “Has anyone been thrown out yet?” It seemed unlikely that a disgruntled Bright Young Person would resort to beating up the club’s owner, but one never knew.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Who else has access to the nightly attendance list?”

  Trix looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “It would be convenient for certain people to know when houses and flats are vacant while the residents are enjoying themselves here.”

  “Anybody can see it, I guess. It’s not a secret. I keep it at the podium in the vestibule until we close.”

  “So no one has come to you to ask to look it over?”

  “No.”

  “Not even your sister?”

  Suddenly, Trix Harmon wasn’t so very pale. “I don’t have a sister!”

  “My mistake. I must have gotten some names mixed up.”

  “Look, Inspector, I’ve got to get the house organized. The band is due any minute to practice, too.”

  “I won’t keep you. If you remember anything that might be helpful to your boss, let me know. Have a good evening.”

  Dev left her muttering and scooping up coffee cups. He would bet his next paycheck that Mary Hart, AKA Mary Smith AKA Mary Frances Harmon, member in good standing to both the Forty Dollies and the Thieves’ Den, was Trix Harmon’s sister.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Almost Thursday

  Addie had drunk a pot of coffee in her attempt to stay awake long enough to make her grand entrance at the Thieves’ Den. And grand it was. She wore a jeweled net cap over her hair, her favorite fox stole, and a slinky silver floor-length satin dress.

  Satin was not very forgiving, so every pound that Addie gained on her cross-Atlantic journey—the food had been incredible—was visible. She hoped it added to her allure as a wicked widow. Unfortunately, she still had to wear her specs if she was to catch a criminal in the act, but she was determined to bat her mascaraed eyelashes as often as possible behind the lenses to live up to her new naughty persona.

  She gave her membership application and a check for the outrageous fee to the pretty hostess Trix, who was stationed at the mahogany podium. The girl wore a flashy red dress that contrasted with her pearlescent skin. Jazz was blaring from the main room.

  “Changed your mind, eh?” Trix shouted.

  “Why not?” Addie said with a brilliant smile, shouting back. “I believe it’s a woman’s prerogative.”

  “Well, welcome to the Thieves’ Den. I’ll see that you get a membership packet in the post.”

  “No hurry. I’m not much for rules,” Addie fibbed. Any daughter of the Marchioness of Broughton was primed for propriety under most circumstances. Even rebellious Cee didn’t press ahead too far into the modern abyss.

  “Are you meeting anyone tonight?” Trix asked.

  “Is the prince here?”

  “Which one? We have a few, you know, from all over,” the hostess said with pride. “The Prince of Wales doesn’t belong yet, but he comes in with his friends som
etimes.”

  Addie was positive the King would soon be having sharp words with his rebellious son. “I’m looking for Prince Andrei.”

  Trix’s scarlet fingernail traced the list in front of her. “I don’t see him. I haven’t been at the podium all night, or I’d remember him coming in. Isn’t he the cat’s meow?”

  “Um, yes, isn’t he? He doesn’t have a bean, though.” It had been drilled into Addie that one never spoke of money. Oops. But she felt protective of the prince and Trix’s possible interest. “How does he manage to pay the fees?”

  “His cousin, I think.” Trix shrugged. “I shouldn’t be talking out of turn.”

  “It’s all right—it’s just between us girls, isn’t it?” Penelope Hardinge and Thomas Bickley were heirs to great fortunes. Addie didn’t see what that might have to do with their deaths, but one never knew.

  Had they been blackmailed over some indiscretion and neglected to pay? Penelope had a substantial portfolio of peccadilloes, but as far as Addie knew, the Bickley boy was as blameless as a wooly white lamb. “I want to sit with amusing people. Let me just come around and see who’s here.”

  “No! That is, I can’t show you the list—I’ll get in trouble. It’s meant to be kind of confidential.”

  “How silly when I have eyes in my head. As soon as I step over the threshold, I’ll see who’s in the room. I just don’t want to get flagged down by tiresome people and be forced to sit with them. You understand, don’t you, dear?” As Addie gave her little speech, she fished into her bag and brought out a fiver.

  Trix’s eyes widened, but she palmed the bribe with alacrity. Addie wished she’d had more small denominations, but she was saving them for the taxi fare home—five pounds was an obscene amount of money to give away for so little. She stepped around the podium and skimmed the names. Trix’s handwriting was not exactly illegible, but it took Addie a minute to figure it out.

  “Oh, good! Kit and Greg are here! Such lovely boys. Will you bring me to them?” They were the only names she recognized from the suspect list.

  “Of course, Lady Adelaide.” Trix would probably escort Addie to the gates of hell for five pounds.

  She followed the girl through the smoky main room, stifling a cough. Dozens of couples were dancing with abandon, and Addie avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. Trix led her through the arches to the smaller, separate room to the rear she’d sat in before. The band was still more than audible, but the atmosphere was not quite so manic, the smoke not so thick. The tables back here were half-empty tonight, votive candles flickering against the gloom.

  Christopher Wheeler and Gregory Trenton-Douglass were seated at a table for two, appearing to be in the middle of an argument. Trix hung back, but Addie forged ahead, adopting a brazenness that would seriously dismay her mother.

  “Good evening, gentlemen! Do you mind if I join you? I need a port in the storm. Two ports are even better.”

  They both rose quickly, pasting polite smiles on their handsome faces. The men were a study in contrasts. Wheeler was fair, reminding Addie a little of a younger Lord Lucas Waring, square-jawed and blue-eyed. Trenton-Douglass, despite his double-barreled name, looked darkly foreign, even down to his tailoring. French, she thought. A gentleman, wherever his ancestors came from—he immediately grabbed a chair from a vacant table for her.

  Wheeler took her hand. “Lady Adelaide! What a pleasure. How is your sister faring? I’ve been crushed with guilt that she came to harm because of me.”

  “It’s not your fault, Kit. How were you to know that your drink was tampered with? And anyway, one doesn’t expect such shenanigans at the Savoy. Please, let’s sit and save our strength.” Addie’s new dancing shoes needed breaking in. How she longed for her comfortable pair of brogues and a country lane to walk in.

  “We almost didn’t come out tonight,” Gregory Trenton-Douglass confided. “We stayed in Monday and yesterday, you know, just so you don’t think we’re heartless. It’s all been such a shock.”

  “Life is short, as I have reason to know. There’s no point to hibernating under the covers. Where is that waiter? I’m simply parched.” Any more liquid after the coffee was apt to send Addie into the ladies’ loo, but who knows what she’d discover in there?

  Kit rose again and signaled the waiter across the room. Addie remembered the man’s name was Ted, and greeted him warmly. “What can you recommend, Ted?”

  He checked his watch. “The champagne is still apt to be good, milady.”

  Just as she’d suspected. The longer the nights wore on, the weaker or more inferior the drinks. It made good business sense, she supposed. Why waste the premium stuff on a clientele too tipsy to notice?

  “What are you boys drinking? Will you join me in a bottle? I can’t drink it all alone.”

  “Certainly. Put it on my tab,” Greg said gallantly. Ted scurried away as fast as a man his size could go.

  “Thank you.” Addie adjusted the fox stole, which was tickling her nape. “Where is everybody this evening? I don’t recognize any of Cee’s friends.”

  “Funny you should mention that. We were just fighting—well, not fighting, exactly, but I thought we should go,” Kit said a bit sheepishly. “The usual crowd isn’t here. That wog policeman put the fear of God in them, I reckon.”

  Addie felt her blood chill. And here she’d thought Kit and Greg were nice boys instead of snotty prejudiced public school clichés. “Pardon?”

  “We were all interviewed after your sister’s accident by some Indian chap. M’father’s called the commissioner to complain. Man shouldn’t be allowed to speak to his betters the way he did.”

  “I believe I met him in hospital,” Addie said, her voice chilly. “I found him to be perfectly polite and professional. His ancestry should not be an issue to anyone with a modicum of intelligence and perspicacity.”

  His betters, indeed. These two callow boys couldn’t hold a candle to Dev—Detective Inspector Hunter, that is.

  “Well, he would kowtow to you, wouldn’t he? You’re a marquess’ daughter, after all, and sister to the victim. He treated Greg and me like scum with all his stupid questions.”

  “How else is he to catch a k—um, whoever put poison in your drink?”

  “It was probably just a prank,” Greg offered. He gave Kit a look, but the other young man gave a slight shake of his head.

  “I hardly think it’s very funny,” Addie said, incensed. “Do you actually have friends who would do such a thing? At the Savoy, of all places.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, but anything goes nowadays, doesn’t it? As long as we’re not bored.” Kit brightened. “Oh, good. Here comes Ted with the champagne.”

  Addie would have much preferred beaning the boys on the head with the bottle, but forced herself to stick to her mission. She took sips as the young men bolted the liquid down as if it were water.

  Time to get them back on track. “So, what did Mr. Hunter say that was so offensive?”

  Greg gazed around the dim room and leaned in. “He was pretty cagey, mentioning some names, but we figured it out between us.”

  “Don’t, Greg. You’ll only alarm Lady Adelaide.”

  “I’m not made of spun sugar, and if it has anything to do with what happened to Cee, I want to hear it.”

  “What happened to Lady Cecilia was probably not the first time some maniac has struck. We’ve done some sleuthing. Did you know that two people died here?”

  Addie pretended ignorance, clutching her pearls with a gloved hand. “No! Really?”

  “Some tart we really didn’t know, as we told that Hunter person, and then a poor kid we did, Tommy Bickley. He was behind us at school. He never quite fit in, though. There was money, but no class, if you catch my meaning.”

  Addie certainly did. She would have to consult her Debrett’s and see if either Kit or Greg turned up in some m
uckety-muck’s family tree. Somehow she divined they would be on somewhat lower branches. The biggest snobs were always those that had no right to be.

  “He practically accused us of killing them!” Kit said, his face darkening in anger. “‘Where were you on the night of so-and-so?’ As if a fellow can remember all of his social engagements.”

  “I’m sure you misinterpreted that.” Inspector Hunter was far too astute for to make accusations that wouldn’t stick. “Did he actually tell you those two young people were dead? I haven’t read anything in the papers.”

  “Naw. We knew about Bickley being found under the table, of course. Heard he had heart problems. But the girl—what was her name, Kit?”

  “Peggy. No, Penny something.”

  “We asked around. She died on the pavement outside. Her pa had it all hushed up.”

  “How very peculiar,” Addie said, wrinkling her nose. “Do you think the Thieves’ Den is dangerous?”

  “No more so than the Savoy. If anything can happen there—” Kit shrugged.

  “Maybe these incidents have nothing to do with each other. Why would someone try to poison you, Kit, if you say you aren’t close to the two dead people?”

  “Damned, I mean, dashed if I know.”

  “Aren’t you worried it will happen again?”

  “Greg will watch out for me, and I’ll watch out for him. We do everything together.”

  Addie raised an eyebrow. “Everything?”

  Kit looked straight at her. “You’re a woman of the world, Lady Adelaide. Greg is my partner. In all things. We’re not ashamed.” He reached for Greg’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

  Ah. But someone might have quite a different idea of propriety. Homosexuality was a crime. Which was better—poison or prison?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thursday

  Addie opened one eye and promptly shut it. Rupert was seated on a chair next to her night table, tossing her alarm clock back and forth between his well-manicured fingers.

  “Go away.”