Who's Sorry Now?

by Maggie Robinson

  “You’re sure Trix Harmon’s not involved in the murders in some way?”

  “Oh, she’s involved in something, but not necessarily the murders. She’s a bright girl and taking her chance before things go too far south. Any new information about the Bergeron robbery?”

  Bob pulled up Johnson’s chair and was about to expound when Dev’s phone rang.

  His day was about to get more interesting and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Addie had been here before—gosh, just seven days ago. This week had had more twists and turns than a carnival ride, and she felt much too old for one of those. She supposed she might have called the inspector at his office to report on running into Nadia and Mary Frances Harmon last night, but it was a fine morning, and she craved fresh air. She had a new suit, too—heather-gray, and a matching cunning veil with one curled dusty rose feather. Beckett had thought she looked very smart, although had wrinkled her nose when Addie disclosed where she was going. In Beckett’s unwanted opinion, ladies did not visit policemen on their premises unless they were under arrest.

  “Good morning, Inspector! I called your flat, but got no answer. Then I remembered you were slave-driving poor Sergeant Wells this morning, and here I am!” Bob Wells turned scarlet, a fairly normal color for him every time he encountered Addie, she noted.

  “Bob, please fetch me another cup. I guess I could do with a break. You’ll share some of my mother’s coffee with me, yes? It’s excellent.”

  “I’d love to. And I didn’t think you’d mind, me coming here so early. I barely slept. I have a clue! Or what I hope will be. You’ll have to sort it out.”

  “Thanks for your confidence. I hope I can recognize a clue as well as you do.”

  Was he poking fun at her? Gracious, he looked tired, and was that a strand of silver in his glossy dark hair? Addie was busy pulling out white hair every day. Beckett warned her she’d soon be bald.

  She watched as Bob returned with a surprisingly pretty tea cup without a matching saucer. Mr. Hunter waved him away, then unscrewed the cap of a flask he pulled from his bottom desk drawer.

  “It might not be as hot as it should be. Do you want half my bacon roll too?”

  “Oh, no. I had a bowl of Irish oatmeal, the one dish Beckett is genius at. Loads of double cream and golden syrup. Bad for one’s figure, but so very delicious. But please, have your breakfast. I know how hard you’ve been working. Um…perhaps you’d like to come to supper tonight? I promise more than roast beef sandwiches.” Addie had not planned to issue that invitation, but somehow she had.

  “Sorry, I can’t. I have a few interviews to conduct at the Thieves’ Den.”

  “Could I come too?” She could wear her gold striped evening gown. She had lovely turquoise jewelry she usually wore with it, and a feathered bandeau.

  “Best not. So, what is this clue?” He took a bite of his roll.

  “Well, I took Fitz for a walk last night—”

  He swallowed hurriedly. “Alone?”

  Addie couldn’t very well mention Rupert. “Yes, of course.”

  Mr. Hunter looked grim. “That’s not wise, Lady Adelaide. You could be a target yourself. An attractive woman on a dark street—why, it’s an invitation to all the mischief-makers in Mayfair.”

  Men. Always telling one what one should or shouldn’t do. Annoyed, she concentrated on the word attractive and took a sip of coffee. As he’d said, it was very good.

  She set her cup down. “Nevertheless, I persisted and here I am, safe and sound. I only went as far as the Mount Street Gardens and had Fitz to protect me.” Mr. Hunter probably knew just how useless Fitz was as a guard dog, but he said nothing.

  “Anyway, who do you think I bumped into?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest. Lady Adelaide, need I remind you that I’m very busy? Please get to the point.” He was clearly at his wits’ end—three murders and an attempted murder would do that to one, and probably accounted for his grumpy mood.

  “Nadia Sanborn and Mary Frances Harmon were having a tête-à-tête on a bench. They were not happy to see me. I pretended I thought Mary Frances was her cousin Trix, and they didn’t tell me otherwise. Nadia gave Mary Frances a rather thick envelope—for services rendered, I presume. Nadia told me she had done something stupid but was finished. I asked her if she’d bought poison from Mary Frances—”

  “What? Lady Adelaide, I know you think you’re helping, but leave the questions to the police! Do you see what you’ve done?” His face was flushed in anger, and for the first time, Addie could imagine what being a criminal under his black gaze felt like.

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Nothing but tip our hand, if we can ever find their hideout. If the Dollies are involved in passing out poisons, you can bet they’ll clean up all traces. Destroy all evidence, or transfer it to a new safe place.”

  “I don’t think Nadia plans to see Mary Frances again to tell her anything,” Addie said in a small voice.

  “She may not want to, but Mary Frances may have other ideas. If Nadia is being blackmailed, Mary Frances will be expecting another thick envelope, and you were a witness. These women are relentless, Lady Adelaide, and now you’re in their gunsights.”

  “But I didn’t say or do anything suspicious!” Addie protested. She wasn’t about to raid their hideout. If the police didn’t know where it was—

  A dreadful and intriguing idea flashed across her mind.

  “So you think. Curiosity killed the cat, you know. I want you to go back to the Cotswolds and forget this past week. I don’t know what I was thinking, letting someone like you get involved. Again! I should have my head examined.”

  Someone like you? He sounded so dreadfully dismissive. “Dr. Bergman is acquainted with Sigmund Freud. Do you want a referral?” Addie asked tartly. She knew she’d been useful in the investigation so far. She was not some helpless creature to be kept buried in the country away from the big bad city. An empty-headed twit who only lived for fashion and folly, and was about to inform the detective of just that.

  “Calm down,” Rupert said. He was sitting cross-legged on an oak filing cabinet like a swami again, but didn’t look a bit uncomfortable. Why was he here? He was the most annoying, aggravating—

  “I will not...” Addie began, then realized to whom she was speaking. Mr. Hunter already thought she was not quite in her right mind. “Um, I will not cause problems, I promise.”

  “You certainly won’t. If I have to put you on a train myself, I will.”

  “You can’t boss me around, Inspector Hunter! I’m not poor Bob.”

  “Poor Bob? I’ll have you know he loves his job. And is good at it. You need to withdraw. Now.”

  Addie was fairly sure she’d be good at a job if she had one; she was intelligent enough, even if she didn’t know Russian literature. It wasn’t her fault that society expected her to be festive, philanthropic yet fundamentally idle.

  “Now, children,” Rupert murmured, smoothing down his ridiculous moustache, “no fighting.”

  “I’ll do as I please!” Addie said to both men.

  “That’s fine,” Mr. Hunter growled, “as long as you do as you please in the country.”

  “You forget yourself.” Addie was alarmed by the ice in her voice. It was as if her mother had joined them and had taken over her vocal chords. Rupert hissed and disappeared as unexpectedly as he’d appeared.

  He’d always hated confrontation. Usually because he was guilty.

  Mr. Hunter stood up. “My apologies, my lady. I don’t know what’s come over me.” He didn’t sound one jot sorry as he picked up the telephone receiver. “Sergeant Wells, could you please escort Lady Adelaide downstairs and procure a taxi for her? Thanks.” He hung up and glared at her. “Or would you prefer ‘poor Bob’ drive you home so you can lecture him on
my slave-driving ways? Perhaps you can infiltrate the policemen’s union and call another strike. But no doubt you think police are unnecessary when it comes to detecting. After all, anyone can blunder about and ask questions, can’t they?”

  Sergeant Wells opened the office door, a shy smile on his face. “Ready, Lady Adelaide?”

  “Beyond ready. Good day, Inspector.” Without waiting for his reply, she walked out with spectacular deportment, chin pointed to the rather cobwebby ceiling, and headed for the lift. “You needn’t come down with me, Sergeant Wells. I know my way, and I promise to leave the building.”

  “Um, uh, are you all right, Lady Adelaide?”

  “Of course! It will take more than one pig-headed man to discompose me. I’ve had a great deal of practice over the years.”

  “Tut tut.” Rupert was back at her elbow. She gave him a satisfactory little shove.

  “There’s no need to resort to violence.”

  “How is your little girl, Sergeant Wells?” Addie asked, poking Rupert once more. Could she trip him? Though Sergeant Wells might think she was under the influence if her foot went astray and she tumbled to the linoleum.

  “She’s got a tooth coming in already and is a little crab-pot. But bonny just the same.”

  “How lovely,” Addie said, distracted. “Really, you don’t need to go down to the street with me.”

  “Guv’s orders. Doesn’t do to cross Inspector Hunter.”

  “I bet not. He’s an ogre, isn’t he?”

  Sergeant Wells looked shocked. “Oh, no, ma’am. You couldn’t find a fairer boss. And he’s smart as a whip, too. Sees the trees and the forest. He’s going places, and I hope he takes me with him.”

  Addie had an idea where to send him, but that wouldn’t be kind to Bob. She and Rupert slipped into the lift, and Sergeant Wells maneuvered them to the ground floor. Once outside, he flagged down a cab and directed the driver to Mount Street.

  Once they were underway, Addie leaned forward. “I’ve changed my mind.” She gave a new address and Rupert moaned, much like a clanking ghost in a ruined abbey in a gothic novel.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Don’t touch anything,” Rupert warned. Addie was grateful she wore gloves, and had no intention of leaning against anything or, perish the thought, sitting down. The club did not show to advantage in daylight or sobriety. The combined sharp smells of alcohol and perspiration permeated the vestibule. Beyond, tables and chairs had been pushed to the side, white tablecloths trailing on the floor, dirty glasses littering every surface. Whoever came in to clean after Saturday night’s frivolity hadn’t been in yet.

  “Jeez, can’t a guy get any sleep around here?” Freddy Rinaldi tried to further smooth down his brilliantined dark hair. He was barefoot, wearing a dressing gown of an indeterminate color, and looked none too pleased to see her after she and Rupert took turns beating on the door for a full five minutes.

  Mr. Rinaldi was a brave man eschewing shoes in such a place. Her own left gray suede shoe was stuck to a mysterious sticky patch on the floor, and the muck could only get worse the further they entered the club’s rooms. Somehow the grime wasn’t so visible at night.

  “You must be frightfully distressed after all the fuss,” Addie said, oozing faux sympathy. He did look a wreck, nearly as bad as the Thieves’ Den itself.

  “I’ll be even more distressed if I can’t get some sleep. Hunter was in my office most of the night before last—it doubles as my bedroom. I like to be on top of things here, so I live in.”

  “How very convenient. Or inconvenient, since you say Inspector Hunter commandeered your space. Did he bully you terribly?”

  “Hell, no. Nobody bullies Fredo Rinaldi.” The fading bruises on his face told a different story. “I managed to talk him into keeping the club open, didn’t I? What the he—um, why are you here so early? We don’t open till eight. At night,” he emphasized.

  “Well, I wondered if you could tell me where to find Patricia Harmon. Trix.”

  “What do you want her for?”

  “She’s such a nice girl, isn’t she?” Addie said, avoiding the question. “So very pretty. Smart, too.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, your ladyship, but Trix isn’t like that. She has a boyfriend.”

  It took Addie a few seconds to figure out what Rinaldi inferred. Every day was an education.

  “Oh! You misunderstand. I have a message for her. From…uh, from Nadia Sanborn.”

  “Why don’t you write it down, and I’ll see she gets it tonight.”

  “I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

  Rinaldi gave her a knowing look. “Are you sure it isn’t her cousin Miss Sanborn wants?”

  Addie played dumb, which wasn’t all that difficult at the moment. “Her cousin?”

  “Mary Frances. She’s around here sometimes. Miss Sanborn and she are thick as, well, thieves.” He chuckled at his own little joke.

  “No, I’m quite sure she mentioned Trix. Along with the message—” she patted her handbag—“I have something to give her, too. Something quite, um, valuable. If I could have her address so I could pay her a quick visit, I’d be eternally grateful.” Addie batted her lashes behind her eyeglasses in an attempt to seal the deal.

  “Ugh. Don’t give the man any ideas,” Rupert said in disgust. “I know his type. Give him and inch and he’ll be all over you like a bad rash.”

  “Sounds familiar,” Addie muttered into her glove.

  “I object to being classified with this rotter. Really, Addie, I do hope you can see the difference.”

  Pomaded hair. Tick. Weaselly moustache. Tick. Slender yet strong build. Tick. Rinaldi could be Rupert’s lower-class twin.

  “I was a war hero while this guy claimed he had flat feet! Stop thinking like that!”

  For once, she enjoyed the fact that Rupert could sometimes read her mind. It was amusing to torture him the teeniest bit. It almost made up for the years of unfaithfulness.

  Almost.

  “I’m a reformed character. Reforming, anyhow. Everybody Upstairs thinks so. I don’t know why you can’t see that,” Rupert grumbled, smoothing his own hair down. Addie had to admit that he was still ridiculously attractive, even if he was dead.

  “The address, Mr. Rinaldi? And then you can get back to bed,” Addie said firmly.

  “She ain’t, uh, isn’t at home with her parents any more. Taken up with Ollie Johnson, the band leader, she has.”

  Addie had suspected as much from the girl’s blushes. “And where might I find them?”

  “They’re in a residential hotel down the street. The Albert. Caters to the Covent Garden crowd. Actors, musicians, and such. Nobody cares what time they come in, or their condition when they do.”

  “That will save me taxi fare! Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Rinaldi. Trix will thank you too!” Addie allowed the manager to open the door to the street for her, then slam it shut, only just avoiding catching Rupert’s sleeve.

  The sunshine caused her to pause and blink. “Lay on, Macduff. Which direction shall we go in?”

  “Turn left. What would you do without me?” Rupert asked.

  “You really don’t want an answer.”

  Was he to be at her heels for the rest of her life? It was one thing to promise “as long as we both shall live.” He’d already reneged by dying and certainly hadn’t forsaken all others when he was alive. While they were getting along remarkably well at the moment, the situation was, to say the very least, odd.

  In less than two minutes, they were at the Albert, once a small private mansion. It appeared to have fallen on challenging times, the gold letters on its glass sign over the front door peeling. Addie turned the handle and was overwhelmed with the scent of Brasso, which had been used to polish the sconces in the reception area. Efforts at civilization were being made with an imitation Persi
an carpet on the floor and a vase of paper flowers between two mismatched chairs. A harried-looking young man presided over a dinged mahogany countertop, sorting papers in front of him. He cringed briefly at a piercing shriek coming from upstairs, then turned his attention to Addie.

  “Good morning, madam. How may I help you?”

  The fellow was exceptionally handsome, with curly fair hair, his modulated voice mellow and accentless. “Actor,” whispered Rupert. “Works here for his room and board. First big break. He’s in the chorus of No No Nanette, and his feet hurt like the devil.”

  Rupert was an amazing font of knowledge on occasion. “Good morning. I am Lady Adelaide Compton.” She handed him a calling card and paused while the fellow’s cerulean blue eyes goggled. Such long eyelashes. Beckett would be beside herself. In Addie’s opinion, the young man might go far if his feet recovered, perhaps even all the way to Hollywood.

  “I would like to speak to Miss Patricia Harmon if I may. I believe she is a guest of Mr. Ollie Johnson.”

  “Shacking up, as it were. Living in sin,” Rupert added, leaning on the counter. Thankfully the actor-clerk couldn’t see or hear him.

  “Let me go upstairs and see if they’re in. I know Mr. Johnson left earlier this morning, but I believe he returned.”

  “Thank you. I’ll wait.” Addie slid gracefully into one of the lobby chairs and crossed her ankles. Rupert went behind the front desk as soon as the young man left and disarranged the papers he had been so meticulously stacking.

  “Rupert! Don’t be naughty!”

  “I can’t help it—I get so bored. You’ll find out.”

  Addie hoped not—she intended to be on a direct path to Heaven with no detours once she kicked the bucket. Laughter floated down from upstairs, and somewhere someone was playing an oboe.

  The young man came downstairs alone. “They will be along shortly. Do you require privacy? I can let you into the breakfast room. Service is over.”

  “Thank you. That’s very kind,” Addie replied. The “they” bothered her a little; she had hoped to speak to Trix by herself.