by Emily Queen
Max, upon further inspection, appeared pale and drawn. “I don’t know, exactly, though I have my suspicions. Remember my chief, the one who wants to have me transferred out of London under the guise of a promotion? I think it’s highly likely he had something to do with it. Nothing goes on inside the department without Chief Inspector Crowley’s okay.”
“Which means we won’t have the support of the police force,” Frederick said, connecting the dots. “Surprise, surprise.”
“It’s not the entire force,” Max clarified. “It’s not even most of the force, but you know what they say; one bad apple spoils the whole bunch. Especially when that apple is hiding below the surface, rotting everything from the inside.”
“Then what do we do?” Martin finally spoke up.
With a sigh, Max slumped into a chair and looked around helplessly. “We prove you weren’t involved in the gambling ring, other than in your capacity as a participant.”
“Couldn’t I still be fined for that?”
Max grimaced. “Yes, but I’d say it’s a better punishment than imprisonment.”
Martin couldn’t argue the point.
Desmond, who had done little more than thoughtfully observe, finally spoke up. “Claude Segal would have kept records. Not only would it be necessary to keep his accounts straight, but men like that usually consider leverage a valuable asset. My guess is, we could kill two birds with one stone.” His eyes met Max’s, and he nodded once.
Rosemary caught his meaning. “You think we could exonerate Martin—for good, this time—and prove that the commander was taking bribes in exchange for looking the other way, simply by getting our hands on Claude’s record book?”
“It’s possible,” Max said slowly. “In fact, I think it’s the most viable option we have. The only problem is, it’s too dangerous. Actually, that isn’t the only problem. It would be an illegal search and seizure, even if we were able to get in. Which, we can’t, since Martin is no longer a welcomed member of the club, so to speak.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Inspector,” Martin interjected. “Anyone can get in if they know the answer to the secret question. It changes each week, but I can get the current one easily enough.”
“Will we all go in at once, or in groups?” Rosemary asked.
Wincing, Martin looked for a diplomatic answer. “I’m sorry. Women aren’t allowed through the door.”
Max scowled. “That’s a moot point. None of you ladies are tagging along. It’s too dangerous.”
Vera jumped up from her chair. “Oh, no, you don’t, Maximilian Whittington. You can’t just put your foot down and expect us to comply. This is no longer an official police matter, which means you do not have the authority to make all the decisions. Besides, you’re going to need us.” She smiled a wicked Vera smile, challenging Max to object.
“And why exactly do we need you?” he asked, his patience stretched to the breaking point.
“Why, to cause a distraction, of course. Martin,” she said, turning her back on Max pointedly, “you can’t really mean there aren’t any women allowed inside. Surely you don’t expect us to believe that a group of morally bankrupt men gather together and then sit around looking only at each other? There must be entertainment or, at the very least, waitresses to fetch drinks for all you poor sods.”
“Yes, that’s right, there are usually a few cocktail waitresses and a singer,” Martin hedged, avoiding his wife’s withering stare. “Do you also sing, as well as act?”
“Oh, honey,” Vera assured him, “not at all, but I can get us in. You leave that part to me.” She winked at Rose. “Abigail, are you up for a little acting, or are you still recovering from your harrowing experience?”
Abigail squared her shoulders and met Vera’s eyes dead on. “It’s probably the only chance I’ll get to perform opposite Vera Blackburn. Do you think I’d let a little thing like a murder attempt dissuade me?”
“I admire your fortitude, Abbi,” Vera said with a grin. Abigail preened at the nickname, still unable to believe she’d found herself counted amongst one of her favorite actress’s inner circle. It was almost enough to obliterate the storm of emotions she’d experienced over the last week.
A few hours later, the plan had begun to take shape, and Rosemary only hoped they could execute it without a hitch. This was their last chance to clear Martin’s name, and that was only the half of it. Max needed her help, and Rosemary was determined to come through as she knew he would for her.
Chapter 23
“I have two trustworthy deputies on stand-by a safe distance down the alley. If there’s any trouble, I’ll hear it from my post outside the window,” Max explained, “unless you would like to change your mind and call this whole thing off.”
He sincerely hoped Rose would take him up on the offer, but knew the odds of that happening weren’t in his favor.
Shaking her head, Rosemary protested, “Fred, Vera, Desmond, and Abigail are already inside. There’s no turning back now.” It was as he had suspected, and his jaw clenched as he ground his teeth nearly to powder. “Everything will go to plan,” Rose assured him, though her stomach churned uncomfortably.
“Good luck,” Max said, “or break a leg, I suppose, is more appropriate. Get in, get the ledgers, and get out. That’s the plan, yes?” He wouldn’t be at all surprised if Rosemary had something else up her sleeve, but she nodded in agreement and took his hand in hers.
“I promise, I’ll be back before you know it,” she said before turning and walking away from him.
She couldn’t begin to guess how many favors Vera’d had to call in to get herself slated as Wednesday night’s performer at the betting house, but suspected a significant sum of money had exchanged hands. It had been Wadsworth’s insistence that he act as her bodyguard, and Rose hadn’t even thought about objecting. With the rest of her friends stationed around the floor, she felt safe enough but knew if things were to go south, her butler would be the one to ensure they all got out of there with their limbs intact.
When Vera had pressed a minuscule outfit into her hands, Rosemary had blanched, but now that she was dressed to the nines, she realized that a good portion of an actress’s character came from looking the part. Silky tassels covered the black fabric of the sleeveless dress, and tiny, shimmering beads caught the light and twinkled with every move of her hips. Sheer stockings and a pair of sky-high pumps in which she doubted her ability to walk made her legs look a mile long, and her kohl-lined cerulean eyes sparkled from beneath a sheaf of jet black eyelashes. She took a deep breath and breezed in through the side entrance to come face to face with Charles Dupont.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked, taking in Rosemary’s appearance with appreciative eyes.
“Getting us all out of this mess. Unless, of course, you want to go toe to toe with my armed guard.” She indicated Wadsworth, who had stepped in behind her. “You said you hated working for Claude Segal, and I would lay money on the fact that whoever took the reins isn’t much better. Now, would you be so kind as to point out who is, indeed, in charge now?” She pinned him with a glare, and Charles held his hands up in surrender.
“Won’t get no argument from me. Want out of this mess, I do, just like you said,” he admitted. “It’s that guy, over there. The one with the impressive mustache. Stay far away from him, if I were you.”
“I’ll do my best,” Rose replied, and followed Charles to the backstage area. She could see Frederick and Desmond, sitting at separate tables, across the smoke-filled room.
And what a room it was. Designed to ensure the comfort of its patrons in the hopes of enticing them to bet more money, it boasted a gleaming mahogany bar complete with brushed brass fixtures and a selection of alcoholic beverages that would set Frederick’s head spinning if his attention hadn’t been focused elsewhere. It was a wonder Martin had been allowed entry, though she suspected his financial situation before embarking upon this journey had been markedly different than it
was now.
Rosemary’s eyes darted back to the man Charles had indicated, and she watched as he faked a smile and spoke to a group of men playing cards. When he turned away, he allowed his true emotions to show. Irritation, contempt, and something she couldn’t qualify but judged akin to hatred.
Left alone, Rose straightened her dress and prepared herself for what was to come. She peered between the folds of the curtain and watched as Vera and Abigail, dressed in waitress uniforms, tended to the mass of men.
When the curtain opened, and she strode into the glow of the spotlight, she locked eyes with Vera, who gave a reassuring smile. She felt herself relax.
The stage, in all its forms, was Vera’s bailiwick, and one to which Rosemary had never aspired. Call her a wet blanket, a wallflower, or even a canceled stamp, it was all the same to a woman content to watch from the audience.
Oh, Rosemary, her inner voice insisted, lie to the world, but never to yourself.
The center of attention was an exhilarating place to be. The microphone felt warm to the touch as if charged with the same energy that vibrated through her bones. Tongue darting out to moisten dry lips, Rose let her gaze travel the room until her eyes met Desmond’s, and the look in his sent a faint blush creeping up her neck.
The time was now, and a lot rode on what she would do this night, but when Rose drew in a breath and gave herself over to the song, everything melted away. This moment was just for her. She put everything into the music and let it pour out over the crowd. Somewhere along the way, she sensed an internal shift as the bands that had held her together during her time of great loss went slack. When she breathed into the sudden freedom, it felt right.
Never, in all the time he’d known her, had Max heard Rosemary sing. Outside the window, he stood under the spell of the smoky passion in her tone, the longing that threaded through the notes, the clarity of her voice. Unable to help himself, he pulled his hat down to cover most of his face, used the password, and made his way into the club.
One look at the stage and he decided she didn’t need the spotlight to shine.
The mission receded into the depths as he whistled in a breath, and though it wasn’t the first time, fell headlong for the glittering figure on the stage. If his focus hadn’t been riveted on her, he’d have realized he was not the only one. Across the way, Desmond looked as though he’d been hit by a lorry and left in the street to die.
Part of Rosemary’s allure lay in the lack of artifice with which she approached everything in her life. She sang with an honesty that flayed a man to the soul.
Watching, Vera realized she could have sashayed into the office and walked out waving the ledger in the air like a prize, and not a single man in the place would notice. Except for maybe Freddie, though he, too, stared at the stage, if for different reasons. The notion tickled a quiet chuckle out of her, and as the song ended, she gave him a less than gentle tap on the back of the head.
“We’re up.” Vera glanced over to see that Abigail was in position, and readied herself to play off Freddie’s lead. They hadn’t planned this part so that Vera's reactions would remain spontaneous.
“Sorry old girl,” Freddie whispered as she leaned past him to put his drink on the table. Silk whispered against skin as Freddie’s hand slid up the back of Vera’s leg and came to rest cupping her backside.
No wonder he hadn’t told her what he planned, but the ploy worked like a charm, even if not for the reasons Freddie intended.
Shocking heat traveled through Vera from the spot where his hand rested to tingle all the way down to her toes. The implications of which were not lost on her, but so unexpected and unwanted as to lend credence to her wide-eyed response.
When Vera screeched, “How dare you touch me like that?” and reddened his cheek with the flat of her hand, she fairly slapped the grin right off Freddie’s face.
“What do you expect when you wiggle your assets in my face like that? A man can only take just so much, and then he’s forced to act.”
As Rosemary slipped off the stage, she wondered if Freddie’s frustrated outburst was part of the caper, or much closer to the truth than even he imagined.
“Wiggle my assets?” Vera’s voice rose to a high pitch. “Wiggle my assets? You’re an utter cad, a travesty.” The tray she’d been carrying hit the floor, a fact for which Freddie was later grateful as, if she’d thought of it, Vera might have used it as a weapon.
The next thing he knew, she unleashed pure feminine fury on him, and he had to duck and cover to keep her knee from bashing him in the particulars. As it was, she landed a blow on the side of his head that made his ear burn.
While Vera bared her claws and spit venom at the top of her lungs, Rosemary toed out of the high heels and unclipped first one and then the other ingenious little clasps where the straps met the top of her dress. A shrug and a shimmy had the fake bodice dropping down to cover the beads and sequins with unrelieved black. Glitter and glitz were fine on stage, but this was covert work. No sense drawing more attention to herself if she could help it—or so Vera had said when she forced Rose into the costume at home.
Staying hidden as much as possible, Rose waited until all eyes were on Vera, opened the door wide enough to slip inside, then closed it quickly behind her. Rose’s stockinged feet coaxed shushing sounds from the cracked linoleum, and soft as the noises were, they echoed off the dingy walls. Crossing to the desk made her feel exposed, but it had to be done, and quickly.
Barely breathing, Rose crossed the pool of light thrown by a single bare bulb and reached for the object lying on the desk. Her fingers only brushed against brown leather before a voice came out of the shadows.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Amid the melee, Max angled himself to watch the door through which Rosemary had furtively disappeared, and counted down the seconds until she might return. They’d estimated no more than a minute for her to get in and out as long as the ledger was where Charles said it would be.
Meanwhile, Rose had one hand on the ledger, the other braced against the desk, and her back arched away from the tip of the knife threatening to lodge between her ribs.
Her heart hammered in her chest, but she fought to keep a cool head.
Letting her voice tremble, Rose said, “I'm sorry, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to come in here. I needed a place to sit for a moment, the bright lights dazzled my eyes. They’ve given me a beastly headache. It’s so lovely and dim in here, I only wanted to rest for a moment.”
“Play your act to a different audience, chickie. You’ve got your hand on my personal business.” The pressure on the knife lessened a fraction, so Rose played up the angle a bit more.
“Please, sir. I meant no harm. The pain, my head—it fairly swims with it.” Because they wanted to anyway, Rose let her knees wobble and cried out sharply. “Help me.”
Confronted with a damsel in distress, the hard-faced man hastily dropped the knife on the desk and tried to catch Rose as she pretended to fall. On her way down, she managed to flip the weapon across the desk where it fell behind and out of reach.
She was just about to recover from the fake fall, pivot, and dash for the door when it burst open to reveal Max, looking like thunder. Caught off guard by the sight of him, she waited for a split second too long, and the fall turned real. Rose hit the floor, then rolled to dodge the feet of the man whose name she still had not learned while trying to keep her dress from showing more than just a length of leg.
When she finally came to her feet, the room had erupted in a melee of flying limbs as two of old Rock Face’s men piled onto Max. She winced at the sound of a fist landing solidly. Max needed help, was her first thought, but she took time to reach for the ledger as a third henchman bulled through the door with Desmond hard on his heels.
“Rose.” He looked for her first, but she waved him away as she did Freddie, who came in a split second later.
“I’m fine. Help Max!”
Rose duck
ed under a flying fist, skirted the worst of the brawl, raced towards the door, and nearly bowled Vera over on her way in. “Come on, we need to put this somewhere safe.”
Instead of turning, Vera’s eyes went wide. She pulled Rosemary down and away just in time for the burly man swinging a truncheon to miss and take a chunk out of the wall next to the doorway.
Thrown off balance, both women went down with Rosemary on top, and the big man pulled back to deliver another strike, one that would have surely killed Rosemary had it landed.
Already too late to stop the swinging arm, Max jumped in front and took the blow on his upraised forearm. There was a sickening crunch as the bone broke under the force.
With a triumphant grin, the hired muscle raised the club a third time and made to swing.
Thunder rolled through the room as a gunshot rang out. Bits of ceiling rained down over Wadsworth who calmly lowered the pistol and aimed it carefully at the ringleader.
“That will be quite enough.”
Chapter 24
Friday morning’s paper was received with far more fanfare than the delivery boy had ever seen. Four people waited on the front stoop of Number 8 Park Road and practically snatched it out of his hands. He meandered off down the street, shaking his head, wondering why adults so often displayed the oddest behavior.
“Ah-ha!” Rosemary exclaimed when she was through scanning the headline. For once, and for good reason, Nathan Grint had done the job he was supposed to do and reported the truth.
“Chief Inspector Crowley gets the ax,” she read aloud. “London police Chief inspector Benjamin Crowley was fired Thursday afternoon when he couldn’t discount the claim that he had been taking bribes from several underground gambling establishments. His position will be filled by Inspector Maximilian Whittington, who was injured during a dust-up Wednesday night at an illegal betting house. Chief Inspector Crowley is also accused of slander against London dentist Martin Redberry, who was recently involved in the murder investigation of one Claude Segal—a crime for which he was acquitted—in addition to several acts of conspiracy and fraud. The case against Crowley is under investigation by the CID.”
