1 Murder Offstage

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘I know, I know. Dinner time. Come on, your Lordship.’

  After retrieving a bit of chicken in greased paper from the outside windowsill of the kitchen, she fried it absently, forgetting to turn it half way and blackening it badly all down one side. Posie was miles away in her thoughts, thinking about her busy evening ahead: she had three interviews lined up for that night, and she realised that she was going to be slightly hampered by limits of time.

  Posie put down the burnt chicken for the cat, who sniffed at it disdainfully in complaint. She hurried back into her office.

  From a small locked cupboard by her desk she grabbed her evening kit, which Len jokingly called ‘the glamour attack’, but which in reality consisted rather boringly of a black velvet flapper dress, a feathered headband, crimson lipstick and a small bottle of violet scent. In two seconds flat, Posie had changed.

  Posie could never be called a beauty, and she knew it. Her face was just too square for a start, lending her a wholesome rather than a romantic air, and her eyes were a rather commonplace English blue, but she knew too that she scrubbed up rather well, and even drew a few wolf-whistles when she tried her very best. She kicked around under her desk for a pair of heels and flicked the buckles closed. She smudged her eyes with a dash of kohl pencil and squirted herself liberally with perfume.

  ‘Night night, Mr Minks!’ she called. She could hear him attacking the chicken with gusto now in the kitchen. Beggars couldn’t always be choosers.

  She snatched up some change from the office strong-box and ran out, locking the door behind her. Too late she realised she should have taken a coat or a stole, and she felt briefly nostalgic for her beautiful silver fox fur, given to her by Harry years before and sold when the Grape Street Bureau was just starting up.

  ‘Taxi!’ called Posie out on the street, trying not to shiver too much, and a cab mercifully pulled up alongside her on the slushy pavement.

  ‘Where we off to then, Miss?’ asked the driver, setting his timer.

  ‘The Athenaeum Theatre, please. Fast as you can. Stage Door!’

  ****

  Three

  The show was due to start in half an hour.

  Posie lingered for a minute outside the Stage Door of the theatre, studying the brightly coloured posters, the reviews. She had seen this show only one month previously with Rufus but she had totally forgotten its title.

  Yes, there it was: Showtime Madness! It was billed as an ‘all-singing, all-dancing night of entertainment’, but all Posie could remember were the girls dressed in their heavy, bulky caterpillar costumes, legs and arms straining for freedom. So many girls, all in a green caterpillary line.

  Which one had been Lucy? Or Georgie, as Rufus had known her as? Had she really been on stage at all? Perhaps she had been planted in the bar specially to talk to Rufus after the show and knew as little about Showtime Madness! as Posie did herself.

  She slipped inside the Stage Door unobserved, heading down the rickety stairs to the dark depths of the basement, on into the tunnels of the dressing rooms and offices. Dressers and dancers were running to and fro along the warren of gloomy, chalky-smelling passageways, lit up here and there with bright white bulbs of light. Posie hugged the wall and shouldered her way along slowly, part of the chaos.

  Ahead of her, an extraordinary-looking small girl with unnaturally bright blonde hair and a tape-measure looped around her neck was ironing out an enormous fluffy feather boa, blocking the corridor with her ironing board.

  ‘I’m the Wardrobe Mistress. Can I help yer, lovey?’ asked the girl in a strong London twang, her eyes roaming up and down Posie as if assessing her costume for defects, for last-minute repairs. The girl took a drag on a long black cigarette, sending a perfect ‘O’ of smoke spiralling expertly up into the air. Posie noticed the end of the cigarette was ringed in a bright silver circle of theatrical lipstick. She dragged her eyes away from the strange colour combination, which reminded her of a crescent moon on a chilly night.

  ‘The Theatre Manager? Is his office along here? He’s expecting me – I sent a telegram this afternoon.’

  The girl looked at Posie strangely for a minute, then pulled her ironing board aside grandly as if she were removing a much larger obstacle, a boulder perhaps. She motioned further down the corridor.

  ‘Second on yer right, Miss. You can’t miss it, the smell of drink will hit you before you get through the door. Fair knock you out, it will. Like a distillery.’

  Posie nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you. What’s his name please? The Theatre Manager? Mister…?’

  The girl licked her silver lips. ‘Blake,’ she said disparagingly, ‘Samuel Blake. No “Mister” about him, though. He’s a buffoon. Knows nothin’ about runnin’ this place.’

  Up ahead of her the corridor seemed to get smaller and lower. Here, there was no-one about. Posie found the office with Mr Blake’s name written grandly in large capital letters above the door. She knocked on the flimsy wooden door, which was a little ajar.

  ‘Anyone in? Hello! Mr Blake?’ she called cheerily, and then when no-one responded, she slipped deftly inside. She needed a lucky break, and her spirits lifted at the sight of the obviously empty room.

  The office was a strange, smallish room, with a low curving roof which reminded Posie of being in a cave, or being trapped inside a tunnel underground. It was very dark, and even though she wasn’t overly tall, Posie had to duck her head in order to move along. Blake’s desk was on the left-hand side, and was illuminated by one reading lamp. The top of the desk, and the chair, and the floor-space all around were covered in stacks of paper. The only other furniture in the room was a hatstand near the door, and one grey metal filing cabinet, also piled high with papers.

  A steady drip-drip could be heard. In the dim glow from the lamp Posie noticed that the office walls were completely damp, with horrible sweating beads of moisture forming on every surface. How on earth can he work in here? thought Posie, heading for the desk, and longing suddenly for her cream-painted office with its sash window letting in lots of light, despite the crowded office roofs it looked over. Never again would she complain she had no real view: a window was a window, after all.

  Posie moved the papers from the chair and sat herself at the desk. She started to move her nimble fingers through the papers, opening the drawers quickly. Nothing. She carried on.

  All at once Posie jumped. A strange booming sound was shaking the desk in front of her, papers spilling to the floor. The whole room was vibrating.

  BOOM. BOOM.

  The desk-lamp started to flicker and the empty bottles of whisky which Posie had found in every drawer of the desk started jangling together furiously.

  BOOM.

  Her heart was beating madly, the sound was enormous. It was like nothing she had ever heard before, and she had heard some terrible things when she had been an ambulance driver on the Front at the end of the Great War in France: the shells, the screaming. She had tried to forget it mostly, otherwise she couldn’t sleep at night.

  For a horrible moment Posie thought the cave-like roof was about to collapse, and she remembered her old training in France and got down on her knees and started to nudge herself over to the door, elbow by elbow, making herself as small as possible.

  ‘You’re okay, Miss. You can get up. Don’t be scared.’

  Posie looked up and saw the tiny girl who had been ironing in the corridor. She was looking at Posie with some concern. Posie got to her feet, heart still hammering.

  ‘It takes some gettin’ used to, this place. We’re right under the Orchestra Pit here. They’re just startin’. Gettin’ tuned up. Drums first, then the double basses. That’s why it’s so loud just now.’

  Posie gulped in relief. ‘Thank you. And thank you for not laughing at me. I must have looked quite a sight.’

  The girl shrugged. ‘No problem. I recognise a former war girl. I was in France too, nursin’ on the Western Front. I had to crawl out several times when we took a hit
from a shell, just like that. Dolly Price, by the way,’ she said, extending silver-tipped fingers. Posie took her hand and shook it warmly.

  ‘Posie Parker.’

  ‘By all accounts they’ve got a fine mess on their hands up there tonight,’ said the girl, indicating upstairs with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘The First Violin’s gone missin’. He never turned up for rehearsal this afternoon and he’s still not turned up tonight. It’s never happened before. Still, it’ll give Mr Blake somethin’ to think about for once. You’ll find him in the Circle Bar, by the way. Drinkin’ himself to oblivion.’

  ‘So you knew he wouldn’t be here? But you let me come in anyway?’

  ‘That’s right. I don’t owe him no favours. You had a look about you, like you were on the hunt for somethin’. Did you find it?’

  Posie shook her head. ‘It’s such a mess in here.’

  ‘Whotcha lookin’ for?’ asked Dolly quickly.

  ‘A list of names. Chorus girls. Chorus girls who’ve been employed here recently.’

  ‘I see.’ Dolly, quick as a flash, had gone over to the metal filing cabinet and was rifling through the third drawer down. She quickly brought out a thick manila file, stuffed full of bits of paper, receipts and photos.

  ‘I can probably do better than just a list, a photo maybe...who you lookin’ for exactly?’

  Posie thought for a split-second. Could she really trust this girl? She decided on the spur of the moment that she could.

  ‘I think her stage-name was Georgie le Pomme. But she may be known as Lucy, too. Or anything else for that matter. To make things worse I don’t even know if she ever worked here. I can’t describe her to you, either, as I’ve never seen her before. But she was stunningly beautiful, apparently. I’m sorry if I’m wasting your time.’

  Dolly eyed her keenly. ‘No, no. You’re not.’

  Dolly was down on her knees, tipping the contents of the manila file over the floor. There were perhaps twenty stage photos of girls posing for the camera. Posie thought they all looked the same. Dolly grouped them together, and running her hands through her cropped bleached hair she stared at them all for a minute.

  ‘This one!’ she declared triumphantly, and flipped the photo over on its reverse, as if performing a clever magic trick, finding the right card in the pack. She looked up at Posie, grinning.

  ‘Knew the one you meant straightaway. I get to know all the girls here, bein’ the Wardrobe Mistress. She was a tiny girl, like me. Slippery as a fish, but a rare beauty all right. Called herself Georgie. Gone now.’

  Posie studied the photo quickly, and nodded. Dolly was right, the girl in the snap had a wide-eyed childish beauty about her and perhaps the loveliest face Posie had ever seen. No wonder poor old Rufus had been taken in. She tucked the photo inside her bag.

  ‘Anything else in that folder you think will help me? An address, a reference, even?’

  Dolly was searching frantically again, but with no luck this time. A loud bang in the corridor outside reminded them they shouldn’t be snooping around in someone else’s office. Dolly thrust the file back in the cabinet and they slipped out. The noise of the orchestra was less out there. Dolly lit up another black cigarette.

  ‘Some sort of trouble she’s in, is she? Georgie?’

  Posie shook her head apologetically. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anymore just yet.’ She checked her wristwatch. ‘I’ve got to catch the Manager just now, and then I’m off elsewhere. I’m on quite a tight schedule.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  Posie caught a flash of disappointment in the girl’s face as she nodded her understanding.

  ‘But tell you what,’ Posie said earnestly, ‘meet me tomorrow. How about eleven at Lyons Cornerhouse on the Strand? I’ll tell you more then.’

  Dolly nodded eagerly. ‘Okay. Thanks. Now take these stairs to the bar upstairs. Up two floors. Don’t expect to get any sense out of him though.’

  ****

  A nervous-looking barman was wiping glasses busily at one end of the bar, keeping himself well out of the way. At the other end a squat, angry-looking man in the early thirties in a velvet smoking jacket was keeping a bottle of bourbon company.

  Posie observed the man picking at his teeth with a small wooden tooth-pick, and then replacing it, dirty, into the communal cut-glass holder on the bar. She suppressed a shudder and walked forwards.

  ‘Mr Blake, I presume?’ Posie advanced at a confident, brisk pace. Uninvited, she sat down quickly at the bar stool next to the Theatre Manager. Experience told her there was no point in dragging out niceties with men such as these.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Mr Blake asked rudely, looking at Posie from small piggy eyes in a greasy, tired face. ‘You’re too old to audition as a show-girl, I don’t take anyone over twenty-five. You’re too plain too.’ The fumes of drink came off him strongly. Posie held her breath and waited.

  ‘And you’re too fancily dressed to be looking for any other work. So wad-daya want?’

  Posie felt the stolen photograph burning a hole in her bag.

  ‘Well, that was certainly a memorable introduction, thank you. But no, I’m not after work in your lovely establishment. I’m looking for someone. Someone who’s disappeared.’

  ‘Lionel? Lionel Le Merle?’ asked Mr Blake suddenly, eagerly, thrusting his face further forwards. ‘Related, are you? You missing him too?’

  ‘Sorry? I don’t know who you…’ But in a blink Posie remembered the missing First Violin Dolly had spoken of. ‘…Ah, no. No. I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’

  She looked at Mr Blake earnestly. ‘I’m looking for a friend. She used to work here. Georgie le Pomme. She was a chorus girl, but I think she’s left your employment. Do you have any idea where I might reach her? A forwarding address, maybe? A contact?’

  Was it Posie’s imagination or had a look of fear and barely disguised panic entered the eyes of Mr Blake at the mention of Georgie’s name? A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his oily brow and Mr Blake looked slightly green beneath the bar lights. He downed what remained in his glass and poured another.

  ‘Please, Mr Blake. I’m desperate. I’m worried for her safety.’

  ‘I know nothing about it. One of my best dancers, Georgie was. No idea what happened to her. Here one day, gone the next. Shame.’

  He was hiding something.

  ‘How long had she been here exactly? I forget…’

  He shrugged carelessly. ‘Not even a year. Came at the same time as Le Merle.’

  Posie nodded sweetly, innocently. Mr Blake avoided her eye.

  ‘And that forwarding address for Georgie…do you happen to have it?’

  ‘No, I do not,’ Mr Blake snapped at Posie angrily. ‘And even if I did, why should I give it to you? Who are you, anyway? What’s your name? You still haven’t told me.’

  Posie got down from her stool primly. There was nothing more to be gained here.

  ‘Rosemary,’ she said, telling the real truth now. Her full name. ‘Rosemary Parker. I sent you a telegram earlier, saying I would come and see you tonight. Perhaps you have mislaid it in all your, er, busyness this evening?’

  The barman sniggered. Unwisely.

  ‘You,’ shouted Mr Blake at the barman, ‘you watch your manners. Otherwise you’ll find yourself out of a job. And you, Miss Rosemary. No. I did not receive your telegram. As God is my witness I did not.’

  ****

  Posie headed off down the stairs. She was puzzled. He’s just a hopeless drunk, she thought to herself. But Mr Blake was a bad liar, too. He knew more about the missing dancer Georgie le Pomme than he was giving away.

  And strangely, he had also seemed utterly convinced he had never received her telegram…and somehow Posie believed him.

  The Foyer was very busy as the theatre staff made ready for the waiting audience to come in. Cigarette-girls and programme-sellers were hastily fixing their trays, the ticket staff standing ready, their arms loaded with dust
y-looking red roses.

  ‘Remember!’ shouted a thin young man with a shock of very dark spiky hair, ‘It’s Valentine’s Day! People will be in the mood for BUYING! Press the red roses on the gentlemen. Make them feel guilty if they don’t buy one for their lady-friends. Work the whole theatre!’

  Posie felt slightly sick at the calculated cynicism on parade. She peered outside through the gold gilded doorway. It was just starting to snow again. Suddenly she heard a newly-familiar voice behind her. It was Dolly:

  ‘You forgot your coat, Miss!’ Dolly called out convincingly. Posie looked at Dolly in bewilderment, but Dolly was already shrugging onto Posie’s shoulders a magnificent black fur coat, luxuriously warm and cut in a very modern swing style.

  ‘It’s a fake, but it’s a good one,’ Dolly whispered, close up. ‘I noticed you didn’t have one with you. Give it back to me tomorrow. I’ve borrowed it from the theatre wardrobe. It won’t be missed. Otherwise you’ll freeze to death out there.’

  Posie smiled a thank you, and turned the collar up against the night.

  The queue outside was long, and people were bunching up under the awning of the theatre to keep warm. Posie was just trotting down the steps, already searching the street for a cab, when she heard a peal of high-pitched laughter she recognised.

  Turning to her left, she saw the black shingled head of Babe, her laughter carrying across the crowd. With a pang Posie realised how very beautiful the girl was: she was getting all sorts of attention from most of the men in the crowd, much to the obvious annoyance of their wives and girlfriends. Babe was dressed up to the nines. Posie gaped a little as she saw the many fine strands of creamy pearls around Babe’s neck and the snow-fox fur cape around her shoulders. It was, unlike hers, obviously not a fake. But how on earth could her secretary afford such things on the meagre salary they paid her?