1 Murder Offstage

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Posie shook her head insistently. ‘They were in on something together. Mr Blake said they joined the theatre at the same time. And why is there no mention in this file of Caspian della Rosa, owner of the theatre?’ said Posie in exasperation.

  ‘He’s key to this whole case, I’m sure of it. You heard the Forensics Officer at the Inquest. The murderer of Lucky Lucy was in the club last night, shooting around carelessly with the same gun! And we as good as saw Caspian della Rosa; we heard him anyway, coming down a corridor following a series of gunshots.’

  ‘That’s not evidence!’ scoffed Inspector Oats. ‘Besides, Count della Rosa was a name I had never heard of until today. He’s not known to us here at the Yard; never has been.’

  Inspector Oats glowered at Posie, thinking what an annoying little troublemaker she was, and how he would have liked to have given her and her toffee-nosed pals a good hiding.

  ‘Tell me just what kind of unknown criminal can come out of the blue and cause this level of mayhem?’

  Posie slammed the file shut, ignoring the pages and pages of carefully typed up evidence against Rufus which made up the last part of the folder.

  ‘I take it that Rufus Cardigeon is no longer a suspect in these investigations?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘Rufus Cardigeon is a suspect for as long as I say he is. He’s still out on bail, remember? I still have no proof he wasn’t up to his neck in the Le Merle murder. Damned unreliable fool. All that twaddle about his stolen gun. What kind of idiot doesn’t realise his gun has been nicked?’

  Posie stared back at Inspector Oats. He looked cross, and smug too, just like he had after the bail hearing on Tuesday. But what was it he had said to her then, which hadn’t made sense at the time but which she had stored up for future reference?

  It suddenly became clear to her. Thoughts jumbled together in her mind, a few pieces of the puzzle making sense at last. Blindingly obvious.

  ‘YES!’ Posie exclaimed, excitedly. ‘I think I may be able to help.’ Both Inspectors stared at her, a mixture of hope and wary expectation on their faces.

  ‘It was something you told me, Inspector Oats, on Tuesday.’

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Oats said gruffly, flustered. He couldn’t remember imparting any pearls of wisdom to this stuck-up little madam, especially not about the case.

  ‘You said that “the beauty of a diamond is in its transportability, like drugs”. Do you remember?’

  ‘Um, I may have said that. I don’t recall. But, yes, the statement itself is true enough.’

  ‘What’s your point, Posie?’ insisted Inspector Lovelace gently. ‘The whole case is important: we can’t just focus on that one wretched missing Maharajah diamond, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m not talking about one diamond, although it would be lovely to find that particular one, of course,’ she shook her head. ‘No, I’m talking about diamonds. In the plural. Hundreds of the things; thousands of pounds’ worth of them. I’m talking about smuggling diamonds! Lucy was an out-and-out jewel thief; she knew her stuff, that much is clear from the file. I think that what we may have blundered into is a wholescale operation of smuggling diamonds in and out of the country! Which is why the La Luna club, despite being a hotspot for celebrities, was a useful venue for the gang, as it burrows right under…’

  ‘HATTON GARDEN! Diamond centre of the City of London!’ exclaimed Inspector Lovelace, banging his fist down on his desk in glee. ‘I wondered if there was some possible link-up.’

  He frowned. ‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he said, more reservedly now. ‘We scoured the main club itself within an inch of its life and we found nothing. And there are hundreds of tunnels and passageways which will take our boys weeks to investigate properly. But so far not so much as a diamond chipping! We’ve found nothing!’

  ‘No,’ said Posie firmly. ‘That’s not quite true, Inspector; you recovered musical instrument cases. I’ll bet you sure as bread is bread that if you give them to Mr Maguire in your forensics team he’ll be able to find some miniscule carbon particles which will turn out to be tiny diamond fragments. That’s how they’re doing this! They smuggle diamonds inside music cases.’

  ‘Who?’ said Inspector Oats, sluggishly.

  ‘Members of the Athenaeum Theatre’s orchestra, of course!’ said Inspector Lovelace, nodding. ‘And Posie’s right: if this mysterious Count is the owner of the theatre, what’s the betting he’s ringleader of the gang too? We need to speak to this man. Ask him questions.’

  ‘But the theatre’s nothing to do with any of this,’ insisted Inspector Oats stubbornly.

  ‘I disagree,’ said Posie, shaking her head, ‘I think this case has everything to do with the theatre. But it’s what happens offstage which counts. It’s a slick operation. Both of the dead victims were part of it.’

  Inspector Lovelace had a fiery glint in his eye, and he nodded excitedly. ‘I think you might be right, Posie. We need to move.’

  ‘But why were they killed? And by who?’ asked Inspector Oats, flabbergasted.

  ‘I’m not sure yet. But we’ll do our best to find out,’ said Inspector Lovelace reassuringly, taking charge.

  ‘Oats, you go and make enquiries among the diamond merchants; find out if anyone will talk about their dealings with Lucky Lucy, or Lionel Le Merle, or even this Caspian della Rosa fellow – perhaps we’ll get a lead that way? And also try the theatre, as we should have done already. Search the place. Try and find some incriminating evidence. Search Le Merle’s house in Soho again too. I’ll interview that fool of a Theatre Manager, Blake, and his right-hand man, the programme-seller, Reggie. They’re sitting in the cells downstairs.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ asked Posie eagerly. ‘We need information on Count Caspian and you don’t seem to have anything here at Scotland Yard. Can I call the club in St James where I ran into him first? I simply assumed he was living there, but thinking about it now I expect it was a clever mirage to simply give me that impression. But he must leave traces somewhere – he’s not a ghost.’

  Inspector Lovelace shook his head feebly. ‘Only authorised police personnel can investigate, I’m afraid, Posie. Sorry. I’ll get a couple of my lads on it now though. You can watch my interview with Mr Blake if you like? Through the mirrored-glass screen?’

  It was annoying, certainly, and belittling somehow, to be excluded like this, but Posie secretly doubted that the police would be able to find anything on Count Caspian anyway. She suspected he was too clever by half for that. She nodded in resignation:

  ‘Fine. But also make sure your men check the title deeds to the Athenaeum Theatre carefully at the Land Registry, too. Is the Count’s name actually on them? Perhaps the deeds will give us some more useful information about him: an address, a bank account, a business partner...something concrete you can follow up on?’

  Posie was just about to open her mouth and mention the breaking story in the lunchtime newspaper, her hopes of flushing the Count out in that way when Inspector Lovelace got in first, clapping his hands together and effectively dismissing them both:

  ‘Let’s meet again this evening. Reconvene here at six-thirty sharp with our reports.’

  Posie picked up her coat from the hatstand, behind which she now saw a faded green-and-brown wall-map of the world. Inspector Oats opened the office door for her, as politely as he could manage, his black file safely stashed under his arm again. He was like a terrier straining at the leash, anxious to be out of the confined space, happy to have some new purpose. But something made Posie stop still.

  She reached up to the old map, wiping the dust away from central Europe. She stared at it until it went blurry before her eyes, and then a light went on in her head.

  ‘OF COURSE!’ she exclaimed certainly. ‘THE KEY IS BELGIUM!’

  ‘What now?’ snapped Oats.

  ‘Belgium! Isn’t Antwerp the diamond capital of the world?’

  Both Inspectors nodded, surprised.

&nb
sp; ‘The bullet which was meant to look like it had killed Lucky Lucy came from a Belgian pistol, didn’t it? So what if we’ve been looking at this the wrong way around?’

  ‘What are you on about now?’ Inspector Oats said, fists clenched in frustration.

  ‘What if the gang are actually all Belgian? Or mostly Belgian?’ Posie nodded in excitement, more sure of herself now.

  ‘We know that the theatre players were swapped last year, and almost a whole new orchestra and cast were brought in overnight, including Lucky Lucy. I reckon Count della Rosa took over the theatre as a cover for his smuggling activities, but he was very clever. He only brought in people who were unconvicted smugglers, with no complicated records or criminal pasts; “clean” people who would never really be questioned by HM Customs or the Belgian Customs when they were making trips in and out of Belgium concealing diamonds in their music cases!’

  ‘Why would they never be questioned? What do you mean by “clean” people?’ asked Inspector Lovelace, bemused.

  ‘Because I bet all of the theatre workers are Belgian themselves, carrying totally genuine Belgian paperwork. The reason you can’t find anything in the official records here about Lionel Le Merle or “Lucy Gibson” is that they were both Belgians! I bet the Belgian police can help you out though. Telephone them! Ask them for anything they have on a violinist who matches Le Merle’s description, give them his name too. And send them Lucy’s photograph. Maybe they’ll be able to tell you her real name?’

  A flash of realisation suddenly hit her: perhaps Lucy had been lying to Rufus about almost everything else but Posie was suddenly certain he had known her by her real, Belgian name. She felt stupidly, ridiculously relieved for him. As if it mattered now, anyhow.

  ‘No, even better! Give them the name Georgie le Pomme. That was her real-life name! When she got involved in Count Caspian’s high-octane smuggling ring it became important that she had a “clean” record for travelling about the place, so she stopped being famous Lucy Gibson and re-invented herself, reverting to her roots. Rufus said he even saw some official paperwork with that name on it. He didn’t recognise it though: perhaps it was a Belgian passport?’

  ‘No,’ said Inspector Oats obstinately, shaking his head, ‘I don’t accept your theory. There’s no way Lucky Lucy was ever anything other than full-blown English. In all the years I’ve been after her, no-one has ever reported her as having a froggy-sounding accent. She was the real, British deal.’

  ‘But that’s where Count Caspian really scored a hat-trick!’ said Posie, her eyes ablaze. ‘For in Lucky Lucy Gibson he got a Belgian national who was not only a five-star jewel thief but a first-rate actress as well! It would have been as easy as anything for her to put on a British accent for all these years. Bet my life on it!’

  Inspector Lovelace gasped, but his hand was already on the telephone. He covered the mouthpiece, looking up:

  ‘Anything else I should ask the Belgian police?’

  ‘It’s a longshot, but you could ask them if they have ever heard of Count della Rosa? It’s a shame we don’t have a photograph of him to send them, but never mind.’

  Inspector Oats fled, shaking his head in disbelief. Inspector Lovelace started to bark instructions at the International Operator in surprisingly immaculate French.

  FRENCH! Of course! Posie realised suddenly that most of her tit-bits of information so far had come from good old Dolly, who had been handily listening in to whispers at doors and corners, hearing things people had said indiscreetly in front of her at the theatre. And all because they hadn’t realised she understood their common language. But she did understand: Dolly had said she spoke fluent French; her mother was French. She would have understood the language of the cast and orchestra without even thinking twice about it, as naturally as breathing. So naturally in fact that she wouldn’t have thought to mention it…

  Just then there was the tinkle of the tea trolley, a welcome sound. Posie was just wondering what sort of biscuits were regulation fare at Scotland Yard when her heart flipped a beat; she suddenly saw that the tea-lady was also responsible for delivering the afternoon’s newspapers.

  A fat wad of the lunchtime editions were slapped down roughly on the Inspector’s desk. First up on the pile was the Associated Press, with its glaring headline, penned by Sam Stubbs:

  ‘LUCKY LUCY DEAD – KEY SUSPECT IS COUNT DELLA ROSA!’

  Inspector Lovelace was just finishing up his conversation with the Belgian police when his eyes caught sight of the upturned newspaper. His face froze, and Posie swore that under his freckles he had turned a pastier than normal white. He flicked his eyes up for a moment at Posie and she read disappointment and confusion there:

  ‘Oui, oui, merci. J’attends. I look forward to hearing from you. Au revoir.’

  She waited, steadfastly, heart thumping – Would he understand why she had done it? – when there was an urgent banging at the Inspector’s office door.

  A bobby put his head around the door and Inspector Lovelace slammed his telephone back in its receiver.

  ‘What?’ he snapped at the man with an unaccustomed sharpness.

  ‘You’d better come quick, sir. Two lads are beating each other to a pulp in Reception. One of them’s well known to us, guv’nor. It’s that young Lord Cardigeon wot spent the last two nights here in our cells! The way he’s heading just now he’s about to spend another here tonight!’

  Rufus?

  Posie and Inspector Lovelace clattered to their feet, the newspaper unheeded.

  What on earth was happening now?

  ****

  Fourteen

  Rufus and Len were glaring at each other across the tiled Reception of Scotland Yard, each man pinned at the arms by a burly officer in uniform, held at opposite sides of the room.

  Both had stopped struggling and were giving each other looks of pure hatred. A trickle of blood ran down from Len’s nose.

  ‘LEN?’ snapped Posie in surprise. ‘What on earth is going on?’

  Her voice echoed around the room loudly and the Duty Sergeant looked up in surprise. A small cluster of people had been waiting patiently in turn on a long wooden bench, each holding a pale orange numbered ticket. They now swivelled around in unison to watch what could potentially be an exciting new development unfurl before them.

  Inspector Lovelace sighed and gestured down the corridor to a large interview room, making a sharp zipping motion across his mouth at all of them. When they were settled on hard wooden chairs in a dark room with bars at the window he asked what was happening.

  ‘DOLLY PRICE!’ shouted out both Rufus and Len in unison, an edge of panic in their voices, shooting angry glances at each other.

  ‘Hold on. Hold on fellas, one at a time. Rufus first, please.’

  Rufus explained in a snivelling wheeze that the previous day he had invited Dolly Price for lunch at Lyons Cornerhouse. Today, at one p.m. sharp. She had seemed eager to come. More than eager, in fact. And then she hadn’t turned up.

  So he had waited and waited, and got more and more nervous. He hadn’t got her home address, but he knew she worked at the theatre, of course. It was nearby.

  ‘So I went there, hoping there was some explanation. But the place is all boarded up: there’s a big sign outside for punters saying “SHOW CLOSED TONIGHT”. Anyway, I found a way in, and walked around and around the dressing rooms and the Wardrobe Department, but everything was deserted.’

  Rufus started coughing and wiped a phlegmy mouth with the back of his shirt sleeve. He had obviously got soaked in the rain several times so far that day, and Posie noticed that his shirt was still damp, sticking to his skin, and a fiery colour was burning in two spots on his otherwise pale cheeks. Posie was concerned: the combined effects of going cold turkey for the last three days with a possible case of bad flu could prove fatal for Rufus.

  ‘So then I really panicked. It felt wrong. I knew Posie was here at Scotland Yard; that she might know Dolly’s home address. So I headed
here as fast as I could. That’s when I ran into him in Reception, making his wild allegations…’ He indicated sharply at Len in distaste. ‘You see, I know something’s wrong. By jove, it must be. Dolly would never have stood me up like that.’

  Len hooted with laughter and rolled his eyes. ‘How do you know, you fool? You only met her for the first time yesterday! I don’t know why you care so much, she’s a nasty double-crossing piece of work. You should have learnt your lesson with Lucky Lucy. Fingers burnt and all that. Idiot! You’re unbelievable!’

  ‘Don’t you dare make your horrible accusations again in here!’ shouted Rufus.

  ‘Is that all?’ Inspector Lovelace interrupted. ‘Go home, both of you. I’ve never heard anything so stupid. I’ve got plenty to do, chaps, so please…’

  ‘You haven’t heard me out!’ snapped Len in disbelief. ‘I didn’t just turn up here to brawl with Cardigeon, you know. I’ve got something to show you. Something I showed Cardigeon in Reception, that’s when he went and punched me. It’s conclusive evidence!’

  With this he brought out something silver and glittery from his trouser pocket. With a flourish he placed it on the interview table between them. Posie gasped and turned it over in her hands:

  ‘It’s Dolly’s cigarette case! Where on earth did you get this, Len? She never goes anywhere without it!’

  Posie snapped it open. It was still half-full of Dolly’s thin, black cigarettes.

  ‘She must be in trouble! She’s addicted to these! She must have dropped it!’ whispered Posie nervously. Len folded his arms:

  ‘I found it at the La Luna club. After the Inquest this morning I decided I would go back there, have another nosy around and see what I could find.’

  ‘That was strictly out-of-bounds,’ said Inspector Lovelace, outraged. ‘It’s a police crime scene! My men are still searching it! It should be taped off, secured. There should be uniforms guarding it! How did you get past them?’

  ‘I told the rozzer at the entrance that I was a police photographer. I just waved my camera in his direction and said I’d left my white coat down there; said I needed a couple of last-minute photos. That’s the thing with photographers, you see, we can get into most places other people can’t…We’re almost invisible; almost anonymous.’