1 Murder Offstage

by L. B. Hathaway

  ‘What you after exactly, Miss? Tell me. Put us both out of our misery.’

  ‘Information from the Land Registry.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘Please?’

  Rainbird scowled, flipping through the remaining unopened papers. He passed her an envelope bearing an official-looking embossed seal. She pulled out the flimsy pink paper it contained.

  ‘And?’

  It was short. She read aloud:

  LEASE GRANTED

  Property: Athenaeum Theatre, Piccadilly, London.

  Lessee: Poulet Productions Limited. (Care of: CC, No 11, St James, Pall Mall, London.)

  ‘Poulet Productions?’ echoed Sergeant Rainbird in mixed tones of incredulity and wonder. ‘What on earth? Who are they? I thought we were expecting this Count chappie to be on the paperwork? Doesn’t everyone refer to him as the owner of the place?’

  Posie nodded. She chewed her lip thoughtfully and sat down on the chair nearest the desk. Silence hung uncomfortably between them.

  ‘Does the Count really exist?’ asked Rainbird bluntly after a long pause.

  ‘Oh, he exists all right. It’s just he’s very careful, that’s all. We’ll be lucky if we find his name on a single piece of paper in the whole of London. He wraps himself up in layers and layers of protection so no-one can get at him. And this…’ Posie waved the pink paper to make her point, ‘…proves just how careful he is. But he’s not as clever as he thinks he is. Look at the contact address! He’s let himself down there.’

  Rainbird rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘But our lads have been to No 11, St James already. It was a dead end.’

  ‘Well,’ said Posie insistently, ‘You’re forgetting I saw him there myself; mincing about as if he owned the place. There must be a link.’

  She jabbed at the pink paper. ‘But just who or what exactly is this “CC” referred to in the contact address? Could it be Count Caspian?’

  She held it accusingly under Rainbird’s nose, as if he should know the answer. He shrugged and tipped the last of the opened letters into the wire basket for Inspector Lovelace’s attention later. ‘Beats me…’

  ‘Only one thing for it, Sergeant. We’ll have to get over to No 11, St James again and ask them about Poulet Productions, and just who this “CC” really is.’

  She folded the pink paper decisively in half and put it in her carpet bag.

  It was then that she looked over to the wire basket, now full to bursting with the morning’s mail.

  Something shiny caught her eye, poking out from beneath the various papers. It was the edge of a press-photo.

  ‘Oh, I say! That must be the photo in from the Belgian police! Can I take a look…?’ But Posie didn’t wait for Rainbird’s answer and pulled the photograph carefully free.

  She angled the green-glassed reading lamp onto it and then gasped aloud.

  ‘What is it, Miss?’

  Posie was staring at the photo, dumbfounded.

  ‘I said, what is it, Miss?’

  She came back to earth with a bang.

  ‘Finally we might have a break; finally, he’s been caught out. On camera. Look at this! It’s going to help us.’

  ****

  Nineteen

  ‘GOT YOU!’

  The photograph was large and very clear. In the bottom right corner was an inscription:

  FRANCE, 1915

  The focus of the picture was undoubtedly the glamorous couple at the very centre of it, drawing the eye instinctively; Lucky Lucy and Count della Rosa.

  But it was actually a group photo, and there were at least three other people in the shot standing in the same line: one short man holding a ventriloquist’s dummy, another tall man with an accordion, and a very fat woman with an armful of doves. They melted away into the background through no fault of their own other than not being beautiful.

  Lucy wore a white ballgown with a matching feather boa, and the Count looked exactly as Posie had remembered him from Monday night: dashing, ridiculously handsome, but with something slightly menacing about his manner. He wore a black tuxedo and was grinning from ear to ear. His right arm was outstretched and he held up a squirming white rabbit to the camera. In the other hand he was balancing a wand and a black top hat. He looked as if he was enjoying himself immensely. Lucky Lucy was wrapped coyly around his waist, basking in his limelight.

  Rainbird came over, taking the snap from Posie. ‘So this is him then, eh? The famous invisible Count?’

  Posie nodded grimly.

  ‘Mr Blake the Theatre Manager told us that those two were lovers, but what I didn’t realise was quite what a long history they shared. This picture was taken more than six years ago! They were real-life partners, and partners-in-crime too for a very long time. This diamond smuggling and theatre business in London is just their most recent escapade together! Look at them here, performing as magicians for the troops, whilst unbeknown to the Belgian government who were paying them, they were actually acting as traitors, smuggling guns! I had no idea the Count was out there in the trenches too!’

  And under her breath Posie whispered, but mainly to herself: ‘So if they had such a history together, why on earth would he have killed her? He can’t have done…one lousy stolen Maharajah diamond can’t break a tie like that. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  Rainbird frowned. ‘But I don’t understand. From Inspector Lovelace’s file notes it says that he asked the Belgian police for information on the Count, and they told him they’d never heard of him! And now they’re sending us handy snaps of him? It doesn’t add up. The Count must have another name, surely?’

  Posie took the photograph again, and stared at it.

  ‘Good point,’ she nodded. ‘Can you get an urgent message to the Belgian police to ask them exactly who is who in this picture? But I’m going to keep it for now. It’s our best lead yet.’

  Rainbird was scribbling a telegram to the Belgian police. He glanced up with a look of distaste etched on his face:

  ‘Not much of a grand Count, is he? If he has to resort to working as a magician to make ends meet? No wonder he turned to diamond smuggling later on. I don’t like the look of him much either, for what it’s worth: nasty smile on his face, as if he was doing something really clever, when any fool knows that pulling a rabbit out of a hat is the easiest thing in the world! The trick is to make it look as if the thing has disappeared in the first place, when in reality it has been sitting there all along. Nasty rotten show-off. Magicians are the worst kind of fraudsters.’

  Something Rainbird said struck Posie like a physical blow. She gasped:

  ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘I said he was a nasty show-off, that’s all,’ said Rainbird, slightly uncomfortably.

  But she scarcely heard him: Posie’s mind was working nineteen-to-the-dozen, scrambling over itself, fitting a possible solution to an unsolved problem. Could it be?

  Yes! It could. She was taken aback at the ingenuity of it.

  ‘Sergeant Rainbird! You are an absolute genius! Thank you! Thank you a thousand times! But we must leave, as soon as that telegram is sent. Never mind that Inspector Lovelace isn’t here; we’ll just have to move without him. This is super urgent. Can you bring a few strong men with you? Maybe with some guns? Fast as you can?’

  Rainbird looked at her warily. ‘Where are we off to now? Not that horrible underground nightclub again? That place gave me the creeps.’

  Posie shook her head. She confirmed the location and what she expected to find there.

  ‘Fine. I’ll leave a note for the Inspector. Anything else I can do for you, Miss?’ Rainbird tried to bite down the sarcastic edge breaking through his voice. In truth, he was feeling slightly frightened at what seemed a gargantuan task ahead of him, especially if it involved guns, and without anyone of a senior rank guiding him. But he felt too intimidated by this bossy girl with the determined glint in her eye to show his nerves.

  ‘Oh!’ Posie exclaimed brightly, and leant in confi
dentially.

  ‘Yes! How kind of you. Speaking of identifying people, actually, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you to do for a while now. And while the Inspector’s out…’

  ****

  Twenty

  They screeched around the corner of Pall Mall into St James and came to a juddering halt in front of No 11.

  The police car wheezed to itself anxiously as Sergeant Rainbird climbed out, gingerly extending a hand to Posie and then brusquely ignoring the two burly armed policemen who had squeezed into the backseat alongside them.

  Another police car lurched against the kerb behind them, the acidic smell of brake-fluid filling the air, and a further four policemen climbed out, their eyes scouring the hugely unlikely surroundings for what they had been told to expect as a ‘first-rate crime’.

  Posie led the charge and mounted the immaculate yellow stone steps. Sergeant Rainbird and the two uniformed policemen from the first car bunched alongside her in a row and she supposed they must have made an intimidating sight, because the doorman, who was exactly the same fellow she had encountered on Monday night, peeled back in an anxious show of helpfulness as they swung through the door. They were met by the smell of fried kippers and toast.

  Inside the deserted entrance of the club all was much the same as on the Monday. The calm trophy-room environment was broken only by the busy murmur of voices coming from an open doorway on the left-hand side, the same door through which the Count had sailed so assuredly after Posie had declined his offer of a drink. Now it was propped open on its well-polished hinges to reveal a large but cosy common room peppered with oblong tables at which club members were sitting enjoying their breakfasts, newspapers placed carelessly on their laps. A club servant was making his rounds with a glistening silver tea-pot, and a quick closer inspection revealed the resident Butler to be bobbing solicitously over at the far end of the breakfast room.

  Sergeant Rainbird looked at Posie anxiously: he hoped to goodness she knew what she was doing, but he’d give her this – she looked mightily assured – which eased the rising panic in his chest somewhat.

  ‘Now what?’ he hissed. It was all well and good, him and six bobbies standing around like lemons, but as yet he had no idea how they would go about the task at hand. They had no Search Warrant with them; nothing official apart from their identity cards and guns.

  Posie was hoping she could hold her nerve, and hoping mostly that she was right in the conviction that had led her here.

  The Butler had caught sight of the ominous-looking deputation gathered in the entrance hall. Looking slightly flustered, he shuffled his way through the obstacle course of dining tables to get to them.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he wheezed nervously, closing the door reverently behind him, as if to protect his precious club members from what could turn out to be some terrible peril. He stared at the sheer number of policemen, and the lone dark-haired girl standing in front of him. She looked familiar, somehow…where had he seen her before? He cast an anxious lingering glance behind him at another little wooden door, as if willing someone else to appear and help him out.

  Posie opened her carpet bag with a flourish. All eyes were on her. She held up the Belgian press-photo of the troupe of magicians. She moved it into the direct view of the old Butler and tapped the image of Caspian della Rosa sharply with a scarlet fingernail:

  ‘This gentleman, see here? He’s a member here, isn’t he? Do you know him?’

  The policemen were silent and stared at the Butler accusingly. He seemed to be having trouble focusing under the gaze of such an unforgiving audience. He peered down at the photo in a fluster, his face turning red and rashy. He searched in his breast pocket for his pince-nez.

  Sergeant Rainbird cursed inwardly: they’d already been here and asked this doddery old fellow about Count della Rosa, who he’d declared never to have heard of. If they weren’t careful they’d have a complaint made against them for harassment, and to be honest, the old Butler would have a point. Posie wasn’t exactly being gentle. Or subtle, come to that. Inspector Lovelace would have his guts for garters.

  ‘Why yes, Miss. That’s Mr Chicken.’ The Butler nodded; pleased with himself. ‘He is a member here, joined us about a year ago. Hails from Belgium, I believe. A perfectly charming man.’

  ‘Mr Chicken?’ Posie repeated incredulously.

  The Butler looked faintly annoyed at her disbelief, as if she was calling him a liar. He pulled himself up to his full height and gave her a prim look from behind his eye-glass:

  ‘Yes indeed. That’s Mr Cecil Chicken standing there with that white rabbit. I’d swear on my life.’

  Posie stared at the Butler, but her thoughts were miles away.

  Of course! She searched in her bag again and brought out the pink paper from the Land Registry. She turned to Sergeant Rainbird and whispered frantically:

  ‘See? It says Poulet Productions! “Poulet” means “chicken” in French, which is the language these Belgians speak to each other in. So this Cecil Chicken is definitely Count della Rosa; it’s his pseudonym, maybe some sort of joke. And he’s been a member of this club for the very same length of time as he’s owned the theatre! I expect this place wasn’t chosen at random either: as well as giving him a veneer of respectability, he knew the Cardigeon’s were lifelong members and he was playing the long game; establishing a connection here, in case it came in handy for stealing the Maharajah diamond. As it turned out, he had a better secret weapon closer to home – Lucky Lucy.’

  ‘But Cecil Chicken! What a silly name to choose!’ exclaimed Sergeant Rainbird. ‘He could have made up a more believable one!’

  Posie edged closer to the Butler. She retrieved the press-photo from him and instead she held the pink paper from the Land Registry very close to his face.

  ‘So when post arrived for a “CC” to the club, as is mentioned here in this official document, that meant that you would put it aside for Mr Chicken?’

  The Butler nodded, frightened now. ‘I say, is he in some sort of trouble?’ he faltered.

  Posie ignored him. ‘And where are things stored for him? Over there?’ She nodded casually towards the wall of wooden pigeon-holes at the very furthest end of the lobby. This was exactly where she had expected to end up.

  She saw the old Butler follow her gaze and a glaze of panic sheened his whole face: he had given away too much, he knew.

  Posie strode across the hall and stood in front of the unguarded pigeon-holes. And now for the moment of truth.

  She had stood here on Monday and searched in vain for Caspian della Rosa’s name, wanting to return his packet of black matches. But of course his name had not been there.

  She looked hard now, casting backwards and forwards, up and down. All the while she repeated to herself what she had remembered not half an hour before at the office in Scotland Yard, the words Caspian della Rosa had purred to her flirtatiously when he had met her, all of which had seemed like inconsequential guff at the time:

  ‘Sometimes, you know, the most beautiful, the rarest treasures in the world are to be found right under our very noses. They need no guarding, no protection: they exist, fabulously, alone.’

  She reached forwards. Here it was.

  A small typed card taped above a pigeon-hole announced that strange name:

  MR CECIL CHICKEN

  ‘I say, Miss! You’ve no business going through those post holes. Please wait!’ the Butler was calling out to her in rising desperation. She heard footsteps behind her, coming her way, a slamming of a door nearby. ‘Wait! Wait for the Manager. One second.’

  Posie ignored him. She focused on the job in hand.

  And there, inside the shelf itself was a clutter of letters. She closed her eyes and pushed her hand behind them, to the very back. A small, hard, tissue-wrapped item was lodged there. She closed her fingers around it, and drew a deep breath…the rarest treasures in the world are to be found right under our very noses…

  She would ne
ver have thought to look there, and neither would anyone else: the sheer arrogance of the man, the confidence of his hiding place, the malicious teasing of the Cardigeons…it was all frankly unbelievable.

  If it hadn’t been for that press-photo of the magicians and Sergeant Rainbird’s remark that ‘the trick is to make it look as if the thing has disappeared in the first place, when in reality it has been sitting there all along’, it would never have been found.

  And Posie agreed with Rainbird’s assessment of the man, too. Count della Rosa was a nasty rotten show-off. He had told his side-kick in the La Luna club that he had hidden the thing safely; out of harm’s way. Indeed.

  She unwrapped the brown tissue paper carefully and turned in a half-circle to face the silent room. And there it was, in her hand; the black diamond, the Maharajah diamond from Gwilim. The size of a large quail’s egg, attached to a slim ring of rose gold, it was brilliantly, unbearably beautiful.

  As she extended her palm outwards so the others could see, the stone seemed to catch all the light in the room, gathered it up into itself and threw it out again, magnified over and over. The single stone seemed to dazzle with as much light as if it had been a many-tiered chandelier, replete with thousands of crystals. It wasn’t just black, either; it threw up beams of pink and turquoise, cream and lemon-yellow and a brilliant, eye-watering white light. The stone was almost painful to observe, and Posie glanced up and saw the six uniformed policemen gaping with open mouths. Sergeant Rainbird was standing with his hand outstretched towards her as if frozen in time, and the Butler was quivering in shock.

  Another man who was dressed in a smart pinstriped suit, probably the Manager himself, had joined the Butler and was looking bewildered and angry at the same time. He conferred with the Butler in low angry whispers and then leapt forwards to near where Posie was standing. At first Posie thought he was coming for her, and she darted to one side, but then she saw he had made his way to the green-curtained telephone booth at the back. He was ringing someone. She could hear his frantic, worried tones emanating from the telephone booth.