by Kate Parker
“Because they are incompetent,” Mimi said as she strode down the last steps of the front staircase toward me. “Come. Let us talk in the back room, away from the customers,” she hissed into my ear.
When we were on the other side of the door, Mimi said, “They left a couple of bobbies, peasants, to finish searching the basement, and I caught them fooling around with some of the costumes for the play. Stupid boys. I told them off and said they should do their jobs. I watched them closely after that, and they were soon done and gone.”
Thereby missing the murder weapon. Had Mimi caused this by accident or did she not want the lead pipe found?
The constables were probably bored or annoyed from having to deal with a demanding foreigner. Keeping that thought to myself, I asked, “The day I found the body, I opened the door from the inside without needing a key. Is the door always kept unlocked?”
“It is sometimes kept unlocked during the day because the theater moves costumes out as they need them. And when the carpenters and painters were decorating the showroom, I made them bring their supplies through the basement. We would look like peasants if they brought their wood and ladders through the front door of the salon. Then, the basement door was always kept unlocked.”
We heard footsteps on the back staircase and then Fleur came down to join us. “What is going on, madame?” she asked Mimi before she looked at me suspiciously.
I answered for her. “I had to call the police to retrieve the murder weapon. Reina found it hidden in a bolt of cloth.”
“In my fabric? Which one?” Mimi exclaimed.
“Green silk.”
“Oh, I hope it wasn’t damaged.” Mimi rushed back up the stairs.
I smiled as I stood motionless, hoping the bobbies would hurry up and arrive. “Mimi seems to trust you completely, Fleur. How long have you worked for her?”
She brushed invisible lint from her deep rose duster’s sleeve. “Three years.”
“Funny. I thought you’d tell me longer than that.”
She gave me a haughty look. “We have a great deal of mutual respect, two artists with fabric. We trust each other.”
Her unspoken words were We don’t trust you.
I understood that. I didn’t trust them, either. “Where are you from, Fleur?”
“The north.”
That was hardly an answer. “The north of what?”
“That’s not the business of a society page reporter. Mimi is the story here. Not me.”
Fleur was right. Before I could think of a way to learn more about her, a uniformed constable and a detective arrived and I led them to the basement with Fleur following. They took possession of the piece of lead pipe and asked me a few questions about finding the murder weapon.
By the time they finished, Reina appeared and they began to question her. As I hesitated, Fleur said, “I think your friend is waiting for you on the first floor.”
I went. When I reached the first floor, I found Leah was dressed again. “I’ve been measured,” she whispered, “but I’m waiting for Mimi. Did you have any luck?”
“We found the murder weapon.”
Leah gasped and trembled before she collapsed onto the ottoman. I’d have to remember to watch what I said in front of someone so nervous.
At that moment, I heard the designer’s voice coming toward us, saying in French, “You should have asked, Veronique.”
“But I thought you had decided on the design already.”
An instant later, Mimi came in with Veronique behind her. Switching to English, Mimi said, “Let me show you what I have in mind.” Her sketch showed the slightly flared skirt that was the best part of her design, but a lack of fur on the collar. Leah didn’t seem to mind.
“Where does the jacket end?” Leah asked.
“Stand up,” Mimi said, and then held out her hand flat to demonstrate. It was a long jacket, hitting below the hip in the style made popular that year in Paris. “The buttons end at the waist. It is a very manly jacket, but the skirt and blouse are womanly. Feminine. The blouse has a simple rounded neckline with tiers of fabric down the front to be worn inside the jacket.”
“Won’t it be too frilly for tweed?” I asked.
“Non,” she replied.
Leah and I looked at each other with widened eyes.
“You just wait,” Mimi said with a smile. “You will love it.”
“And it will be a light color?” Leah asked.
Mimi pulled out a swatch of light shaded tweed in a soft wool. “And you see this blue here?” She pointed to a thread in the weave. “That will be the blue of the blouse.”
“Yes,” said Leah, “I think that will do nicely.”
Giving me another reason to be jealous of her wardrobe.
* * *
I returned to the Daily Premier building and went straight up to see Sir Henry. His secretary sent me in immediately.
“Livvy,” he said, looking up from the papers on his desk, “I’ve heard from Miss Westcott. She wants you to cover the concert at the Royal Albert Hall tonight for a list of attendees and descriptions of their gowns.”
I knew that to mean a list of socially important female attendees, beginning with any members of the royal family who might attend, and a mention of their evening frocks. Since the Royal Albert Hall was round, with a number of entrances, this was an almost impossible feat. “I’m in trouble?”
“You’re in trouble.”
“I went to Mimi’s salon, where Reina and I found the murder weapon.”
I thought he was going to spring from his chair. “Did you call the police?”
“Of course I called the police.” Did he think I was stupid? “I’m worried, though. Reina had known Josef Meirsohn—Elias’s real name—since childhood and she found the lead pipe. She’s Jewish, too. But she’s not the assassin.”
“Where was the weapon?”
“In a trunk in the basement, hidden inside a roll of green silk.”
Sir Henry was looking astounded by this point. “Why didn’t the police find it? It was in the basement.”
“It’s possible the pipe was hidden there later.”
Sir Henry’s eyebrows rose more as he said, “Does that sound likely?”
“No.” Then I told him what Mimi had told me. “She can be intimidating,” I added. Still, it wasn’t Mimi’s fault if the police didn’t do their job.
“That’s no reason for them to be less than careful in their search,” Sir Henry muttered. “How many people could have accessed that trunk?”
“Anyone coming from upstairs or outside. At the time, the door to the basement had been left on the latch for the workmen. And the trunk was unlocked.”
“It could be anyone in London,” he muttered.
“Has Esther learned anything?” I asked.
“What?” His voice changed to the roar all of his employees knew to fear.
And I feared firing. Taking a deep breath to stop the trembling in my diaphragm, I said, “She’s going to talk to the other ladies of the committee about family. With her expecting her first child and recently bringing her mother’s relatives over from Vienna, it will be an obvious topic of discussion.”
That appeared to mollify him. “She can’t get into any trouble talking to those ladies.”
“How many people knew Elias would be in London? Surely not many. And he knew that the Nazis wanted him silenced.”
“Had he arranged to meet anyone in that basement when he was killed?” Sir Henry looked at me expectantly.
“Reina told me she met him leaving a hotel on Oxford Street purely by accident. He said he was in danger and wanted to meet her someplace safe to give her something. She told him about the basement. She’s the only one there who’s mentioned having met Elias.”
“Give her something? What?”
I held Sir Henry’s gaze. “She doesn’t know. Did the police find anything of interest on him?”
“Nothing. His pockets were emptied before they arriv
ed.” Sir Henry was scowling now as he thought.
“I think Reina may be the key to finding out who Elias knew in London and what he was doing.” But she was frightened. Would she talk to me?
“Reina again. You’re going to have to get her away from the others and have a long talk with her. She could know more, and that could put her in danger.”
I nodded at Sir Henry’s instructions. “The only way I’m going to get the full story out of her is to get her away from Mimi.” But would Reina be willing to leave the security of the salon?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I went downstairs to speak to Miss Westcott, who was still working, and get my assignment at the Royal Albert Hall.
She handed me a ticket. “After the concert, I want you to attend the reception backstage for the guest conductor. That’s where you’ll find the women we’ll want to mention in our article. And try to get some quotes.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I needed to get this murder out of my head. Attending this concert and reporting on the notable attendees was a good place to start.
Then I had another thought. “Will there be any room in the paper for a description of gowns if we’re going to war?”
She gave me a steady look. “We’re not at war yet. Get the descriptions.”
I dressed in the dark blue gown with the silver shoes and bag that was my favorite evening wear. I looked dashing. It was too bad Adam wasn’t here to see me. Sutton, my doorman, left his usual spot to go outside and whistle for a taxi for me. He went so far as to open and close the taxi door for me.
And then when I reached the Royal Albert Hall, I found my seat on the edge of the orchestra level below the stalls. In the aisle seat next to mine was the music critic for the paper.
He greeted me with “Mrs. Denis, what are you doing here?”
I edged past him and sat. “I’m to go to the reception for the guest conductor and describe the ladies’ gowns.”
“Watch you don’t get too close to him. He’s a bottom pincher. Slavic and full of himself.”
I could imagine getting quotes from some of our aristocrats that would never make it into the paper.
When the concert was over, the music critic rose and said, “Have to dash if I’m going to make my deadline. Good luck with the conductor.” Then he hurried off, chuckling to himself.
I headed toward the backstage area where they always held receptions. It was large, brightly lit, and stuffy in this unseasonably warm weather. In the winter, I recalled, it was frigid. I slipped my notebook and pencil out of my bag and circled the room, discreetly writing notes on the ladies I recognized as being the most prominent.
One of them was the Duchess of Marshburn, in what I was willing to bet was a Mimi Mareau creation. The fabric was black, but it was cut and sewn in such a way that the gown seemed to flow down her like a waterfall. On someone young and with a good figure, the dress would be breathtaking. On the duchess, middle-aged, horse-faced, and thick in the waist, it was a nice setting for her jewelry.
If Mimi was as clever a designer as it appeared she was, she would have known such a gown would make her lover’s wife look slightly foolish, or vain.
I looked around, but I didn’t see Mimi at the reception. I didn’t see the duke, either.
I spent about forty-five minutes covering the reception and getting some drawings of the best frocks. As I turned to leave, a shriek nearby made me turn my head in time to see Mrs. Mandel, wife of the pharmacist on the committee, pull a young woman away from the guest conductor. The lady gave the conductor the blackest look I’d seen in a long time.
I headed toward the trio, annoyance with the conductor warring with the chance to get a scoop.
The conductor smiled slyly and murmured, “At least Germany knows how to put you in your proper place.”
Mrs. Mandel turned pale. The young woman I guessed was her daughter looked like she had seen the devil. Then they both turned and walked out of the hall.
I followed them at a trot. “Mrs. Mandel. Is your daughter all right?”
She stopped and turned to face me. After a moment, a vague look of recognition flashed across her face. “That terrible man should keep his hands to himself.”
“Yes, he should, but I don’t suppose he will. I’m Mrs. Denis,” I added, holding out my hand.
“I know,” she replied, giving me a firm handshake. “I’m on the committee with your friend Esther Powell.”
I looked back at the hall. “I didn’t know the conductor is a Nazi. Why did they invite him?”
“He’s not. He’s Polish. The Poles can’t stand Germany, but they agree with some of their policies. They don’t like us, either.”
This wasn’t the time or place, but I took a chance on asking questions about the murder. “Did you get a chance to meet Elias?”
“My husband went to the meeting where he spoke. He said Elias was a logical thinker, but he was able to put a great deal of passion into his words. Passion you don’t expect from a lawyer. Although it makes sense, considering what he’s seen in Germany.”
“He said he hadn’t seen his wife in several years,” her daughter said. “I think that would make him anxious to stop the Nazis so he could rescue her.”
“Your father never mentioned that,” Mrs. Mandel said.
“I asked him. Elias. After the meeting.” The girl, who was probably seventeen or eighteen, looked at her mother as if unsure whether to continue.
“Mrs. Denis, this is my daughter, Valerie,” Mrs. Mandel said by way of introduction.
I nodded my greeting and then asked, “What did he say?” I tried to keep the demand out of my voice so as not to frighten the girl.
“He hadn’t known where his wife was. When he was jailed, she disappeared, and he never heard from her again. Isn’t it sad?”
Reina was from the same village and was the right age. Did they really meet up here in London by accident? How did they both feel about finding Elias’s spouse?
Did Reina know the dead man’s wife? Or was she the missing Mrs. Elias?
Mrs. Mandel tsked me away from my thoughts as she said to her daughter, “You’ve only been out of school a few months and already your grammar is deplorable.”
“Not at all,” her daughter said with a smile. “I’m quoting him. It must be from his translating from German into English to speak to me.”
“Your father said his English was very good although heavily accented. But the way you quote him, it almost sounds like he found his wife again. How strange.” Mrs. Mandel frowned as she led her daughter toward the waiting taxis.
I followed slowly, more determined than ever to get the entire story from Reina. No wonder she was first shocked and now worried, if Elias was her husband and then she’d found him murdered.
* * *
I went into work the next morning, wrote up my notes on the reception for the Nazi lecher masquerading as a conductor, and left the report on Miss Westcott’s desk. Then I repinned my hat, pulled on my gloves, and dashed out of the building.
Bus traffic was with me, and it didn’t take long to get to Mimi’s maison on Old Burlington Street. I walked in the front door, and a woman I hadn’t seen before wearing a deep rose smock said, “Name?”
“Olivia Denis. I need to speak to Reina.”
She looked up from the schedule of appointments in her hand and said, “Reina?”
“I’d like to speak to Reina, please. It’s important.”
“It may be, but she’s not here.” She dismissed me with her smile.
I wasn’t leaving without some answers. “When will she be back?”
“I don’t know.”
I didn’t have time to play games, and this Englishwoman with a purposely stuffy attitude was annoying me. “Will she be back today?”
“I doubt it,” came out with a smirk.
I found myself developing a strong dislike for her. “Why?”
“Reina’s gone back to the salon in Paris.”
“And Mimi?
”
“Madame went with her.”
Wonderful. How much did Mimi know about Reina’s background? And did that put them both at risk from Elias’s killer?
I turned and marched out of Mimi’s salon. Once outside, I rushed back to the Daily Premier building, snagging a stocking on a rough metal edge on the bus. Ignoring what would no doubt turn into a ladder, I hurried straight up to the top floor of the newspaper’s headquarters. A sign on Sir Henry’s door said he was in conference.
Could nothing go right? I knew better than to interrupt. Especially since this was private business, not a breaking news story.
I left a note on Sir Henry’s secretary’s desk and rushed downstairs to Mr. Colinswood’s office. For once Colinswood wasn’t on the phone. When I knocked, he told me to come in and shut the door. He slipped his new reading spectacles off and blinked as he looked at me. “Sir Henry’s tied up with something,” he said. “I take it your news is important.”
“I need to go to Paris.”
He stared at me in silence.
“You know that Sir Henry wants to know who led Elias’s killer to him in the basement of Mimi Mareau’s new fashion salon?”
He nodded.
“Her top seamstress grew up in the same village as Elias. The seamstress and I found the murder weapon yesterday. And now I’ve learned he has a wife who may still be alive and could be anywhere. The seamstress could be his wife.” Especially since she hadn’t mentioned anything about a wife.
“You think she’s his wife and she killed him.” He was still staring at me.
“I think she’s his widow and he was in the basement to talk to her. But I don’t think she killed him.”
He tapped a pencil on his desk. “Where does Paris come into it?”
“When I went to Mimi’s salon this morning to speak to the seamstress, I was told that Mimi and Reina had both left for the salon in Paris. I need to talk to them.”
“You’re certain this is important to your investigation?”
“Yes.”
He grumbled and lit a cigarette. “France and Great Britain will be at war with Germany at any moment, and you want to go to Paris to talk to a suspect in a murder inquiry? Are you mad? What if you can’t get back from France?”
