Harry could see more revellers pressed against a bar that ran the length of one wall, the mirrored wall behind lined with bottles of spirits. Turning the other way, he saw more men surrounding a roulette table.
Not strictly a gambling joint, but clearly – in the Rabbit – anything goes that brings in money, he thought.
As Harry and Alfie were led through the smoky club to an empty table just by the stage, Harry took in the clientele. They were a real cross-section of London: a handful of men in full evening dress, wealthy toffs looking as if they’d come from Mayfair parties; others in lounge suits; a few even in working men’s jackets.
The atmosphere – illicit, exotic, underground. A melting pot of classes, drawn by the booze, the music.
And, Harry guessed, the show to come.
The few women – all accompanied by what looked like big spenders – were mostly in their twenties and flashily dressed. It didn’t look to Harry like any of them were paying guests who’d arrived with the men.
The age discrepancy alone ruled that out.
He and Alfie took their seats, and Harry slipped another note into their host’s hand. “Champagne!” he said.
“Of course, sir,” said the man.
“Champagne?” said Alfie, as the man scurried away. “Half a mild would have done me.”
“Oh, do come on, Alfie. All part of the act tonight, eh?” said Harry, adjusting his spectacles. “Little man from out of town suddenly wins big at the races – money to throw away.”
“Right. Guess I’ll just have to suffer,” said Alfie.
They both turned at a loud pop behind them – to see their bottle of champagne being poured.
“The last show will start in five minutes, sir,” said the man.
“Can’t wait,” said Harry. Then he raised his glass to Alfie. “Here’s to the dancing girls. And may they be everything we’re expecting.”
*
Kat sat in the darkness of the truck cab, watching.
She’d seen quite a number of men going into and out of the club, mostly in small groups. Despite the hour, the place was still clearly busy.
Whatever were Harry and Alfie getting up to inside?
She’d certainly drawn the short straw – though she knew if she’d gone with them it might have complicated the little routine they’d planned.
Best they play two “blokes”, suddenly flush with cash.
She’d only complicate the tale.
Then, she heard the sound of a door opening ahead and saw a bar of light briefly illuminate the street. A figure climbed the steps, from what she guessed was the stage door, onto the street.
A bear of a man – looking as wide as he was tall.
She watched as he lit a cigarette, flicked the match away and stared up and down the street as if he owned it.
Then – a chilling moment – as his eyes seemed to fix on her truck and she saw the cigarette glow red as he took a deep drag.
And, as if he’d made up his mind that something wasn’t quite right, he started walking…
… in her direction.
Uh-oh, she thought. What’s my cover story?
Um… I’m doing a vegetable delivery and I got here a tad early? Maybe… my husband’s out on the town somewhere and he asked me to pick him up?
It occurred to Kat that they’d skipped that part of the story.
Or tell the truth? But no, that wouldn’t fly, not with Harry and Alfie under cover in there.
She sank lower in the seat, trying to think. The man was still twenty yards away. If she started the truck now – if it started first time – she could just pull out and drive away.
Like Harry said.
Heart pounding, she reached down and fumbled for the key in the unfamiliar vehicle. Through the windshield she could see the man just ten yards away now.
As he kept on coming.
He had to be able to see her now.
Her fumbling fingers finally found the key, grasped it. She started to turn it, when, behind the man, the side door to the club opened again. A shaft of light on the cobbled street, and a voice ringing out.
“Charlie? Where the hell are you? Charlie!”
Kat swallowed, waited and watched – held her breath as the man stopped dead, turned.
“All right,” he shouted in the direction of the door, voice echoing on the empty street. “Keep yer bloody ’air on!”
Then he flipped the stub of his cigarette away, and walked back towards the Red Rabbit Club.
Kat let her breath out.
“Phew,” she said, opening the truck window for some fresh air.
Her fingers released their hold on the truck’s ignition key.
Close call.
*
“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together and give one last late-night welcome to the stars of our show: the beautiful, the mesmerising, the gorgeous, Red Rabbit Belles!”
Harry glanced quickly at Alfie, then back at the stage as the lights dimmed, the band played an intro, and the raucous crowd cheered, their attention finally on the small stage area.
And then, giddily shuffling onto the stage in a line, came the dancers: all spangly, with diamond sparkling headdresses, red heels, and matching red “fur” costumes that left little to the imagination.
There were four of them – and they spread out and kicked into their routine, not exactly with the precision of the “Ziegfeld Follies”. But, all things considered, not too bad.
Harry quickly scanned their faces. Two blondes, two brunettes, all looking to be in their thirties if not older.
The kicks high, but their eyes… looking distracted.
And not young!
Lizzie Spence was just twenty-one.
For a second, he was disappointed. All this – another wild goose chase. He looked over at Alfie.
“She’s not here,” said Harry.
“Wait,” said Alfie. Harry saw him nod to the far side of the stage.
“Take a look. One at the end,” he said.
Harry, confused, followed Alfie’s glance, and looked again at the fourth dancer.
And the more he looked, the more he realised.
This dancer wasn’t in her thirties. Up close now, he could see: make-up plastered on, tight wig obscuring her own hair, the costume something he’d never associated with that old photograph.
There was no doubt about it.
The tall blonde dancer on stage – high kicking to catcalls from the front tables – was Lizzie Spence.
9. Lost
The performance lasted only twenty minutes, though – as Harry explained to Kat later – “it was very… um… spirited”.
The second the dancers finished, the curtain unceremoniously dropped and they were gone. The band kicked off on a last jazzy number and the calls of “encore” quickly fizzled out.
When their host in the patent shoes came to top up their champagne, Harry had a question.
“Um, I say, old chap. I wonder if any of the girls could join us for a drink?”
The man froze for a second. Looked at the two of them.
Evaluating us? Harry thought. Or perhaps our financial resources?
“Oh dear me, no, sir,” said the man. “We’re really not that kind of club, I’m sure sir understands?”
Harry shrugged.
The Red Rabbit might not be that kind of club – but it didn’t look far off it. Harry guessed for the right customer, anything was possible.
When the man had gone, he leaned in to Alfie, so they could talk over the loud music.
“Going to see if I can slip round the back,” he said. “Keep your eyes open.”
“Got it, chief,” said Alfie – those three words always reassuring to Harry.
Harry got up and threaded his way through the busy tables, past the bar and stage towards a sign that indicated the WCs.
Next to it, he saw a swing door that probably led to the rooms and offices behind.
Maybe to the dressing
rooms?
With a quick glance to check nobody was watching, he slipped through the swing door to find himself in a corridor, with another corridor leading from it in the direction of the back of the stage.
It was quieter back here, the music muted.
As he stood orienting himself, a door ahead opened. Quickly he backed into a corner and pressed against the side of a cupboard. Two men in scruffy dinner jackets walked past and into the club without seeing him.
Harry peered round the cupboard and listened.
Coast clear.
He walked down the corridor and turned into the next one. He could see the doors were marked “Manager”, “Props”, “Stores” – then finally a door tagged “Dressing Rooms”.
Bingo!
He stepped up close to the door. From inside he could hear voices – female – the dancers chattering away.
Another look up and down the corridor: empty.
He tapped on the door.
“Cor! Five minutes, Charlie, don’t you bloody listen?” came an irritated voice from inside.
Harry knocked again.
After a few seconds, it opened and one of the dancers stood there, still in costume. “Charlie Leet, we’re not your bloody–?” said the woman, confused at the sight of Harry, not the expected Charlie. “Who the hell are you?” she said.
“Hello,” said Harry in his most timid voice.
“Where’s Charlie? You don’t—”
“Oh, gosh. Terribly sorry,” said Harry, playing the nervous out-of-towner. “Don’t want to disturb. Um. Charlie said I could drop by. Said it was fine.”
“Oh yeah?” said the woman, laughing. “What do you want then… young man?”
“Want? Oh, um, well. I’m just… a fan. Art of the dance, you know? Think you’re marvellous. All of you. Wanted to say thank you. Perhaps, perhaps… buy you all a drink?” He took a breath, “Or something?” He looked left and right, as if concerned about his next words. “I mean, got all these winnings burning a hole in my pocket, you know?”
The woman looked at Harry as if deciding whether she believed him. Then she laughed as she pulled the door open wider.
Now Harry could peer in, and he saw the two blonde dancers leaning against dressing tables, also still in costume, smoking.
And – sitting to one side, looking weary, and alone – Lizzie Spence, wig off, wiping at the make-up on her face.
She didn’t look up – just stared down at the floor.
“What’s up, Peggy?” said one of the blonde women.
“Fella here says he wants to buy us a ‘drink’, girls,” said the woman. “Blimey – we never had that offer before!”
The women laughed.
“Let’s see the colour of his money then,” shouted one of the other dancers, walking over and joining the first at the door.
The first dancer looked Harry up and down. “If he’s got any!”
“Money?” said Harry, blinking. “Oh yes, money.”
He dug into his trouser pocket, then tugged out his wad of “cash”.
“Look!” he said. “I guess I just got lucky! On the gee-gees, you know… the horses!”
“Did you now?” came a deep voice from behind him.
Harry spun round – just as a gnarled hand grabbed his wrist like a claw. The owner – the squat man who’d been at the club door.
Charlie Leet, I presume, thought Harry.
“Ow!” said Harry. “You know, um, that hurts!”
“This man here bothering you, Pegs?” said the man, still holding Harry’s wrist tight.
Harry yelped as realistically as he could – and made a mental note that before this case was over he would return the favour to Charlie Leet – with interest.
“Ha,” said Peggy. “Look at ’im! Doubt he could bother anything.”
“Lost, are we?” said Leet, pressing his pockmarked face close to Harry’s.
“Right! Must have taken the wrong turning,” said Harry with a gulp. “Then I thought, why not offer to buy these good ladies a drink.”
He watched as Leet prised the roll of cash from his hand.
“Did you now?” he said. “Very gentlemanly of you.”
Harry saw him peel a couple of notes from the roll, and slip them into his trouser pocket.
“Tell you what. Bar’s about to close. So why don’t I buy those drinks on your behalf, eh? And in return – I won’t say a word to the management about you loitering back here harassing these… vulnerable… young girls. Gotta tell you, mate, the boss doesn’t take kindly to such things.”
He took the rest of the wad – only a few notes shy of revealing the newspaper within – and jammed it into Harry’s jacket pocket. Harry saw the women laugh.
“How does that sound, pal?” said Leet giving Harry’s wrist one last squeeze, then letting it go. “Reasonable?”
“Oh yes,” said Harry, rubbing his crushed wrist. “Jolly reasonable, indeed.”
Leet put his hands on Harry’s shoulders, and turned him round so he pointed back into the club.
“Now off you go, young man,” said Leet. “And we’ll both forget this ever happened.”
Speak for yourself, thought Harry.
He started to shuffle slowly back along the corridor. Behind him he heard Leet talking to the women.
“You ready, girls? Don’t want to keep the boss waiting, now, do we?”
He glanced back over his shoulder to see the dancers now filing out behind Charlie, coats draped over their shoulders.
Lizzie Spence, last of the group.
So, they were going to see the “boss”.
At this hour?
Didn’t sound good.
Harry knew there was no way he and Alfie could pay the bill and get out onto the street in time to follow them.
But Kat was out there.
And knowing Kat… she would handle it.
*
Kat saw a sleek, black sedan pull up outside the club – and was immediately on the alert. All the time she’d been on lookout, not a single vehicle had stopped in the narrow street.
She watched as the car stood there, engine idling, waiting.
Then the stage door opened again. She leaned forward in her seat to get a better view.
First the big guy came up the steps, stopped, checked the street, then went to the sedan, said something through the passenger window.
Then he turned back, gestured down to the stage door. And now Kat saw a line of women emerge, coats over their shoulders, not even close to disguising the shimmer and sparkle of their costumes.
Dancers. Four of them.
A rear door in the sedan opened – and the women piled in.
The big guy shut the car door, then, with one last look up and down the street, he heaved himself into the front passenger seat and shut that door too.
Then the sedan pulled away from the club and headed down Lexington Street.
Kat glanced back at the club. No sign of Harry and Alfie.
Quick thoughts racing through her head.
The girls, the dancers… she couldn’t make anything out.
But was one Lizzie Spence?
And if so, where was she being taken?
Harry had been inside long enough for Kat to know he must have hit pay-dirt. If Lizzie hadn’t been in there, they would have been out straight away.
One of those four women had to be Lizzie.
And Kat had to follow them.
Quickly, she started the truck – thank God for electric starters – took a guess at first gear, released the handbrake, and without turning on the lights at first, drove after the dancers, the lumbering truck rocking on the cobblestone street.
She saw the black car ahead, shoot across the first junction, and Kat crunched through the unfamiliar gears, gaining speed, trying to catch up.
The streets totally deserted – too late for revellers, still too early for the first workers of the new day.
Ahead, she saw the car take a sharp rig
ht. She followed, not knowing what these streets were, or which direction she was heading towards.
Was the driver aware he had a truck on his tail?
And if not, what would happen if he spotted her?
She followed, and with another turn she suddenly realised, to her relief, she knew where she was.
Ahead – one of London’s best-known landmarks: Piccadilly Circus, the statue of Eros lit with gloomy street lights.
This time of night, all the advertising lights turned off, the theatre displays dark.
Around the statue, and down Piccadilly she drove, her foot flat down trying to get some speed out of Alfie’s old truck.
Just hours ago, she and Harry had walked this grand avenue with his pals, stopping for champagne cocktails in various hotel bars.
Now she was driving an old Austin pickup – fast as it could go, which wasn’t fast at all – in pursuit of a runaway girl in a suspicious sedan.
On her right she saw a building, noting the sign quickly: the Royal Academy. Then, in a blur of speed on her left, the Ritz, the hotel’s doorman, in top hat and tails, still on duty.
Past Berkeley Street now – the sedan ahead, the only car on the empty streets. Suddenly, she saw it take a sharp right.
She followed, tyres screeching at the quick turn – just missing a cab that appeared from nowhere, its horn tooting angrily at her.
Down a narrow street of tall houses, the sedan just visible ahead, taking a left and going out of sight.
It would be so easy to lose it on these streets, she knew.
Still she followed, missing a gear and feeling the rear of the truck beginning to twitch and slide, gears groaning before she managed to correct the drift.
She could again see the car a hundred yards ahead. It took another right.
Jeez, these streets! she thought, her sweating hands pulling at the heavy steering wheel. No logic to them!
Give me Manhattan’s orderly grid!
Suddenly in front of her – bang in the middle of the street, hand aloft – a policeman!
She hit the brakes, the truck sliding to a grinding, noisy halt just feet away from him.
Mydworth Mysteries--London Calling! Page 6
