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Naturally, the alley door was locked. No surprise there.
“I could pick it,” Chaz said. “Might take a while.”
“What about the window?” I assumed it led to a cloakroom.
Hale squinted up at it. It was set high in the wall. “Not sure any of us could reach it. Not unless you’ve learned to fly recently.”
I snorted. “Don’t be a ninny. One of you can hoist me up.”
Hale and Chaz exchanged glances.
I propped my hands on my hips. “I’m not that heavy.”
“No, my lady, you are not,” Mr. Singh said. “I am certain I could lift you easily.”
I gave the boys my haughtiest Lady of the Manor look. There. Take that.
“However,” Mr. Singh continued, “the window is quite small. I don’t know that you will fit.”
“Of course, I will! Easy peasy. Come on then.” I waved him closer to the brick wall and hoisted my skirt.
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Butty murmured.
“This is not going to go well,” Chaz muttered.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” I said. “Right, then, Mr. Singh. Ready when you are.”
Before I knew it, I was practically flying through the air as Mr. Singh heaved me toward the window. I caught the ledge with my fingers and shoved at the sash. It slid up quite easily. Huzzah!
“A little higher, Mr. Singh,” I shouted down.
He shoved me higher, high enough I could fling my arms up and over the ledge, hoisting myself up to my armpits. However, that was as far as I got. I hadn’t the arm strength to pull myself higher, and Mr. Singh had already lifted me as high as he could manage. I wriggled a bit, trying to get further up, but it was no use. Beside which, my shoulders were wedged at an angle in the window. It was too narrow. At least it wasn’t my hips, I suppose.
Though the room was too dark to see inside, from the smell it was definitely a cloakroom. I wrinkled my nose, turned my head, and shouted, “I can’t get in.”
Chaz snorted.
“Don’t be crass,” Aunt Butty said. I heard the thwap of her handbag, no doubt against the back of his head.
“Not to worry, Ophelia,” Hale called up. “Chaz has the lock open.”
“What?” I shrieked, still clinging to the window sill. “I went through all this for nothing?”
There was a telling silence.
I sighed deeply. “I really need new partners in crime. Very well. Mr. Singh, please help me down.”
“Of course, my lady. Please pardon my impertinence.”
“Your what?” But before I could ask for further clarification, his hands gripped my thighs rather higher than was decent for a man who was neither husband nor lover.
Mr. Singh pulled on my legs, but I didn’t budge. “Let go, my lady.”
“I have let go.”
He tried again, but my shoulders were firmly wedged into the window. The only result was that one of my garter straps gave way, and my right stocking drooped a bit before sliding down my leg to flop in poor Mr. Singh’s face.
“Oh, dear. Sorry about that, Mr. Singh,” I called down.
“No worries, my lady.”
Behind him, the others snickered.
“You better watch yourselves,” I threatened. “When I get down from here—”
“How about I go inside and help push from the other side,” Hale suggested. Quite as if I were a jacket potato stuck in an oven.
“Jolly good,” Chaz said brightly. “I’ll keep watch.”
“I’ll just bet you will,” I grumbled.
“What’s that, dear?” Aunt Butty called up.
“Nothing.”
A few moments later, the light in the room came on—it was indeed a cloakroom, and not a particularly nice one—and Hale appeared. He flipped the lid down and climbed up on the commode, his face now level with mine.
“You have got yourself in a bit of a pickle, haven’t you?”
“Rather,” I said dryly.
“It’s your coat,” he said, peering closely at my shoulders. “The thick fabric has got you wedged in pretty good.”
It was nice of him to blame the fabric, and I told him so. His answer was a quick peck.
“Now I’m going to shove you from this side. It’ll be at an angle, and it may hurt.”
“Do what you must,” I told him.
“Ready, Mr. Singh?” he shouted.
“Ready, sir,” came Mr. Singh’s muffled reply.
“One!” Hale said loudly. “Two. Three. And shove!”
And shove, he did. While Hale pushed at my shoulders, Mr. Singh gripped my thighs and tugged downward. My upper arms scraped against the window frame hard enough to leave bruises, and I popped clear of the window, sailing backward to land right in Mr. Singh’s arms.
He set me carefully on the ground before turning his back, so I could fix my garter. Ever the gentleman, Mr. Singh.
“Good heavens, Ophelia,” my aunt said, striding to check me head to toe. “You do like to get yourself in the oddest situations.”
I would very much have liked to say it wasn’t my fault, but I had been the one who’d insisted on trying to climb through that blasted window. Instead, I said, “Yes, Aunt, I do rather.”
“Now come along. We’ve a hotbed of iniquity to search.” And Aunt Butty strode away, leaving me and Mr. Singh to follow in her wake.
By then, Chaz had got the lights on and was already combing through the main bar area. Hale came out of the cloakroom, wiping his hands on his handkerchief.
“That room’s clear.” He winked at me. “Mr. Singh and I can check the storage rooms.”
I nodded and waved to my aunt to follow me. “Jones’s office is this way.”
She trotted behind me down the same narrow halls the goon had taken me. They were dimly lit and somewhat musty.
Finally, we came to the door behind which stood Jones’s office. Naturally, it was locked.
“Too bad there’s no window,” Aunt Butty said dryly.
I gave her a dirty look. “I know a few tricks.” I pulled a pin from my hair and went to work on the lock.
I was not as efficient as Chaz, but I finally got it open and we stood in the inner sanctum of a gangster. It gave me something of a chill.
It must have had the same effect on Aunt Butty, for she said, “Let’s hurry so we can get out of here.”
While I rifled through his desk, Aunt Butty searched the file cabinet. At last we both stood back with matching expressions of exasperation. The only thing of interest either of us found were a set of books for the revenue man, but only one set.
“Nothing,” she said. “That is preposterous. The man is as dirty as the Thames.”
Which was very dirty indeed. “Where else would he keep secret documents or murder weapons?”
She tapped her chin with one red nail. “I recently read about a man who kept a secret safe.”
I lifted a brow. “You read about this?”
She stiffened. “Yes. In The Wily Detective by Dexter Dodge.”
“Sounds American.”
“He is. He writes marvelous detective stories. Although I’ve a feeling Dodge is really a woman using a pseudonym.”
“Why?” I couldn’t believe I was asking.
“Because the mysteries are far too ingenious to have been written by a man.”
Of course, they were. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Aunt Butty, that is a work of fiction.”
“Fiction is often based on fact,” she said. “And Jones is just the sort of criminal to have a secret safe. Quickly, look behind the paintings and such. I am certain it’s here.”
I shook my head, but did as she commanded, lifting the frames of the half dozen paintings and photographs scattered about the walls. They were in need of a good dusting, but otherwise, were unremarkable. “Nothing here.”
“Under the desk then.” She pointed.
“Ugh.” But, naturally, I dropped to my knees and pawed around under the desk, nearly knocking myself unconscious when I clipped my head on the edge on the way out. “Nope.”
She tapped her chin again, eyes narrowed in thought. Then she began to pace the room. It wasn’t the sort of pacing people do when they are bored or thinking or irritated. No, it was a very deliberate sort of pacing and every once in a while, she’d stop and sort of press her foot to the floor.
“You’re looking for loose floorboards,” I said.
“Naturally. Since there aren’t any bookshelves, it’s the only other option.”
“Bookshelves would stand out a bit in here,” I agreed before joining her in her pacing.
We’d been at it for a few minutes when Aunt Butty shouted, “Ah ha!” She pressed a section of the floor and it squeaked and shifted beneath her foot.
I hurried over and knelt down. The floorboard, hidden under the edge of the rug, was definitely loose. I used a metal nail file from my handbag to pry it up. Beneath was a safe. It looked to be made of cast iron and had a combination dial on the front.
“Oh, dear. I don’t suppose you can pick that?” Aunt Butty said with a frown.
“Unfortunately, no. I don’t think Chaz can either.”
“I may be able to help,” Mr. Singh said softly from the doorway.
I nearly keeled over in fright. I hadn’t heard him come up the hall. The man moved like a cat.
“Have at it.” I climbed to my feet, allowing him access to the safe.
“I will need absolute silence, my ladies,” he said gravely.
We both nodded solemnly.
Mr. Singh knelt beside the safe and leaned down until his ear was nearly upon it. Then he began to fiddle with the dial. It seemed to take an interminable amount of time, but at last there was a slight popping sound, and he swung the door open. Rising to his feet, he gestured toward the gaping safe.
We scrambled forward and peered inside.
Aunt Butty’s eyes widened. “Oh, my.”
For there, nestled inside, was a second set of books.
––––––––
“SO, DERBY JONES REALLY is a crook,” Hale said later that night, or rather, earlier that morning, back in my sitting room.
We’d escaped the Apollyon unscathed, both sets of books in hand. After dropping Chaz off at his place, Simon had let us off at mine before taking Mr. Singh and Aunt Butty home. I’d kept hold of the books. After all, it was I who’d taken my husband’s properties and holdings and turned them from a nice, steady income to something wildly successful. I knew all about keeping books. Even a simple perusal proved that Derby Jones was, as Aunt Butty had claimed, dirty as the Thames.
“Yes, he is,” I said, looking up from the pages I’d been comparing. “He’s definitely laundering money through the club. See, this first set of books which we found in the file cabinet is for the revenue man. He’s making a very nice profit.” I tapped the second set. “These are the real figures. He’s clearing tens of thousands more than he should be, and it’s all coming from sources other than the club.”
“Definitely money laundering, then.” Hale perched beside me. “Can you tell specifically where it’s coming from?”
“Maybe. It’ll take some more digging as it’s all in code, but I’ll bet my last farthing it’s all illegal.”
He reached over and massaged my shoulders. I nearly moaned with delight.
“Aren’t you worried Jones will discover you’ve taken the books?” he asked.
“I’ve no doubt he will notice first thing in the morning that someone has taken them, but I don’t see how he’ll know it’s us.” At least, I was hoping he wouldn’t know. I dreaded to think what would happen if he figured it out.
“Will you take those to the police?”
I nodded. “Once I figure out how this ties into the murders.”
“Are you sure it does?”
I rubbed my forehead. “It has to.”
“Come, my love. You’ve been at this long enough and it’s nearly morning. Let’s go to bed.”
Sounded like a good offer to me. I trailed him up the stairs, but it took forever to fall asleep and even when I did, my dreams were filled with numbers, hatpins, and Derby Jones’s disturbing laughter.