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The next day, I found myself in front of the Astoria Club again. The place was starting to feel like a second home. I was spending a ridiculous amount of time here.
I’d barely slept, eager to discover if I was right. But I’d been forced to wait until a reasonable hour to put my plan into action.
Helena was sitting at her desk, back to the door, riffling through paperwork as if nothing had happened. Apparently, the police had released her office. I wasn’t sure I could sit quite so calmly in a dead man’s chair.
I glanced around. No pillows.
I cleared my throat and she whirled around, hand to heart. “Oh, Lady Rample. You startled me.”
“Ophelia,” I reminded her. “North let you back in, I see.” I took a seat, uninvited. The plush, pink armchair looked too inviting. I was trying to think of a way to bring up the pillow situation. I’d seen her using one in her temporary office, but the room was devoid of anything so frivolous.
“Yes. They’ve taken all the fingerprints and whatnot they needed. Good thing, too. The work is piling up, as you can see.” She held out one pale, delicate hand to indicate the mound of papers and files on her desk. “I we can’t afford to stay closed, regardless of the situation.”
“I had no idea there was so much paperwork involved in running a club,” I said, leaning back. It was awkward, as if the seat was a bit too deep. I shifted uneasily. There really should be a pillow. Just a small one for the lower back. I had a chair just like it at home and it had a pillow. A thought wriggled its way into my mind. I had to ask. “I don’t suppose you have a pillow anywhere? This seat is dashed uncomfortable without it.”
A faint frown line appeared between her eyes. “There was one...” She glanced about vaguely. “I’ve no idea what happened to it...”
“No matter.” I brushed it aside, careful not to reveal my true intentions. “You were saying? About the paperwork?”
“I decided to finish the audit.” Helena patted one of the large piles.
That was interesting. Why would she finish the audit if she was the one skimming? To better hide her thievery? But why, if Musgrave was gone? She didn’t need to hide anything. As full owner, she could take whatever she chose out of the kitty, as long as she was honest about it with the tax man.
“I did skim, as you deduced,” she explained. I was surprised by her bald admission. “But not as much as Alfred claimed. I kept careful records. Just in case.” She handed me a small, gold-foil covered notebook.
Inside, in small, dainty script, were columns of numbers. Dates and amounts, from the looks of things. I did a few quick calculations in my head. I’d always been rather good at math.
“Looks like about two hundred pounds over the past several months.” That was, perhaps, a couple of months’ wages taken over quite some time. Not enough to really raise eyebrows.
“Exactly. Money is tight. I needed a little extra to cover household expenses.” Her grim expression told me her household expenses had a lot to do with her husband. “But Alfred claimed closer to two thousand dollars was missing within the last six months. I never took that much, as you can see.”
“Yes. I can see that.” If her little book was accurate. But I could see no reason why she’d keep a fake book of embezzlement. It was dashed odd. “Who else would have the means and opportunity to take this money?” I asked as I handed back the book.
“Alfred, of course. And since he’s the one who wanted the audit, I can only assume it wasn’t him.”
“I agree. What about your husband?”
“I don’t let him near the money or the books,” she said dryly. “For good reason.”
From her expression, I assumed she knew—or at least assumed—I was aware of her husband’s penchant for opium. “What about what’s his name? The manager?”
“John Bamber? Well, yes, of course he has access to the books. Plus, he makes the deposits most mornings. In fact,” she lowered her voice, “he’s the one who was helping me out. I believe it’s what is referred to as ‘cooking the books.’ He assured me Alfred would never know.”
“Apparently, he got that wrong.” And if Alfred found out, it would be a very good motive for murder. “Is he here now? Mr. Bamber?”
“I believe he’s at the bar. We’re expecting a shipment of liquor today.”
“Then let’s go have a chat with him.” I had started to rise when Mabel staggered through the open doorway, face white as a sheet.
“Mrs. Fairfax!”
“What is it, Mabel?” Her tone was one of exasperation. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Sorry, Missus, but it’s Mr. Bamber. He done tried to kill himself!”
“What?” Helena rose from her chair, mouth and eyes wide.
“Come see for yourself, ma’am!” Mabel beckoned wildly and took off down the hall.
I charged after her with Helena close on my heels. I was glad I’d worn my wide legged trousers and low-heeled t-straps. All this dashing about was bloody exhausting.
In the dressing room, stretched out on the fainting couch with a pillow beneath his head, we found John Bamber. He was unconscious, breathing shallow and skin white as milk. On a low table beside him was a glass of water and several empty papers that had likely contained sleeping powders. Next to that was a neatly printed note on a scrap of torn paper. I picked it up. It said simply:
I CAN’T GO ON.
How very melodramatic.
Helena went to her knees beside him. “John! John! Wake up.” She gave him a little shake, but there was no response.
There was nothing for it. I reached down and slapped him hard enough to leave a pink mark on his cheek. He gave a moan, but nothing else. “Mabel, call the doctor immediately. And then bring us a glass of milk.”
“Yes, m’lady.” She scurried off to do my bidding.
“Why are you thinking of milk at a time like this?” Helena wailed.
My, the melodrama was catching. “Because, you idiot, that’s what you’re supposed to drink after you’ve poisoned yourself. It lines the stomach so the poison doesn’t penetrate.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?’
“I trained as a nurse during the War.” Not to mention I read a lot. I certainly had as a girl. And I’d been fascinated by morbid things such as poisons and murder. I was currently a huge fan of the Queen of Mystery, Agatha Christie. I’d read all her works and eagerly awaited the next. Of course, finding a poisoning victim in real life wasn’t nearly so exciting.
Mabel returned, glass of milk sloshing in her hand. “They’re on their way.” She shoved the glass at me.
“Thank you. Now, let’s get him up so I can get this down his throat.”
Between the three of us, we managed to hoist him into a sitting position, and I forced the milk down his throat. I think we got more on the couch than we did in him, but I hoped it was enough.
Fortunately, Dr. Eliot arrived with his nurse and shooed us away. Once the ghastly noises started, Helena and I hurried to the bar, well out of earshot.
“Drink?” she asked, rounding the bar and eyeballing the bottles of liquor.
“Don’t mind if I do. Highball, please.”
She smiled. “Good choice.”
After pouring whiskey, ginger ale, and ice into a glass for me, she made herself a Sidecar. We sat at the bar, side by side, nursing our drinks.
“He tried to kill himself, didn’t he?” Helena said finally.
“Looks that way.” Though something niggled in my mind. Something not quite right.
“Why do you suppose he did it?”
I twisted my glass, watching the amber liquid swirl inside. “I imagine he was afraid Musgrave would catch him at it.”
“But Alfred is dead.”
“True. But you decided to go ahead with the audit. Up until now, you’ve believed his only wrong doing was to help you hide a bit of money. He knew the minute you finished the audit, you’d know the truth. He was using your skimming to hide his own. And he was stealing a lot more.”
She shook her head. “He should have come to me. He should have told me. I’d have helped him. Why would he do that?”
I shrugged and took a sip of my drink. She would have made a damn fine barman. “Who knows? Maybe he was in a spot of trouble and didn’t realize you’d help him. Maybe he thought he could pay it back before anyone knew it was gone. Maybe he enjoyed the thrill. I’ve read some do.”
“He was such a kind man,” she said morosely. “Always willing to help a girl out when she needed it. I guess we’ll never know why he did it.”
I gave her a startled look which she didn’t see. “He’s not dead yet. The doctor may have gotten to him in time.”
There was the merest pause. “Oh, yes. Let’s hope so.”
Again, I eyed her, but she appeared sincere. “Yes, let’s.”
“Maybe he’s the one who killed Alfred,” she said after a bit.
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps it’s like you said. Poor John believed Alfred was going to catch him out, so he killed Alfred. Then guilt got the better of him. That’s John for you. Very sensitive. He would definitely feel guilty about being forced to murder someone.” She smiled widely as if she’d solved the crime single handedly.
“It’s a good hypothesis.” If a bit obvious.
“We should tell the police.” She took a sip of her Sidecar, made a face, and added a healthy dose of cognac.
I repressed a shudder. Cognac was possibly my least favorite beverage. “Of course. I’ll mention it to DI North.” Maybe.
Helena had made an excellent point. It made sense, this motive for Alfred’s murder and John Bamber’s attempt at suicide, but something felt off. Something didn’t quite ring true. I just couldn’t figure out what it was.
––––––––
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR North arrived a few minutes after Dr. Eliot. After a brief confab with the doctor, North took over Helena’s office for questioning. Mabel was the first one in, as she was the one who found Bamber unconscious.
Being of the nosy variety, I left Helena to a second cocktail, slipped past the uniformed policeman North had posted outside Helena’s office, and into the dressing room where we’d found Bamber. Apparently North considered the event a suicide and therefore didn’t post a guard on the dressing room itself. The pillow had fallen off the chaise longue and onto the floor. I picked it up and examined it carefully. It was perfectly intact. A search of the rest of the room revealed two more pillows, all intact. I swore silently.
I slipped back down the hall and took up a position where I could overhear. I was well aware from previous visits that voices could be heard from within the ladies’ WC. So I told the guard I needed to use the necessary—which made him blush like a tomato—and locked myself in the tiny room. Taking my empty Highball glass out of my handbag, I pressed it to the wall and listened carefully. The voices were slightly distorted, but the words were clear enough.
“—I never was so shocked in all my days!” It was Mabel at her most dramatic. “He was just lying there like the dead. I near passed out.”
“But you didn’t.” Even with the distortion, North’s voice was dry as dust.
“’Course not.” She sounded offended he’d had the temerity to ask such a thing. “I went and got the ladies.”
“By which you mean Lady Rample and Mrs. Fairfax?”
“’Course. Who else?” Her tone indicated she considered him an idiot of the first order.
“Did you touch anything in the room? Anything at all?”
“Not a thing. Just saw him and ran. Figured what with the note and all, he done somethin’ stupid.”
North cleared his throat. “Did you see anyone else here?”
“Only some’at earlier. The musician wot plays that saxophone. Devil’s music, you ask me.”
I almost dropped the glass, I was that surprised. Beau Parks had been here? I hadn’t seen him.
“Do you mean Beauford Parks?” North asked with surprising patience.
“That’s the one,” Mabel affirmed.
“Was he anywhere near John Bamber?”
“’Course. They was arguing fit to burst. Quiet like, though. Hissin’ like snakes.”
“What time was this?” North asked.
Mabel made a humming sound as if trying to dredge up a faded memory. “Oh, ‘least half hour before I found Bamber out cold.”
Which would give Beau plenty of time to poison Bamber. If he had been poisoned.
“Could you hear what they said during the argument?” North asked.
“Not a word.”
“Thank you, Mabel. That is all.”
I heard the door to the office open and North muttering with the officer on duty. I quickly tucked the glass behind the waste basket. No need to get caught in the act, so to speak. With a quick check in the mirror to see all was in order, I unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.
“Ah, Lady Rample. Just the woman.”
I gave North a bland smile. “Detective Inspector.”
“Please.” He gestured toward the open door. “Join me. I have some questions.”
“But of course.” I strode in and took a seat, eyeing him calmly as if I hadn’t a care in the world. But my mind was reeling. Why was Beau arguing with John Bamber? Why was he here? Could I have been wrong? Could Beau be behind all this, after all? And if so, what did that mean for Coco? And Josette? Could they have faked their alibis? It seemed impossible.
North sat down heavily. There were dark bags beneath his eyes and his suit was rumpled. I caught a whiff of stale cigarettes and old tea. Not entirely pleasant.
“What are you doing here, Lady Rample?” His voice sounded as tired as he looked.
“Just visiting a friend, Detective Inspector. No crime in that, is there?”
He rubbed his forehead. “I’m beginning to think everything you do is a crime.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or offended, so I ignored the comment. “Did you know Helena plans to carry out the audit Musgrave had been doing when he was killed?”
“Interesting.” Neither his tone nor his expression gave away any emotion. The man was frustrating.
“She and I both believe Bamber was cooking the books. You know, skimming money.”
“I do know what ‘cooking the books’ means, Lady Rample. And I know all about it. That’s probably why Bamber tried to kill himself.”
“Tried? Then he’s going to live?”
He rubbed his forehead again. “The doc thinks he’ll live.”
“That’s a relief. He seemed a nice man, if rather sad. By the way, you do know that he didn’t try to kill himself, don’t you?”
He let out a strangled sound which may have been one of frustration. “Do tell.”
“Well, you see, it’s like this. The scene was too perfect.”
He rolled his eyes. “Is that it?”
“No, of course not.” Honestly, if the man would just let me speak! “John Bamber was exactly the sort of man who would kill himself in exactly the sort of spot of bother that would force his hand.”
“I don’t follow.”
I tapped my fingers on the edge of the armchair. “Let me put it like this. Imagine you want to kill someone because—oh, I don’t know—they know something you don’t want getting out. Something that could send you to prison. Or worse. What do you do? If you’re of the criminal persuasion, that is.”
He picked up an empty teacup and stared inside morosely as if willing more tea to magically appear. “I suppose I’d threaten him.”
“But threatening someone can’t be assured. Not if something scarier comes along.”
“True,” North admitted. “I suppose—if I were of the criminal persuasion as you so succinctly put it—I would have to kill him.”
“Exactly,” I agreed. “But you wouldn’t want to raise suspicion, correct? So how would you go about getting rid of such a man?”
North leaned back, crossing his ankles and eyeing me not unlike a snake eyes a tasty rabbit. “I would find his weakness. The thing that would make him easy to kill.”
“Naturally. Take an alcoholic. It would be easy enough to kill him with drink or the result of drink. For instance, a fall into a canal. Oh, dear. He’s drowned. I told him walking home drunk was dangerous! You see? Easy enough and a murder is masked as an accident.”
His eyes glittered. “Are you telling me you believe someone tried to take advantage of Bamber’s depressed nature to get rid of him through a fake suicide?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Detective Inspector.”
He pondered that. “What’s your proof?”
“I haven’t any,” I admitted. “Except for one thing. The suicide note.”
“What of it?”
“It was written on a scrap of paper. Why would a person who was about to commit suicide write his last declaration on a bit of rubbish?”
“That’s still not proof,” North pointed out.
“Of course not,” I admitted. “But if I were you, I’d guard Bamber very closely until he’s able to tell you what he knows that would make someone want to kill him.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Lady Rample.”
“See that you do.” I stood to leave, but then remembered the entire reason I’d come there in the first place. “By the way, when you were first inspecting the scene of Alfred Musgrave’s death, I don’t suppose you or your men found any pillows with holes in them?”
“Er, no. We found some feathers in one of the dustbins and several intact pillows in the dressing room, but none with holes. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I said, brightly. “Toodles, Detective.” And I sailed from the room. Feathers in the dust bin. How interesting.