Adam made sure he was out of earshot of the cellar before he struck a match. Yes, it was indeed a tunnel. He had been in New York when Prohibition came in there and had no doubt that half the establishments in the city wished they had made similar contingency plans. He applauded Oscar on his forward thinking. However, it seemed as if the tunnel had recently been used for more nefarious purposes than slipping in a bit of illicit booze. How had the man in the homburg known about it? Had he come in that way and met with Arthur? Had Arthur known about it and used it for his fencing activities? Had he arranged to meet the Russian in the cellar? Adam had no way of knowing. Nor did he know what he would do if he came face to face with the Russian in the tunnel.
There had been no light before he struck his match. Or had there? He allowed his match to go out, then waited. Listened. Just the scuttling of rats. Adam calculated that by the time it took the barrel man to go upstairs and for him to go down and hear Oscar’s explanation, it must have been about five minutes. Before that, according to Oscar, he had been trying to revive Arthur. Another five minutes perhaps? That would have given the Russian at least ten minutes, possibly more, to make his escape. And unless he intended to come back into the club in the immediate aftermath of Arthur’s murder, there would be no reason for him to stick around.
Adam lit another match and continued along the tunnel, trying to figure out what was going on as he went. Why had he killed the fence? Why had he killed Selena? Was it because they didn’t have the egg? That clearly wasn’t the reason he’d killed – or orchestrated the killing of the family in Moscow. The egg had still been in the safe when Adam arrived at the residence, and the family were already dead. If all the man had wanted was the egg surely the lady of the house would have given it to him. Or perhaps she had and he had found what Adam’s employer had found: that there was something missing. And then had he put the egg back into the safe? It didn’t make sense. Unless he was trying to cover his tracks. No, the Russian did not want the eggs – he wanted what was inside them. And for that he was prepared to kill.
This man was not going to stop until he had found whatever he was looking for. With a shudder, Adam thought about all the people in London close to him – Stanislavski and Delilah chief among them – and one of them had already had an attempt on his life, however inadvertent. Adam still could not figure out why the chocolates in Selena’s dressing room had been poisoned, but they had been, and the man he admired most in the world had nearly died. Intentionally or not, people close to him were being picked off by this mad Russian and it was time to stop him. But first he needed to check that Delilah was safe.
The tunnel began to slope upwards and Adam sensed it was coming to an end. The match went out just as he reached a metal ladder. He stopped to listen again. Was that the sound of sirens? Adam felt his way up the ladder and pushed on the hatch above. As light flooded into the tunnel, Adam unsheathed his rapier and climbed out, fully alert and ready for any possible attack. But none came. He found himself behind a line of skips and bins near the back entrance of a paper shop, the hatch cleverly disguised as a manhole cover. Did the proprietor of the paper shop know about the secret tunnel? He must. And he must have been paid to turn a blind eye. Good. That’s just what Adam needed.
Checking again to make sure the coast was clear, his ears ringing with the wail of sirens from police vehicles pulling up at the jazz club, he slipped down the alley and followed the back streets to Delilah’s apartment building. She lived on the second floor. He didn’t risk going around the front in case the police or any nosy neighbours spotted him. Instead, he climbed the fire escape and used the key she had given him to slip in through the back door.
He didn’t expect her to be there; he just needed to use her telephone to call the theatre to check that she was all right. But as he stepped into her kitchen he knew something was wrong. Delilah’s flat was usually immaculate. Mrs Jones, the cleaning lady, kept the place spotless, and Delilah, despite her laissez-faire attitude to the rest of her life, was exceptionally organised in her domestic sphere; so open kitchen cupboards were not to be expected. Adam unsheathed his rapier as he pushed the door open to the rest of the flat. It was chaos.
Bookshelves and stacks of gramophone records had been overturned, cushions and sofas sliced open and their guts spilled. Adam searched frantically through the carnage, but to his relief Delilah was nowhere to be found. His breathing slowed … a little.
The telephone lay under a scattering of Vogue magazines, its cord cut. Why? Had the Russian – and Adam had no doubt that it was the Russian in the homburg who was responsible – been hoping that Delilah was home and had cut off all chance of her calling for help? His stomach tightened. Had she been home? No, it was impossible. He had seen her get into the cab to Waterloo and there wouldn’t have been time for her to go there and get back, surely. Or would there? He checked his watch.
Quarter past one. Yes, it was possible. His stomach clenched even further. He needed to get to the Old Vic to find out. He checked the bedroom and bathroom one more time – just in case he had missed something – and then headed back down the fire escape and towards his motor car.
He thanked God for his foresight in parking away from Oscar’s. A glance down King’s Road told him the police had moved into the jazz club with force. Poor Oscar. His only hope was to prove there was another man in the cellar. And Adam would help him do that, if he could, but first he needed to find Delilah. His arm, slashed by the Russian’s rapier, ached, and the Fabergé egg in his inside pocket burned. The thing was a curse, he was sure of it. And as soon as he found Delilah he was going to get rid of it – even if it meant tossing it in the Thames.
He cranked the motor of his Model T Ford and jumped in as the engine burst into life, then headed in the direction of Chelsea Bridge.
It was nearly two o’clock by the time he had negotiated the London lunchtime traffic and pulled up outside the Old Vic. As he passed the Waterloo railway station he realised it would have been quicker to catch the train or a bus. Too late now.
He parked the car outside the stage door on Webster Street and slipped into the theatre. It was quiet backstage, far quieter than it usually was in the middle of rehearsals. The rehearsal room itself was empty, as were the dressing rooms, including Delilah’s. A handwritten notice had been posted on Selena’s door – Stay out. Crime scene. Entry only with permission from DCI Martin, Metropolitan Police – signed by the theatre manager, Lilian Baylis. Adam tried the handle. It was locked.
Then Adam heard voices coming from the Green Room. Of course. That’s where they’d all be, having a late lunch. Adam pushed open the door to find half a dozen or so crew and cast members lounging around. A couple were playing cards, another was going over his lines between bites of a sandwich. But no Delilah. There was, however, the props manager, Jimmy Watts, reading a copy of The Daily Globe. Oh dear, thought Adam, no one has told him yet. He would have to be the man to do it, but first he enquired whether or not anyone had seen Delilah. The consensus was that she had been there earlier but was very “out of sorts”. She had paced around for a good hour then left.
“She was waiting for you, Lane,” said the man with the sandwich, running his tongue along his lip to mop up any stray crumbs. “Where the deuce have you been?”
“Who was running rehearsal?” asked Adam.
The card players chuckled. Then one of them said: “Miss Baylis asked Roy to do it, but he refused, saying as assistant director he might be next on the killer’s list. We told him Selena was a one-off. It was probably a crime of passion and the chocolates had been meant for her too.”
The card players didn’t seem too worried about a homicidal maniac on the loose and turned from their amateur sleuthing back to their game of pontoon.
Ah, but they don’t know about Arthur Watts yet. It’s not a one-off. But neither are they likely to be the next targets. They know nothing about the egg. But Uncle Jimmy might … and the killer might have come to the same conclusion …
“So,” he continued, “any idea where Delilah might be?”
The occupants of the Green Room shrugged and grunted.
No one knew where the girl had gone. The knot in Adam’s stomach tightened even further as his mind flicked through various scenarios. But the thought that was still uppermost in his mind was Arthur Watts lying dead on the cellar floor.
“Er, Jimmy, might I have a word with you please? In private?”
Jimmy lowered his newspaper, the front page ablaze with the news of Princess Selena’s death under Poppy Denby’s byline. “What’s afoot?” he asked.
Adam left the theatre at the same time as Jimmy Watts. He had offered the props manager a lift to Chelsea, but the man had declined, saying it would be quicker to catch the train. After first absorbing the shock of the news of his nephew’s death, Jimmy had asked why Adam had been allowed to leave the scene of the crime so quickly. Surely he would have been held there with everyone else to be questioned by the police?
I never thought of that. I’ll have gone and made myself a suspect now. He tried to recall the people, apart from Oscar, who had seen him there: the barrel man, the cleaner and possibly some of the kitchen staff. Great Scott! The police will be after me in no time.
He had to get out of London – and soon. But he couldn’t go without first finding Delilah and ensuring she was safe. He gave a wishy-washy explanation to Jimmy – that the props man seemed to take at face value – then parted ways with the grieving uncle.
As Adam cranked the motor, he swore with every turn. “Where the hell is Delilah?” Then Jimmy Watts’s newspaper came to mind. Poppy Denby! he thought, and plotted his route to Fleet Street.