Rollo – dapper in top hat and tails – escorted the ladies to the trolley car stop at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 82nd Street. They would have a short ride down the east side of the park and then go underground at the Fifth Avenue subway station. From there they would go “downtown” – as Rollo termed it – riding the subway all the way under Broadway. This would be the route they would take to work on Monday too. Poppy followed the journey on the map Rollo had given her. The line went first west one stop to the 57th Street Station then turned south. Tonight they would be getting off at the Eighth Street Station. “After that,” said Rollo, tapping his nose, “it’s a secret.”
“Oh, do tell us!” said Delilah, pulling her gold lamé wrap closer around her shoulders to keep out the evening chill.
“If I did that, Miz Marconi, I’d have to kill you,” chuckled the editor as a horse-drawn trolley car pulled up. He grabbed the handrail and with a heave hoisted himself on. He paid the driver a couple of “bits” – what that was, Poppy wasn’t sure as she had not yet got her head around American money – and then grunted his disapproval that there were no seats available. Poppy and Delilah could easily reach the straps provided for standing passengers; Rollo could not. He braced his backside against the partition near the door and muttered something about speaking to Freddy about a motor.
Fortunately the drive was brief and they alighted at the south end of the park.
Saturday night in Manhattan was as busy as the West End of London. But oh my, the lights! There must be enough electricity surging through these few square miles to light the whole of the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, thought Poppy. Theatres and restaurants, products and services, were all vying to have the biggest, brightest illuminations. Ever-ready safety razors were being touted for $1.50. Coca-Cola – not a drink Poppy had yet tried – claimed it would give her “life”. The Ziegfeld Follies high-kicked alongside Macy’s department store and Lucky Star cigarettes lit up with style. Poppy’s eyes were beginning to hurt and she was grateful to go underground at the Fifth Avenue subway station – despite her aversion to confined spaces. Actually, she was pleasantly surprised. New York’s subterranean rail network was better lit and ventilated than its older London counterpart, and Poppy didn’t feel nearly as claustrophobic as she did back home. As she sat down between Rollo and Delilah, in a carriage filled with New Yorkers ready to hit the town, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Seven stops later, with the streets of Manhattan pulsing above, they alighted at Eighth Street Station, the nearest commuter stop to Greenwich Village. “We’ll get a cab from here,” announced Rollo. “It’s only a few blocks away.”
The cab wound its way through streets filled with residential buildings and small businesses, closed for the night. The glitz of uptown was toned down here and the only lights were the intermittent street lamps. The cab stopped and they got out in an ordinary street in an ordinary neighbourhood.
Where on earth are we going? thought Poppy, who imagined they would be painting the town red under the lights of Broadway.
The cab pulled off, leaving them alone with a flickering street light under attack from midges and moths. “Where to now, Rollo?” asked Delilah, her voice seemingly amplified by the concrete pavement slabs. Rollo put his finger to his lips to shush her. Delilah giggled and mouthed “sorry”. The editor cocked his head and indicated that they should follow him. He walked a few paces, then turned right into an alleyway. They passed some bins and skips – or what Poppy had heard referred to as “dumpsters” in New York – and then found themselves in an open courtyard, hemmed on three sides by residential buildings. A flick of a curtain from an upstairs window and the glow of a cigarette tip suggested they were being watched.
Then there was a mutter of voices behind them. They turned round to see a bevy of well-dressed New Yorkers. The two groups stared at one another for a moment until one of the gents, wearing a swallowtail coat and white bowtie, whispered: “You first.”
He and his party stepped back into the shadows as Rollo led the ladies across the courtyard to a nondescript blue door. Rollo rapped a little rhythm with his silver-tipped cane. A small trap slipped back and Rollo pushed through a calling card on top of a wadge of dollar bills. Moments later the door opened just enough to let Rollo, Delilah, and Poppy through.
A large man in a pinstripe suit led them down a narrow, dimly lit corridor and then pushed open a door to reveal the sights, sounds, smells, and sweat of a small jazz club packed with patrons clearly intent on having a good time. This was Chester’s, opened only recently by the socialist Chester Wainwright, in the premises of a former blacksmith’s workshop. The purpose of the club was to flout prohibition and provide a safe place for New Yorkers to drink and dance. Alcohol was not actually sold here, but the hefty entrance fee covered the bar bill and if anyone was deemed to have drunk more than their share they were asked to make a donation to “charity”. If they declined, they simply would not be let back in. And for the bright young people of New York society that would be a fate worse than death.
First entrance to the club was by invitation only, and had to be approved by Chester Wainwright himself. Rollo, it seemed, was a personal friend of the host and had secured an invitation only a few hours earlier.
Poppy, Delilah, and Rollo stood at the entrance and took it all in. Crammed in the corner on a small stage, a negro jazz band jostled one another for space. The two trombonists were on high stools in the very back corner, with the rest of the brass and woodwind section seated on low benches below them. As Poppy watched, a clarinettist rose up to stretch his back and nearly lost his head when the trombonist extended his slide; he was saved only by the flugel player who pulled him down in time.
In front of the bandstand, thrusting out onto the dance floor, was another platform, hosting three high-kicking dancers with sequinned thigh-high leotards and feather headdresses.
“They’re moonlighting from Ziegfeld,” Delilah observed with authority. Poppy didn’t know enough to contradict her.
On the dance floor itself, five or six couples jiggled and jaggled, cheered on by friends and patrons around small tables squeezed into every available space. People were even sitting on the bar, and Poppy noticed a particularly leggy brunette wearing a scarlet boa surrounded by a bevy of male admirers.
Delilah squeaked. “It’s Theda Bara! She played Cleopatra!” She was just about to head over to see the screen siren when a booming voice, emanating from a short, rotund man wearing a purple velvet dinner jacket, called out: “Rolandson! You yellow-livered hack – glad you could make it!”
“Chester! You old dog, flouting the law again, I see!” The editor and the squat proprietor shook hands vigorously.
Introductions were made, hands kissed, and the Rolandson party was ushered over to a reserved table; but not before a canoodling couple were evicted and told to do an “86”.
“What’s an ‘86’?” asked Poppy.
“It’s the code we use for a police raid,” explained Chester as he pulled out a chair for Poppy.
“There’s a raid?” asked Delilah, her eyes wide, her bobbed head flicking from side to side.
Chester chuckled. “No. But those two are so many sheets to the wind they won’t know that. They’ve drunk way beyond their share. Let them think there’s a raid and save my bouncers the trouble.”
“But why an ‘86’?” asked Poppy.
Chester cocked his head towards a door to the left of the bar. “This is 86 Bedford Street. That’s the entrance there. The cops, when they raid, always come through the courtyard entrance – the one you did – so it gives the guys and gals time to get out the number 86 door.” He opened his hands wide and grinned. “It works every time.”
“But,” continued Poppy, still curious, “how do you know they’ll always come through that door?”
Chester curled back his top lip to reveal a pair of buck teeth and chortled. “You need to brief your reporter a bit better than this, Rollo.” Then he winked at Delilah, who already appeared to know the answer.
“Because, Miz Denby, that’s what we’ve agreed with them!”
Before Poppy could ask any more, he called over a waiter and put in an order for a bottle of champagne, without asking if that was what everybody wanted.
“Sorry ladies,” he explained, “we’re limited with what we have. But it’s a good bottle of bubbly.”
Poppy smiled. She liked bubbly. And she liked Chester Wainwright. And whatever questions she had about this speakeasy – like why it was called a speakeasy – could wait. For now, she, Delilah, and Rollo were going to have as much fun as they could. And the thought that at any minute they might have to “do an 86” made it all the more exciting.
An hour later and Delilah had already established herself as the girl to dance with. She had even joined the illicit Ziegfeld chorus line for a few numbers. Poppy had done a couple of turns on the dance floor, one with a surprisingly nimble Rollo, but now was content to sit and watch. She needed to use the powder room. She surveyed the club and assessed where she thought the facilities might be housed then excused herself to Rollo – who was enjoying a fat Cuban cigar – and skirted the dance floor. Just as she was passing the door to the courtyard entrance it opened, and a new group of guests was escorted in by the surly doorman.
“Miz Denby!” said one of them.
It was Miles Spencer. Behind him was his cousin, Toby, who grinned and raised his top hat. “Well hello, Poppy! I was hoping to see you again, but didn’t expect it to be so soon! Are you here with anyone?”
Poppy nodded towards her table. “Rollo and Delilah,” she said. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
The group were passing their coats and hats to a concierge. There were six of them: four men and two women. Introductions were made. The ladies were Trixie and Jemima Adams, sisters, and the other two gents, Richard Wainwright – nephew of Chester – and Count Otto von Riesling from Liechtenstein. Poppy shook hands with each in turn until she came to the count. The man was a step or two behind the others, making a fuss of unbuttoning his overcoat.
“Otto, old man, shake a leg,” said Toby. “This is the lovely lady I was telling you about. The one from the Olympic who was such a trooper with that poor fella in the engine room. Poppy, this is Count Otto von Riesling.”
Poppy prepared to greet the final member of the party, a welcoming smile on her face. But as he turned towards her, having finally offloaded his coat to the concierge, she felt a wave of nausea flush over her. The music dimmed and Toby’s voice took on a distant air as she stood facing a man in his thirties with jet black hair and moustache, and piercing blue eyes.
“Poppy, this is Otto von Riesling,” Toby said again, and waited for the two to shake hands.
The count stood up very straight, his eyes, she was convinced, flashing recognition. He put out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Polly Denny,” he said in a German accent.
The nausea had now subsided and it was replaced with a surge of red-hot anger. “It’s Denby. Poppy Denby. As you well know, Viscount Dorchester.”
She snubbed his hand, pointed a finger at his chest, and turned to the rest of the Spencer party. “This man is not Count Otto von Whoever-he-says-he-is; his name is Alfie Dorchester. Viscount Alfie – Alfred – Dorchester. Son of Lord Melvyn Dorchester of Windsor, and a fugitive from British justice.”
Anger flashed again in the blue eye, and his lips – under what must have been a dyed moustache – tightened into a thin line.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” said the count. “Wainwright, I suggest you ask your uncle to vet his guests more carefully. Either this young woman has had too much to drink or she’s just escaped from an asylum.”
Toby, Miles, and the other three guests looked bemused. Poppy’s hands were now on her hips, her voice raised. “And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Dorchester, seeing you kept your poor sister locked in one for seven years!”
“Good Lord, Poppy. What are you saying?” asked Toby.
“I’m saying, Dr Spencer, that this friend of yours has you duped. How long have you known him?”
“I – I – don’t know,” answered Toby, looking intently at his European companion. “How long is it, von Riesling? Four or five months?”
The count turned his back on Poppy and addressed his companions. “It does not matter. You do not have to answer this woman’s questions. Wainwright, call your uncle.”
Wainwright junior looked flummoxed. His eyes flitted from his friend to Poppy and then across to the bar where the rotund figure of his uncle could be seen talking to other guests.
“Yes, Mr Wainwright, that’s an excellent idea. Call your uncle. I’m sure he’d want to know that you’ve brought an attempted murderer into his club,” said Poppy, positioning herself between the count and the door, in case he tried to escape.
“Attempted murderer?” asked Wainwright, his voice high. “I’m sure you are mistaken, Miz Denby. A case of mistaken identity.”
“No, Mr Wainwright; it is not! This man is Alfie Dorchester. He tried to murder me – twice; and Delilah; and a woman called Grace Wilson, and his own sister, once. Along with his father, who is now in prison. But this man…” She turned to point at the count again.
He was no longer there but was grabbing his coat and hat from the concierge.
“Where do you think you’re going?” screamed Poppy just as the club music came to an end. All eyes flashed towards her, including Delilah’s and Rollo’s. She shouted over to them: “It’s Alfie Dorchester!”
Rollo and Delilah jostled for a view. But they were too far away to see the dark-haired count properly. Poppy tried to hail them but then the count stepped right in front of her, so close she could smell his sweat.
“Get out of my way, madam. I will not stand here and be accused of such an outrage,” he said. Although he retained his accent, Poppy was sure she could hear the clipped English tones of her nemesis underneath.
“I will not get out of your way. I’ll –” But her voice was silenced as he roughly pushed her aside and threw open the door.
“Steady on, old sport,” said Toby. But before he could intervene, the count was gone and a voice bellowed across the club: “Eighty-six, eighty-six!”
All hell broke loose.
Poppy ran towards the courtyard entrance to catch up with the count, but she was blocked by the large doorman. “It’s a raid, Miz. They’ll be here in a few minutes. Go that way.”
He pointed to the stampede of revellers heading for a door to the left of the bar. She could not see Delilah and Rollo in the throng.
“Come on, Poppy, let’s go,” said Toby, who was still at her arm. His tone was no more than civil; cold even. He’s probably upset by the scene I made, thought Poppy. Well, bully for him!
She was going to say “Thanks, I’ll make my own way” but an ungentlemanly shove by the doorman pushed her in the direction of the exodus, and she was caught up in the flood, Toby close behind her. As she passed the bar she noted the drinks cabinet revolving on some mechanism and being replaced by a shelf of tea caddies. Waiters were clearing bottles and glasses off tables with military precision, then passing the crates to a man in a hatch on the floor – in the place where the piano had been a few minutes earlier. The piano would roll back when the hatch closed. It, in turn, would lead to an underground cellar and perhaps even a secret tunnel like the one at Oscar’s Jazz Club in London.
Poppy’s journalistic mind took all of this in as she was pulled and pushed towards the exit. A woman tripped on her heel and fell. A friend pulled her up and dragged her along as she cried: “My shoe! They’re Ferragamos!”
Poppy wondered what the police officer who found it would think. Would he search for her like the prince for Cinderella – and slap a pair of bracelets on her instead of a ring?
Poppy was pushed through the Bedford Street door onto a residential street. Incredibly, taxis were waiting for some of the guests – pre-ordered? Other guests knocked on doors and were hauled inside – pre-arranged? The rest, like Poppy, ran as quickly as they could while the caterwaul of police sirens filled the night. Toby Spencer called to her from a cab. She pretended not to hear and ran on. A surge of anger shot through her. What relationship did Toby have with Alfie? What game were they playing with her?
She joined a giggling crowd of flappers and fops who’d clearly done this before, and navigated the maze of alleys and streets through Greenwich Village. Toby was left far behind. And only the Lord knew where Alfie Dorchester was. But she would find out. By Jove she would find out.
She allowed herself to be carried along with the throng until finally she was reunited with Rollo and Delilah at the entrance to the Eighth Street subway. Together they descended the steps into the station, holding themselves like naughty school children as they passed a pair of police officers and tried not to laugh. They only had a few moments to wait until the uptown train pulled in, and, with a group sigh, they climbed on and found a place to sit.
The carriage was half full of refugees from Chester’s, the atmosphere electric. Rollo and Delilah joined in with a round of “Mama! He’s Making Eyes at Me”; Poppy remained silent.
As the song came to an end, Delilah looked at Poppy apologetically. “Sorry, Popsicle; I got carried away. I know you were getting upset before the raid. You thought you’d seen someone who looked like Alfie Dorchester. That must have been quite a shock.”
Poppy’s brows came together in a scowl. “Not just someone who looked like him, Delilah – it was Alfie Dorchester himself. The real McCoy, as they say here in America.”
“How sure are you that it was Alfie?” asked Rollo, his face suddenly serious. “From what I could see the fella had black hair. Alfie’s blond.”
“It was dyed,” said Poppy. “A good job, but it was dyed. It was him; I’d know those eyes any day.” She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. “We’ll report it to the police – as soon as we’re off the subway.”
Rollo shook his head and lowered his voice. “And tell them what? So far you are the only person who thinks it’s him. His friends know him as… whatever he called himself –”
“Count Otto von Riesling.”
“So it will be a matter of his and their word against yours. And unless you have some evidence other than you thought you recognized someone you last saw a year ago, who according to all sources is still in Monte Carlo, and now he turns up at an illegal speakeasy that you can’t actually admit you were at – unless you want to get yourself, Chester, and the whole damned lot of us arrested – you haven’t got a hope in hell of anyone taking you seriously.”
“But it was him.” Poppy’s voice caught with unshed tears.
Rollo cleared his throat and nodded. “I believe you, Poppy. But going to the police at this stage is not an option. We’ll need more proof. And where we’re both going on Monday morning will be the best place to get it.”