FRIDAY, 19 APRIL 1921, MANHATTAN
It had been a long, hard week working on the “Death Beat” – journalistic slang for the obituary column. Poppy was tasked with scouring the daily police reports of deaths in the city to see if anyone notable had died overnight. If they had, she had to access their files – similar in set-up to the Jazz Files they had at the Globe – and write up an obituary. Prominent celebrities, business leaders, and civil luminaries who were known to be ill or infirm already had pre-written obits that just needed to be updated on their actual death. Anyone seventy years or older automatically had one written. Poppy spent most of the week writing up draft obits for people due to turn seventy in 1921, from a list provided by Paul Saunders.
Saunders, although physically nothing like his British cousin, was every bit like him in spirit and he set about making her life as miserable as he could, with snide remarks and a refusal to answer even the most legitimate of questions. “If you’re such a hot-shot reporter, missy, find out for yourself,” he answered when she asked where the ladies’ rest room was.
Rollo was convinced that Paul Saunders was the source of the Department of Immigration’s files on Dot and Delilah, and that Lionel was Paul’s source in London.
Lionel had been working at the Globe when Poppy first joined the paper in June 1920. They had immediately got off on the wrong foot and he had gone out of his way to undermine her at every opportunity. But soon the undermining turned more sinister and it became clear that Saunders was acting on behalf of some very dangerous people. Once the case was closed there was insufficient evidence to link the former arts and entertainment editor to any crimes, but Poppy, Rollo, and the rest of the staff at the Globe believed him to be involved. Rollo fired him and gave Poppy his job. But Lionel still had lots of influential contacts on the London social scene and he soon got a job at the Globe’s rival, The London Courier. Since then he had tried to scoop Poppy on every story. And now, here he was by proxy, trying to make her life as miserable as possible in New York.
But Poppy refused to let Paul and Lionel Saunders win. Instead, she set about looking on the bright side of her time on the Death Beat. So, although Rollo muttered and moaned about his humiliating come-down from editor-in-chief to a mere copy taster, Poppy realized she was darned lucky to be working on a paper as famous as The New York Times, in any capacity.
The work itself, although tainted by Saunders’ spiteful comments and obstreperous behaviour, was fairly interesting. Poppy enjoyed research, and although she would have preferred not to be tied to her desk – with the whole of New York to explore – she relished finding out about the lives of the rich and famous. There were some extraordinary people living in the city, many of them world-famous, and here she was having a little glimpse into their fascinating lives.
One of them was Melvil Dewey, the director of the New York State Library, and the man who had invented the Dewey Classification system. Even in London they used it! It was thanks to Mr Dewey that Poppy was able to find her way around her library so easily – which helped immensely when she needed to do some quick research for a story she was working on. Mr Dewey would be turning seventy in December and she set about writing a glowing obituary from the information she found on file. As she finished, she hoped it wouldn’t be needed anytime soon.
It was just before lunch. Poppy had not yet had the latest crime report for the night before. It should have arrived first thing in the morning and Poppy suspected Saunders had deliberately kept it from her. He’d done it before – two days earlier – and she had got into trouble with the departmental editor for filing late copy. She had seen Saunders smirking at his desk. She had decided, then, to take the moral high ground and not publicly accuse him, knowing there was no evidence to back her up. Wednesday and Thursday passed without incident and she began to wonder if she had misread the man. But now that it had happened a second time, she knew her initial suspicions were correct. She would speak to Rollo about it at lunch. Perhaps he could have a word with Mr Quinn on her behalf.
She looked over to Saunders’ desk and noted that the bald head was not bent over the blotting pad as usual. And, she further noted, his hat was not on the hat stand either. Hmmm, dare I?
The Lord helps those who help themselves, she thought, and then giggled to herself. Poppy was sure snooping around a colleague’s desk was not what her mother meant when she used the maxim, but that’s exactly what she was going to do.
There were two other journalists in the room. One was typing furiously, trying to meet deadline; the other had his back turned, talking loudly on the telephone while standing looking out of the window, cigarette in hand. It was now or never. Poppy got up quickly and went over to Saunders’ desk. She skimmed through the pile of papers in the in-tray: nothing there. She checked each bit of copy on the desk: again, nothing. Then she turned her attention to the two drawers. The first was filled with stationery: ink bottles, blotters, and red pencils, along with a half-jack of Johnnie Walker whisky and a pack of Lucky Strikes. The second drawer, however, was full of files, and right on top was a single sheet of paper entitled “New York City Crime Report, Thursday 18th April 1921”.
Poppy’s heart skipped a beat. So he had kept it from her! After a quick glance to see if anyone was watching, she removed the sheet of paper. She intended to gloss over it to see if there was anything of note, then replace it. She would ask Rollo to spread the word that Saunders had been seen putting the report in his drawer. Rollo still had friends on the paper and a word in the right ear would be all that was needed for the rumour to get around. Then, hopefully, it would reach Mr Quinn’s ear – or the ear of the departmental editor – and they would challenge Saunders on it and perhaps ask him to open his drawer. It was all unpleasantly underhanded – and Poppy didn’t feel comfortable doing it – but after being on the paper only five days she knew her word alone would not be enough.
She skimmed the report – yes, there had been a notable death. At least she assumed it was notable because it was located in a posh area of town called Lexington Avenue. When she started on the Death Beat Rollo had given her a run-down of areas she was to concentrate on, where she was likely to find the residences of the rich and famous. If she wasn’t sure, she was to ask him. This, of course, should have been Saunders’ job – to guide her through the who’s who of New York society – but he had made it crystal clear that he would rather jump off the Brooklyn Bridge than help the woman who had almost ruined his cousin’s career.
Poppy turned her attention to the report. The body of an eighty-three-year-old gentleman had been found in his penthouse apartment on Lexington Avenue: Prince Hans von Hassler of Liechtenstein. The circumstances of his death were described as “suspicious but as yet unexplained”. Liechtenstein? The hairs on the back of her neck quivered.
Alfie Dorchester – that’s where his alias came from too. Surely that can’t be a coincidence…
All thoughts of framing Paul Saunders were driven from her mind and replaced with an image of Alfie posing as Count Otto von Riesling from Liechtenstein. How many aristocrats from a tiny Alpine principality can there possibly be in New York City? She didn’t know, but she was jolly well going to find out. She folded the page and was just about to shut the drawer when she noticed the top-most file – a Death Beat file labelled “Prince Hans von Hassler”.
She scooped the file from the drawer and slotted it under her arm. Two can play at this game, she thought, and plucked her hat and coat from the stand.
“This fella was in his eighties,” said Rollo between mouthfuls of bagel filled with roast beef and pickle. “I saw the report this morning. Passed it on to a crime reporter. The old boy’s housekeeper found him collapsed in the bathroom. He’d hit his head and there was a lot of blood. She reckons he was attacked, but there’s no evidence of a break-in and the geezer could just have hit his head when he fell. We’ll see what comes of it.”
He took another bite of his bagel and swilled it down with coffee as thick and black as crude oil.
“Geezer?” asked Poppy. She chuckled. So Rollo hadn’t quite left London behind.
They were sitting in a diner just off Times Square. As Rollo demolished his lunch and ordered seconds, she nibbled at her own bagel – with a more modest filling of cheese and tomato – and read through the information on the dead man in the Death Beat file.
Prince Hans von Hassler had lived in New York for twenty years, having come to America as a younger man to make his fortune in the Mount Baker Gold Rush of 1896. And make his fortune he did, founding and owning a very lucrative mine. But the harsh conditions of the northwest did not suit the cultured European and, as soon as he could, he put a manager in charge and “retired” to a penthouse on Lexington Avenue, where he had lived ever since.
Von Hassler, who lived off earnings from the family estate in Liechtenstein – of which he was the sole heir – as well as his gold mine, was wealthy enough to be ranked in the top echelons of New York society. Although becoming quite the recluse in more recent years, he was a generous benefactor of the arts and community projects.
“Oh look!” said Poppy, picking up a photograph. “Here he is with Amelia Spencer. The caption says it was taken in May 1910 at a gala dinner for the Eugenics Society. Is this the same eugenics thing you were telling me about on the ship?”
Rollo banged down his coffee cup and took the photograph from Poppy. He flicked it over, read the caption, and gave it back to her. “Yes.” His voice was cold.
“Golly,” said Poppy, “surely that doesn’t mean –”
“Amelia Spencer is a supporter of eugenics?” he said bitterly. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it means, Miz Denby.”
Poppy looked at her editor, noting the furrowed brows and tensed neck. “Ah, so that’s why you don’t like her.”
Rollo whipped his head up to look at her. “Who said I didn’t like her?”
“You could have frozen haddock when the two of you met on the Olympic. I just didn’t know why.” Poppy picked up the picture again and looked at the beautiful Long Island woman – who would then have been in her mid-forties – and the elderly prince, still tall and upright, despite his seventy-odd years.
“But I thought she was a socialist,” offered Poppy.
Rollo stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “No, not a socialist. Far from it. But she did campaign for women’s suffrage and as such rubbed shoulders with lots of socialists like your aunt and the Pankhursts.”
“So where does eugenics fit into it?”
“Amelia believes in sterilization for the poor and weaker members of society – particularly for negroes, but poor whites get the treatment too. As you know, many women’s advocates also believe in birth control – but perhaps for different reasons.”
“Like Mary Stopes,” offered Poppy. “Isn’t there some controversy about her?”
“Yes, there is. Abortions are the real hot potato. But that aside, she wants to give women options, not just purify the population like the eugenicists. Amelia, I think, supports it for both reasons. She and my mother are good friends.”
Poppy frowned. “Your mother?”
“Yes. That’s how I first met Mrs Spencer – they travel in the same social circles, although Amelia is a good fifteen years younger than the mater. Both of them were founding members of the New York Eugenics Society, which” he cocked a thumb at the photograph, “von Hassler seemed to have been financing.”
Poppy nearly choked on her own coffee. “Your mother believes in eugenics! B-b-but how can she? With your – your –”
“With me being a dwarf?” finished Rollo. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, clearly trying to keep his temper under control. “It’s because I’m a dwarf that she got involved. She never forgave me for not being the perfect son. She said she didn’t want other people to repeat the… mistake she’d made.”
Rollo looked out of the window at the lunchtime passersby. It was starting to rain and umbrellas jostled for space on the sidewalk. Poppy didn’t know what to say. If it was anyone else she would have taken their hand and squeezed it and said she was so very sorry. But it was Rollo, and he didn’t do well with public displays of sympathy.
Instead she said very quietly: “That’s dreadful. Just dreadful.”
He nodded. “It is. But, I can’t complain too much. I’m white and wealthy and well educated. And despite what the old girl thought, my father and brother loved me just the same.” He grinned, trying to whip up the old Cheshire cat. “I’m not the only fella in the world with a mother who didn’t care for him, Miz Denby.”
Poppy smiled at him, playing along with his attempt to bring levity to the conversation. “So, von Hassler was a eugenicist too.”
Rollo shrugged. “Nothing illegal about it. So was half of New York society at the time – half of them probably still are. What else does it say about him?”
Poppy turned the page and read on. “Aha!” she said, pointing to the second paragraph down. “Seems like he was also a business partner of Theo Spencer. Some kind of textile business.”
Rollo nodded. “Yes. Theo’s got his fingers in lots of pies. Doesn’t surprise me. He and my old man were partners in a couple of ventures too. Nice fella, Theo, for an industrialist.”
Poppy agreed that he was – despite his wife’s dubious beliefs.
Rollo hailed the waitress for the bill. As he was counting out the coins he said: “Look, Poppy, I know you think it’s too much of a coincidence that the fella you thought was Alfie Dorchester is posing as someone from Liechtenstein – and then this old geezer up and dies – but really, European aristocrats are more common than you might think in these parts. So perhaps we should start looking into other…”
But Poppy wasn’t listening to him. She was completely engrossed in reading the third paragraph down:
Prince von Hassler never married. His sole heir is the son of his now deceased sister. Name: Count Otto von Riesling, resident of the Principality of Monte Carlo.
Poppy looked up, her face pale, her hands shaking.
“What is it, Poppy?”
“Oh my, Rollo, oh my. I think we’ve just struck gold.”