SATURDAY, 20 APRIL 1921, MIDTOWN EAST MANHATTAN
It was the second time in two days that Poppy was visiting Bellevue Hospital. But this time it was not to see Toby at the orthopaedic department, but the official mortuary of the Chief Medical Officer housed at the facility. Rollo, through his sources, had arranged an unofficial viewing of the body of the octogenarian prince, courtesy of an underpaid and financially compliant mortuary assistant.
Behind a pair of half-moon spectacles, the mortician raised an eyebrow at Poppy’s presence. He did not, however, query it. Poppy, sadly, was not unfamiliar with dead bodies. At the military hospital she had become all too familiar with the dead and dying. One of her jobs had been to wash the corpses to prepare them for viewing. It was a sad, lonely task, but one she performed with as much dignity as she could muster. It was the least she could do for the brave young men who had given their lives fighting for what they believed in; and the thing she wished she could have done for her brother, Christopher.
But the body lying on the marble slab was nothing like the broken young men, many of them with limbs amputated, that she had ministered to back in 1917. This one was large, flabby, and old. Folds of flesh sagged like a serving of tripe, and the extremities were blackened with lividity. Thanks to refrigeration, putrification had not yet set in, but a greeny-grey pallor was beginning to creep up the neck. The face, drained of blood, looked little like the photographs Poppy had seen of the prince in life, although the thick grey moustache remained full and proud.
Rollo pointed to a two-inch gash on the prince’s forehead. “Was that the cause of death?”
The mortuary assistant hooked his thumbs into his braces under his unbuttoned lab coat. “Yes and no. Yes, in that that was the fatal blow that caused the haemorrhage, but no in that he would not have hit his head like that unless he had fallen.”
Well, that’s stating the obvious, thought Poppy. She wanted to ask something herself but Rollo had suggested she leave all the questioning to him. He was the one calling in the favour, he was the one with the New York Times credentials and, if their presence there was questioned, he would be the one to take the rap. “And,” he added, grinning, “some fellas don’t like being questioned by a dame.”
Poppy scowled but agreed to his request.
“So…” probed Rollo. “Why did he fall?”
The mortician ran his finger down and across the prince’s chest following the line of a recently sutured incision from navel to clavicle. “We thought it might have been his ticker. He was on medication. But while it’s not in great shape, the heart was still in working order.”
“So…” probed Rollo again.
“So…” said the mortician, rocking back on his heels.
Get on with it!
The mortician took the prince’s head in both hands and rotated it so the back of his head was visible. A square of hair had been shaved to reveal a purply blue swelling. “This,” said the mortician, “is what caused him to fall. A powerful blow from behind with a blunt instrument. It could not have been self-inflicted.”
“How do you know that?” asked Rollo. “Couldn’t he have slipped on the tiles – this was in a bathroom, wasn’t it?”
The mortician nodded.
“And then he could have hit the back of his head, then fallen forward.”
The mortician shook his head. “No. That’s not what happened. If he had fallen with sufficient force to create a contusion with this severity of swelling then he would have continued to fall backwards. If he could have stopped his fall after he hit his head he would not have been falling fast enough to generate this degree of force.”
He peered over his half-moon spectacles at Rollo with an expression that almost said “Elementary, dear Watson”. Poppy chuckled.
Rollo cleared his throat. “So, you’re saying he was murdered.”
The mortician shook his head vigorously. “That’s not my call, Rolandson. All I’m saying is that someone hit this man on the back of the head, causing him to fall and then hit his forehead, which caused his skull to fracture, which then led to a haemorrhage with fatal consequences. Whether the initial blow was accidental or intentional, and what the motive was, is beyond the scope of the medical examiner’s office. And, if I may say so, that of The New York Times… if you are even working for them. I’d heard you were canned, Rolandson, then you went to England. Remind me again why you are here?”
Rollo looked at Poppy. “Are you taking notes, Miz Denby?”
She wasn’t. Although she had her notepad open and pencil poised there was nothing the man had said that she couldn’t remember. However, she recalled what Rollo had once told her during a mentoring session. “Always take notes, Miz Denby. It makes the interviewee think they’ve said something important.”
“Of course, Mr Rolandson,” she said. “This is crucial information and I doubt we’d be able to recall it as well as doctor… doctor…” The mortician straightened up and pulled back his shoulders. He was not a doctor. Only a technician. Rollo had already told her that. Nonetheless he primped with pride. “Best you leave my name out of it, Miz; we doctors don’t like to boast, you know.”
“Of course not,” said Poppy, making a note. “Sorry, doctor. Could you please spell contusion? These medical words are so far beyond me…”
Poppy and Rollo stepped out of the elevator onto the top-most floor of one of the most exclusive addresses on Lexington Avenue. This was the home of Prince Hans von Hassler. Yellow police tape zig-zagged across the doorway warning them to keep out. Rollo looked to left and right in the small vestibule and then inserted a key into the lock. The door opened.
“After you, Miz Denby,” he said and indicated with a wave of his hand that she was to crawl under the tape.
“Are you sure this is allowed?” asked Poppy.
Rollo shrugged. “Depends who you ask.” Poppy didn’t move. “Come on, Poppy, shake a leg. All right, all right. If it makes any difference to you we are not breaking and entering. And I didn’t steal the key; it was loaned to me by someone close to the victim. Practically a family member.”
Poppy cocked her head to one side. “Practically?”
Rollo grinned. “Practically.”
Poppy sighed, shook her head, and got down on her knees, crawling under the bottom line of tape and dragging her satchel after her. Rollo followed.
Inside the apartment Poppy gasped. It was nothing like she’d imagined an old man’s home to be: fuddy duddy and filled with bric-à-brac. The décor was like something out of a Hollywood celebrity magazine. The centrepiece was a recessed oval marble floor surrounded by polished black teak steps. A Steinway grand piano filled one corner, while floor to ceiling glass doors opened onto a topiarian roof garden.
Rollo let out a long whistle then summed up his opinion in one word: “Swell.”
Along the wall behind the piano were photographs of the prince with various Hollywood celebrities, including Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Fairbanks Jnr. There were also photographs of him with leading politicians, including the late Teddy Roosevelt, the new President Warren Harding in his younger days, and Senator Theodore Spencer.
“Nothing that appears to have been snapped in the last three years,” Rollo noted. “Didn’t you say Toby had told you he’d become a bit of a recluse?”
“Yes,” said Poppy. “I wonder why.”
Rollo shrugged. “Old age?”
“Perhaps,” agreed Poppy. “But this apartment doesn’t look like it belongs to someone who has given in to his dotage. It looks almost like a bachelor pad.”
Rollo grinned. “And how many of those have you seen, Miz Denby?”
Poppy flushed. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” agreed Rollo, “I do.” He took one more look around the plush living room then said: “Should we check out the scene of the crime?”
“You mean the bathroom?”
“I do indeed. Over there, I think.”
Someone had very helpfully left a white-tape outline of where the body had lain: between the lavatory and the recessed round bathtub with gold taps. Poppy paused to imagine the cadaver she had seen in the mortuary splayed on the tiled floor, its head face down where now there was only a sticky dark red stain. The poor old man, she thought. Did he die instantly? Or did he lie there for a while, lonely and afraid, as his life seeped away?
“Wish I could have brought a camera,” Rollo grumbled. “It was one of the conditions of entry. No photographs. If the Times goes with the story they’ll have to get a pic from the official police photographer.”
“If?” said Poppy.
Rollo grinned. “Sorry, Miz Denby – when.”
Poppy looked around the bathroom – at the plush towels, the modern shower cubicle with the Bakelite seat. Her aunt had one in her shower in London. Poppy had never used a shower before moving in with her aunt. Only the most well-to-do people could afford them. And Prince von Hassler was certainly that. He was also, by the look of the shower seat, either disabled or frail with age.
She voiced her observation to Rollo. “Perhaps it was just his age that kept him indoors after all.”
“Perhaps,” offered Rollo. “But I think there’s more to it and that’s why we’re here. I’m hoping –”
Suddenly there was the sound of elevator gears grinding and pinging to a stop. Poppy clutched Rollo’s arm. “Someone’s here!”
Her eyes flicked around the bathroom, looking for somewhere to hide. Rollo might fit into the laundry basket… Then a key turned in the lock.
Rollo patted her hand. “Don’t worry, Miz Denby. It’s all arranged. Come on, let’s go meet her.”
“Her?” mouthed Poppy and followed Rollo back into the living room.
Clambering from her knees to her feet was a negro woman in her sixties wearing a grey mackintosh, black skirt, hat, and gloves. She brushed down her skirt as she stood, then closed the door on the web of police tape.
“I see you let yourself in, Mr Rolandson,” said the woman.
“I did, thank you, Mrs Lawson. Here’s your key.” He walked across the room and placed the key on the woman’s outstretched palm. She took it and put it into her handbag, snapping the catch shut.
“May I introduce Miz Poppy Denby, my assistant. Miz Denby, this is Mrs Nora Lawson, Prince von Hassler’s housekeeper.”
Poppy crossed the space between them and reached out her hand. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Lawson.”
The older woman looked at Poppy curiously then offered her hand in return. “Good day to you, Miz Denby. He brought you with him from England?”
“Yes he did. We’re here for three months.”
“Lucky for me I caught him then.”
“Caught him?”
“Yes. He’s one of the only ones I’d trust. Back in 1910 Mr Rolandson here helped catch a negro man’s killer. Do you remember that, sir?”
Rollo looked surprised. “So that’s why you agreed to see me.”
Mrs Lawson nodded. “Yes siree. You’re not like those other white reporters. You look for the truth.” By now she had released Poppy’s hand and was indicating a cluster of black leather and chrome armchairs. “Your boss here, Miz Denby, did not believe that a negro man had killed himself.”
“As he had clearly been beaten to death, it was obvious,” said Rollo, heaving himself up onto a chair as Mrs Lawson and Poppy lowered themselves onto a sofa.
“Not so obvious to those who would not see,” answered Mrs Lawson, folding her gloved hands in her lap. “And that’s what I think might happen here too – that there’ll be a cover-up.”
“Oh?” said Poppy. “But the medical examiner has already suggested it wasn’t self-inflicted. They can’t cover it up now.”
Mrs Lawson nodded, pursing her lips. “So I hear. But that don’t mean the police’ll do anything about it. Or at least it won’t be high on their list of priorities to do something.”
“And why’s that?” asked Poppy.
Mrs Lawson looked at Rollo.
“Because, Miz Denby, Mrs Lawson here thinks the police don’t want it in the papers. If it’s declared a murder it will get onto the front page, not just the obituaries – and certain people don’t want that.”
“But why wouldn’t they want that?” asked Poppy, puzzled. “And who are these ‘certain people’?” Poppy’s lack of sleep was catching up with her and it was slipping into her tone.
“Because, Miz Denby,” answered Rollo, patiently, “Mrs Lawson tells me the prince was a homosexual. And he’d had relationships with a number of high-profile people. People who would not want that sort of thing to be known. People with the power to put pressure on the police to sweep the death of an already old man under the carpet.”
“That’s right,” intoned Mrs Lawson. “Now while I didn’t approve of his… his behaviour, Prince Hans was a goodly man and he don’t deserve to die like this and he don’t deserve for it to be covered up just so.”
Poppy blinked a few times, giving herself time to absorb the new information.
“Righteeo. I see. But isn’t it already out there? Haven’t the next of kin now been informed it wasn’t an accident? Surely they would want justice to be done.”
Mrs Lawson gave a snort. “Next of kin? If you mean that good for nothing nephew of his, that’s exactly what he wouldn’t want.”
Bingo! Poppy cleared her throat and tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. “So you’ve met him? Count von Riesling?”
“Yes, ma’am, and a more slithery snake in the grass I ain’t never seen.”
If you’re talking about Alfie Dorchester, I couldn’t agree more. “So… what exactly does this count look like?”
“Tall, dark hair, white… Why do you want to know that, Miz? It’s got nothing to do with nothing.”
“Well, I –”
Rollo interjected. “It might just help us with another story we’re working on. I think we might be able to help each other here, Mrs Lawson; that is what you want to do, isn’t it?”
The older woman pursed her lips again for a moment and then nodded her assent. “If I can, I will, sir.” Then she got up and walked towards a sideboard. She opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph and brought it back to Poppy and Rollo. She held it to her chest.
Oh, turn it round!
“This was taken at Christmas. When Prince Hans thought Otto was here to say he was sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” asked Rollo.
Mrs Lawson looked at him gravely then answered: “For blackmailing him for the last three years.”
Poppy’s heart sank. Three years? Then it can’t possibly be Alfie after all.
“About him being a homosexual?” probed Rollo.
Mrs Lawson nodded. “Yes – some. But more about who he had… well – you know – done unnatural things with. Prince Hans did not want to hurt anyone. Not his friends. And definitely not the people he loved. Otto – who lived in Monty… Monty…”
“Carlo,” prompted Poppy.
“Yes, that’s right. Monte Carlo. Somewhere in Europe, I think. Well, Otto wrote Prince Hans and said he needed money. He was a gambler and a drinker and a general ne’er do well and he’d lost his family money. So he thought his rich uncle might help him out. But Prince Hans told him to get off his lazy – his lazy… Well, ma’am, he told him to get a proper job.”
“Good for him,” nodded Rollo approvingly.
“That’s what I thought too. Until the letters started coming, threatening to tell all unless Prince Hans sent him money. Oh, the poor man! It nearly broke him. Not financially…” Mrs Lawson gestured around the apartment. “He had more than enough, but it nearly broke his heart. He hadn’t seen his nephew since he was knee high to a grasshopper – and then this.”
“And is that when he stopped going out?” asked Poppy.
Mrs Lawson lowered her chin to her chest. After a moment she raised it again and spoke in a small, quiet voice: “It destroyed him, Miz Denby. He became a shadow. A sad, sad shadow. He was always full of life, the prince. He never acted like an old man. Not until that boy started writing him…”
“So,” probed Rollo. “What happened when Otto arrived? Around Christmas, you say?”
“End of November. Soon after Thanksgiving. Completely out of the blue. The prince didn’t even recognize him. It had been years since he’d last seen him – his late sister’s son, I think. He’d been sent to school in England.” She nodded at Poppy. “Same place you’re from, Miz.”
Poppy smiled in acknowledgment and waited for the housekeeper to continue.
“Prince Hans said it had ruined his German.”
“What did he mean by that?” asked Rollo.
“The way he spoke it, more English than German, I think – with an English accent, y’know? The prince mentioned it – more than once.”
Poppy’s ears pricked at this. “May we see the photograph please, Mrs Lawson?”
The older woman unfurled her arms, turned the photograph around, and let the two journalists see it.
Poppy gasped. Seated on the very sofa where she was now sitting was a frail old man: a shadow, as Mrs Lawson had said, of the man in the other photographs Poppy had seen. And beside him, sitting tall and erect, was none other than Alfie Dorchester, with his hair dyed black.
“Great Scot!” said Rollo and jumped up, pointing a stubby finger at the photograph. “Is that Otto von Riesling?”
“It is,” replied Mrs Lawson. She almost spat the words.
Rollo turned to Poppy, his eyes wide with excitement. “You were right, Poppy! By Jove you were right!”
Mrs Lawson’s eyes narrowed. “What you going on about? Right about what?”
Poppy was just about to tell her all about Alfie Dorchester when Rollo put up his hand to silence her. “Excuse me, Poppy, may I?” His tone did not suggest it was a request.
Poppy acquiesced.
“Sorry, Mrs Lawson. I’ll explain. Miz Denby and I have met the count before in London, but he had a different name. He might have been involved in something dishonest – we’re not really sure…”
Not really sure? I’m quite sure!
Rollo gave Poppy a warning look. She held her tongue.
Mrs Lawson twisted her lips in disdain. “Doesn’t surprise me, Mr Rolandson. Not an honest bone in that boy’s body.”
“Well, nothing has been proven, Mrs Lawson. But we’ll see what we can do to make sure the police do not sweep the prince’s death under the carpet. That we can assure you.”
Mrs Lawson smiled thinly, her wrinkled cheeks lifting towards her grief-faded eyes. “Thank you, sir. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”
Rollo nodded. “Yes, there is. Firstly, do you know if the prince left a will?”
“Yes, he did. It’s with his lawyer. I can give you his name and address.”
“Good, good. And the second thing: do you know where Otto von Riesling lives? I gather it isn’t here…”
Mrs Lawson shook her head. “No, it isn’t. But I’m not sure where it is, exactly. Somewhere near the factory…”
“Factory?” asked Poppy.
“Yes. The garment factory. In the Garment District. The prince signed it over to Otto at Christmas – hoping that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t. He kept coming back for more money…”
Mrs Lawson stopped as tears welled in her eyes. Rollo reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief.
“Thank you, sir,” she sniffed.
After allowing her a few moments to compose herself Rollo probed again. “So the prince signed a factory over to Otto.”
Mrs Lawson nodded, clearing her throat. “Yes. At least his share in it. That senator from Long Island owns the other half.”
“Senator Spencer?” asked Poppy, remembering something that Toby had said about the prince and his father being in business together.
“That’s the one. The lawyer should be able to tell you more. He might also have Otto’s address. Hold on a moment.”
The housekeeper went to the telephone table, pulled out an address book, and wrote down a name and address on the back of one of Prince von Hassler’s gold-trimmed calling cards.
She held it out to Rollo, who took it. But she didn’t let go. “Promise me you’ll find out who killed him, Mr Rolandson.”
Rollo looked up at the woman and said gently, “I’ll do my very best, ma’am.”