It was approaching five o’clock by the time Rollo and Poppy stepped out of the yellow cab at the 87th Street townhouse. On the drive over they had discussed what they had learned from the mortician and Mrs Lawson, and decided on a plan of action for the next few days.
They agreed that they could not start writing articles about a police cover-up until they were sure there really was one. So far they only had Mrs Lawson’s suspicion to go on. “I’ll be able to see on Monday,” Rollo said. “The crime reporter will submit his copy for subbing and I’ll find out then which way they’re playing it. If it’s murder, it’ll be in Monday’s paper. If not, well…”
“Who’s on the crime beat for the Lexington Avenue area?” asked Poppy.
Rollo laughed. “A fella called Tony Steele. But he called in sick on Friday. Flu. He’ll probably be off most of next week.”
“What’s so funny about that?” asked Poppy.
“Not funny ha-ha. Funny ironic. You see, your pal Paul Saunders is the first stand-in for anyone who’s sick. That’s probably where he was on Friday. And why he had the von Hassler file in his desk.”
“Not just to torment me then?” asked Poppy as the cab turned left into Park Avenue.
Rollo grinned. “Not just – but I’m sure that was a bonus.”
The journalists agreed that nothing could be done now until Monday. The lawyer’s office wouldn’t be open until then and neither would the Carter Shipping office. Poppy reminded Rollo that she wanted to continue following that story too – she needed to find out if Mimi Yazierska was in the country illegally and, if so, if she could help her in any way without getting the young woman into trouble with the authorities. She wasn’t sure whether the two stories were linked, but it did seem odd that Alfie Dorchester was at the party where those foreign girls were possibly being forced to have sex with men. There was also the new revelation that Alfie now co-owned a factory with the Spencers. Exactly how the stories intersected – or if they actually did – would hopefully come to light as she and Rollo continued to dig.
But for now, Poppy had the night off. She yawned as she stepped into the entrance hall and gave Morrison her coat. The butler informed her that her aunt and Miss King were going out to the theatre, that Delilah had telephoned to say she was staying for the rest of the weekend at The Lodge and she’d be back on Monday, and that a telegram had arrived for Miz Denby.
Poppy took it from him and read it out loud to Rollo. As expected, it was from Marjorie Reynolds, about Otto von Riesling in Monaco. “On the case STOP Will need few days to investigate STOP Love to all STOP”
“Well, no new developments there,” observed Rollo. “Looks like we’ve got the night off then. What are your plans?”
Poppy yawned again. “Dinner and then an early night, I think. And you?”
Rollo frowned. “My mother is in town.”
“Oh. Will she be coming here?”
Rollo shook his head. “No. She’s not staying the night. I’m meeting her at the Astoria for dinner. Then she’s going to the theatre with friends.” He smiled wryly. “I’m not invited.”
Poppy gave him a sympathetic look. He laughed. “It’s all right, Miz Denby. I’m a big boy now.”
Poppy slept like the dead. She was awakened by a knock on the door and a call of “Poppy darling, are you awake?” and then Aunt Dot wheeled herself into the room. Poppy shuffled up to sitting, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
“Ah, Aunt Dot, sorry I wasn’t up when you got in last night,” yawned Poppy. “Did you have fun at the theatre? And Morrison said you were invited to the Algonquin Round Table. Rollo told me all about it. He said it’s a gathering of the finest literary and political minds in the city – and the wittiest social commentators. Harpo Marx… Noel Coward… Dorothy Parker… Quite an honour to be asked. Was it fun?”
Poppy readied herself to hear all about Aunt Dot’s fabulous day with the intelligentsia of New York City, but surprisingly the older woman just said: “Yes, fun, lots of fun. But I’ll tell you about it later. There’s something I need to ask you first.” Her voice was serious.
Poppy frowned. “Of course. What is it?”
“I was wondering if you might take me to see Elizabeth Dorchester today. Just you and me. Gertrude doesn’t know her, and Delilah – well, what with everything that happened with Elizabeth and her mother, it could be a bit awkward. But I really need to see her.”
“Of course,” said Poppy, pulling a bed coat over her shoulders. “But is a surprise visit wise?”
Dot shook her head. “No, it’s not. She might still be… fragile – mentally, emotionally. I sent a letter a couple of days ago.” Aunt Dot held up an envelope. “She sent a reply yesterday.”
“Does she want to see you?”
Dot nodded. “Yes. She has a settlement house over in Chelsea. She’s trying to help the immigrant women.” Dot smiled. “Typical Elizabeth. After all she’s been through, she still wants to help people.”
“When is she expecting us?”
“Lunchtime. She said she’d do an English Sunday roast. Yorkshire puddings and all!”
Poppy’s tummy grumbled. “Ooooh lovely! All right, no trouble. Do you want me to order a cab?”
“I’ve already done it. It’s coming in two hours.”
The yellow cab wound its way through the Garment District – an area to the west of Fifth Avenue that had been zoned for fashion houses and factories. The cab driver told them that businesses had been forced to move from the “better” parts of Manhattan. “City Hall stopped issuing permits. They wanted to keep all the immigrant fashion factories in one place. Your friend doesn’t live here though. She’s in Chelsea, just south of here, ma’am. We’re entering there now. Just the other side of 34th Street.”
They drove past the imposing entrance to Penn Station, which Poppy had passed through the previous day, and then left onto Ninth Avenue.
“Do you think that’s why Elizabeth settled here? Because it’s got the same name as where you all lived in London?”
Dot smoothed down the collar on her fur coat. “I’m not sure,” she said. “It doesn’t look quite as comfortable as our Chelsea, does it?” Poppy looked out of the window: no, it didn’t. It was a bustling semi-industrial area where tenement houses stood cheek-by-jowl with workshops and factories. Market traders sold their wares from barrows and horse-drawn carts jostled for space with motorized delivery vehicles on the potholed roads. The cab stopped at a junction as a man in a flat cap, grey shirt, and braces manoeuvred a rack of clothes across the road, wheeling it skilfully around the muddy depressions.
“You’ve got dock workers to the west and garment workers to the north,” explained the cab driver. “It’s not the best of areas for two ladies like you to visit. Are you sure your friend gave you the right address?”
Aunt Dot opened her reticule and pulled out a silk-covered notebook. She slipped her pince nez onto her nose and read out loud: “Number twelve Chelsea Square. Just off Ninth Avenue. She said it was a ‘settlement house’.”
The cab driver snorted. “Well, ma’am, that’ll explain it. Your friend a do-gooder by any chance?”
“She certainly is,” answered Aunt Dot proudly, either ignoring or not noticing the sarcasm in the cab driver’s voice.
“Well, here we are.”
The yellow cab pulled up outside a three-storey house that had seen better days. On one side was a boarded-up property and on the other what looked like a warehouse. The front door of number twelve had not seen a lick of paint in years and was patched in places with odd bits of wood and nails. The cabby got out and unstrapped Aunt Dot’s wheelchair from the back of the motor while Poppy readied his fare.
“Can you help us up the steps please?” she asked, adding an extra tip.
The cabby doffed his cap with his thumb. “Sure thing, ma’am.”
When Aunt Dot was safely in her chair, the cabby and Poppy lifted it together up the six steps while Aunt Dot declared: “Oh, I’m so sorry to put you to all this trouble! I’m such a bother!”
“No bother at all, ma’am,” said the cabby, straightening his back and wincing. Poppy smiled her thanks at him, waited for him to retreat, then rapped on the door.
After a few moments it opened to reveal a young girl in her early teens, wearing a blue and white gingham dress, black lace-up shoes, and white bobby socks. Her black hair was plaited in two pigtails, tied off with frayed scraps of blue cloth.
“Hello?” she said in thickly accented English. “You Miz Liza’s friends?”
“We’re here to see Miss Elizabeth Dorchester. Is she in?” said Aunt Dot.
“Miz Liza! Yes! Come in!” The girl turned around and skipped down the hall, calling out, “Oh Miz Liza! Your friends come! They come!” Then at the bottom of the corridor, lined with a threadbare paisley patterned carpet, she turned around and gestured for Poppy and Aunt Dot to come in.
Poppy smiled at the sheer exuberance of the girl and pushed the wheelchair over the threshold, shutting the door behind her. She didn’t know whether she should wait where she was, or follow the gay girl into the house. But before she could decide, a familiar figure emerged through a doorway, wiping her hands on a white apron. She had put on weight since the last time Poppy and Dot had seen her, her large physique handling it well. But the same thick auburn hair framed her square face and the same sadness shaded her grey eyes. “Thank you, Helena,” she said and pushed a strand of hair behind the giggling girl’s ear. Helena bobbed a little curtsey and skipped away.
“Oh Elizabeth!” exclaimed Aunt Dot, her voice thick with unspent tears.