Rollo was feeling so buoyant after their meeting with the lawyer that he hailed a cab.
“Another taxi? Feeling flush, are we?” asked Poppy. “Or will our ‘freelance’ employer be paying for it?”
Rollo grinned and held the door open for her. Inside he instructed the cabby to first take him to the New York Times building, then to drop the lady at Bellevue Hospital. He gave Poppy some money to cover the fare. “Ask for a receipt,” he reminded her, tapping the side of his nose.
With the divider between the front and back firmly closed, Poppy and Rollo discussed the latest developments in the story and their plans for the rest of the day.
“I know I need to head down to Ellis Island sometime, Poppy, but I think the priority at the moment is the von Hassler story. And I need to cover our backs with Quinn. No doubt Barnes would’ve been straight on the blower after we left; Quinn will be spitting nails that I’ve gone behind his back. But I’m sure he’ll calm down after I’ve explained everything to him. He’s a newspaperman first and foremost and he’ll see this story is dynamite. I’ll cover for you too with the Death Beat. So you just do whatever you need to do today and come back to the office tomorrow. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Poppy.
Rollo was looking at her curiously from under his bowler hat.
“What?” she asked.
“I was just thinking… we’ve got a lot to go on with the von Hassler story. Do you think it’s wise to get distracted by a second story right now?”
Poppy took a sharp breath. “Distracted? Rollo, this is not just a distraction; it’s important. A young woman’s life might be in danger. Or, if not in danger, she might be suffering under duress. The prince is dead, nothing can change that, but I might be able to change something for Mimi. I read a story this morning about a young woman found dead in the Garment District. A prostitute. Apparently natural causes – whatever that means – but it could easily have been Mimi. I don’t want to read about her one day in the morning paper knowing I might have done something to prevent it.”
Rollo took off his hat and put it on the seat between them, then ran a hand through his hair. “Okey dokey, that’s fair and dandy. But promise me you won’t drop the ball on the von Hassler story.”
“Pinky promise,” said Poppy, and hooked her little finger and smiled. “Besides,” she added, “I can’t help thinking the two stories might be related.”
“How’s that?” asked Rollo, bracing himself as the cab swerved to avoid a spewing water geyser and a group of children splashing in the impromptu fountain.
Poppy steadied herself before answering. “Well, for a start, Alfie Dorchester has turned up in both stories. He was at The Lodge when I got there on Friday night. Toby told me he arrived with a car-load of girls. It might have been the same girls; it might not. But it’s odd, isn’t it?”
Rollo agreed that it was but pointed out that it might just have been a coincidence too. When it came down to it, the number of bright young dandies in New York who orbited the top social echelons was not that large. It was almost incestuous, in fact, with the same names and faces turning up at parties and eventually getting jobs on boards of the same companies and the same banks and becoming patrons of the same charities.
Poppy listened intently, then nodded her agreement. “Well, yes, and that’s my second point. Alfie – or Otto as he is pretending to be – has just been given shares in the same clothing company as Theo Spencer. And whose picture was on the wall at the prince’s penthouse?”
Rollo’s eyes widened. “Theo Spencer. Bingo!”
“Yes!” Poppy exclaimed, talking faster and faster. “And there was a picture of Amelia Spencer and the prince at the launch of the Eugenics Society, both in the Death Beat file and in the trophy room at The Lodge. And who was Alfie with the first time we saw him at Chester’s Speakeasy?”
“The Spencer boys!”
“Bingo!” said Poppy, in an appalling approximation of a New York accent.
Rollo chuckled, then picked up his hat and placed it firmly on his head. They were just a block away from the Times building now. “So do you think the Spencer boys are involved?”
Poppy remembered the first time she’d met them at the swimming pool on the Olympic; how charming and urbane they were. Then the kind and compassionate way Toby had dealt with the accident victim, Seaman Jones. And then, at The Lodge, Miles had appeared just as shocked as Delilah to hear about the assault on the young woman – and Delilah, despite her faults, was always a good judge of character. Hadn’t Toby said they only knew Otto because of their father’s business association with the prince – and they didn’t even know where he lived?
She chewed on her lip. “I’m not sure. Probably not. But there is something in the business connection between Theo and the prince… and this garment factory. I’ve asked Elizabeth Dorchester to see if she can find out anything about that. And, of course, I need to pay it – and Alfie – a visit sometime soon.”
Rollo raised his hands. “Whoa there, Miz Denby. Just hold your horses for one doggone minute. We know that Alfie Dorchester tried to kill you back in London. And he might have killed old Hans von Hassler too. Promise me you won’t pay him a visit without back-up. And I don’t mean me,” he laughed. “Despite appearances I’m not as fit, young, and strong as I look. Let’s work on gathering evidence, quietly, and then we’ll hand it over to the authorities at the appropriate time. Agreed?”
Poppy let out a frustrated breath. She was itching to confront Alfie Dorchester again. How dare he try to escape justice like this! After all she and her friends had suffered… how dare he! Her shoulders slumped and she sank back into the cab upholstery. “All right. Agreed.”
The cab pulled up outside the Times office just as Paul Saunders was approaching on the sidewalk. Poppy slumped down as far as she could in the seat.
Rollo laughed and opened the door. “Don’t worry, Miz Denby; I’ll handle him.”
Poppy would have loved see and hear what happened next, but she was too scared to raise her head above the parapet.
“Bellevue Hospital, ma’am?” came the query from the cabby.
“Yes please,” said Poppy.
The hospital receptionist did not think it would be a problem to let the young English lady see the patient. “The poor man’s far from home and you’re one of the only people who has been to visit him.”
Poppy’s curiosity was piqued. “Who were the other visitors?” she asked.
“There was someone from the shipping company and one other person…” But before the nurse could finish she was called away to an emergency in one of the wards.
“Just go in and see him,” she called over her shoulder as she ran towards the ringing bell.
Seaman Jones looked a lot better than he had the last time Poppy visited. His cheeks had some colour and he was sitting propped up by pillows, reading a copy of the Saturday Evening Post magazine. The frame was still over the stump of his amputated right leg, but he otherwise looked comfortable. Poppy gave him the basket of fruit she had bought at the hospital shop and reintroduced herself as the woman who had helped Dr Spencer on the ship. Fortunately for Poppy, Dr Spencer was not around. She was glad of that. First because things were awkward between them after the events at The Lodge, and secondly because she wanted to speak to Seaman Jones privately.
“Thank you again for helping on the ship, miss, and for visiting me. It gets a bit lonely just lying here on my own. Not even other patients to talk to,” said Jones before popping a grape in his mouth. “Oooh, lovely and sweet. Thank you.”
“Can’t they put you in a general ward?” asked Poppy, picking a grape for herself.
“The company’s paying for it. Only the best for their staff. They’re a good company. Good to work for.”
“But if you’d prefer to be in a ward, surely they wouldn’t mind. Have you spoken to Dr Spencer about it?”
Seaman Jones nodded. “I have. And he said he’d see what he could do. He’s a good man too,” added Jones. “In fact, I can’t complain one little bit about my treatment on board the ship or in this hospital. It’s been top notch. I haven’t got one complaint. Not one – apart from being a bit lonely, but you understand me saying that, miss, don’t you? I’m not being ungrateful, I swear.”
Poppy assured him that she did not think he was being ungrateful. But she did feel Jones was over-egging it a bit. Was he being sycophantic? Or was he just a working-class man feeling a bit nervous in the presence of a middle-class lady? She remembered how quick the Carter office was to assure her that all was rosy too… and that they’d be suing the newspaper if anything else was reported. Methinks the lady doth protest too much, thought Poppy.
“Seaman Jones…”
“Please, miss, call me Harry.”
Poppy smiled. “Harry. Thank you. Harry, the last time I was here – the time you had that turn – you said something I found a little curious. You said that ‘other people were doing it’. What did you mean by that?”
Jones stopped chewing his grape, stared at Poppy, then swallowed. It looked as though he was swallowing nails.
“I don’t know what you mean, miss. I was ranting and raving. Delirious, like – you know what I mean.”
Poppy straightened the bedspread with a sweep of her hand. “Yes, I understand you weren’t well, but you did seem to want to say something to me. And I was wondering if you still wanted to. You see, I think it’s got something to do with helping people into the United States who would otherwise be turned away. You know, illegal immigrants. Now I could be wrong…”
Jones’s jaw tightened. “You are wrong, miss.”
Poppy sighed and leaned back in her chair. How do I approach this? Then she noticed a photograph on the bedside table of a young woman.
“Is that your wife, Harry?” She had not seen a wedding band. “Or your sweetheart?”
Harry’s jaw relaxed. “No, miss, that’s my sister, Betty. She’s only fourteen. Looks older, I know. Hopefully she won’t be anyone’s sweetheart for quite a while yet.”
“And quite right too. No young girl should be kissed before she’s ready. Which is why I think you can help me.” Harry looked at her curiously. “Why I think you should help me,” she continued.
“Oh, and why’s that, miss?”
Poppy took a deep breath and dived in. “Because some girls – or at least one girl I know of – who were on the Olympic, are now in trouble. This girl has been physically assaulted – she’s been –”
The basket of fruit toppled onto the floor as Seaman Jones flung his arms wide. “I did not assault that girl! I did not force myself on her! I don’t know what she’s been saying, but it’s not true! I didn’t do it! You have to believe me, miss! I just wanted to talk to her. To be friendly. And she started screaming and then she pushed me and then – and then –”
“And then you fell into the gears of the machine,” Poppy finished for him, everything suddenly slotting into place. Jones started thrashing from side to side. Oh dear God, is he having a fit? She stood up and pressed her hands against his shoulders, in the way she had been taught to do at the military hospital, accompanying the gentle pressure with shushing noises. Eventually he calmed. No, he was not having a fit. Poppy let out a sigh of relief.
“It’s all right. I believe you. You didn’t want to hurt her. But I bet you’re scared other people won’t believe you, aren’t you?”
Jones nodded, trying to hold back tears. “Yes,” he choked. “I don’t know what she’ll say when she gets back to England. Who she’ll tell. She’ll want her money back for a start… or at least her sister will… and I bet she’ll tell her sister. I bet she will!”
He started shaking. Poppy continued to console him until eventually he stilled.
Just then an orderly arrived with a tea trolley. Jones looked panicked, wondering perhaps if Poppy was about to tell on him. But instead she gave him a reassuring smile and said: “Would you like a cup of tea, Harry? I know I need one. Then perhaps we can have a little chat.”