Poppy’s hands were shaking as she spooned sugar into her tea, spilling more on the tablecloth of the diner than into her brew. Rollo took the spoon from her and scooped more sugar into her cup and stirred it. Then he brushed the spilled sugar into a napkin and folded it, placing it on the side of the table. “I’m sorry, Rollo,” Poppy whispered, her voice thick with tears.
“That’s all right,” said the editor, “you’ve had a huge shock.”
Poppy nodded and, still trembling, brought the cup to her lips.
“Now, should I order for us both?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Rollo looked at his protégé with sympathy. “I’ll order a steak and pickle sandwich for you then, and if you don’t eat it, I’ll ask the waitress to wrap it up in a doggy bag.”
Poppy nodded.
Rollo called over the waitress and gave the order of two steak sandwiches and salad on the side.
“So,” he said, “let me get this straight. Elizabeth actually knew that Alfie was here in New York and has been covering for him?”
She nodded again. Words were beyond her for now.
“And he – and she – seemed to know something about the murder of von Hassler. Confirming, perhaps, that it is murder and not just an accident. Alfie, of course, claiming he didn’t do it. Hmmm… not sure what to do with that for now. We need to wait and hear what information Quinn comes up with about who put the lid on this thing. If we tell the police what we know before we have that intel to hand, it could just get swept under the carpet again. I’ll check in on him after the meeting with the lawyer.”
Poppy looked up, more alert than she’d been for a while. “So we’re going to the lawyer then?”
Rollo nodded. “I think so, yes. The one thing we haven’t followed up on yet – and I think he can help us with this – is to find out who all the owners of the garment factory are. What did you say the name was? Magriet Fashions?”
“Yes,” said Poppy and summoned up a weak smile for the waitress as she arrived with the sandwiches. The woman smiled back, looking relieved that the distraught young woman was finally pulling herself together.
“Thanks,” said Rollo, and picked up his knife to cut the sandwich in half. He gestured with the blade, offering to do the same for Poppy.
“Yes please.” The tea was beginning to work its magic. Poppy thought she might be able to manage some food after all. Rollo smiled approvingly as she picked up the sandwich and took a small bite.
“I think you’re right about these two stories being linked,” Rollo continued. “It’s too much of a coincidence that Alfie is involved in both. Did I hear you right? Elizabeth said Alfie knows something about the prostitutes too?”
Poppy nodded, unable to speak this time because her mouth was full of a juicy piece of steak.
Rollo held his sandwich in both hands, ready to take a bite. “Then we definitely need to find out more about the ownership structure of the place. Who else is involved? Who knows what’s going on there? Is it just the Spencers? Do they know what’s actually happening at their own factory, or are they owners in name only? That wouldn’t surprise me. Theo is busy with his senatorial work – it takes up the bulk of his time now. As far as I know, he’s become very hands-off with his various business interests in recent years. So who has he put in charge in his absence? And do they know about the prostitution ring and/or the murder? Or is it, after all, just Alfie who connects the two stories on his own? We won’t know until we do a bit more digging.”
Rollo took a large bite and started to chew.
Digging, yes: that’s exactly what they needed to do. Poppy put down her sandwich, wiped her hands on her napkin, and reached into her satchel to retrieve her notebook. “Not that I don’t think Alfie is the prime suspect in this, Rollo, but I’ve been wondering whether or not we’ve adequately considered other scenarios. I don’t want to be blinded by my personal prejudice in all this.” She opened the notebook to the pages she’d written on the bus, brainstorming the motive, means, and opportunity of various suspects in the von Hassler murder.
Rollo put down his sandwich and picked up the book. He perused the notes, grunting approvingly and tapping various phrases with his fingernail. He looked up at Poppy, smiling, a bit of pickle stuck in his front teeth.
“Excellent work, Miz Denby. I couldn’t have done better myself.”
Poppy felt a small quiver of pride. “Thank you, Rollo; that means a lot to me.”
Rollo’s finger tapped the note relating to the doorman knowing who went up or down in the prince’s building. “This is just around the corner. We can swing by there before we go and see Barnes. Shouldn’t take us more than a few minutes.”
Poppy nodded her agreement before taking a much larger bite of her sandwich.
Rollo grinned. “I see you’ve got your appetite back.”
237 Lexington Avenue, a ten-storey apartment building, was one of the most swish addresses in New York. Rollo listed a who’s who of Manhattan elite in the short walk over there, all of whom either lived permanently at the address or kept a flat there for when they were in town. One of the names caught Poppy’s attention: Howard Parker.
“The film producer?” asked Poppy. “From Black Horse Productions?”
“Yes,” agreed Rollo as the two journalists negotiated a gap in the traffic to cross the road and approach the entrance of the building. “Have you heard of him?”
Poppy said she had only just heard the name that morning, and went on to tell Rollo what Delilah had told her about the producers.
Rollo stopped a few paces out of earshot from a doorman. “How very interesting.”
“And he lives here?” asked Poppy.
“Not all year round, no. He’s one of the fellas who keep a place here for when they’re in town. Like most film people these days he splits his time between the east and west coast. And you say he was at the party? Did you see him?”
Poppy tried to picture the four men she had seen in the library. “I think so, but I’m not sure which one he was. There were three younger men, and one older – my guess would be that was him. He seemed to be in charge.” Poppy described the man with mutton-chop sideburns.
Rollo grunted. “Sounds like it might be him. I’ll show you a photograph of him when we get back to the office and you can identify him properly. Hmmm, very interesting – very interesting indeed. Let’s see what the doorman has to say, shall we?”
Poppy and Rollo approached the man who was wearing a top hat, tails, and full livery.
“Good day to you, my good man,” said the editor in the poshest accent Poppy had ever heard. She stifled a smile. “I do believe there may be an apartment available in this building after that most unfortunate accident. The penthouse?”
The doorman raised his hat in greeting. “Good day, sir. I don’t know if it is available yet. Or whether it will be. I believe the prince’s nephew might be taking it over. It’s still early days.”
Rollo nodded sympathetically. “Of course, yes, a dreadful business. Very upsetting for everyone involved.”
The doorman nodded, his face sinking into an appropriately concerned expression. “Yes, it was.”
“Was it you who found the body?” asked Poppy. “I’ve never met anyone who found a dead body before…” Poppy allowed her blue eyes to widen into what she hoped looked like unbridled admiration.
The doorman visibly straightened, proud of his small role in an important story.
“Forgive my niece; she’s new in town and thinks America is exactly like they show in the movies.” Rollo winked at her.
Poppy took the hint. “Oh yes! The movies! I heard that Howard Parker lives on this street somewhere. Is that true?”
The doorman smiled indulgently at the eager young English girl. “Oh yes. And in this very building! We have a lot of famous people who live here, miz. If your uncle does manage to get the penthouse, you’ll be in the very best company.”
Poppy’s mouth opened in awe. “Oh uncle, did you hear that? Howard Parker lives here! Was he here the night the prince died?”
The doorman said that he was. And that Mr Parker was just as shocked as everyone else.
“A terrible business,” Rollo agreed, then tipped the doorman handsomely. The man doffed his hat before turning his attention to a car pulling up. Poppy carried on playing the part of the wide-eyed innocent as a well-heeled couple emerged from the vehicle. “Oh uncle, look! Is that Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford? Oh, do get us that apartment!”
Rollo chuckled before leading his “niece” away.
Mr Barnes ushered them into his office as soon as his assistant told him they were there. He opened a silver cigarette holder and offered it to his guests. Poppy declined; Rollo accepted, leaning in to allow the lawyer to light it.
Then Rollo laid Marjorie’s telegram on the green leather desk. Barnes picked it up, read it, and drew on his cigarette. He held the smoke in his mouth for a while, then slowly exhaled. “Thank you for this. It’s the evidence I need. The question is, when do I alert the police that he’s about? Because I must do that. He’s a fugitive from justice, you understand. British justice, to be fair, but it’s just a matter of time until a request for an arrest warrant is brought by the Brits. And…” he re-checked the telegram, “if I’m not mistaken, this ‘Marjorie’ is Marjorie Reynolds of the British Home Office.” He tapped his ash into the onyx ash tray, looking at Rollo over the desk.
“It is,” Rollo conceded.
“Hmmm,” said Barnes. “Yes, I can use this. I will need to get a court order to re-open the coroner’s investigation into von Hassler’s death though. Any further word on who put a lid on it?”
Rollo shook his head. “I went to visit the mortuary again, to speak to the fella who initially told me the prince had not died of natural causes. But he has suddenly, and unexpectedly, taken leave. His colleagues don’t know when he’ll be back. Very suspicious. However, Judson Quinn is looking into it via his contacts too. He thinks he’ll have something by the end of the day.”
“Good,” said Barnes, rolling his cigarette between thumb and forefinger. “However, Alfie Dorchester is another kettle of fish. The moment I alert the police, he will be a wanted man. Not in the von Hassler case necessarily, that’s still up in the air, but the fact that he has been impersonating Otto von Riesling and seeking to benefit financially from it. That’s fraud and potentially blackmail – before we even add murder to the charge sheet. And as far as I can tell, alerting Alfie that we’re on to him might not be what you want at this stage of the investigation. Am I correct?”
Rollo drew on his own cigarette and exhaled. “You are; however, developments this morning might make that a moot point.”
“Oh?” said Barnes, tapping another tip of ash into the tray.
“Yes,” said Rollo and went on to explain how Poppy had come across Alfie only a few hours earlier at his sister’s house in Chelsea.
Barnes leaned back in his chair, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. “So, he’s probably on the run anyway. He no doubt thinks Miz Denby here would waste no time going to the police. Is that right, Miz Denby?”
“Yes and no,” said Poppy. “I haven’t been to the police. I’m not sure yet if that is the best thing. I do want him to face justice, but I’m aware that timing in this is important – particularly because we don’t yet know if the New York police are to be trusted on this.”
Barnes leaned forward and tapped some more ash into the tray. He smiled. “Congratulations, Rolandson; you’ve trained her well.”
Of course not one word of this was directed at her. Yes, Rollo had “trained her” – in newsgathering technique – but she was not an automaton.
Rollo put his cigarette in the tray. “I’m afraid, Mr Barnes, Miz Denby has a mind of her own. And one I greatly respect. If we were to go to the police about this, I would like to have her opinion, and to consider it carefully. Poppy, what do you think?”
Poppy was silent for a moment. Eventually she spoke. “The cat’s out of the bag, I think. If Alfie wants to run, he will have done so. The moment I left he would have thought his time was limited. If he had any sense he’d have packed a bag and been on the first train out of here.” She looked at her watch. “Three hours later, I think he’ll already have gone. Alerting the police will only get Elizabeth into trouble. On the other hand, if she has been harbouring a fugitive…” Poppy put her palms together and twiddled her fingers.
“So what to do…” Rollo crushed out the stub of his cigarette and exhaled. “As you say, Poppy, I think the cat’s out of the bag with Alfie. So Barnes, if you can alert the authorities regarding an arrest warrant, they might still be able to catch him. The details can be worked out later. Regarding the cover-up of the von Hassler murder, if you can give me until the end of the day, I can see what Quinn can add to this.”
Barnes nodded. “I can do that. Is there anything else?”
Poppy and Rollo looked at each other and shared a knowing glance. “Actually, yes,” said Rollo. “You arranged for the transfer of deeds from Hans von Hassler to his – supposed – nephew, Otto von Riesling, relating to Magriet Fashions. Is that correct?”
Barnes templed his fingers. “It is. Up until today I had no legal reason to doubt Otto von Riesling was who he claimed to be. He produced a birth certificate, his uncle vouched for him…”
Rollo raised his hands. “We are not apportioning blame here. Perfectly understandable. I accept that. However… what we’d like to know is who else has shares in Magriet Fashions. Was it only Hans von Hassler and Theo Spencer, or is there someone else?”
Barnes popped his lips against his fingertips. “Hmmm. I’m assuming here you already know something.”
“And you’d be right,” said Rollo.
Fibber, thought Poppy. We don’t know anything for sure.
“Well,” said Barnes. “Then I’m sure it comes as no surprise to you that the third shareholder in Magriet Fashions is the film producer Howard Parker.”
Rollo nodded sagely. “No, Mr Barnes, thank you. That comes as no surprise at all.”