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FOR THE FIRST TIME, the coat check girl did not narrow her eyes when Cora appeared. Her gaze was decidedly on Randolph.
Cora didn’t blame her. Her gaze tended to be on Randolph too. It wasn’t just that he was handsome, though he fit his clothes well and his facial features were chiseled, but his entire bearing was one of strength and competence.
Club Paradiso was undoubtedly no stranger to important guests, but the coat check girl was evidently not immune to Randolph’s considerable charms.
“Go right inside, Miss Clarke,” the coat check girl gushed, keeping her gaze on Randolph.
Cora smiled and entered Club Paradiso, Randolph at her side.
It was almost time for Pop’s performance, and everything in the club sparkled, waiting only for the final onslaught of guests.
It should have felt odd striding in with Randolph, but it felt only natural, and for a while she forgot this was a monumental moment.
Pop must have finished rehearsing for the stage was empty.
“We can check backstage.” Cora strode authoritatively past the curtain and led Randolph to her father’s dressing room. She knocked, and the door soon opened.
“Hi, honey bunny!” Pop flashed a customary smile at her, though it soon changed to a rather less customary frown. Pop looked far less pleased to see Randolph than the coat check girl had been. “Who is this?”
“I’m Randolph.”
Cora clasped his hand, and Pop’s gaze dropped to their linked hands.
“Hmph,” he muttered. “I preferred Archibald.”
“Randolph has his good qualities,” Cora said.
Pop continued to frown. “So you’re the sweetheart.”
“Yes.” Randolph flashed his own perfect smile, though it did nothing to inspire Pop to replicate it.
“So what are you in? The police force? Scotland Yard? The Secret Intelligence Service?” Pop narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you work for another country.”
“Pop!” Cora exclaimed.
“Sorry. He just has that look about him,” Pop said. “You have to be careful about these government workers. Not to be trusted.”
Cora frowned. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard statements like this from her father, but they’d typically been said with such lightheartedness, she’d thought he was joking or had simply watched too many James Cagney or Humphrey Bogart films, a definite hazard for people her father’s age.
“Speaking of the government, Pop,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Have you heard more from Mr. Darby-Brown?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “False alarm.”
“I hope so,” she said. “You shouldn’t have dropped Mr. Tehrani’s body at the crematorium.”
“It looked quiet,” Pop said defensively.
“It was around the corner from the British Museum!”
“Then the tourists should all have gathered there,” Pop said sullenly. “Far more interesting.” He shrugged. “Besides, do you know what it’s like to drive around with a corpse? It’s the sort of thing that might affect the seat cushions.”
“Not to speak about if you’d gotten pulled over,” Randolph said, interjecting himself into the conversation.
Pop narrowed his eyes. “That is a most unhelpful comment. Obviously, I’m far too good a driver to ever get pulled over.”
“Even driving on the other side of the road?” Cora asked.
Pop raised his chin. “Even then.”
“What sort of car do you drive?” Randolph asked, perhaps attempting to steer the conversation into something Pop might find less controversial.
“Are you going to run a trace on it?” Pop asked.
“No,” Randolph said. “Of course not. Er—probably not.”
“It’s a 1937 Jaguar SS 100 3.5-litre Roadster,” Pop said, and Cora’s gaze wandered as the conversation shifted to cars, despite Pop’s obvious pride.
It hadn’t been necessary to learn how to drive in Hollywood, and she’d always been so busy she’d never had the time to dedicate to learn anyway. A car would be a liability in London. The tube functioned fine, though Cora would always prefer to walk when given the choice, despite London’s propensity to rain.
Murmurings sounded from the hall, and piano music wafted through the room. Evidently the performance would start soon.
“We should take our seats,” Cora said quickly.
“Nice to meet you,” Randolph said.
“Er—yes.” Pop gave a tight smile.
A hostess soon led Cora and Randolph to a table. The club was filled with people. Women in slinky dresses wearing their hair in elaborate updos sat beside men wearing dinner jackets and bow ties. Waiters flitted about regally, moving silently, as if practicing for a role as a specter in the local theater production.
Pop appeared on the stage a few seconds later. He beamed at the audience and then his smile wobbled. His eyes darted from side to side, and then he inhaled and gave his customary smile. “Well, hello folks. I’m thrilled to see you all here. I have a special announcement to make. My daughter is going to sing with me.”
Cora widened her eyes.
This was news to her.
She’d just seen Pop, and he certainly hadn’t mentioned it then.
“Let’s give her a hand,” Pop said, and the audience applauded. “Come on, Cora!”
Cora swallowed hard. She didn’t leave her seat. She wasn’t supposed to sing. That hadn’t been planned, and she certainly hadn’t rehearsed. Her voice felt tight, as her heartbeat quickened, as if pounding against her diaphragm.
Pop looked around the room. For some reason, he had an anxious glint in his eyes and he soon descended the steps from the stage and stood before her. “Come on, honey.”
Cora shook her head. “I haven’t practiced...”
Pop waved his hand dismissively. “So you’ll have that raw sound. It’s fine.”
Cora raised her eyebrows. Her father had never enthused about the virtues of not rehearsing before. In fact, he took rehearsals seriously, devoting hours each day to practice the songs that seemed so effortless to everyone he impressed in the evenings.
Cora looked at Randolph. This hadn’t been exactly a date, but she hadn’t expected to abandon him.
“It’s fine,” Randolph said. “I’ll watch.”
“Well, I suppose I could do it...” Cora pressed her lips together.
“Good,” Pop said. “You know the songs.”
“Not the Italian ones.”
“Then we’ll cut them.” Pop waved his hand. “Easy-peasy. Let’s go!”
She followed him, even though she was astonished. Normally, Pop would insist she get into a pretty dress and that she do her hair and makeup. She’d walked through London, and she had the decided impression her makeup was rather more faded, and her hair rather less pristine, than when she’d started out.
“Here’s the sheet music, if you need it. In fact, this has the sheet music for all the songs on the program,” Pop said.
“Well, I won’t need that.”
“Keep it anyway.” Pop strode confidently to the microphone.
The audience’s applause intensified as she followed him onto the stage, and murmurings sounded. Evidently, some audience members had recognized her.
And then she noticed them.
The constables were back. Mr. Darby-Brown was back. They were all in the audience.
Mr. Darby-Brown was at the front of the stage and gestured for him to stop.
Pop didn’t stop. Instead, Pop spoke into the microphone, chatting about how pleased he was that his daughter the starlet was here and then proceeding to get the audience excited.
Pop did not seem to subscribe to the theory of lowering expectations so as to better delight them. He seemed intent on raising expectations, and Cora resisted the urge to run from the stage.
The detective frowned, and Pop quickly halted his adulations. He nodded to the pianist, and then in the next moment he was singing, and in the next moment after that, Cora had joined him.
Well.
She could do this.
She hadn’t expected to do this. And she certainly would have preferred to be wearing something rather more suitable to performing than a plain blue dress, but she could do this.
Pop had been right.
It was almost enjoyable.
Almost.
Pop was walking around on the stage, even though during last night’s performance he hadn’t strayed from the microphone. Perhaps he’d decided to approach the song from a new artistic direction.
Except... It was odd just how much Pop was walking.
Wait.
Is he walking...away?
Cora’s heart thundered, even though that was most inconvenient, since she was trying to sing.
Why is Pop walking away?
Cora resisted the urge to frown, concentrating on her lyrics.
She should have known better.
Pop had been spooked by the police and the detective, and now he was leaving, even though he’d promised this crowd a whole evening of entertainment.
Golly.
He stepped behind the curtain, winked at her, and then disappeared.
Double golly.
She had two choices. She could stop the performance and run after him, alerting the detective and constables that he was attempting to run away, or she could stay and pretend that this was all part of the duet, all part of the act.
In truth, she only had one option.
Pop was her father, and she was wasn’t going to send the constables on him if she could help it.
So she sang.
And sang.
And sang.
The sheet music was helpful, and she ignored the startled expression on the pianist’s face, as she proceeded to each new song.
Finally, she finished the last song.
No one should have applauded.
She hadn’t warmed up her voice, and she hadn’t even sung since her last musical.
And yet, for some reason, the audience still applauded. In fact, some still applauded. Some of them even stood. Most of them stood.
She blinked at the shadowy figures, blinded by the bright lights.
She’d been so determined to keep the police constables and detective distracted. She’d worked so hard to make them think she truly belonged on the stage, that she’d forgotten some of her fears.
She strode from the stage, stopping as people congratulated her. Some people mused on their memories of watching her on the silver screen.
“Miss Clarke.” Cora stiffened, recognizing the voice immediately.
It didn’t matter that their conversation had been brief. Nothing could compel her to forget Mr. Darby-Brown’s rounded vowels and excellent articulation.
She shuddered and turned toward him.
“I must congratulate you on your remarkable performance.”
She gave a tight smile.
“Though I’ve spoken with the manager here, and he said you were not scheduled to sing.”
“I was a surprise guest.”
“That is taking surprise to extremes.”
She was silent.
“Perhaps more surprising is that your father did not rejoin you.”
She remained silent, conscious only of the heavier thudding of her heart.
“Where is he now?” Mr. Darby-Brown asked sternly.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said honestly. “Er—perhaps he returned to his hotel room. I—er—believe he wasn’t feeling well.”
“Balderdash.”
“What did you want to see him about?” Cora asked. “Perhaps I can help you.”
“This is a police inquiry, Miss Clarke.”
“And my father was happy for you to speak in my presence before,” Cora reminded him.
He sighed. “Well, I’m not going to waste time thinking about what he might prefer. Though I doubt you can help.”
“Try me,” Cora said the words lightly. She had no intention of revealing to the detective just how interested she was in the case and just how much she knew.
“Very well,” he said. “Do you know anything about Persian jewels?”
“I like jewels,” she said honestly. “Though I’m not acquainted with the Persian kind. Are they any different?”
“No,” the detective said flatly. He then shrugged. “Well, there are some variations in the settings.” He cleared his throat. “But that’s not the focus of the discussion. The important thing is that the victim was carrying these jewels with him from Persia.”
“Don’t tell me he liked to wear them too.”
The detective frowned. “Don’t be facetious. Mr. Tehrani was from all accounts an exceptionally proper man. One of the local museums was giving an exhibit on Persian archaeology, goodness knows why. There’s enough interesting things in this current world to ponder about what happened centuries, much less millennia, ago.”
Cora suspected Miss Greensbody would have an excellent argument against this, but she remained silent. She didn’t need to encourage the detective to take a more open-minded view on history, she only needed to encourage him to divulge more.
“The jewels?” she prompted.
“Er—right.” The detective hesitated, as if wondering whether he should tell her anything. He sighed. “I suppose you may as well know. It will probably be in the paper tomorrow anyway. What we need is a good war. That will give the journalists something else to focus on except murders of minor royals from other countries.”
“He was a royal?” she raised her eyebrow.
He nodded. “Cousin to the Shah. Not a particularly important person, but close enough to be entrusted with precious jewels.”
“Have you found the jewels?” she asked.
“No,” he said bluntly. “The Shah is beginning to ask questions. Claiming the English must have murdered him. What drivel. As if we don’t have enough jewels already. We could raid the Tower of London much easier to get ones more meaningful to us. It’s caused enough of a fuss to get people breathing down my neck to solve this case. Not that it will help without the jewels. Your father, it seems, had money issues.”
“He doesn’t discuss his finances with me,” Cora said stiffly.
“Probably a pity,” the detective said. “You seem to have a cooler head.”
Cora was silent, and it occurred to her that the detective might be trying to flatter her. Did he hope she would reveal information about her father or his possible whereabouts to him?
He won’t get it.
“I assure you my father is no thief.”
The detective looked coldly at her. “I wonder if you know much about your father at all.”
“Naturally.” She raised her chin, but a smile seemed to play upon the detective’s face.
“Have a nice evening, Miss Clarke.” Mr. Darby-Brown gave a slight bow and then left her.
Cora smoothed her dress.
She didn’t know where Pop was and she hoped he was fine. The only consolation she had was that the detective seemed similarly befuddled about his disappearance.
Pop had really gone and done it now.
Still.
She had learned something. Mr. Tehrani’s jewels were missing. Had he gone to meet with Miss Greensbody at her apartment building on that fateful morning? Miss Greensbody was obviously enamored with the jewels. She’d asked everyone else where they’d been, but she’d never asked Miss Greensbody directly.
“Cora!” Randolph interrupted her musings. “You were brilliant.”
She shrugged. “I’m worried about Pop.”
His eyes twinkled, and he took her into his arms. Though she did quite enjoy the sensation of his arms about her, this time she pulled back.
He smiled, and she narrowed her eyes.
Why was he smiling? She’d confessed she was worried about her father, and his eyes were twinkling, and his lips were jutting up, as if she’d made a joke.
“There’s nothing amusing here,” she said.
“There is actually,” he said. “Somewhat amusing,” he hastened to say. “Only somewhat amusing.”
“I’m not in the mood for a joke.” She stepped away and crossed her arms, ignoring the sudden sense of coldness when she was away from him.
“Your father is something of a pickpocketer.”
“That’s a cruel thing to say,” she said.
“He stole my keys,” Randolph said.
“He did?”
“We were talking about cars,” Randolph said, still smiling. “He asked me what I drove. I don’t think he was very impressed. But sometime, probably when he came to lead you up to the stage, he stole my keys.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shrugged. “He’ll return it. I’m happy to help. It would have made it more difficult for the constables to trace him, even once they realized that he wasn’t coming back. You were quite convincing on stage.”
She smiled.
“So you think he’s fine?”
“I think you shouldn’t underestimate him.” He shrugged. “Besides, I know what kind of car I drive. I can always see if it shows up anywhere. I do have access to certain logs.”
She clutched onto his hand, hoping it would all be fine, and this time they strolled back to her apartment.