Murder Offstage (17 page)

Nineteen

‘GOT YOU!’

The photograph was large and very clear. In the bottom right
corner was an inscription:

FRANCE, 1915

The focus of the picture was undoubtedly the glamorous
couple at the very centre of it, drawing the eye instinctively; Lucky Lucy and
Count della Rosa.

But it was actually a group photo, and there were at least
three other people in the shot standing in the same line: one short man holding
a ventriloquist’s dummy, another tall man with an accordion, and a very fat
woman with an armful of doves. They melted away into the background through no
fault of their own other than not being beautiful.

Lucy wore a white ballgown with a matching feather boa, and
the Count looked exactly as Posie had remembered him from Monday night:
dashing, ridiculously handsome, but with something slightly menacing about his
manner. He wore a black tuxedo and was grinning from ear to ear. His right arm
was outstretched and he held up a squirming white rabbit to the camera. In the
other hand he was balancing a wand and a black top hat. He looked as if he was
enjoying himself immensely. Lucky Lucy was wrapped coyly around his waist,
basking in his limelight.

Rainbird came over, taking the snap from Posie. ‘So this is
him then, eh? The famous invisible Count?’

Posie nodded grimly.

‘Mr Blake the Theatre Manager told us that those two were
lovers, but what I
didn’t
realise was quite what a long history they
shared. This picture was taken more than six years ago! They were real-life
partners, and partners-in-crime too for a very long time. This diamond
smuggling and theatre business in London is just their most recent escapade
together! Look at them here, performing as magicians for the troops, whilst
unbeknown to the Belgian government who were paying them, they were actually
acting as traitors, smuggling guns! I had no idea the Count was out there in
the trenches too!’

And under her breath Posie whispered, but mainly to herself:
‘So if they had such a history together, why on earth would he have killed her?
He can’t have done
…one lousy stolen Maharajah diamond can’t break a tie
like that. It doesn’t make any sense.’

Rainbird frowned. ‘But I don’t understand. From Inspector
Lovelace’s file notes it says that he asked the Belgian police for information
on the Count, and they told him they’d never heard of him! And now they’re
sending us handy snaps of him? It doesn’t add up. The Count must have another
name, surely?’

Posie took the photograph again, and stared at it.

‘Good point,’ she nodded. ‘Can you get an urgent message to
the Belgian police to ask them exactly who is who in this picture? But I’m
going to keep it for now. It’s our best lead yet.’

Rainbird was scribbling a telegram to the Belgian police. He
glanced up with a look of distaste etched on his face:

‘Not much of a grand Count, is he? If he has to resort to
working as a magician to make ends meet? No wonder he turned to diamond
smuggling later on. I don’t like the look of him much either, for what it’s
worth: nasty smile on his face, as if he was doing something really clever,
when any fool knows that pulling a rabbit out of a hat is the easiest thing in
the world! The trick is to make it look as if the thing has disappeared in the
first place, when in reality it has been sitting there all along. Nasty rotten
show-off. Magicians are the worst kind of fraudsters.’

Something Rainbird said struck Posie like a physical blow.
She gasped:

‘
What
did you just say?’

‘I said he was a nasty show-off, that’s all,’ said Rainbird,
slightly uncomfortably.

But she scarcely heard him: Posie’s mind was working
nineteen-to-the-dozen, scrambling over itself, fitting a possible solution to
an unsolved problem. Could it be?

Yes! It could.
She was taken aback at the ingenuity
of it.

‘Sergeant Rainbird! You are an absolute genius! Thank you!
Thank you a thousand times! But we must leave, as soon as that telegram is
sent. Never mind that Inspector Lovelace isn’t here; we’ll just have to move
without him. This is super urgent. Can you bring a few strong men with you?
Maybe with some guns? Fast as you can?’

Rainbird looked at her warily. ‘Where are we off to now? Not
that horrible underground nightclub again? That place gave me the creeps.’

Posie shook her head. She confirmed the location and what
she expected to find there.

‘Fine. I’ll leave a note for the Inspector. Anything else I
can do for you, Miss?’ Rainbird tried to bite down the sarcastic edge breaking
through his voice. In truth, he was feeling slightly frightened at what seemed
a gargantuan task ahead of him, especially if it involved guns, and without
anyone of a senior rank guiding him. But he felt too intimidated by this bossy
girl with the determined glint in her eye to show his nerves.

‘Oh!’ Posie exclaimed brightly, and leant in confidentially.

‘Yes! How kind of you. Speaking of
identifying people
,
actually, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask you to do for a while
now. And while the Inspector’s out…’

****

Twenty

They screeched around the corner of Pall Mall into St
James and came to a juddering halt in front of No 11.

The police car wheezed to itself anxiously as Sergeant
Rainbird climbed out, gingerly extending a hand to Posie and then brusquely
ignoring the two burly armed policemen who had squeezed into the backseat
alongside them.

Another police car lurched against the kerb behind them, the
acidic smell of brake-fluid filling the air, and a further four policemen
climbed out, their eyes scouring the hugely unlikely surroundings for what they
had been told to expect as a ‘first-rate crime’.

Posie led the charge and mounted the immaculate yellow stone
steps. Sergeant Rainbird and the two uniformed policemen from the first car
bunched alongside her in a row and she supposed they must have made an
intimidating sight, because the doorman, who was exactly the same fellow she
had encountered on Monday night, peeled back in an anxious show of helpfulness
as they swung through the door. They were met by the smell of fried kippers and
toast.

Inside the deserted entrance of the club all was much the
same as on the Monday. The calm trophy-room environment was broken only by the
busy murmur of voices coming from an open doorway on the left-hand side, the
same door through which the Count had sailed so assuredly after Posie had
declined his offer of a drink. Now it was propped open on its well-polished
hinges to reveal a large but cosy common room peppered with oblong tables at
which club members were sitting enjoying their breakfasts, newspapers placed
carelessly on their laps. A club servant was making his rounds with a
glistening silver tea-pot, and a quick closer inspection revealed the resident
Butler to be bobbing solicitously over at the far end of the breakfast room.

Sergeant Rainbird looked at Posie anxiously: he hoped to
goodness she knew what she was doing, but he’d give her this – she looked
mightily assured – which eased the rising panic in his chest somewhat.

‘Now what?’ he hissed. It was all well and good, him and six
bobbies standing around like lemons, but as yet he had no idea how they would
go about the task at hand. They had no Search Warrant with them; nothing
official apart from their identity cards and guns.

Posie was hoping she could hold her nerve, and hoping mostly
that she was right in the conviction that had led her here.

The Butler had caught sight of the ominous-looking
deputation gathered in the entrance hall. Looking slightly flustered, he
shuffled his way through the obstacle course of dining tables to get to them.

‘Can I help you?’ he wheezed nervously, closing the door
reverently behind him, as if to protect his precious club members from what
could turn out to be some terrible peril. He stared at the sheer number of
policemen, and the lone dark-haired girl standing in front of him. She looked
familiar, somehow…where had he seen her before? He cast an anxious lingering
glance behind him at another little wooden door, as if willing someone else to
appear and help him out.

Posie opened her carpet bag with a flourish. All eyes were
on her. She held up the Belgian press-photo of the troupe of magicians. She
moved it into the direct view of the old Butler and tapped the image of Caspian
della Rosa sharply with a scarlet fingernail:

‘This gentleman, see here? He’s a member here, isn’t he? Do
you know him?’

The policemen were silent and stared at the Butler
accusingly. He seemed to be having trouble focusing under the gaze of such an
unforgiving audience. He peered down at the photo in a fluster, his face
turning red and rashy. He searched in his breast pocket for his pince-nez.

Sergeant Rainbird cursed inwardly: they’d already been here
and asked this doddery old fellow about Count della Rosa, who he’d declared
never to have heard of. If they weren’t careful they’d have a complaint made
against them for harassment, and to be honest, the old Butler would have a
point. Posie wasn’t exactly being gentle. Or subtle, come to that. Inspector
Lovelace would have his guts for garters.

‘Why yes, Miss. That’s Mr Chicken.’ The Butler nodded;
pleased with himself. ‘He
is
a member here, joined us about a year ago.
Hails from Belgium, I believe. A perfectly charming man.’

‘Mr
Chicken
?’ Posie repeated incredulously.

The Butler looked faintly annoyed at her disbelief, as if
she was calling him a liar. He pulled himself up to his full height and gave
her a prim look from behind his eye-glass:

‘Yes indeed. That’s Mr Cecil Chicken standing there with
that white rabbit. I’d swear on my life.’

Posie stared at the Butler, but her thoughts were miles
away.

Of course!
She searched in her bag again and brought
out the pink paper from the Land Registry. She turned to Sergeant Rainbird and
whispered frantically:

‘See? It says Poulet Productions! “
Poulet
” means
“chicken” in French, which is the language these Belgians speak to each other
in. So this Cecil Chicken is definitely Count della Rosa; it’s his pseudonym,
maybe some sort of joke. And he’s been a member of this club for the very same
length of time as he’s owned the theatre! I expect this place wasn’t chosen at
random either: as well as giving him a veneer of respectability, he knew the
Cardigeon’s were lifelong members and he was playing the long game;
establishing a connection here, in case it came in handy for stealing the
Maharajah diamond. As it turned out, he had a better secret weapon closer to
home – Lucky Lucy.’

‘But Cecil Chicken! What a silly name to choose!’ exclaimed
Sergeant Rainbird. ‘He could have made up a more believable one!’

Posie edged closer to the Butler. She retrieved the
press-photo from him and instead she held the pink paper from the Land Registry
very close to his face.

‘So when post arrived for a “
CC
” to the club, as is
mentioned here in this official document, that meant that you would put it
aside for Mr Chicken?’

The Butler nodded, frightened now. ‘I say, is he in some sort
of trouble?’ he faltered.

Posie ignored him. ‘And where are things stored for him?
Over there?’ She nodded casually towards the wall of wooden pigeon-holes at the
very furthest end of the lobby. This was
exactly
where she had expected
to end up.

She saw the old Butler follow her gaze and a glaze of panic
sheened his whole face: he had given away too much, he knew.

Posie strode across the hall and stood in front of the
unguarded pigeon-holes. And now for the moment of truth.

She had stood here on Monday and searched in vain for
Caspian della Rosa’s name, wanting to return his packet of black matches. But
of course his name had not been there.

She looked hard now, casting backwards and forwards, up and
down. All the while she repeated to herself what she had remembered not half an
hour before at the office in Scotland Yard, the words Caspian della Rosa had
purred to her flirtatiously when he had met her, all of which had seemed like
inconsequential guff at the time:

‘Sometimes, you know, the most beautiful, the rarest
treasures in the world are to be found right under our very noses. They need no
guarding, no protection: they exist, fabulously, alone.
’

She reached forwards. Here it was.

A small typed card taped above a pigeon-hole announced that
strange name:

MR CECIL
CHICKEN

‘I say, Miss! You’ve no business going through those
post holes. Please wait!’ the Butler was calling out to her in rising
desperation. She heard footsteps behind her, coming her way, a slamming of a
door nearby. ‘Wait! Wait for the Manager. One second.’

Posie ignored him. She focused on the job in hand.

And there, inside the shelf itself was a clutter of letters.
She closed her eyes and pushed her hand behind them, to the very back. A small,
hard, tissue-wrapped item was lodged there. She closed her fingers around it,
and drew a deep breath…
the rarest treasures in the world are to be found
right under our very noses…

She would never have thought to look there, and neither
would anyone else: the sheer arrogance of the man, the confidence of his hiding
place, the malicious teasing of the Cardigeons…it was all frankly unbelievable.

If it hadn’t been for that press-photo of the magicians and
Sergeant Rainbird’s remark that ‘
the trick is to make it look as if the
thing has disappeared in the first place, when in reality it has been sitting
there all along
’, it would never have been found.

And Posie agreed with Rainbird’s assessment of the man, too.
Count della Rosa was a nasty rotten show-off. He had told his side-kick in the
La
Luna
club that he had hidden the thing safely;
out of harm’s way
.
Indeed.

She unwrapped the brown tissue paper carefully and turned in
a half-circle to face the silent room. And there it was, in her hand; the black
diamond, the Maharajah diamond from Gwilim. The size of a large quail’s egg,
attached to a slim ring of rose gold, it was brilliantly, unbearably beautiful.

As she extended her palm outwards so the others could see,
the stone seemed to catch all the light in the room, gathered it up into itself
and threw it out again, magnified over and over. The single stone seemed to
dazzle with as much light as if it had been a many-tiered chandelier, replete
with thousands of crystals. It wasn’t just black, either; it threw up beams of
pink and turquoise, cream and lemon-yellow and a brilliant, eye-watering white
light. The stone was almost painful to observe, and Posie glanced up and saw
the six uniformed policemen gaping with open mouths. Sergeant Rainbird was
standing with his hand outstretched towards her as if frozen in time, and the
Butler was quivering in shock.

Another man who was dressed in a smart pinstriped suit,
probably the Manager himself, had joined the Butler and was looking bewildered
and angry at the same time. He conferred with the Butler in low angry whispers
and then leapt forwards to near where Posie was standing. At first Posie
thought he was coming for her, and she darted to one side, but then she saw he
had made his way to the green-curtained telephone booth at the back. He was
ringing someone. She could hear his frantic, worried tones emanating from the
telephone booth.

‘Who are you calling?’ she shouted at the man, pulling the
baize curtain aside. He looked up at her, covering the mouthpiece, and she saw
fear in his eyes.

Just then, she saw the looming silhouettes of the Inspectors
coming through the club doorway, their hats and ubiquitous trench coats
unmistakeable. At exactly the same moment the doorway to the breakfast room
swung open and Rufus’ father, the Tenth Earl of Cardigeon, blundered out and
stood staring at the scene, thumbs looped through his braces, his mouth dropped
open like a caught fish on the line.

All eyes were on the diamond.

Was it Posie’s imagination or had it been growing hotter and
hotter in her hand? It seemed to be burning a hole through its protective layer
of tissue paper, as if it were a smouldering coal. She was desperate to be rid
of the thing, this object of so much death and desire. She turned to the Earl.

‘My Lord, this belongs to the Cardigeon family, I believe. I
promised I would try and get it back for you and I always keep my promises.
Here.’ She tipped the diamond into the Earl’s outstretched hands. He almost
dropped it.

‘What on earth? I say! Is this the…?’

The Earl seemed lost for words for once, and was breathing
slowly, shallowly. Suddenly Rufus appeared behind his father’s shoulder. Worry
clouded his face, but when he saw the strange-coloured stone in his father’s
hands and Posie standing beside him, he seemed to relax a little. He smiled a
watery smile, but he was still the deathly pale of a recovering alcoholic:

‘What my father means to say, Nosy, is thank you. And I
thank you too. From the bottom of my heart.’

‘You’d better make an urgent call to Brigg & Brooks,’
muttered Posie. ‘Tell them you need it to be insured. Just in case anything
happens to it again. You never know.’

The Earl seemed to recover himself and he harrumphed loudly.

‘Yes, I’ll call them now. But it’s not regular insurance
we’ll be buying, but
travel
insurance. This little beauty is going back
to India, to the Maharajah of Gwilim. Where it belongs. It’s leaving on the
first ship out of here. It’s caused my family, and others, enough trouble to
last for several hundred years. Even touching it makes me worried. I don’t want
to be near the wretched thing for very long, in case it infects me…’

Posie laughed. ‘You
have
been near it, my Lord. At
least since Monday night, and it hasn’t troubled you…or infected you so far.’
She explained about the hiding place and watched the Earl turn predictably red
and thundery.

The Inspectors were suddenly close by at their side.
Inspector Oats was looking at the black diamond with a combination of distaste
and distrust. Inspector Lovelace nodded impatiently:

‘Good work, Posie. I got Sergeant Rainbird’s note and we
hurried over as fast as we could. At least that’s one mystery solved. And we
didn’t have to resort to violence, so that’s
one
thing the Commissioner
can’t complain about, anyhow.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Posie, her eyes widening.

‘We’ve been in a meeting all morning with the Commissioner,
and we’re in trouble. Real trouble.’ Lovelace threw Inspector Oats an arc of a
nod, including him in the story.

Oats glared at Posie. ‘Seems your little story in the
Associated
Press
had more of an effect than you’d planned. And now
we’re
feeling
the consequences.’

‘What do you mean? I didn’t commission the newspaper story
to spite you. I thought it would make Count della Rosa contact us!’