Read Murder Offstage for Free Online Page A

it,
either way was bad.
    ****
    ‘So, what’s this all about then?’
    Inspector Richard Lovelace sank heavily down in his creaky
leather chair and passed a beaten-up tin of biscuits across to Posie. She was
clutching a steaming mug of tea he had just made. She couldn’t remember when
she had last eaten a proper meal, and she dived on the biscuits ravenously.
    Inspector Lovelace eyed her with a look of half-amusement,
half-concern. Posie reminded him very much of a nurse he had taken a fancy to
in the Field Hospital at Passchendale when he had spent some months there in
1917, lying injured, and he knew this fond remembrance made him not entirely
impartial to Posie and her sometimes unorthodox methods.
    ‘You should take more care of yourself, my girl. Eat
properly. Otherwise you’re no help to anyone. Who are you helping,
anyway? I take it that there is something important behind your scurrying here
after office hours? And more importantly, what’s it got to do with me?’
    Posie explained between mouthfuls of biscuit about her day
so far. Inspector Lovelace nodded grimly: he had heard all about the murder at
the Ritz, it had been the talk of the whole station.
    She opened her bag and pulled out the photo of ‘Georgie’.
She pushed it across the desk and told the Inspector where she had just got it
from.
    ‘Turns out Lucky Lucy was working as a chorus girl
after all, at the Athenaeum Theatre. I know Inspector Oats had his doubts. So
she didn’t lie to Rufus about everything.’
    Inspector Lovelace picked the photo up and studied it
carefully under his green-glassed reading lamp. He whistled softly.
    ‘You’re right – that’s Lucky Lucy Gibson, for sure. I’d
recognise that face anywhere, even though she’s cut all her hair off and dyed
it white, and done something different to her eyes.’
    He passed the photo back. ‘She’s on the most-wanted list of
every police station across London, and every British border control has an
order to seize her. One of the most dangerous, difficult creatures you’re ever
likely to encounter: like a ghost, never leaves traces, never incriminates
others. But wherever she goes, she leaves a path of destruction behind her. And
you say she’s been here, in London, this whole past year? Right under our
noses?’
    ‘That’s right. On the stage almost every night.’
    ‘No wonder poor old Oats was in a bad mood! Letting her slip
away like that at the Ritz must have been galling. So near and yet so far.
She’s a clever girl.’
    ‘But what about Rufus? He’s been wrongfully imprisoned for a
murder! And what about the Maharajah diamond? We need to search for it!’
    Inspector Lovelace smiled kindly.
    ‘We can’t do anything about the missing gem until its owner
files a stolen report. And as for Rufus himself, wait here a minute.’
    Two minutes later the Inspector was back, a big black file
in his hands. A white sticker read ‘OATS – CONFIDENTIAL’ down one side.
    ‘I just “borrowed” this from Oats’ office along the
corridor,’ he said tapping his nose comically. He flipped through the file for
a few minutes, and then closed it. He folded his arms. He looked grim.
    ‘Oats isn’t a bad policeman, you know. Just unimaginative.
And he hates toffs – that’s a known fact. But he’s got your pal in the cells
here as an accessory to this murder because he has no other leads. He’s hoping
your pal will blab something useful.’
    ‘But Rufus was duped!’ Posie wailed. ‘He knows nothing about
the murder. He knows nothing about his fiancée, either, as it turns out. I know more than Rufus right now about pretty much everything – and that’s not
saying much!’
    ‘They will hold a preliminary hearing tomorrow morning,
here. Oats has made notes recommending that your pal should be set free if his
father stumps up some bail money. But are you sure Rufus isn’t caught up
in this malarkey?’
    ‘What possible motive could he have?’
    The Inspector shrugged.