Frobisher frowned at this little tableau and said, “I’ve had a report of a murder here.”
“A murder? Goodness me!” Nellie said, heaving herself up from her chair and advancing on him like a small tank, her hand outstretched. “May I introduce myself?” she said, like a gracious society hostess. “Mrs. Nellie Coker. And you must be Detective Chief Inspector Frobisher. We’ve heard so much about you.”
Frobisher was not for charming. “The caller said that a girl had been killed here,” he said gruffly.
“I’m afraid you were wrongly informed, Chief Inspector. I think perhaps you have been the victim of a malicious prank. As you can see, there are no girls here, only my son and I, and we are very much alive.” Ramsay nodded his agreement. “But you are very welcome to search the place,” Nellie added, sweeping her arm around the club as if offering it as a gift.
Frobisher sent the constable off to search every nook and cranny of the Sphinx. He was convinced that some evidence of wrongdoing would turn up, if not an actual corpse. But the place was squeaky clean.
“Found this, sir,” the constable said, “behind the bar.” He was holding a silver shoe aloft. Frobisher took it off him.
“One of the dance hostesses must have mislaid it,” Nellie said smoothly. “The girls are always losing their shoes.”
There was the sound of someone coming into the club and they all turned to the entrance to see who it was.
“Oh, look,” Nellie said, “it’s Miss Kelling. Have you met Miss Kelling, Chief Inspector?”
* * *
—
Gertie woke in the late afternoon, and because the cupboard was still bare Freda made sugar sandwiches that a “starving” Gertie wolfed down. Freda supposed that dying and coming back to life would give you an appetite. Jesus probably felt the same when he came out of his tomb. She was reminded of the big crucifix that hung over the altar in Florence’s church. She had been going in regularly to light a candle. You light them for someone else, not yourself, Florence had said. Freda was lighting them for Florence.
“You all right?” Gertie asked.
“Yes.”
Vanda, on her way out, said, “Well, you look a lot less peaky, pet,” to Gertie and gave her an old silk scarf to tie around her neck and hide her bruises. “Keep it,” she said generously. “It’s not real silk.”
Gertie sighed and said, “Well, I suppose I should get going.” She and Freda both felt rather deflated after so much adventure and Freda said, “Tell you what—do you fancy going to a show? I’ve got free tickets for The Co-Optimists at the Palace.”
The Box
Ramsay had been relying on Freda, not only to help him forge the letter to the bank, but also to rehearse him for his “performance” （after all, she was always telling him that she belonged on the stage）。 He had even hoped that she might come into the bank with him and lend him some of her fearlessness, but Freda had left with Gertie so he was going to have to go ahead without her support.
On the Amethyst’s headed notepaper Ramsay had written, Dear Sirs, To whom it may concern, I am afraid I am currently indisposed and am sending my son Ramsay in lieu of myself. Please give him access to my safe-deposit box. Yours faithfully, Mrs. Ellen Coker.
He had had to make several painstakingly slow practice runs at it before he produced something even half credible. It was like being back at school, writing out lines as a punishment. Ramsay had been deemed “uneducable” at Fettes and beyond, his place at Oxford notwithstanding, and he enjoyed imagining the look on his old schoolmasters’ faces when they happened to walk past Hatchard’s and glimpsed The Age of Glitter prominently displayed in the window.
* * *
—
“Mr. Coker? How can I help you today?”
He’d made a beeline for one of the tellers in the hope of bypassing the manager, Sneddon, whom Ramsay always found intimidating even when he was here to cash up the night’s takings from the Sphinx. No such luck, for as soon as the teller read the letter he said, “I’ll just run this past Mr. Sneddon, Mr. Coker.”
“Must you?”
“Standard bank practice, I’m afraid,” he soothed.
It was an agonizingly long wait before Sneddon himself appeared and, frowning at Ramsay, said, “Young Mr. Coker, good morning—I believe you want access to your mother’s private box?” Sneddon held the letter in his hand and perused it for what seemed like a lifetime, before handing it back to Ramsay, saying, “Of course, Mr. Coker, come this way. Oh, and you have the key, of course?”