CHAPTER SEVEN

9:30 pm, Saturday June 24th, 1922

The Crown Club

Occasionally Crabtree had a flash of inspiration which helped break open a case. Murdoch guessed this was one of those times.

What if the man we knew as Conrad Landswell actually was someone else?

He made a note to ask Dr. Ogden if the body in her morgue currently labeled 'C. Landswell' had any deformity which might have excused him from military service, since he found no indication amongst his personal possessions that the man ever served. Was the dead man a Slacker? Murdoch thought it was possible. Conrad Landswell, or whoever he was, was of the right age to have been drafted, if he had not volunteered. In 1917, the war was still full-on when Landswell started his electrical contracting business. Would he have been considered an essential worker? Started a business just so he could escape conscription? Or, worse, was he a criminal who assumed an alias to hide from the authorities, stole a soldier's identity, perhaps a man killed in the war?

Was anything to do with Rocco Perri, a reason for this man to take his life, or to get himself killed?

He still had questions about whether Landswell's death was one and the same with the other unfortunates who drank and died when he arrived at the Crown Club's back entrance, parked his motorcycle in the alley and placed his goggles on the handlebars. The night air was invigorating on the ride over, but it was sticky and hot again as soon as he stopped moving. He got his hat on his head and brushed dust from his trousers before knocking on the Club's kitchen door. Noise emanated from open windows; he did not expect the place to be just as lively as the night before.

The manager, Mr. Hedson, was waiting for him, looking as harried as ever. He pulled Murdoch along a service corridor, up narrow steps to the second floor. The sound of a Saturday night crowd and someone playing a piano came through the walls and floor. He could just make out foxtrot music - I Was Wrong, All Wrong - winding up. The tune put a damper on his mood.

"Mr. Hedson, I'm surprised at all the people here. Aren't they the least bit concerned about poisoned libations?"

"Detective. Each individual cabinet is stocked and locked by the owner." Mr. Hedson repeated what he said last night.

"Which did not protect Conrad Landswell, did it? And how did the cognac Mr. Landswell drank get into his cubby in the first place?" Murdoch pressed. "When did he bring it? How long ago?" Instead of an answer, he was introduced to a swarthy man with a visage like a nutcracker - a large, hooked nose and prominent chin separating hooded black eyes, dressed in pristinely white jacket and trousers with a starched apron over them.

"This is Mr. Lojacono. I asked him to stay and speak with you. He oversees receiving deliveries. Tell Detective Murdoch what you told me," Mr. Hedson insisted.

Mr. Lojacono flinched.

"Sir," Murdoch said politely, "what do you know about a bottle of Bache-Gabrielsen cognac, owned by Mr. Conrad Landswell?"

Mr. Lojacono licked his lips, flicked his gaze to Hedson. "Si. I received the package myself from the man who delivered it. It came from Mr. Landswell's office on Wednesday, about four o'clock, with a note from Mr. Landswell to put it in his cabinet. So, I did."

Murdoch felt impatient but checked himself. "And how did the bottle get into the cabinet?" he asked as calmly as possible.

Mr. Lojacono pointed to the corridor wall. "Like this." He removed a key from his pocket and proceeded to insert it into what Murdoch at first took for being a plain wall, but which he now understood was the back wall of the dozens of private 'cubbies' filled with alcohol. Mr. Lojacono pulled the back door open, motioned putting a bottle in, then closed the cubby back up. Murdoch noticed that although each patron had a key to the front of his private vault, there was a single master key which opened all the backsides. "Only one key. I keep this key, always. No one else. I put the bottle in for him, like I do whenever a member sends one along to be locked in."

Murdoch saw how nervous the man was, but also how hard he was trying to show he had nothing to hide. "How did you know the note was from Mr. Landswell?"

"Stationery from his office. I know his signature."

When Murdoch gave him a sharp look, Mr. Hedson explained. "Members do not bring cash to purchase their meal, here, Detective. That is how we make sure no one can accuse us of selling alcohol. Members sign a chit and settle up at the end of the month. And before you ask, only members may sign, and we have signature cards as a safeguard."

Murdoch wasn't completely satisfied but went on. "Mr. Lojacono, was it unusual for Mr. Landswell to send a bottle around?"

The man considered, looking to Hedson for permission to be candid. "Si. The bottle of Bache-Gabrielsen. Mr. Landswell, he did not have such good taste."

It was not exactly the question he was asking, but he got a better answer anyways. Murdoch appreciated the bluntness. "Was the bottle sealed or opened?"

"Already opened," was Mr. Lojacono's answer.

Just what Murdoch expected. He finished with a few more questions about the key and the bottle, the delivery and how the club operates. He'd have to investigate Mr. Lojacono to see if the man had a grudge against Conrad Landswell, or could have been bribed by Rocco Perri into poisoning him for money or revenge, with the same questions for the delivery man if he could be found. Murdoch was fast running out of manpower. Even if he kept Crabtree and Higgins on Landswell, then had Hodge and Worseley head up the other alcohol poisonings with the remaining constables, he'd put in for even more overtime.

He spent another twenty minutes making sure it was not a simple matter of picking the lock to get into the cubbies, but he found no evidence Landswell's lock had been tampered with or forced. Frustrated, he went back down to the kitchen, poking in corners for the names of each cleaning product on the premises, getting Mr. Hedson to take him to the basement as well, in case the poison was introduced while the bottle was at the club.

He decided to take one more look at the room where Landswell's body was found. The buzz of activity and raised voices was audible while he was still in the downstairs kitchen. Lovely Lucerne was being pounded out in an up-tempo waltz by the pianist - he recognized the tune as one Constable Higgins had taken to humming.

An unexpected wash of apprehension overcame him when he entered the salon, sensing before seeing Dr. Ogden and then her companion, Dr. McDaniels. He liked the older woman, grey threading her wavy brown hair, giving her an aura of mature wisdom. She was a competent pathologist and an able witness on the stand.

They did not see him. Dr. McDaniels had her hand on Dr. Ogden's arm, and they were laughing, deep in conversation. He hesitated, then decided to approach, formulating what he was going to say. He hoped his eyes did not betray him. Both women were decked out in trousers, less revealing, yet undoubtedly more scandalous than what Dr. Ogden and her sister wore last night. Dr. McDaniels wore a bespoke tuxedo, raising his long-standing suspicion that she was in fact an invert, attracted to women.

He found it rattled him to consider the same might be true of the younger Dr. Ogden. He decided he'd been foolish, then, to have been put off by her apparent forwardness with him, thinking she had been trying to flirt with him.

Pity...

He got right up to them and almost said, Good evening, ladies. "Good evening, Dr. McDaniels, Dr. Ogden," to keep the encounter professional, despite the party atmosphere and the women's decidedly unprofessional attire.

"Detective Murdoch!" Dr. McDaniels turned in her seat to greet him. She left her hand on Dr. Ogden's arm. "We were just talking about you."

Murdoch flinched inwardly in case the laughter he witnessed was at his expense. He said nothing, merely set his face into an inquiring placidness.

"I was going to speak with you Monday morning, Detective," Dr. Ogden added. "Are you here on the investigation?"

"Yes. I was getting more information about the bottle our victim drank from, how it got here, its security, and any possible chemicals on premises which could have supplied the poison...er, whenever we have it nailed down." He made sure it was not actually a complaint. "I have a question for you, Doctor, if I may intrude into your pleasure this evening."

"And that is?"

"Did Mr. Landswell have any conditions which would have earned him a deferment from military service?"

"Nothing I could find on gross examination, I already told you. I suppose his hearing or eyesight might have gotten him sidelined. Why?"

"Just a loose end," he answered, having one more thing now to check off.

"Any new leads, detective?" Dr. McDaniels asked.

"Perhaps. Mr. Landswell's bottle of cognac arrived on Wednesday, from his office. He did not sample it until Friday night. It makes me interested to know where he was on Thursday, since he was not here at the club. I checked."

"Well," Dr. Ogden spoke up brightly, "I think we have information for you. The gossip around here says Mr. Landswell used to bring in a lady friend on Thursday evenings for a small supper. I am told they had recently parted ways. Quite recently."

Dr. McDaniels leaned forward, grinning as she whispered. "Don't they say poison is a female's weapon, Detective?"

He straightened, immediately interested. Could the woman who's name I found in Landswell's house be this same lady friend? In his mind, he was already re-writing tomorrow's assignments for his men.

Dr. Ogden disrupted his attention again with her light laugh. "You know Agrippina the Younger is rumored to have poisoned her husband Claudius so her son Nero could become Emperor. That certainly didn't work out well, or there was the much-maligned Lucrezia Borgia and of course, one must remember Catherine de Medici, who avenged her husbands and sons," she challenged with a grin. "Perhaps we should be looking for an Aqua Tofana of sorts?"

Murdoch still wondered if Dr. Ogden was flirting with him - then he saw Dr. McDaniel's hand remained on Dr. Ogden's arm. Well, challenge accepted anyways, he thought. "Aqua Tofana? Yes, Giulia Tofana, a 17th century Italian woman who made a potent elixir which helped women to obtain an ersatz Italian divorce, shall we say? Of course, she and her daughter eventually hung for their crimes, though, and took the exact recipe with them to their grave," he added, smiling in delight in their shocked expressions.

He tipped his hat to them both. "Thank you, both. No Aqua Tofana poisoning I think, Dr. Ogden, since you have already ruled out inorganic compounds such as arsenic and lead. But as Alexandre Dumas has said, we certainly will Cherchez la femme!"

As he turned around to leave the way he entered, he managed to suppress any laughter until he was back in the alleyway behind the club. "I'm not quite the ignorant copper you believed I was, eh, Dr. Ogden?" he murmured to himself as he mounted his motorcycle, adjusted his eye protection, and sped off into the summer night with all the 18 horsepower in her engine, opting to take the long route back to the station so he could spend the extra time to think.

He decided one thing right off the top: send a constable around first thing tomorrow to look for the woman who wrote all those letters he found at Landswell's house: Edwina Virgil.

I will also be interested in seeing how this mystery woman reacts to identifying his body in the morgue...


"Know-it-all…" Mick muttered, whilst saluting the detective's departure with her drink.

Julia heard the piano player start into the chorus of Teasin', one of Paul Specht's and his Society Serenaders orchestra hits.

"...teasin', but still it's pleasin'. Is that the reason, you're always teasin'? This hesitating, is aggravating, you know I'm waiting…"

Julia watched him leave, oddly disturbed as she fell back into her chair, her eyes never once leaving his fine backside as he purposely and proudly strode out. "They certainly are diverting their best resources to the high-profile cases." Julia sighed, downing her drink in one gulp and signaling for another.

"Are you sure you haven't any interest in him, Julia?"

"I do declare you are as bad as Ruby. Of course, he tempts me," Julia sputtered. "However, he's married, and none too interested in me," she exhaled. "It's been a long time since I've seen a fit, young, physically able male is all. The fact he has a fine mind to accompany his looks and physique, well, it's not fair," she laughed as her new drink was set in front of her, unwilling to admit her bet with her sister.

"Even I notice it," Mick laughed in return. "I suppose we should just be thankful that by all appearances, he's on the side of good because he could certainly get away with evil incarnate looking like he does with brains like that."

Turning back to her companion, Julia got serious again. "Speaking of bad, I do not think they are taking all these deaths seriously, Mick. Oh, maybe Mr. Landswell, friend of the Mayor - what about those other poor people in the cooler?"

"Do you need help? I can manage a morning or afternoon, or two. I can probably get reinstated, especially if I volunteer my time."

"I wasn't trying to manipulate you, although at this point I'd appreciate it. I forgot how physically demanding dissections are, more demanding than a surgical residency." Mick was a vigorous woman, more than twenty-five years her senior, and while her friend was athletic, it was an imposition to ask. "No, what I was thinking about was looking into it myself. However, that is all for another time. I've seen enough of death for one day, and I have a weekend to relax. After all - my work isn't going anywhere."

"I certainly hope not." Mick laughed. "This time, I promise no more dead bodies, although to be fair it was Ruby who dragged you here yesterday… She gave your mother most of her grey hairs."

"Ruby is going to give everyone grey hair. Speaking of Mother, are you coming to her next salon? She has a new painting which she absolutely adores. She says it is mildly scandalous, whatever that means. And, she has rented it, if you can imagine, says renting art is all the rage, allowing one to enjoy variety without any commitment."

Mick dropped her voice and set a sly smile on her lips. "Variety without commitment…It sounds divine…"

It dawned on Julia Mick was not talking about art. She giggled. "You must come - I think Mother's new gentleman friend will be attending…"