Murder Offstage by L. B. Hathaway

her pale English-Rose complexion immediately. Dolly had
tut-tutted when Posie had protested that it was all hideously over the top:
    ‘No, no, lovey! Who cares if you look like a flamenco
dancer? The thing with theatrical people, you can never be too over the top.
The key is to blend in among them – it’s a whole other level. If you’re dressed down you’ll stand out.’
    So Posie found herself armed with dark sunglasses, a very
garish red lipstick and a low-cut crimson gown in a clingy mousseline fabric,
all courtesy of Dolly. Strings of glittering fake red pearls covered her
modesty a little up top, but she found herself wishing for a sensible pair of
shoes and a skirt she could actually move her legs in.
    Len had come as himself tonight, but he looked more than
usually gorgeous: he wore a dinner suit and sported a red rose in his
buttonhole. Posie had never seen him look so lovely. Just now he reminded her
of a nervous bloodhound, ears and eyes and all senses visibly alert for any
sign of action, his whole body tensed in anticipation of the next move; she
felt his desire to pound the pavements, pace the streets, get close to the
action. He must be like this when he works as a shadower , she thought to
herself briefly with a stab of wonder, and she felt relieved that she only ever
had to see him in his more cheerful, relaxed, off-duty hours. He was starting
to make her feel nervous.
    Suddenly, the Stage Door was flung open and four men came
out quickly, their dark silhouettes picked out against the bright light of the
inside. Then they were hugging the wall and melting into the shadows of the
night. Out of nowhere a dark cab with no headlamps bumped against the kerb
where they were lurking and the four men bundled in, in a frantic hurry. They
seemed weighed down with musical instruments.
    ‘Start up the engine!’ hissed Len to the driver. ‘Follow
that cab! Remember, no headlights. Go!’
    ‘What about Dolly?’ asked Posie fearfully, chewing one end
of her sunglasses. Len just shrugged, and as the engine shook itself into life
and they started to move off, the Stage Door flew open again and a tiny figure
shot out, hurling itself towards them. Posie opened the door wide and a
breathless Pierrot Doll jumped in. Behind them the second taxi full of
policemen had started moving, and as they turned they saw it was following
closely behind, bumper to bumper.
    ‘I can’t believe you were gonna go without me!’ Dolly
squeaked, adjusting her black skull hat which had come askew.
    ‘Shhh! Keep your voice low,’ Len whispered at her, crossly.
    ‘What’s wrong with him?’ whispered Dolly to Posie, the
painted black eyebrows on her white grease-painted face rising comically. Posie
sniggered, ‘I think he’s in work mode. He can’t see the funny side of anything
right now.’
    Len ignored them both and a nervous silence settled in their
cab. The snow meant less than the usual amount of people were out and about in
town, but the roads were still fairly busy with groups coming out of theatres
and restaurants. The cab ahead of them swung out of the Theatre District and
passed through Trafalgar Square before turning onto the Strand. It started to
pick up speed and drove along at a fair old pace.
    ‘Keep your distance! Keep your distance! We can’t have them
know we’re following them!’ said Len to the driver as the cab up ahead passed
by the Law Courts and the entrance to Fleet Street. St Paul’s, the greatest
cathedral on earth, glowed like a beacon in the distance at the top of Ludgate
Hill.
    All the newspaper buildings and printing presses in London
were crammed together here on Fleet Street and Posie noticed how the lights in
most of the buildings were still on, casting long blue shadows out over the
snowy street. Vans were parked waiting and lads with carts and horses were
standing ready outside most of the buildings. There was a frantic, festive
Christmassy atmosphere.
    ‘Late-night copy,’ said Len