Murder Offstage by L. B. Hathaway Page A

knowledgably, glancing up
quickly at the huge art-deco black and white clock which dominated the entrance
to the London Evening Press building they were passing. It was almost
eleven o’clock. ‘Tomorrow’s morning editions are coming hot off the press right
now. Now, hang about…where’s he heading now? This is very roundabout!’
    The cab up ahead had turned quickly left and was racing up
Chancery Lane, taking its bends and corners at speed. At the top it hurtled
onto High Holborn and then turned another sharp left before the Holborn
Viaduct. This part of town was much quieter as it mainly consisted of office
buildings and residential flats. 
    The cab in front was now noticeably slowing down, and
ambling along next to a deserted snowy square. In the darkness ahead it came to
a sudden halt. There was a flurry of movement as the four men got out and the
cab skittered off again into the night.
    ‘Wait!’ ordered Len. ‘We’ll count to ten before we get out.
Understand? We can’t just jump on them. We need to follow them, not
ambush them.’
    Their own taxi moved in stately darkness to the same kerb,
and they got out. The police cab behind them did the same, and deposited
Inspector Lovelace and his two tuxedoed Sergeants on the pavement before
sailing off again to wait in the shadows. There was no sign anywhere now of the
four men from the theatre.
    Posie kept off her dark glasses; she needed all of her keen
eyesight right now to try and squint at the place they had come to. It didn’t
seem much, to be honest: a small quiet cobbled square surrounded on two sides
by snow-clad skeletal trees, a few empty iron benches scattered around the
place, and a shuttered wooden cabin at the back on the left, with a large
painted sign saying ‘TEAS AND SANDWICHES SOLD HERE’. It was a typical workers’
lunchtime spot.
    The square was illuminated weakly by one street lamp which
cast a fragile amber glow over the frozen snow. There were no people anywhere.
It was very dark and there was no moon above them.
    Inspector Lovelace came up behind them, his Sergeants
hanging back. When he had first learnt of the outing that afternoon he had
spent almost half an hour trying to dissuade Posie from having anything to do
with it, and when he realised she wouldn’t be shaken off lightly he had finally
given in with a begrudging acceptance. He didn’t look too happy at the total
lack of any sign of the nightclub, but to his credit he didn’t try and
apportion any blame.
    ‘Looks like we lost them, eh?’ he said flatly, blowing on
his hands for warmth.
    ‘Never mind. It was always a longshot. I guess they realised
they were being followed; so they jumped ship and scarpered. Thought they’d
lead us a merry chase across town first. There’s nothing here. We’re way off
the mark. Let’s be heading homewards.’
    ‘No,’ whispered Len, shaking his head, and holding back his
ear as if he was listening for birdsong.
    ‘Listen carefully. Can you hear that? What’s that noise?’
    They all looked at Len as if he were slightly mad, but then,
in the quiet of the snowy silent square, they heard a distinct but muffled
BOOM.
    Then again, at regular slow intervals: BOOM, BOOM, BOOM.
    ‘It’s a bass!’ whispered Dolly excitedly. ‘Or maybe a drum.
It’s music, anyhow. Nightclub music! But from where? This place is dead as a
dodo.’
    They all started frantically looking around the dark square.
    ‘Rainbird! Binny! Off you go!’ instructed Inspector
Lovelace.
    The two men headed over to the sandwich hut, reminding Posie
of a couple of flat-footed black crows trying not to skid across the ice. They
came back bemused when they found nothing.
    Then Posie and Dolly walked around the whole square, leaning
on each other so as not to go flying on their heels on the puddles of black
ice. And then Posie saw it, ahead.
    ‘That must be it,’ she muttered to herself, and
headed over to the very back of the square, at the far left, next to