Jack in the Box by Hania Allen

district. It stood on the opposite side of the street to the Trocadero, but nearer Piccadilly Circus. A four-storeyed Victorian building, it was faced with Portland stone and crowned with a small cupola. It had never been profitable, and had come close to being earmarked for redevelopment after the war, but a former actor who remembered his days treading the boards had bought it for an undisclosed sum. Although the theatre had been saved, few funds were available for its upkeep, and its steady decline began. The entrance, once a forest of white columns, was reinforced with concrete blocks, and the rich mahogany doors had been replaced with steel-framed glass.
    ‘Bit of a dive,’ said Steve, pulling at the door. ‘Couldn’t see Swan Lake performed here.’
    A grand staircase swept up from the foyer into darkness. There were doors on either side, and a flight of steps leading to the basement. The carpet, which had originally been red, was faded and starting to fray, and the all-pervading smell was a blend of floral room spray and carpet cleaner.
    A woman in a superbly tailored red suit was standing at the foot of the staircase, an anxious look on her face. Seeing them, she smiled hesitantly, then came forward, hand extended.
    Steve’s jaw dropped. ‘Ding dong,’ he said, under his breath.
    ‘Miss Horowitz?’ said Von. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Valenti. This is Detective Inspector English.’
    The woman shook hands. ‘Please, we don’t stand on ceremony here. Everyone calls me Chrissie.’
    ‘And I’m Steve,’ he said, grasping her hand firmly.
    Her gaze lingered on his face. Von noticed he seemed reluctant to relinquish his hold.
    ‘I thought I’d better come and scoop you up,’ Chrissie said. ‘This is a real rabbit warren. You need to lay a trail of coloured beads if you want to find your way back from anywhere.’ Her laugh was full-throated and confident. ‘Shall we go to my office?’ Without waiting for a reply, she turned and disappeared through a door.
    They followed her down the cramped corridors.
    Von glanced at Steve. ‘You okay?’ she murmured. ‘You look as though you’re having difficulty breathing.’
    ‘Wow, boss, I hadn’t expected such a goddess.’
    She smiled mischievously. ‘She’s taller than you, Steve.’
    ‘Only because she’s wearing heels.’
    With or without heels, Chrissie Horowitz was tall for a woman. Von, who had never been able to wear stilettos, admired the effortless way she walked without slipping. Her skirt was tight over her narrow hips, the length just the right side of elegant, and her jacket, reaching to the edge of the skirt, was cutto accommodate her large bust. Von made a mental note to find out where she shopped. Chrissie’s appearance seemed at odds with the general shabbiness of the building, and Von wondered if all theatre managers were as glamorous.
    Chrissie stopped outside a door and fumbled with her keys. ‘Do come in. I’ve sent for coffee.’
    The small dark office was made darker by the low ceiling. Whatever wallpaper had been pasted up had long since been covered in paint, presumably in an attempt to brighten the room, which held nothing but a cluttered desk, several chairs, and stacks of cardboard boxes.
    Chrissie arranged herself behind the desk. Von and Steve took the chairs opposite.
    ‘Miss Horowitz—,’ Von began.
    Chrissie raised a hand, smiling. ‘Chrissie.’
    ‘Chrissie. I expect you know why we’re here.’
    ‘I’m assuming it’s about poor Maxie. I’ve already had the press snooping around, sniffing for a story. But what could I tell them?’
    ‘We’re hoping you can tell us something that will help us catch his killer. How long did you know Max?’
    Chrissie ran her hands down her thighs. ‘Less than three weeks. I’d corresponded with him about the forthcoming show, of course, but I didn’t actually meet him till he arrived in London.’
    ‘Can you remember the date?’ Steve said, writing.
    ‘It would