by Rhys Bowen
I reached out my hand to shake his. “You’ve been most helpful,” I said and felt him slip the bill into his own palm. “She wouldn’t have a name, this exotic woman?”
“They never have names, only kitten, sugar, or honeybun,” he said, really smiling now.
I came away feeling more optimistic. Exotic-looking. The type you don’t bring home to Mother. That definitely implied the theater to me. It so happened that I knew a bit about the theater life. While I had been working undercover in a theater, I had seen the stage-door Johnnies in operation—those rich young men who hung around theaters, plying leading ladies and chorus girls alike with champagne and flowers. Maybe Mr. Poindexter had met his lady-love this way. Tomorrow I’d start to make the rounds of the theaters and see what turned up.
Now that I had a plan I felt more satisfied as I made my way home. I let myself into my house with a sigh of relief and turned on the gas in the hall. As I was about to go upstairs to get out of this most unattractive of outfits, I glanced into my sitting room and froze. There were some sheets of paper on my floor. I confess to not being the most tidy of individuals, but I would never go out leaving papers on the floor. I went in cautiously and lit the gas bracket. I picked up the papers and examined them. They had been on the stack on my table—of no significance in themselves except that I hadn’t seen them for a couple of weeks. And the papers that had been on top of the stack were there no longer. I could come to only one conclusion—somebody had been in my house.
Of course the moment I came to this realization, the next step was to wonder whether the intruder was still here. I checked the windows but found them shut as before. There was no sign of a forced entry. I hesitated to go upstairs, but when I finally got up the courage, I found the windows up there were likewise shut. Daniel had a key, so that was the most obvious of explanations. Maybe he had found himself near Greenwich Village and had stopped by for a few minutes’ rest. But why would he have gone through my papers? To see if he could find out the truth about my client? No. I shook my head. I could not think that of him.
So who could have gained access to the place, and for what purpose? I crossed the street and knocked on Sid and Gus’s door.
“Molly, how nice,” Sid said. “We were about to eat. Why don’t you join us.”
I felt embarrassed then, as if she might have thought that I only showed up for food. “I don’t want to trouble you,” I said, “but I wondered whether you happened to notice anybody outside my house at any time today.”
“I’m afraid we’d be of no use at all,” Sid said. “I have been fully occupied writing letters. I’ll have you know that I have been in correspondence with none other than the great Susan B. Anthony.”
I wasn’t quite sure who this person was but I nodded as if impressed. Sid went on, “And Gus is painting up a storm. Now she’s inspired to do a mural. She wants to portray oppressed people, starting with the children of Israel in Egypt and ending with the women of America seeking the vote.”
I tried not to smile. “And where would she do this mural?”
“That’s the problem. We need a large white wall and ours are all papered and full of knickknacks. So now we have to find a friendly white wall somewhere in New York.”
“I have one in my bedroom,” I said, “but I don’t think I’d like to wake up to the struggles of oppressed people.”
She laughed merrily. “Molly, you are so amusing. Come and have some dinner, do.”
I was tempted. My stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten for quite a while. “But this is serious, Sid. I think someone has entered my house while I was away.”
“Broke in, you mean?”
“There is no sign of a break-in, but my papers have been moved.”
Sid smiled. “I’m sure you’re imagining things, my sweet. It is easy to move a few papers while our thoughts are on something else.”
I shook my head. “But the papers I had just been dealing with were no longer on top of the pile.”
“Was anything taken?” She looked concerned now.
“Not that I could see.”
“So someone entered your house without breaking any locks, disturbed your papers, and then vanished again?”
“It does sound improbable. Maybe it was only Daniel, who had a few minutes to kill and . . .” I broke off, not wanting to say this out loud.
“Amused himself by rifling through your desk? Surely not.”
“I sincerely hope not,” I said. Then I remembered Fanny telling me that she had searched through her husband’s drawers looking for the necklace he had bought. Did husbands and wives do this regularly?
Sid took my sleeve and pulled me into the house. “We can ask Gus if she spotted anybody from her studio window, but I’m sure she was too absorbed in her painting to notice a thunderbolt descending on New York. Now, for heaven’s sake, come and eat.”
This time I allowed myself to be led into the kitchen.
Thirteen
When I got home I conducted a thorough inspection of the house and found nothing missing or in any way disturbed. I now concluded that it was just possible I had sent papers flying in my hurry to leave and that my overactive imagination had done the rest. But just to make sure I penned Daniel a note, asking if he had visited my house while I was out that evening.
The next morning’s mail delivery brought the first replies from various missionary headquarters. Not one had ever employed a couple called Boswell. I decided it was time for a little more subterfuge. I put on my business two-piece, twisted my hair into a severe bun, placed a pair of spectacles on my nose to complete the bluestocking effect, and set off for the mansion of Mr. Horace Lynch, a notebook clutched in one hand. I was told by the butler that Mr. Lynch was in his study, and after a brief consultation he returned to say that he would see me.
I was taken down a hallway decorated with Greek and Roman statues and shown into an impressive wood-paneled study. Mr. Horace Lynch was sitting at a splendid mahogany desk. He was older than I had expected. I had known that he was older than Emily’s Aunt Lydia, but this man must have been well into his sixties. He was almost bald, with unattractive strands of hair combed across his pate. A gold watch-chain was stretched across an impressive paunch, and he had a face like a British bulldog, with large, sagging jowls. He did not rise as I was shown into the room.
“Well, what’s this about?” he demanded. “I’m a busy man. And if you’re angling for a subscription to some charitable organization you’re wasting your time. I never give to charities.”
“Nothing of the kind, sir. I will not waste your valuable time. I am just seeking some information for a book I’m writing.” I tried to eliminate my Irish accent and speak in a most refined manner.
“Information, huh? Of what nature?”
“I am writing a book on the history of the Christian missions in China. I am especially focusing on those missionaries who made the supreme sacrifice of giving their lives for the faith over there.” I detected an instant change in his demeanor. His gaze was suddenly sharp, almost wary. I continued with my rehearsed piece. “One of my classmates at Vassar was your niece, Emily, and I recall she told me that her parents had died in a cholera epidemic while serving as missionaries in that country.”
“That is correct,” he said.
“How very tragic for your family. I wondered if you could give me details of their lives in China, or if you have any photographs I could include in my book.”
He rose to his feet now, his paunch extending over the desktop. “I’d like to help you, Miss Murphy, but I’m afraid this couple were only distant relatives of my wife. I never even met them, or had any kind of contact with them.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “Maybe you could let me know where I might locate relatives of your wife who could supply me with more information.”
“I’d like to help you, but my wife’s parents died when she was a child. She was raised by a great-aunt who has since died and I understood that she has
no other living relatives—which was why we had to take in the child, of course. My wife was of a very tender nature and wouldn’t hear of it going to an orphanage.” A spasm of pain crossed his face as he said this.
“It was very noble of you,” I said.
“It was indeed,” he said. “Now if you will excuse me, Miss Murphy. I am due to meet a man at my club within the hour. My butler will show you out.”
“If you could just supply me with the basic facts about them, then I could pursue my inquiries through the appropriate missionary society,” I went on, maybe unwisely. “Their full names, where they came from. You must know that much from Emily’s birth certificate, surely?”
His face was now decidedly red. “She had no birth certificate, damn it. The child was the only survivor of a cholera epidemic, so we understood. Whisked to safety by a devoted Chinese servant. I’m sorry, but I can be of no further use to you. I suggest you focus your story on other missionaries who will prove easier to trace. Good day to you. Jenkins!” He bellowed this last word. “This young woman is leaving.”
I had no choice but to be escorted out. So I was none the wiser, or was I? One thing I was now sure of was that Mr. Horace Lynch did know more about Emily’s parents. He just wasn’t willing to share that information with me. So far my investigation into Emily’s past was getting me nowhere. I hoped for more rapid success in my assignment for Fanny Poindexter, or I wouldn’t be making enough money to pay the rent.
As far as Emily’s family history was concerned, I wasn’t sure where to go from here. Wait until I got a reply from all the missionary societies, of course. But then? I knew where her Aunt Lydia had been born. I would have to find the time to pay a visit to Massachusetts, but I couldn’t do that until I had fulfilled my obligation to Fanny. I made my way back to Pearl Street and located my cabby. He had nothing to report. Mr. Poindexter had not left his office all day, as far as he could tell. It seemed that he had roped in some of his fellow cab drivers to keep watch when he had a fare, so I felt confident that the building was being well covered. I suggested he pay particular attention to listening for the name of a particular theater.
I was on my way to do the rounds of the theaters when it suddenly struck me that I had sources within the theater who might be able to supply me with information. The first of these was Oona Sheehan, who had rooms in the Hoffman House, a swank hotel on Broadway and Twenty-fourth. Miss Sheehan’s maid informed me that her mistress was resting prior to the evening performance and was not to be disturbed. I decided that Miss Sheehan owed me a favor or two after what she had put me through on the way to Dublin, and sent the maid to tell her that Molly Murphy needed to see her.
This produced results. I was shown into Miss Sheehan’s boudoir and found her draped in a delightful green silk robe, trimmed with feathers.
“Molly, my dear—” She held out a languid hand to me. I wondered if she was playing Camille. She patted the bed beside her. I sat and explained briefly what I wanted. She frowned prettily. “Poindexter? The name does ring a bell. I believe he sent me flowers, years ago. A good-looking boy, I seem to remember.”
I produced the photograph. She nodded. “Yes, I do remember him.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard any rumor about who might be the current object of his affection?”
“My dear child, I haven’t the least interest in who is bedding whom if it doesn’t concern me.”
“She was described as exotic looking,” I prompted.
She gave that delightful, tinkling laugh. “Aren’t we all, darling? Aren’t we all?”
None the wiser, I went to my second source in the theater, the irrepressible playwright Ryan O’Hare. I found him in his rooms at the Hotel Lafayette, just off Washington Square.
“Molly, my darling. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said, rising from his desk to embrace me. He was dressed in a white peasant shirt with ruffles at the cuffs and the front open to reveal his chest. His black hair was unkempt and he looked delightfully Byronesque. “Where have you been these past weeks? Devoting all your time to that brute of a policeman, I expect.”
“Not at all. I’ve been working.”
“Working. Exactly what I’ve been doing myself. Working feverishly on a new play. Best thing I’ve ever done, Molly. The theater world will be stunned. Amazed. Agog.”
“I’m glad for you. When is it to open?”
“Ah, now there’s the rub. I’m still without a backer. I had a certain man-about-town in my pocket, my dear. Ready to shell out millions for me and then—disaster.”
“He died?”
“Worse. He went back to his wife.”
I had to laugh. Ryan joined me.
“At least life is never dull with you, Ryan,” I said, and told him of my current mission. He looked at me, then burst out laughing. “Now, Molly, my sweet. Why on earth would I show any interest at all in young men who hang around stage doors to pick up women?”
There was nothing for it but to visit every theater, one by one. I headed for Broadway and began to show Mr. Poindexter’s photograph at the various stage doors. Luckily stage doors are guarded by wise and fierce old men who usually keep a fatherly eye on the welfare of the female members of the cast. This includes keeping away unwanted admirers and taking up gifts from those in favor. I showed Poindexter’s likeness at one theater after another, with no luck. One or two of the stage-door keepers thought they might have seen him, but they had to confess that handsome young men in top hat and tails tend to look alike.
After several hours of walking the streets around Broadway, I was feeling tired and dispirited. I hadn’t begun to visit every theater, not to mention the vaudeville houses and nightclubs. This could take me days, if not weeks. What I needed now was a piece of luck.
On Thursday my generous tip to the cabby paid off. The day before, Mr. Poindexter had left the office in the middle of the afternoon and had been gone for just over an hour. My cabby himself had driven him to an address on East Twenty-first Street. I took a less expensive means of transportation to that street myself, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. A French maid opened it.
“Hello,” I said in friendly fashion. “Would this be the house of Mrs. James Delaney?”
“No,” she said in distinctly foreign tones. “Zis is zee residence of Mademoiselle Fifi Hetreau.”
The name rang a vague bell. Something I had seen on a billboard, maybe? I took a stab at it. “Fifi Hetreau? Isn’t she a dancer?” I asked.
“Mais oui,” she said. “You have heard of her? You like to attend the theater?”
“It’s my brother who’s rather keen on the theater,” I said confidentially. “And he is a great admirer of Mademoiselle Fifi, I gather. Do you think she’d give me her autograph for him?”
“She is not at ’ome, miss,” the maid said. “I’m sorry.”
“No matter. Do you think she’d give him the time of day if he came to visit in person?”
“I am sure she would give him an autograph, miss, but zat is all. She has a beau who would be very jealous,” She wagged her finger in a very French manner and laughed.
I departed then and headed straight for the Dakota. At last I had something to report. I had no proof as yet, but I would certainly be able to produce the necessary snapshot in due time.
I was just approaching Fanny’s front door when it opened and Dorcas, one of the young women from last Sunday’s little gathering, came out. She looked startled when she saw me. “Oh, Molly, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” I said. “Is Mrs. Poindexter at home?”
“She is, but I’m afraid she’s not well.”
“Oh dear, what’s wrong?”
“They think it’s the influenza that’s been going around. The doctor was just here.”
“I see. Would I be permitted to see her, do you think?”
She glanced warily into the hall. “I was only with her for a couple of minutes before her mother arrived and shushed me out,
so I suspect the answer to that is probably no.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “I had some news I wanted to share with her, but it will have to wait for another time.”
“You could leave her a note,” Dorcas suggested. “Ask the maid to bring you a pen and some writing paper.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll make a swift recovery with all that attention.”
“I’m sure she will. Fanny always liked to give the impression of being delicate, but she’s really the toughest of any of us.” Dorcas smiled. “I’d better be going. I want to see little Toodles before Nanny puts him to bed.”
I was in the process of asking for writing paper when a matronly woman came out of a door and looked at me in surprise. “I came to see Fanny,” I said. “You must be her mother. I am Molly Murphy, one of her friends, but I gather she’s not well enough for visitors at the moment.”
“I’m afraid she’s not,” the older woman said in that sort of imperious voice that upper-class matrons develop. I could see her checking out my clothing and clearly making the decision that I was not of her daughter’s class. “In fact I’ve asked the doctor to hire a nurse for her. I have a social engagement this evening and I do not think she should be left alone. And that husband of hers is out again. Not that men are any good around a sickbed, are they?”
We exchanged a smile. “I thought I might write Fanny a note. I had a message for her I’d like her to have.”
“I would be happy to deliver a message, if you so desire,” Fanny’s mother suggested.
“I think I’ll write it, if you don’t mind,” I said. I had no idea whether she had shared any of her suspicions about her husband with her family, and certainly didn’t want to stir up trouble.
“Very well. Come into the drawing room and I’ll have the maid bring you a pen and writing paper.” She ushered me through, seated me at a little table, and hovered over me while I wrote. I thought carefully before I wrote,
Fanny, you were right about our little discussion. My best wishes