“I think we can give him up, alas. He seems to have lost interest,” Phil said. “Wish me luck.”
“Good luck with your interrogations.”
“Really Bev, I’m merely going to hear her side of the story. And perhaps ask a few questions of my own.”
“Ask her if he was good in bed.”
“Oh, Bev, you’re hopeless.” Phil left the room wondering for the first time if trying to save Bev from this scrape would only postpone her getting into another—possibly as bad, perhaps worse.
She left the house a few minutes later without Lily and Preswick, both of whom put up numerous arguments about why she couldn’t go alone. But in the end she’d had her way. Not that she wouldn’t have appreciated their support, but she wasn’t sure what she would encounter. If her meeting with Mildred Potts would be considered contrary to Atkins’s investigation and if there were to be legal ramifications, she’d rather weather them alone than put her loyal servants at risk.
Bentley was waiting by the carriage when she came down the steps of the brownstone.
She hesitated. “Terrible business, Bentley.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“I don’t suppose you know who was driving the touring car that day?”
“No, my lady. The police asked me. I always meant to learn to drive. Just never seem to have the time.”
“It’s quite all right, Bentley. Good carriage men are worth their weight in gold.”
He smiled at that. “Thank you, my lady.”
“Do any of the staff drive?”
“Not to my knowledge, my lady.”
“Thank you, Bentley. I see that our ever-vigilant police guard has been removed from his place across the street?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She stepped into the carriage. He pulled up the steps and closed the door, and soon they were headed downtown. Phil had rather enjoyed the notion of a police escort everywhere she went. But even knowing that she wasn’t being followed didn’t prevent her from feeling uneasy on the ride to visit the Florodora girl.
And she kept thinking of the lines from Shakespeare, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.” It wasn’t her thumbs that were feeling prickly. It was the back of her neck. It might just be the itchy fabric of the veil, but she had a lowering feeling that there was menace afoot.
So much so, that she kept looking out from the carriage to make sure she hadn’t missed something.
They turned onto a wide boulevard past Central Park, where the trees and shrubs were displaying their greenery over a low stone wall. It seemed a poplar place as the entrance was crowded with pedestrians.
After a few minutes the carriage slowed at a traffic circle large enough to accommodate carriages, automobiles, and trolleys. Several streets created a pinwheel from the center, and Bentley turned the carriage down one of these. Broadway, Phil presumed.
This was a wide thoroughfare, lined by storefronts and peddlers selling everything imaginable. Traffic ran in fits and starts, as the trolleys passed them without slowing down only to stop suddenly to disgorge and take on passengers and speed off again. Several blocks later, they entered the theater district.
Marquees lined the street above double entrances, Unlit now, at dusk the electrified lights would line the avenue like a carnival or Guy Fawkes day.
After several blocks, Bentley turned the carriage to the left and they entered a narrow street. Here, too, theaters lined the sidewalks.
Just a few doors in from the corner, they came to a stop in front of a big brick building that rose several stories high, its façade broken by rows of faux windows.
It didn’t look nearly so glamorous up close.
For an instant, Phil wished she’d brought Preswick along with her.
She’d never been backstage at a theater. She’d met several fine actresses and actors in society, but never a chorus girl, at least not formally, which according to Bev made her old-fashioned, something she’d never in her life been accused of.
Bentley let down the steps and helped her from the carriage. “Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you? The boy can handle the team until I return.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Bentley, but how do I find backstage?”
He pointed out a narrow metal door set back into the wall several feet from the main entrance.
It seemed early for Mimi to be at the theater. She was basically a showgirl, nothing against the profession, but not the most challenging of theater roles. After all, it was mainly a matter of putting on makeup and changing into her costume. And Phil had witnessed enough after-theater parties to know chorus girls could change out of costumes fast enough.
Bentley climbed back up onto box.
Phil stood on the sidewalk for another minute, gathering her courage. On the far side of the front door a stagehand leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He seemed in no hurry to get back to work.
To tell the truth, she wasn’t looking forward to going inside either. Which was ridiculous—that was why she’d come. She took another minute to practice, “Good afternoon, I’m the Countess of Dunbridge,” wondering if the guardian of the stage door would actually let her in.
As she stood there, four women hurried down the street and converged on the stage door. When it opened, Phil converged with them, signed the call book, then scurried down the hall with the others before the doorman realized she wasn’t really a cast member.
Her name was on the door: MIMI LAPONTE. Paid for by Reggie, no doubt. It was unusual for a chorus girl to have a private dressing room.
She tapped lightly and, getting no response, opened the door.
Two people were seated in front of a long mirror surrounded by lights. One was Mimi and the other was Bobby Mullins.
Mimi shrieked and jumped up. “Who are you? This is a private dressing room.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” Phil said, and pulled back her veil. What was Mullins doing here? Taking over Reggie’s stables in more ways than one?
Bobby pushed to his feet, straightened his tie, and snatched his bowler from his head. “Countess, your, um, lady. What are you doing here?”
“Why, I came to see Mimi, of course. Lovely digs you have here, my dear.”
Mimi shot Bobby a confused look.
So much for the advertised “beautiful, long-legged Florodora girls.” Mildred Potts was at least a head shorter than Phil. She was voluptuous and pretty enough, but not beautiful to Phil’s way of thinking, and with hair that couldn’t possibly be her natural color.
Bobby kneaded the brim of his hat. “This here is the Countess of Dun-Dun—”
“Dunbridge,” Phil supplied. “You know, I’ve never been backstage in a theater. This is delightful.” It actually wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. There was a table for making up, a chaise covered by a Moroccan tapestry and several throw pillows. A small table with the remnants of lunch. A hanging rack with a pink chiffon costume, and a wide-brimmed black picture hat and ruffled parasol. Phil recognized the costume from the advertisement bill.
Several large bouquets of white roses crowded one corner of the room. They looked quite fresh. All delivered today once the news broke that Mimi would be returning to her role as one of the Florodora girls?
Mimi was wrapped in a dressing gown of some shiny fabric that must be one of the new synthetics. Evidently Reggie’s beneficence didn’t go as far as the dressing gowns. Or perhaps that was her lucky talisman. Actresses were notoriously superstitious.
She was holding a crumpled sheet of paper in her hand. There were several other sheets of crumpled paper on the dressing table.
“I see your admirers are delighted to have you back.”
“What do you want?”
“Just a little chat.” Phil wandered over to the dressing table, picked up a bottle of eau de cologne, and sniffed. Wrinkled her nose and put it down again. She turned to face the other two.
“Shall we make ourselves comf
ortable?”
Bobby jumped as if awakened from a deep sleep, quickly looked around as if he had no idea where he was, and pulled up a chair for Philomena, tripping over his feet like an actor in a bad melodrama.
Phil sat.
“You’re that friend of Reggie’s wife what was at the docks that day.” Mimi sniffed and groped for a hankie. “Poor Reggie.”
“Yes, so unfortunate.”
“Why are you here? I have to get ready for the matinee, and now this.” She tightened her fist around the paper she was holding.
“A letter from an admirer?” Phil asked, thinking that John Atkins’s methods of questioning a suspect were much more efficient. Perhaps it was time to use her more finely honed, drawing room skills.
She pulled her chair closer to Mimi’s. “You poor dear. This must have been such an ordeal for you.”
Mimi opened her eyes over her handkerchief. “Why do you care?” came the muffled reply.
“Well.” Phil moved even closer, felt Bobby being drawn in, too. His presence was something she hadn’t anticipated. And he was definitely nervous about hers. She’d have to deal with him later.
“If you’ve come here to accuse me of murder, you can hold your peace. The cops let me go. It was humiliating, the things they said, I can tell you.”
“Do.”
Mimi frowned.
“Do tell me,” Phil added. “I can’t imagine what it was like. Was it that Detective Sergeant Atkins? He’s been annoying us to no end. He’s had a guard on the house and everything. I had to, um, give him the slip just to go shopping yesterday. And today … well…”
Mimi flashed a look toward Bobby. “Did you see any policemen outside?”
“Naw, Mimi. They’re done with you.” He turned toward Phil. “They’re done with her, Mrs. Countess.”
“Are they indeed?”
“They’ll never be done with me. Becker will hound me do death.”
“Becker? I’ve heard he’s a tough, um, cop.”
“Tough?” Mimi laughed hysterically.
Phil hurried on before it became a full-scale breakdown. “How did you ever convince them that you didn’t kill him?”
“I didn’t kill him.” Mimi burst into tears.
“Well, who on earth do you think did?”
“Not me. They think it was the driver. Seems they can’t find him anywhere.”
“Oh, that would be a relief to all of us.”
Mimi cut off crying to stare at her. “It would?”
“What I mean is, then you and Beverly Reynolds would both be, um, off the hook.”
“Well, I still say she did it. And I don’t care if you are her friend and go running off to tell her. Reggie was going to leave her. We’re were going to sail away that very day. She must have found out about it.”
“You think she killed him?”
“Of course. She was insanely jealous. And if she found out—”
“Mimi,” Bobby warned. “No use bad-mouthing Bev Reynolds. She and the countess here are good friends. She’s staying at the town house. Begging your pardon, um, ma’am.”
“Think nothing of it. We’re both women of the world. Did you tell the police your suspicions? I only arrived after Reggie, rest his soul, was dead. What a horrible experience for you.”
Mimi nodded, and Phil prayed she wouldn’t resort to more tears.
“What happened? Can you bear to tell me?”
She could and with dramatic flare. “There was such a crowd and we couldn’t get through. And Reggie told the driver to go move them out of the way, and he was gone a really long time, and Reggie was getting fidgety. Kept looking around saying, ‘Damn the man, where is he?’ Then all of a sudden he says, ‘I better find him,’ and he started to get out of the touring car. Then there’s this explosion and Reggie fell back and he … and he … died in my arms.” She threw out those arms and looked down at her lap, which had the effect of opening her robe to display ample mounds of bosom. Phil looked away, but Bobby was mesmerized.
“So much blood, so much blood!”
“Oh, dear, how awful,” Phil broke in before Mimi’s account of the proceedings turned into a Lady Macbeth monologue. “Out, damned spot.”
“What?”
“Such a spot you were in.” Phil frowned, pursed her lips. “Don’t I recall you crying out that Reggie had shot himself?”
“Well, yes.” Another glance at Bobby. “That’s what I thought at first. You see, Reggie always carried a pistol, so I thought that his pistol must have fired by accident.”
“Was he holding his pistol?”
“I—I don’t know. No. What does it matter? When I opened my eyes—”
“You’d closed them?”
“I must have, because when I opened them, she was standing in the open door.”
“Was she holding a pistol?”
Mimi shrugged. “Yes, no, I don’t know.”
Phil had to discipline herself not to shake the silly woman until the truth fell out. She took Mimi’s hand and patted it. “How awful for you. Mr. Mullins, can you see if there’s tea in that pot still or perhaps a bit of brandy.” She kept patting Mimi’s hand while Bobby rummaged in a drawer and came up with a flask. “And I suppose that horrid Detective Atkins made you tell him every detail.”
“He did.” Mimi took the flask and sipped. “He started out such a gentleman, but he just wouldn’t stop asking me things. Over and over again. And he’s such a looker.”
“Isn’t he?” Phil said confidingly. “Who knew he could be so cruel? He was absolutely vicious with poor Bev.”
“He was?”
“Yes. Then yesterday he came by and said they were no longer interested in either of you, because they can’t find the driver and figure he did it.”
Bobby snorted. “I bet my granny’s teeth it weren’t Atkins. Someone higher up pulled a fast one.” Bobby fairly spit out the words.
Phil flinched. Someone higher up. Higher than Becker? So what was Atkins in all this? The honest policeman he claimed to be, or someone very smart at the game?
“Now, Bobby,” Mimi said, “you know you don’t want to go saying things like that about the cops. They just followed their noses and it led them to that driver.”
“That ain’t where it led them. But I’ll tell you to both your faces, none of our boys woulda killed Reggie. He treated ’em good.”
“Who was the driver? Do the police know?”
“No,” Mimi said.
“You didn’t tell them?”
“I don’t know who he was. Reggie always hired a driver when we were together, so’s we could get a good cuddle in the back, you know.”
Phil tried not to imagine. “They’re lucky that you were in the car. Being an actress, you are more observant than most people. I hope they rewarded you for giving them a good description of the man.”
Mimi snorted. “Fat chance. Plus I didn’t really notice him. I had more important things on my mind.”
No doubt, Phil thought.
“He was wearing a driving coat and cap and goggles. Who could tell what he looked like? It could’ve been Bobby, for all I know.”
“Oh, no it couldn’t,” Bobby said. “I’ve got an alibi.” He shot a look at Phil. “Besides, me and Reg, we were like this.” He pressed two fingers together.
“I didn’t mean you literally, Bobby.”
“If you’re wondering, ma’am, I was at customs dropping off Mimi’s trunks and things.”
“And Reggie’s?”
Bobby chewed on his bottom lip. “That’s what I don’t get. He said he didn’t have no trunks or anything and to just take Mimi’s.”
Aha, Phil thought. That explained the one suitcase. But not Bobby Mullins’s part in all this. If he played a part.
“Mr. Mullins, how did you know Reggie was planning a trip?”
“I didn’t. The first I ever heard of it was that morning when he telephoned me and said to run around to Mimi’s and pick up her trunks and deli
ver them to the dock.”
“Reggie decided to go to South America that morning?”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Mimi said. “It was going to be our honeymoon. That’s what he said.”
“So what will you do now?” Phil asked. “Besides your career.”
Mimi’s grasp had crumpled her hankie and the piece of paper she’d been holding into one soggy ball. She tossed it aside.
“I don’t know.”
A knock sounded at the door.
Mimi shot out of her chair. “Who is it?”
The door opened and a messenger boy carried in a big urn of roses.
Mimi stepped back. “No! No more. I can’t take this. Don’t bring any more flowers backstage.”
The boy dropped the flowers next to the others. Bobby flipped him a coin and he ran from the room.
Mimi seemed ready to start wailing again. Really, the girl was too melodramatic. Phil went over to the new bouquet to read the card.
“Good heavens. Were all these flowers accompanied by the same message?”
“Yes, they want to kill me!”
Phil half expected Mimi to throw herself on the chaise and cover her eyes with her arm, but she just didn’t have the finesse of an Eleonora Duse or Ethel Barrymore.
But Mimi did surprise her. Instead of lying down, she flung off the Moroccan tapestry to reveal a packed valise. She yanked several garments off a coatrack and crammed them on top, rushed to the dressing table and swept the makeup into a bag, which she tossed onto the clothes.
“Mimi, don’t lose your head. It’s just people who are spouting off.”
“Perhaps,” Phil said, rereading the words on the card: If you appear on the stage, you’re dead. A succinct sentiment, but an awfully expensive way to deliver it.
And who would send such a thing? Another jealous mistress who blamed Mimi for his death? How many did Reggie have? His racing cohorts, angry because they thought Mimi had killed their golden goose? Would they go for Bev next?
“I told Reggie it wouldn’t work. They killed him, and now they’re coming after me.”
Good heavens, Phil thought as she realized this had taken a totally unexpected turn. “Who are they?” she asked.
Ask Me No Questions Page 17