In a Gilded Cage (11 page)

Twelve

T
he next day I decided I would have to resort to subterfuge. My former employer, Paddy Riley, had been a master of disguise. It was something I seldom used but this might be a good moment. Accordingly, I found my oldest clothes and topped them with a truly awful hat from the used clothing store on Greenwich Avenue. Then I made sure my face was good and dirty with the help of some earth from my back yard. I stopped in at the Jefferson Street market and bought enough flowers to fill a basket, then made my way back to Pearl Street, this time as a flower seller.

I had actually made four sales—three buttonholes and a posy—by the time Mr. Poindexter emerged. I studied him as he came toward me. A dashing fellow indeed—the classic tall, dark, and handsome, with a strong jaw unadorned by side-whiskers. He carried himself with an air of authority, almost a swagger. I could well see how sixteen-year-old Fanny had fallen for him. He hailed a cab and was about to climb in when I approached him.

“Buy some flowers for the special lady in your life, sir?” I pleaded with the right amount of humility and desperation in my voice.

He glanced at my hand, which now held out a posy of primroses and jonquils. His face broke into a charming smile.

“Good idea. Why not?” he said, fished in his pocket, and dropped a silver dollar into my hand. Then he leaped into the cab.

Unfortunately, at the very moment he was giving his instructions to the cabby, a large dray passed with a loud rumble and the clatter of horses’ hooves. I thought I heard the word Broadway, but I might have been mistaken. I hesitated a second, then decided to act. I rushed to the nearest cab waiting in the rank opposite. “Follow that cab,” I said.

The cabby gave me a queer look. “Here, what’s your game, girlie?”

“I’ll make it worth your while not to lose him,” I said, in the process of hauling myself and the flowers on board.

“You better have the money to pay for this,” he said.

“Do you want the job or not?” I demanded, angry now as Poindexter’s cab was fast disappearing up Pearl Street. “Should I take another cab?”

“Okay, I guess. Climb in,” he said.

I did and we set off. I have to confess it was rather exciting. The horse even broke into a canter at times and we rocked around a bit. But as we headed uptown and reached Broadway the traffic increased. Several times I thought we’d lost him. The ride took forever and I began to wonder whether Mr. Poindexter was extravagant enough to hire a cab to take him all the way home. This was fast turning into a very expensive cab ride, and I realized that I had yet again failed to establish my fee before I agreed to take the assignment. Still, Fanny Poindexter had claimed she was rich in her own right. She ought to have enough money to pay me.

At last the cab turned into Forty-fourth Street and stopped outside an imposing building.

“Stop here,” I called to the cabby. Luckily, there was a line of cabs pulling up and disgorging passengers ahead of us, so I could descend without Mr. Poindexter noticing me. I paid the rather exorbitant amount the cabby demanded. I saw his eyes open wider when he glimpsed my purse, and then an idea struck me.

“Your normal place is down on Pearl Street, is that right?”

“That’s right, miss.” He was more friendly now that he had been paid. “What’s this all about then, keeping an eye on your wayward husband, are you? You’re no more a flower seller than I’m the president of the United States.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, because it was easier than telling the truth. “Get a good look at him as he goes into that building, because there’s a dollar in it for you if you can report to me any address to which he takes a cab.”

“A dollar?” he sounded disgusted.

I bit the bullet. “Five dollars then. How about that? I’ll give you five dollars if you can come up with valuable information for me. Is that a deal?”

He looked at me long and hard. “I don’t know what your game is, lady, but I reckon it’s none of my business.” He reached down his hand. “You got yourself a deal.”

I left him and approached the building into which Poindexter had disappeared. It turned out to be the New York Yacht Club. Personally, I thought it was a strange site for a yacht club, with no water within sight in any direction, but I knew from what Fanny had told me that he was a member here, as well as at the Columbia Club and the New York Athletic Club. I wondered if he had just popped in for a quick drink and how long I should keep watch. The problem was that this wasn’t the sort of street where a flower seller could remain inconspicuous. There were no crowds, for one thing, and the passersby were well dressed. I discarded the basket of flowers and the hat, and cleaned my face with my handkerchief. But I still attracted the attention of a passing constable. He eyed me from the other side of the street, and when he came around again, he crossed over to me. “Waiting for somebody, miss?” he asked. I was clearly not dressed well enough to be a streetwalker.

I tried to come up with a good answer to this question. “I’m a writer,” I said. “I’m thinking of setting a scene of my next novel on this very street and I’m soaking up the atmosphere.” All right, it wasn’t good, but it was the best I could do on short notice. The constable seemed to buy it, anyway. He smiled and shook his head and went away muttering something about women writers.

It became quite dark and cold. I hopped around a bit until finally Poindexter emerged from the club. He didn’t look pleased with himself this time but annoyed. He hailed a cab and swung himself up. “The Dakota,” he snapped.

After all that, he was simply going home. I was about to do the same, as I was cold and hungry and my feet were hurting me, but I had a flash of inspiration. We were very close to Delmonico’s, a well-known haunt for late-night suppers in very private rooms. It was just possible that Mr. Poindexter had entertained his lady friend there. It wasn’t until I entered the front door and saw the look of horror on the face of the maître d’ that I remembered how I was dressed. I don’t know if he thought I was begging, seeking customers, or simply wanting to make a nuisance of myself, but he marched over with that jaunty, bouncy step that only Italians can master and muttered that I should probably leave. He made sure of this by signaling one of the waiters, who escorted me out the front door.

I waited until we were outside and then took my chance. “Listen,” I said in a low voice. “I’m trying to trace somebody. If I show you a man’s picture, could you tell me whether he’s been seen in the restaurant recently with a woman?”

The waiter looked horrified. He was one of those sad-looking men with longish black hair, parted down the middle, and a droopy black mustache. “I’m sorry, miss, but it is more than my job’s worth to give out any information on our clientele. We pride ourselves on our discretion. So run along, please.”

I could sense the maître d’ watching me, but just then a couple of bona fide diners entered and I took my chance again, whipping out the photograph. “This man,” I whispered. “Has he been to the restaurant lately?”

“I told you, miss. I couldn’t divulge anything like that.”

I moved the photograph just enough for him to see that the dollar bill lay beneath it. “More than my job’s worth,” he said again.

But I had seen from a momentary change in his expression that he had recognized Anson Poindexter.

“So you couldn’t describe the woman who was with him?” I asked.

“With whom?” He stared at me blankly. The dollar bill still rested in the palm of my hand.

“The man you’ve never seen,” I went on. “I just wondered what sort of woman might have been with a man like that, had he decided to come here without your seeing him.”

The ghost of a smile twitched on his lips. “Exotic-looking,” he said. “Not the type you’d bring home to Mother.”

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.”