In a Gilded Cage (13 page)

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

for a speedy recovery. I will come to visit in a few days, and hope

to have more information for you then.

Since I had claimed to be a friend I sighed it, “Yours sincerely, Molly.”

Then I had nothing else to do but to go home.

Fourteen

I
had no trouble locating the theater at which Mademoiselle Fifi was performing. The show was a revue called Fun-Time Follies, at the Miner’s Bowery Theater. From what I could see it wasn’t as respectable as the theaters that were springing up around Broadway. Mr. Poindexter was clearly not the most upright of young men.

After that it was merely a question of waiting for the right moment. I took my camera—a nifty little Brownie I had inherited with the business from Paddy Riley—and lurked near Mademoiselle Fifi’s house on East Twenty-first. Fortunately it was not too far from Sixth Avenue, with its department stores: Simpson, Crawford & Simpson was on one corner and Hugh O’Neill on the other, so there was a constant stream of pedestrian traffic, which made me less conspicuous. I walked up and down with my shopping bag, pretending to be interested in shop windows, occasionally going into a baker to buy myself a bun. But Mr. Poindexter did not appear at all that day, nor did he visit the theater that evening. Since my camera did not operate in the dark and I had no kind of flash equipment, it made little sense to watch and wait outside Mademoiselle Fifi’s that night. Besides, I’d had enough for one day.

I came home exhausted at eleven and fell asleep with no supper. The next day it was raining and I worried about there being enough light for my snapshot. It was also Saturday, and I wondered whether Mr. Poindexter would be working at his office or maybe taking a trip out to Long Island to oversee the building of his new home. I took an umbrella and lingered within view of Mademoiselle Fifi’s house for most of the day, feeling thoroughly cold, damp, and uncomfortable.

At last I decided that I was wasting my time and that I would go home for a hot cup of tea. I had just reached the corner of the block when a cab turned into the street, moving at a lively clip. Before I could do anything sensible, Mr. Poindexter himself jumped down from the cab and ran to Mademoiselle Fifi’s front door. I moved back quickly and took up position outside the house. After a few minutes he came out again, slammed the front door behind him, and ran down the steps to the cab, which was still waiting. It was all over so fast that I didn’t have a chance to snap more than one picture—probably so blurred that it would be hard to prove who it was and which street it was on.

I wondered whether I should go and see if Fanny had recovered enough to receive visitors. At least now I had seen her husband at Fifi’s house for myself, although his stay was certainly not long enough for a lover’s tryst. Maybe he was there for the purpose of arranging such a tryst, although from what I saw during my brief glimpse of him, he had not looked happy or excited. In fact,
grim
would have been the word to describe his face.

As I left Twenty-first Street to go home, I glanced back once more and saw Mademoiselle Fifi’s maid emerge from the house and come running toward me. It was still raining and she was in her maid’s uniform, with no hat or coat. I lowered my umbrella to conceal my face and she ran past. On the corner she hailed a cab and rode in it back to the house. A few minutes later I was treated to the sight of Mademoiselle Fifi herself, emerging, draped in a glorious sable coat. I snapped a picture of her, though I’m not sure exactly why. I tried to move close enough to hear the directions she gave the cabby as he assisted her into the cab, but the street noise was considerable and I heard nothing. I watched them drive away, wondering if I should try to find a cab of my own to follow them, or whether she was going on some simple errand, or even to a matinee at her theater. In any case, by the time I had reached the end of the street and spotted an empty cab, they were gone.

I went home, feeling somewhat satisfied. I had seen Poindexter for myself at Mademoiselle Fifi’s house. That would be enough for Fanny to have ammunition to confront her husband. Of course, I had no way of knowing whether the news would be welcome or not. Did she want to get out of a confining marriage in which she saw herself as a prisoner, or did she want her husband to start paying her more attention? One never knew with women. We don’t always fall in love with the right men. I can attest to that. Either way, I decided I should probably wait until Monday to visit Fanny, as her husband would most likely be spending his Sunday at home.

I spent a quiet evening alone. No sign of Daniel, and Sid and Gus were off to the theater. On Sunday morning I slept in late and was just fixing myself a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast when there came a thunderous knocking at my front door. I was still in my robe, so I paused to make myself respectable before opening it. Emily Boswell stood there, a look of absolute distress on her face.

“Emily, my dear. What is it?” I asked.

She staggered into the hallway. “She’s dead. Fanny is dead,” she said, gasping.

“Fanny’s dead?”

She nodded, then drew out a handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth.

I put a tentative arm around her shoulder and steered her into my kitchen. “My dear Emily, I am so sorry,” I said. “I knew she was sick, but this is such a shock. When did it happen?”

“During the night,” she said. “I went to visit her yesterday, as I knew she had been sick. Her servant came to our shop earlier in the week and asked for some of our stomach mixture that she liked. I gathered that she was suffering from influenza, so I took the medicine over myself, as well as some aspirin, as it is so effective at bringing down fever.” She looked up at me for confirmation. I nodded and eased her onto one of my kitchen chairs.

“And how did she seem then?”

“She was looking flushed and seemed weak but only what was to be expected with the flu. I tried to cheer her up and mixed some of the aspirin for her. She made a fuss about taking it and we laughed at what a baby she was about medicines and sickness.

“I had no time to visit her until yesterday. I went to visit her after I finished work and was told she was sleeping, and this morning I got a message that she had died during the night.”

“How very sad,” I said. Although I was no longer the best Catholic in the world, I had an overwhelming urge to cross myself. “This influenza seems to be particularly virulent, doesn’t it?”

She looked down at her hands for a long moment before she said, “I can’t get this awful thought out of my head, Molly. I can’t stop thinking that he killed her.”

“Who? Who killed her?”

She looked up now. “Her husband, Anson.”

“Anson? Surely not.” I gave an uneasy laugh. “She had the flu, Emily. You know yourself that healthy people have been succumbing to complications of the flu. Even the woman who worked with you at the drugstore, remember?”

She frowned.

“I know it sounds awful to say this, but he never really loved her, Molly. I’ve always known that. I’ve always been convinced that he married her for her money.”

“But if he killed her, surely that would be a good way of cutting off the supply of money from her family?”

She shook her head. “Her father settled a large sum on her at her marriage. Anson will be a wealthy man whatever happens now.”

I was in a quandary. Should I tell her what I knew? Did she know that Fanny was planning to divorce him? I decided that Fanny was my client, even if she was now dead. I decided to tread cautiously. “Emily, are you sure the marriage was unhappy? Weren’t they looking forward to moving to their new house on Long Island together?”

She shook her head violently. “On the surface she acted as if all was well with their marriage, but beneath she was deeply unhappy. She didn’t talk about it much, but I could tell. He was a bully and a domineering tyrant.”

“Emily, however black his character was, he could hardly have given her influenza, could he?”

“I don’t doubt the influenza,” she said, “but when I saw her earlier in the week, she wasn’t that ill. As I said, she was always a baby about sickness. Even the smallest cold or splinter in her finger was cause for great drama. I think he took advantage of her weakened state to finish her off. Stomach complaints aren’t a usual part of influenza, are they? And yet she requested our stomach mixture. I’m wondering if he wasn’t feeding her something like arsenic.”

“That’s a serious charge,” I said, “And I don’t know how you’d prove it.” As I spoke, an awful thought crept into my mind. I had left her a note. I had tried to make it as general as possible, but perhaps a clever man could have put two and two together.

“That’s why I came to you,” she said. “I’m only a friend, and Anson never liked me. I was too clever and too independent for him, you see. I tried to persuade Fanny not to marry him when we were roommates at Vassar. But you are a detective. You know how to set about these things. Will you not try to find out the truth? I won’t rest until I know for sure.”

“Emily, this would be a criminal case. A matter for the police. I shouldn’t be meddling in it.”

“But you know what the police would say, don’t you? Female hysteria.” She sounded almost hysterical herself now. “They’d say it was influenza and I was imagining things.”

I thought this was all too probable.

“Listen,” I said. “My young man is a senior police detective. I’ll mention the matter to him and he’ll know what to do.”

“Thank you, that would be helpful,” she said, “but I’m wondering—if there was any kind of foul play, shouldn’t we take a look for ourselves before he has a chance to get rid of the evidence?”

I thought privately that any clever murderer would probably have destroyed the evidence instantly, but Emily went on. “I want to go over there right now to pay my last respects. Won’t you come with me? You’d know what to look for.”

“Emily, I should warn you that I know nothing about arsenic or any other kind of poisoning, but I’ll be happy to come with you. I’d like to pay my last respects too.”

I poured her a cup of tea while I went upstairs to find my one black dress.

The maid who opened the door to us at the Poindexter home looked as if she had been crying.

“Oh, miss. Oh, miss,” was all she could manage.

“We came to offer our condolences,” Emily said, “and to say a last farewell to dear Fanny.”

She nodded and let us into the hall. We waited while we heard voices in the drawing room and presently Anson Poindexter himself came out. He looked haggard and disheveled, as if he hadn’t slept all night, and was still wearing a maroon silk robe.

“Ah, Miss Boswell,” he said, extending his hand to her. “How good of you to come. You must excuse my appearance. I’m finding it hard to function.”

“This is Miss Murphy, another of Fanny’s friends,” Emily said.

I saw a flicker of interest or suspicion cross his face. “Miss Murphy? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before.” He held out his hand to me in civil enough fashion. “Are you another of the fearsome Vassar ladies?”

“No, sir. My acquaintance with your wife is fairly recent.”

“I brought her to one of Fanny’s at homes,” Emily said. “They hit it off really well.”

“I’m so glad,” he said. “She had some wonderful, true friends. She was well loved, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very well loved,” Emily said.

“Her parents are here.” Anson Poindexter looked back at the drawing room door. “They are absolutely devastated, as you can imagine. Fanny was the light of their lives. Their adored only child.” He paused and cleared his throat. “As she was the light of my life, of course.”

“We were with her only last Sunday,” I said. “And she seemed so bright and healthy then. The disease took its toll so quickly.”

He nodded. “The doctor said he’d seen so many cases this year in which a simple influenza turned to pneumonia overnight.”

“That’s what she died of then, was it?” Emily asked. “Pneumonia?”

“That’s what’s on the death certificate,” he said. “It was her lungs, in any case.”

“Not her stomach?” Emily asked.

“Her stomach?” He looked surprised.

“She sent a note to my pharmacy requesting her favorite stomach mixture on Tuesday.”

“Did she? Well, I suppose there was some vomiting, but I put that down to the high fever. No, I’m sure it was pneumonia.”

“Was the progression very rapid?” I asked, trying not to sound overly interested.