Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (12 page)

“Relationship? Oh no. Desmond only likes beautiful people, like
moi
. And confrontation? I don’t remember one, although he has his pride and Blanche did once do an impression of him at a party, I remember. She was brilliantly good, I have to admit, and Dessy was furious. But that was long, long ago. One doesn’t carry a grudge over such small things. If one did, I’d have challenged half of New York to a duel by now.” Again the wistful look. “I’ve never challenged anyone to a duel. Wouldn’t it be divine? Think of the velvet britches and the white handkerchiefs and pistols at dawn and the mist swirling around. Of course, I absolutely can’t stand the sight of blood, so probably not.”

I patted the covers to interrupt this fantasy. “So to get back to the Casino, Ryan. There’s no way into a theater besides the stage door if all the front entrances are locked, is there?”

“There is sometimes a cargo door when they need to bring in large pieces of scenery, but that’s always kept locked, too. The only way in would be past the stage door keeper.”

“So it has to be an inside job. Maybe a member of the cast could somehow have . . .”

“Tell me who is in the cast,” he said. I reeled off those names I could remember and Ryan pronounced each of them blameless, except for Hiram Hunnycutt, who played the American millionaire. He was known to have tantrums about things like his billing on the marquee. Was it possible that he wasn’t happy with the size of his part? And the maid, Collette, had also complained that she didn’t have many lines. But in each case a small part in what Ryan described as one of the best theaters in New York was surely better than being out of work. Nobody working in what was destined to be a hit show would want to sabotage it.

Ryan’s breakfast arrived and I accepted a cup of coffee. Ryan was ready to divulge more gossip and dying to tell me about the new play he was writing—about a freedom fighter bandit in South America. He had been in correspondence with the real bandit and couldn’t wait to go to Bolivia to meet him in person. “He sounds divine,” he said. “So utterly rugged, and if one can go by the photographs, not a bad fashion sense, either.”

I had to laugh. “Ryan, you are too much,” I said. “Can you see yourself in Bolivia? I bet they don’t have running water or proper sanitation, especially not where bandits live.”

“Oh I’m sure he’s a remarkably civilized bandit,” he said. “South American bandits are so romantic, compared to the low-down animal behavior of New York criminals. You’ve heard about these brutal Sicilians, I take it? Utterly ruthless.” A wistful look came into his eyes as if he were almost hoping to be kidnapped.

I got up from my comfortable seat. “Much as I would love to stay and chat, I have a lot to do before a dress rehearsal tonight.”

“So you really are going to be in the play? What is your part—do tell?”

“I can’t. You’ll have to come to opening night and see for yourself.”

“I’ll never get tickets for opening night. Everyone will want to be there.”

“Blanche is that popular, is she?”

“No, darling, to see if the ghost appears, of course.” He laughed gaily and went back to attacking a boiled egg.

SIXTEEN

I left Ryan filled with the warm glow that always lingered after being in his presence and caught the Broadway trolley north to Oona Sheehan’s rooms at the Hoffman House. It must have been my lucky day. Miss Sheehan was also in residence and prepared to see me. I was whisked up in the elevator, without bumping into the Divine Sarah this time.

Oona was bustling around, getting ready for her own theatrical performance, shouting instructions to the new French maid as that maid showed me into the drawing room. “And Yvette, my fur muff. I can’t risk getting my hands cold. And the new jar of cold cream. You might as well bring that as well.” She broke off with a beaming smile. “Molly. How lovely. Blanche tells me you have taken the case and words cannot express her gratitude. Have you been there yet? Have you seen the ghost?”

“I haven’t seen a manifestation, but I’ve seen an example of its work,” I said, and told her about the wind machine. She was clearly delighted. “How terribly chilling. So the place really is haunted. Poor Blanche. She would pick that particular theater for her big comeback. Now I bet she wishes she’d aimed lower and gone for the Fifth Avenue Theater instead. Not as glamorous but surely safer.”

Yvette appeared with the muff and the cold cream. “Anything else, Madame?”

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you coffee, Molly. I have a matinee today, so I’m all a-dither. Was there something you wanted particularly?”

“Actually I wanted your impression of the cast and crew that Blanche has employed. I’m wondering whether any one of them might be trying to sabotage the play.”

“By pretending to be a ghost, you mean?”

“Exactly. I’m not sure I believe in ghosts so I have to look at ordinary mortals as the first suspects.”

“Now, let’s see. Who is in the show with her? Aubrey, of course, but he’s a dear boy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. And Hiram. He’s not the easiest man in the world but far too much of a sissy to do anything violent.”

“And Mr. Barker?”

“Bobby? Adores Blanche, my dear. Positively adores her. Slavelike devotion. He would throw himself in front of any ghost to save her.”

“And Desmond Haynes?”

She paused. “I do believe he and Blanche had a thing going once, but it was just a brief affair. You know how it is in the theater—grand passions that quickly burn out. I don’t know on what terms they parted or how he feels about her now. But he hasn’t had a big show to choreograph in some time so this is a great opportunity for him.”

She glanced down at the jar she was holding. “I said cold cream, Yvette, not vanishing cream.” Yvette almost snatched the jar away and ran off into the bedroom. “Oh, the girl is impossible. Just won’t learn proper English,” Oona said in the same loud voice.

“And Oona, one more thing,” I said. Actually it was two more things. “About stage makeup. I have to buy some before tonight. Is there a particular shop where everyone buys their greasepaint sticks?”

“Darling, I have masses of the stuff. What do you need? Have Yvette show you my makeup box and help yourself.”

“But won’t you be taking it to the theater?”

“I’m already well stocked in my dressing room. These are just emergency supplies.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” I said, but she was already calling, “Yvette.
Venez ici
. Show mademoiselle to the box where I keep my makeup. There, my sweet. Yvette will take care of you.”

She was already turning away.

“And about the check you were going to send me,” I began, but she dismissed it with a graceful wave of the hand. “Not now, darling. All a-dither. Must fly.” She half-kissed me on the cheek and was gone, leaving a trail of expensive perfume lingering in the air.

Yvette took me through to a dressing room and let me rummage through a drawer full of various types of makeup. Tempted as I was to help myself liberally, I just took the two sticks that Elise had suggested for me, plus the slim red one for my lips. I stopped at a drugstore on the way home to buy face powder, cold cream, and a roll of cotton wool. I didn’t bother about my eyes. They’d be hidden behind glasses anyway.

While I was in the drugstore I also bought a bottle of Dr. Clay-bourne’s Strengthening Tonic, recommended to restore health to the frailest of invalids. I had never tried it myself, never having been what you might call frail, but judging by the testimonials on the bottle, it ought to do some good. I wanted to make time to take it to my girl in the hospital before I had to be at the theater. And somehow I had to squeeze in a visit to Miss Van Woekem first.

It was now lunchtime and I clearly couldn’t spare the time to go home to eat, so I had to lay out all of five cents for a bowl of clam chowder and a roll at a stand-up counter. The clam chowder was a new experience for me, there being no clams in my part of Ireland, or if there were, we didn’t eat them. But it was certainly sustaining enough to hold me until I had time for a proper meal.

Thus fortified, I set off for Miss Van Woekem’s. The venerable old lady lived at one of the most elegant addresses in the city—Gramercy Park. This delightful square reminded me of Dublin and the grand Georgian squares I had seen there, but as most of my memories of that city were painful, I chose not to dwell on the comparison. The garden in the middle of the square still glistened with untrampled snow, probably because a high railing surrounded it and only residents possessed a key to the gate. It presented a pretty Christmas card scene as I approached along Twenty-first Street, with the brownstone and red brick buildings glowing and windows twinkling in the slanted sunlight. I went up the steps of Miss Van Woekem’s house on the south side of the square and rang the doorbell.

The maid who had always been so disapproving of me in the past ushered me in with an almost pleasant “The mistress will be glad to see you. She’s in a proper state.”

This didn’t sound like the lady I knew—from the old school and raised to show no emotion whatsoever. I stepped into the drawing room, which faced the park and was usually bright with sunlight. Today the drapes were drawn and I could scarcely make out the figure who sat, still and straight, in the high-backed chair with a rug over her knees. Her eyes were closed and she looked like an old stone statue.

“Miss Murphy to see you, ma’am,” the maid announced and the eyes shot open, instantly alert.

“Miss Murphy, how good of you to come so quickly. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Do take a seat, and Matilda, bring us coffee if you please. Or would you prefer tea, Miss Murphy?”

“Coffee would be fine, thank you,” I said. “I came as soon as I could. I know you’re not the kind of person to exaggerate or make a fuss, so I presumed it was truly urgent.”

“It is. Of the uttermost urgency,” she said.

“Are you not well? I see you have the drapes closed.”

“The bright light hurts my eyes,” she said. “Tell me, are you engaged to be married to that rascal Daniel Sullivan yet?”

Since she was Arabella Norton’s godmother, I wondered whether Arabella had suddenly decided that she wanted him back. “How can we make any plans when Daniel is still under suspicion?” I asked. “Some charges against him have been dropped, but the police commissioner is not willing to reinstate him with a clean slate.”

“Most annoying for you,” she said. “So what is Captain Sullivan doing with himself?”

“Mostly bothering me,” I said and got a dry laugh from her. “Actually I’ve put him to work for me. It’s not good to have too much time to sit around brooding.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “That is just what I have been doing and it is bringing me down to depths of depression I should not have thought possible.” It was so unlike her to admit to any weakness that I looked at her with concern.

“But I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss my private life,” I said.

“You’re right. I don’t think much of Sullivan myself, but I expect you’ll bring him into line and handle him well enough. I asked about Daniel Sullivan because I rather hoped he might be able to assist us in a delicate matter.”

“Assist us?”

“You and I, Miss Murphy. I wish to engage your services professionally.”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid I’m too busy to take on another case at the moment,” I said. “I take it the matter has to be addressed right away?”

“Immediately. And if you can’t handle it yourself then maybe Sullivan can.”

“What kind of case is it?” I asked.

She leaned toward me, her old beaky face alive with emotion in a way I had never seen it before. “My nephew is in grave trouble, Miss Murphy. I want you to clear his name.”

“Your nephew? What has he done?”

“You’ve read the papers, presumably,” she said. “Nasty goings-on in Connecticut.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t read about it,” I said. “I don’t take a daily newspaper.”

“You must be the only person in New York City not to have done so,” she said angrily. “My friends and neighbors certainly have delighted in gossip about it—given my nephew’s family connections, of course.”

“Then you’d better enlighten me,” I said.

“From what I understand there have been a series of violent and horrible robberies up and down the eastern seaboard recently. A bank robbed in Bridgeport, a company pay wagon intercepted in Greenwich, and most recently a botched bank robbery in New Haven, during which a bank employee was shot and killed, followed that same night by a robbery at the Silverton mansion, on the road between New Haven and Bridgeport. Again a servant shot and killed in a most callous manner.”

“I had heard about this,” I said, recalling the constable in Central Park, “but surely the police don’t think—?”

“That’s just the problem. They do think,” she said. “My nephew, John Jacob Halsted, is currently a student at Yale University, which, as you may know, is in the town of New Haven. I won’t say he is the ideal young man. His parents lavished too much money on him and have not brought him up as strictly as I would have liked. He is my youn gest sister’s only child, born to her late in life, which always results in spoiling the child in my observation. I would describe him as a dilettante, a lightweight—weak, but not essentially bad.”

“So why do the police think that he is involved in these crimes? Do they have any evidence?”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, they have strong evidence. His parents bought him a rather stylish new automobile. Quite unsuitable and far too extravagant. This vehicle was found, crashed into a tree, in the Bronx, just off the main road between New York and Connecticut, on the morning after these robberies took place. My nephew is, apparently, a friend of Harry Silverton, the son of the family that was robbed that night, and his car was spotted driving away from the Silverton mansion just before midnight. It wasn’t until dawn next day that the family discovered so many valuable items missing and their butler lying on the floor in a pool of blood, shot through the heart.”

“But all that doesn’t prove that your nephew committed these crimes.”

“Ah,” she said. “There’s the rub. Under the seat in the car the police found a silver mustard dish, identified as one taken from the house. There was no sign of John Jacob, or the rest of the loot.”

“So they assume he has run off with it?”

“They have been looking for him for four days now, without success. His picture is plastered across the front pages of all the newspapers in the area. It is possible, of course, that he was injured in the crash. There was blood found at the scene. Maybe some kindly soul has taken him in, not realizing he is a wanted man. Maybe he wandered into the marshes and died. It is a desolate area, I understand, and it was a bitterly cold night.” She sighed again. “Why he was driving toward New York I have no idea. Unless he was paying a surprise visit to his parents, who live just off Fifth Avenue, near the park.”

She broke off as the maid appeared with a coffee tray.

“You may open the drapes a little, Matilda,” she said. “I don’t want you spilling coffee on the rug.”

Matilda obeyed without a word and we sat in silence as cups were poured for us. I was unprepared for how haggard the old woman looked. I could see that her eyes were red and I suspected she might have been crying. Of course I pretended not to notice and sipped my coffee until the maid departed again. As soon as she had gone Miss Van Woekem put down her coffee cup and glared at me. “It is driving me mad, Miss Murphy. I need to know the truth. I am old, my dear. I may not live much longer but I can’t die with this scandal and shame hanging over my head. I want my mind to be at peace with this matter. While I could believe that my nephew could have been sucked into a harebrained get-rich-quick scheme, I cannot believe that he would ever be involved in common robbery or violence. He is just not the type for it. Always a gentle boy at heart.”

“You say he is weak. What if he was led into it by a more forceful character?”

“We are an old and proud New York family, Miss Murphy. One of the four hundred, here since the time this city was called New Amsterdam. I believe in the end his family background and his upbringing would not allow him to let us down in this way.”

She was looking at me with imploring eyes. “Will you not help me? I have come to admire your resourcefulness and your pluck. If anyone can come to the truth, it is you, my dear.”

“You flatter me,” I said. “Most of the cases I’ve solved have been more through luck than skill.”

“Then it is that luck that I need,” she said. “The luck of the Irish—that’s what they say, don’t they?”

I chose my words carefully. “Miss Van Woekem, I would love to help you, but a case that would take me out of the city and as far as New Haven? That would involve time that I just don’t have. I’m committed to being at the theater every evening for the foreseeable future, and I have other commitments as well.”

“Captain Sullivan then? Can you not persuade him to work for me? I am not a poor woman, Miss Murphy. I will make it worth your while. Find my nephew, clear his name, and you can set yourselves up in style when you marry.” She leaned forward again. “You do still want to marry the captain, don’t you?”

“I’m not completely sure yet whether I want to marry at all,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t like the thought of being under the thumb of some man for the rest of my life. It seems to me that women are expected to surrender all freedom and individuality when they become wives.”