The Virtuous Woman (5 page)

“Oh yes.” Mazzoni nodded. “Come in. It’s warm in here.”

Francis stepped inside the greenhouse and smiled. “It sure feels good in here.” He looked around. “Beautiful violets.”

Mazzoni smiled as he leaned over and touched one of the purple blossoms. “Look at how delicate the color is. I don’t think an artist could make a paint that would even approach this.”

“I expect paintings of flowers are for people who don’t have access to the real thing.”

Mazzoni stroked the plant tenderly and mused, “Flowers are nicer than people ... in some ways.”

“At least they don’t wind up in prison.”

“That’s right,” he said with a chuckle.

“You think there’ll be violets in heaven, Father?”

Mazzoni’s chuckle turned into a warm smile. “I’m certain of it. You know, I don’t care for the description of heaven given in the book of Revelation.”

Key was intrigued by this odd statement. “I’ve read that many times. Gates of gold and pearls. It sounds beautiful.”

“Not to me. Gold is hard, and pearls have no warmth either. No, my heaven would be green grass, violets, tall trees rising high into the air.” He shook his shoulders and grinned sheepishly. “I suppose I’m a heretic.”

“I don’t think so. Maybe heaven will be to us what we like best. But in any case,” he said with a smile, “we know that Jesus will be there. Which theologian was it that said, ‘For me heaven without Jesus would be a hell, and hell with Jesus would be a heaven’?”

“I don’t know,” Mazzoni said, “but I like what he said. He sounds like a wise man.”

Key paid close heed to the change of expression on the tall man’s face as they talked, all the while thinking,
This priest is my only hope.
Aloud, he said, “Father, would you mind telling me what you’ve already gone over with the others?”

“You mean about Bertha Zale’s baby?”

“Even before that. Everything you can think of. Every word she said that you can remember.”

He nodded. “You don’t mind if I go ahead working with the flowers while I talk?”

“Not at all.”

Mazzoni relayed how Bertha Zale had been withdrawn, almost catatonic at times. Most of their conversations had been one-sided, with the priest doing most of the talking. She had rarely spoken a word.

“What exactly did she tell you about her daughter leaving home?”

“It wasn’t really much. She was weak and dying, you understand.” He shook his head sadly, and his voice grew soft. “She was very grieved over the kind of life she had forced the girl into. She had been a simple woman herself and, of course, trying to raise a child in the right way was impossible for her. She said the girl began growing rebellious when she was twelve or thirteen—started running with the wrong crowd, the wrong kind of boys.”

“Did Bertha say anything about the man her daughter ran away with?”

“Very little. She only met him once, and her daughter never called him by his real name.”

Francis looked up quickly. “What did she call him?”

“Something like Serge. Maybe Sergion. Bertha was fading fast. It was hard to understand her,” he said apologetically.

Key took notes throughout their conversation, and Mazzoni was surprised at how well the detective could jog his memory with his questions. “You’re very good at this,” he said.

He shrugged. “Most people remember more than they think.”

Mazzoni lifted the watering can and watered a violet sparingly. He put the can down, then asked directly, “Do you think you’ll be able to find this girl?”

Francis’s eyes twinkled with humor. “If God wants me to, I will.”

Mazzoni laughed. “You sound like you have God all figured out.”

“No, hardly that.” He smiled. “But I am convinced that God has plans for everyone.”

“I’ll agree with you there, but most of the time we get out of His plan and into something we design for ourselves.”

“Sadly, that’s my story too. You met the Winslows, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. Fine people. Very devoted Christians, from what I could tell.”

“Mrs. Winslow thinks that God gave her a promise back before the child was born, and she’s convinced that it is God’s timing that this information has come to light now. And her husband is convinced that I’m the one God is going to use to find her.”

“I will add my prayers to theirs that you’ll be successful, Mr. Key.”

“I certainly need all the prayer I can get. If you think of anything else, you’ll give me a call, won’t you?”

“I’ll do that, and could you drop me a line if you do find the girl? I’d like very much to know how this turns out.”

“I’ll do that.” Key shook the priest’s hand, then turned and left the greenhouse. The cold wind seemed even harsher now, and as he strode quickly toward the steel gates, he wondered if anything Mazzoni had said would be of any help to him.

****

For the next two days Francis Key did little else but sit in his room staring at the walls and thinking. He broke his concentration only to eat or to lie down and rest or to spend time with his loquacious parrot, teaching her two more Scripture verses.

“Revelation,” he said on the third morning as the bird watched him eat breakfast.

“Even so, come, Lord Jesus,” spouted the parrot.

“That’s good. You get a reward for that.” Francis cut a small piece from his apple and gave it to the parrot, then finished the rest himself. After putting his dishes in the sink, he grabbed his coat and went out for a walk. He pulled his coat tightly around him, wishing he had a warm hat as the breeze ruffled his hair.

For two hours he walked the streets of New York, going over his conversation with Mazzoni and mulling over the results of Tyson’s interviews with others at the prison. He always worked like this, concentrating on the problem to the exclusion of everything else. From time to time he would pray simply and to the point: “God, help me find this woman.” He didn’t take much stock in long, elaborate prayers, preferring in all things to cut to the chase.

He walked the streets all day, then returned home at nightfall. He did not call the Winslows, for he had nothing to report. On his note pad he wrote down a prayer and dated it:
God, help me to find Grace Winslow. I’m not smart enough to do it by myself, so I’m asking you to put into my mind something that will help.

Exhausted, he put the pad away and lay down on his cot. “Good night, Miriam,” he said. The parrot immediately called back, “Good night, Francis.”

Key tossed for a while but finally fell into a deep sleep. The next thing he knew he was sitting up straight in the bed, startling Miriam, who began squawking and quoting Scripture. Key paid her no attention, for he knew something was taking shape in his mind that was not of himself. Perhaps it was the result of all the questions he had asked, but in any case he knew it was time to quiet his mind and listen. He sat there in the silence of the room while various thoughts came to his attention—like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He made no attempt to put them together, but let them configure themselves into a logical picture. He smiled and murmured, “Thank you, Lord” and then lay down and went back to sleep.

****

As Francis Key mounted the worn concrete steps that led up to an ancient brownstone building, he had the sensation of time long gone. Years of wind and weather had stripped away the building’s surface, leaving a dull, pitted exterior. He entered the dark foyer and thought of how he came to be here. After the epiphany he’d had in the middle of the night, he had waited until a reasonable hour and then called Finley Crane, a man he knew in show business. Crane had been a help to him in a case he had worked on before, and when Key questioned him, Crane said in his booming voice, “You want somebody that knows all about the history of show biz? You’re talkin’ about Blanche Fountain. If she don’t know it, it never happened. I got her address right here.”

Key approached the third door on the right and knocked gently. There was no answer, so he knocked louder, and finally, after what seemed like a long time, the door swung open with a creak. Key found himself looking at a woman dressed in a brilliant crimson gown. Her hair was as black as night, but the eyes that regarded him were not young. “Mrs. Fountain?”

“I’m Blanche Fountain. Who are you?”

“My name is Francis Key. I would like to talk with you if I might.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No, but I understand from a mutual friend of ours, Mr. Crane, that you know everything about show business.”

“Oh, so Finley sent you. Well, in that case, come in, young man. I can give you a few moments.”

He entered the room and was struck by an assortment of odors—the place smelled of age and deterioration and cat. Several cats of various sizes, shapes, and colors regarded him conspicuously. The room was as jammed as his own, every wall covered with posters from Broadway shows, new and old.

“I was just about to have my tea. You will join me.”

Since it was not a request but a command, Francis smiled
and said, “I’d be honored, Mrs. Fountain.” He sat down in a fragile-looking antique chair that he distrusted, but it held his weight. He watched as the woman fixed the tea and fetched the cream and sugar. She had obviously been a beautiful woman in her youth, but that day was long gone. Now she was made up heavily, the wrinkles unsuccessfully covered by pancake makeup, the eyes accentuated by heavy mascara, and her dry, brittle hair woven into a complicated arrangement. Her hands gave away her age, for they were thin and covered with liver spots.

“I understand you’ve been in the theater a long time, Mrs. Fountain.”

“Oh yes, all of my life. I was born in a dressing room in Madison, Wisconsin. My parents were doing
Julius Caesar
there.” She did not mention the date but went on quickly to say, “I am planning my comeback, you know.”

“That must be very exciting. What will you be doing?”

“None of this modern garbage, I can assure you. Oh no, my dear man, it will be Shakespeare.”

“And which play is your favorite?”

“I think my best work,” she said after a long pause, “would be
Ophelia.
I did it a few years ago. I still have the clippings if you’d like to see them.”

“I’d like to very much.”

Key sat still while Blanche retrieved a scrapbook from a stack of leather-bound books on her table. He studied the reviews and noted that the dates went back twenty years.

Part of his success in finding out things from people was his monumental patience. He could listen to people by the hour as they spoke pontifically or described their boring hobbies, all the while giving the impression that he was fascinated. As a matter of fact, he
was
fascinated by Blanche Fountain. She had been in the theater practically since Lincoln was shot, and he would not have been surprised to hear her mention the name John Wilkes Booth as one of her leading men. Her stories jumped back and forth over the years, mixing
up modern events with those plays and actors and actresses who had long ago turned to dust.

When his tea had been gone for some time, Key said, “I’m afraid I may be wasting your time, Mrs. Fountain.”

“Why would you say that? What is your name again?”

“Francis Key.”

“Named after Francis Scott Key, I suppose.”

This was not true, but Francis had learned long ago to simply agree, so he nodded noncommittally. He had actually been named after an uncle on his mother’s side and was no relation at all to the composer of “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

“I actually am trying to trace a man, and I have no idea where to start. That’s why Mr. Crane suggested you might be able to help me.”

“Well, what’s the man’s name? I know a great many people in the theater.”

“That’s the problem,” Key said, allowing distress to show on his face. He made a rather good actor himself, able to convincingly reflect different emotions when necessary. “Actually, all I have is a nickname.”

“That’s very strange. What’s the nickname?”

“Well, even that is not clear. It’s something like Serge.”

“Serge?”

“Yes. Well, not that, but something like that. Maybe Sergion.”

“Oh, you must mean Sergius.”

“Is that a character in a play?”

Blanche threw up her hands. “What
do
they teach you children in school these days! Of course Sergius is a character. He’s one of the major characters of Shaw’s
Arms and the Man.
”

“Sergius. Well, that might be a help. Is he the only character named Sergius you know?”

“He’s the only Sergius in a play,” the actress said firmly. “You should know that.”

“I certainly should. That helps me a great deal. Now I’ll
have to find out if that particular play was being staged in New York three years ago.”

“Why, it’s no problem to find that out.”

Relief washed through him. “It would be a great help to me, Mrs. Fountain. I’d be most grateful.”

Blanche began to search through her books, files, magazines, and boxes and finally came back triumphantly. “Here it is. I have the very cast of characters. It took place at the Majestic Theater.”

“May I see it?”

“Of course.”

He took the program and marveled at the woman’s pack rat instincts. “You keep all the programs?”

“Certainly. I need them to keep up on my history of the theater. Besides, many people call or come to see me looking for information. What is the man’s name? I’ve left my glasses in my bedroom.”

“Well, the play starred Harry Sinclare and Diane Mobley.”

“Oh yes, I saw it. He did very well, but Diane made a miserable job out of her role. I could have done so much better myself!”

“It says here the actor who played Sergius was named Charles Bannister.”

“Oh,
him!
”

Key looked up quickly. “You didn’t care for Charles Bannister?”

“He’s a pitiful excuse for an actor! He moved across the stage like a zombie. And his voice—oh my, Mr. Key, he sounded like a crow!”

“This was only three years ago. Do you suppose he’s still acting?”

“Oh no. He went into motion pictures.”

Key could not resist the smile that came to his lips. “You don’t regard people who make motion pictures as actors or actresses?”