I fell into a dreamless sleep and woke next morning feeling refreshed. The whole thing seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. I found it hard to believe that I had let myself get so alarmed over nothing. The product of an overstimulated imagination, I concluded. My mother had always insisted that my imagination would bring me to a bad end, if my sharp tongue and my airs and graces didn't do it first.
In the afternoon I went back to the theater, only to find the doors locked and no apparent way in. I walked around a little up and down Broadway, examining the crowd, in case my assailant habitually lurked outside the theater— although for what reason I couldn't imagine—then, reluctantly, took the Sixth Avenue El home again.
“I expect Ryan was in a temperamental mood and wanted no interruptions,” Sid said about the locked doors. “They take the play on the road at the end of the week, don't they?”
That was reassuring. If my shadowy figure was part of the company, he'd be safely far away by the end of the week. But I'd dearly have loved to have been allowed a quick look at the company, although I wasn't sure I would recognize Paddy's killer again if I met him. When I tried to picture his face, all I remembered was dark intense eyes, a black hat or cap of some sort, and lithe movements as he leaped to safety. Not a lot to go on—it was an apt description of half the young men around the Village. I felt as if I was fishing around in the dark. I still wanted to solve Paddy Riley's murder. I also wanted to make sure I stayed alive, but I wasn't sure what to do next. Paddy would have known, of course. He had the experience to know how to follow a case through to its conclusion. Daniel would also have known, but I wasn't going to Daniel unless I really had to—at least not until I had some concrete facts to present to him.
The next day a late-summer hot spell arrived, making us all too languid to embark on anything more than pouring iced tea and fanning ourselves. I knew I should be pursuing my investigation, but I hadn't the energy. I did manage to stroll across town to see Shamey and Bridie and take them out for an ice cream. My worries about their catching diseases from swimming in the East River seemed to be unfounded. They both looked revoltingly healthy and Bridie's little face had filled out. I returned home feeling relieved.
That evening, Sid and Gus were invited to a showing at a friend's studio. They invited me to go with them, but I declined, not being wildly enthusiastic about the kind of modern art that Gus and her friends painted. I sat out in the garden until the temperature dropped pleasantly, then decided to go to O'Connor's. Maybe Ryan would be there and I could ask him about the members of his theater company. I found that I was looking around cautiously as I walked out of Patchin Place, then down Sheridan Street, but I reached O'Connor's without mishap.
The place was deader than a doornail. It soon became obvious that the clientele of the tavern were all at the showing to which Sid and Gus had gone. I waited half an hour while I sipped a ginger beer, then left again. Ryan certainly wasn't going to come tonight—he'd never appear anywhere where there wasn't a guaranteed audience. I was tempted to join the others at the showing, but decided against it. It was still too muggy for walking. So I went home. I'd indulge in a long cool bath before Gus and Sid came back. I crossed Greenwich Avenue and stood at the entrance to Patchin Place peering into the darkness. Only one gas lamp illuminated the far reaches of the street. A breeze had sprung up, causing the trees to move in grotesque shadow dances and sending the first leaves fluttering. I suddenly regretted my foolishness at going out alone. I had only taken a few steps when a black cat leaped from behind a tree and streaked across my path, causing my heart almost to leap out of my mouth.
“Nonsense!” I said out loud. Just because of one alarming incident in a theater, I was not going to be intimidated for the rest of my life. I walked forward with brisk, firm steps and head held high. The street was deserted. I reached my front door without incident, turned the key and let myself in. I stood in the hallway and heaved a sigh of relief. I was turning into an alarmist— this would never do. I put down my purse on the hall stand and felt around for the matches that we kept on the little shelf below the gas bracket. The shelf was empty. I felt my way down the hall to the kitchen. There were always matches beside the stove. As I pushed open the kitchen door, I heard a crash. At that moment I felt a breeze in my face and noticed, with horror, the outline of the French doors leading from the conservatory to the garden. I had gone out leaving them open. From what I could make out, the breeze had blown over the small vase on the conservatory table.