“Do you mean that, Mrs. Poindexter? You have your own life and friends, surely?”
“Anson is a very forceful man,” she said. “He expects to control every aspect of my life—what I wear, whom I meet for luncheon. He wants to know where I am going and with whom. He has to approve of my friends before they come to the apartment. My sister wanted me to accompany her to Paris, but I am not to travel without him. He likes to keep me under his thumb. I am one of his possessions now, Miss Murphy. No more, no less.”
I looked at her with compassion. “Do you have any idea who this woman might be?”
“No, I have no idea. It may even be one of our set. Will you take my case, Miss Murphy? Will you find out the truth for me?” She reached out that delicate white hand, adorned with a perfect, square-cut emerald. I took it and she gripped mine tightly.
“I’ll do my best, Mrs. Poindexter,” I said.
“Please, make sure he doesn’t see you.” Fanny grabbed my sleeve with sudden vehemence. “He must not know about this.”
“I am a professional and skilled in such matters, Mrs.Poindexter,” I said.
“Because if he found out I had hired a detective and was planning to divorce him—I don’t know what would happen,” she said in a small voice.
“You can rely on me,” I said.
Eleven
I left the Dakota armed with the details of Mr. Anson Poindexter’s life—his place of business, his club, the names and addresses of his business partners and friends. I had been shown several likenesses of him and Fanny gave me a small photograph to carry in my purse. Now I had to do some of that old-fashioned surveillance work that is the backbone of any detective agency.
So I found myself with two cases to juggle again. I was clearly a glutton for punishment. But on this occasion I didn’t think they would overlap very much. Anson Poindexter would be working as an attorney during the daytime hours. It was after work that he would need to be observed and followed. So that gave me the rest of the day to do the more mundane task of visiting missionary societies. I smiled at the incongruity of this—the mistress and the missionaries. What interesting bedfellows!
Before I went home, I decided to check out for myself where Anson Poindexter worked during daylight hours. His chambers were in a solid brownstone on Pearl Street, just around the corner from Wall Street and the stock exchange. I wondered if he had his own carriage or would take a cab or even walk to the nearest form of public transportation, which would probably be the South Ferry station of the Ninth Avenue and Third Avenue trains. I rather thought the cab and looked for cabs waiting nearby. Questioning the drivers proved of no value. None of them knew Mr. Anson Poindexter by name.
“I don’t ask questions. I just drives them where they wants to go,” one of the drivers snapped. “If they pays their money then they could be one of P. T. Barnum’s freaks for all I’d care.”
So much for that line of inquiry. I had been hoping to find a friendly cabby—one who would, for a small fee, let me know where he had taken Mr. Poindexter recently. But so far I couldn’t see this working out. All in all they were a surly bunch. Maybe sitting up on a cab in all weather, exposed to the elements, would make the best of men surly. And maybe after a few days of visiting this location, I could soften them up a little. I resolved to go home and bake cookies, knowing that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
That much accomplished, I decided I still had time to visit the two missionary headquarters before they shut up shop that evening. I arrived at lower Fifth Avenue and paid a call on the Methodist Missionary Society, at number 150.
I was greeted politely and told my tale. The bewhiskered gentleman listened attentively. “Boswell?” he said. “The name doesn’t immediately ring a bell. Are you sure of the denomination?”
“Not sure at all,” I said. “All we know is that they were missionaries in China and died in a cholera epidemic about twenty-five years ago.”
“Let me check for you.” He got up and went to a shelf full of ledgers. After searching for a while he shook his head. “No, they do not appear to be connected with our church. I’m sorry I can’t help you further. I wish you good luck.”
One down, about twenty to go. I came out and walked a few paces up the street to the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions, at 156 Fifth Avenue. It was next to a fine Presbyterian church. Those Protestants certainly knew how to build some grand edifices. This time there were two gentlemen in earnest conversation when I entered. One was similarly elderly and distinguished-looking, the other a more robust-looking fellow with a fine set of muttonchop whiskers, in a black frock coat. I was offered a chair and they listened attentively while I told my story.