In a Gilded Cage (Molly Murphy, #8)

The next day I decided I would have to resort to subterfuge. My former employer, Paddy Riley, had been a master of disguise. It was something I seldom used but this might be a good moment. Accordingly, I found my oldest clothes and topped them with a truly awful hat from the used clothing store on Greenwich Avenue. Then I made sure my face was good and dirty with the help of some earth from my back yard. I stopped in at the Jefferson Street market and bought enough flowers to fill a basket, then made my way back to Pearl Street, this time as a flower seller.

I had actually made four sales—three buttonholes and a posy—by the time Mr. Poindexter emerged. I studied him as he came toward me. A dashing fellow indeed—the classic tall, dark, and handsome, with a strong jaw unadorned by side-whiskers. He carried himself with an air of authority, almost a swagger. I could well see how sixteen-year-old Fanny had fallen for him. He hailed a cab and was about to climb in when I approached him.

“Buy some flowers for the special lady in your life, sir?” I pleaded with the right amount of humility and desperation in my voice.

He glanced at my hand, which now held out a posy of primroses and jonquils. His face broke into a charming smile.

“Good idea. Why not?” he said, fished in his pocket, and dropped a silver dollar into my hand. Then he leaped into the cab.

Unfortunately, at the very moment he was giving his instructions to the cabby, a large dray passed with a loud rumble and the clatter of horses’ hooves. I thought I heard the word Broadway, but I might have been mistaken. I hesitated a second, then decided to act. I rushed to the nearest cab waiting in the rank opposite. “Follow that cab,” I said.

The cabby gave me a queer look. “Here, what’s your game, girlie?”

“I’ll make it worth your while not to lose him,” I said, in the process of hauling myself and the flowers on board.

“You better have the money to pay for this,” he said.

“Do you want the job or not?” I demanded, angry now as Poindexter’s cab was fast disappearing up Pearl Street. “Should I take another cab?”

“Okay, I guess. Climb in,” he said.

I did and we set off. I have to confess it was rather exciting. The horse even broke into a canter at times and we rocked around a bit. But as we headed uptown and reached Broadway the traffic increased. Several times I thought we’d lost him. The ride took forever and I began to wonder whether Mr. Poindexter was extravagant enough to hire a cab to take him all the way home. This was fast turning into a very expensive cab ride, and I realized that I had yet again failed to establish my fee before I agreed to take the assignment. Still, Fanny Poindexter had claimed she was rich in her own right. She ought to have enough money to pay me.

At last the cab turned into Forty-fourth Street and stopped outside an imposing building.

“Stop here,” I called to the cabby. Luckily, there was a line of cabs pulling up and disgorging passengers ahead of us, so I could descend without Mr. Poindexter noticing me. I paid the rather exorbitant amount the cabby demanded. I saw his eyes open wider when he glimpsed my purse, and then an idea struck me.

“Your normal place is down on Pearl Street, is that right?”

“That’s right, miss.” He was more friendly now that he had been paid. “What’s this all about then, keeping an eye on your wayward husband, are you? You’re no more a flower seller than I’m the president of the United States.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, because it was easier than telling the truth. “Get a good look at him as he goes into that building, because there’s a dollar in it for you if you can report to me any address to which he takes a cab.”

“A dollar?” he sounded disgusted.

I bit the bullet. “Five dollars then. How about that? I’ll give you five dollars if you can come up with valuable information for me. Is that a deal?”

He looked at me long and hard. “I don’t know what your game is, lady, but I reckon it’s none of my business.” He reached down his hand. “You got yourself a deal.”

I left him and approached the building into which Poindexter had disappeared. It turned out to be the New York Yacht Club. Personally, I thought it was a strange site for a yacht club, with no water within sight in any direction, but I knew from what Fanny had told me that he was a member here, as well as at the Columbia Club and the New York Athletic Club. I wondered if he had just popped in for a quick drink and how long I should keep watch. The problem was that this wasn’t the sort of street where a flower seller could remain inconspicuous. There were no crowds, for one thing, and the passersby were well dressed. I discarded the basket of flowers and the hat, and cleaned my face with my handkerchief. But I still attracted the attention of a passing constable. He eyed me from the other side of the street, and when he came around again, he crossed over to me. “Waiting for somebody, miss?” he asked. I was clearly not dressed well enough to be a streetwalker.