“That’s a good idea,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll make a swift recovery with all that attention.”
“I’m sure she will. Fanny always liked to give the impression of being delicate, but she’s really the toughest of any of us.” Dorcas smiled. “I’d better be going. I want to see little Toodles before Nanny puts him to bed.”
I was in the process of asking for writing paper when a matronly woman came out of a door and looked at me in surprise. “I came to see Fanny,” I said. “You must be her mother. I am Molly Murphy, one of her friends, but I gather she’s not well enough for visitors at the moment.”
“I’m afraid she’s not,” the older woman said in that sort of imperious voice that upper-class matrons develop. I could see her checking out my clothing and clearly making the decision that I was not of her daughter’s class. “In fact I’ve asked the doctor to hire a nurse for her. I have a social engagement this evening and I do not think she should be left alone. And that husband of hers is out again. Not that men are any good around a sickbed, are they?”
We exchanged a smile. “I thought I might write Fanny a note. I had a message for her I’d like her to have.”
“I would be happy to deliver a message, if you so desire,” Fanny’s mother suggested.
“I think I’ll write it, if you don’t mind,” I said. I had no idea whether she had shared any of her suspicions about her husband with her family, and certainly didn’t want to stir up trouble.
“Very well. Come into the drawing room and I’ll have the maid bring you a pen and writing paper.” She ushered me through, seated me at a little table, and hovered over me while I wrote. I thought carefully before I wrote,
Fanny, you were right about our little discussion. My best wishes
for a speedy recovery. I will come to visit in a few days, and hope
to have more information for you then.
Since I had claimed to be a friend I sighed it, “Yours sincerely, Molly.”
Then I had nothing else to do but to go home.
Fourteen
I had no trouble locating the theater at which Mademoiselle Fifi was performing. The show was a revue called Fun-Time Follies, at the Miner’s Bowery Theater. From what I could see it wasn’t as respectable as the theaters that were springing up around Broadway. Mr. Poindexter was clearly not the most upright of young men.
After that it was merely a question of waiting for the right moment. I took my camera—a nifty little Brownie I had inherited with the business from Paddy Riley—and lurked near Mademoiselle Fifi’s house on East Twenty-first. Fortunately it was not too far from Sixth Avenue, with its department stores: Simpson, Crawford & Simpson was on one corner and Hugh O’Neill on the other, so there was a constant stream of pedestrian traffic, which made me less conspicuous. I walked up and down with my shopping bag, pretending to be interested in shop windows, occasionally going into a baker to buy myself a bun. But Mr. Poindexter did not appear at all that day, nor did he visit the theater that evening. Since my camera did not operate in the dark and I had no kind of flash equipment, it made little sense to watch and wait outside Mademoiselle Fifi’s that night. Besides, I’d had enough for one day.
I came home exhausted at eleven and fell asleep with no supper. The next day it was raining and I worried about there being enough light for my snapshot. It was also Saturday, and I wondered whether Mr. Poindexter would be working at his office or maybe taking a trip out to Long Island to oversee the building of his new home. I took an umbrella and lingered within view of Mademoiselle Fifi’s house for most of the day, feeling thoroughly cold, damp, and uncomfortable.
At last I decided that I was wasting my time and that I would go home for a hot cup of tea. I had just reached the corner of the block when a cab turned into the street, moving at a lively clip. Before I could do anything sensible, Mr. Poindexter himself jumped down from the cab and ran to Mademoiselle Fifi’s front door. I moved back quickly and took up position outside the house. After a few minutes he came out again, slammed the front door behind him, and ran down the steps to the cab, which was still waiting. It was all over so fast that I didn’t have a chance to snap more than one picture—probably so blurred that it would be hard to prove who it was and which street it was on.