“You know I hardly fit inside a telephone booth!” Constance complained. But Norma had settled into her armchair and taken up a newspaper, which she intended to use for concealment.
“If you don’t think she’ll spot you because you’re holding a newspaper, then you have no idea what you look like most of the time,” Constance said.
“I don’t think she’ll spot me, because I don’t think she’s here,” Norma returned.
“Keep that to yourself.” Constance couldn’t bear to imagine where else Fleurette might be.
She perched awkwardly on the little stool inside the telephone booth and arranged the brim of her hat to fall down over her eyes—although if Fleurette was there, she would, of course, recognize her hat as easily as her face. By that time, Constance wouldn’t have minded if Fleurette had walked into the lobby and spotted her, if only to put an end to the uncertainty.
She had only just settled into the telephone booth—if anyone is ever actually settled into a box of glass and wood no larger than a coffin—when May Ward made her grand entrance, sweeping into the high-ceilinged lobby and causing a stir the likes of which only a woman of her celebrity could bring about. Almost every man in the lobby rushed over to her at once. They tried to take her arm, they held out their cards to her, and they even offered to help with a little bag she carried. The room was filled all at once with their jokes and laughter. Constance had never before seen one woman create so much excitement on her way to the elevator.
The porter was doing his best to keep the men away from Mrs. Ward, but he also had the eight Dresden Dolls to attend to, each of whom attracted their own small following. They were all still brightly painted and dressed in their costumes, and resembled tiny island-nations of feminine charm, each one beribboned and bejeweled and leading her own band of loyalists.
An older woman in a plain brown coat followed behind with the two chauffeurs, who struggled under the weight of bags and hat-boxes. Constance took the woman to be Mrs. Ironsides, the chaperone. She was keeping a sharp eye on all of the girls and snatched away a note that someone tried to pass to one of them.
The Dolls gathered around the elevators. One of the hotel porters was summoned to help swat away their most ardent admirers, who had mingled in with the crowd with the obvious intention of trying to follow them upstairs. In the course of sorting out who belonged and who didn’t, one elevator landed, and then another, and the Dresden Dolls all stepped on board with their entourage. Somehow Carrie managed to creep on board with them, showing her hotel key to prove she was a guest.
Only Mrs. Ward remained, surrounded by young men eager for her attention. She continued to sign autographs and laugh and flirt while her mountainous porter waited sullenly at the elevator.
Constance slumped over in discouragement. She squinted at her reflection in the brass telephone and marveled at the mess she was in. The lobby had grown quiet as the last of Mrs. Ward’s admirers drifted away. Constance allowed the brim of her hat to fall down over her eyes, and wished she could simply disappear rather than go and confront Norma over what they were to do next.
She was, therefore, not prepared for a sharp knock at the glass. She jumped and lifted up the brim of her hat with the expectation of seeing Norma waiting for her impatiently.
But it wasn’t Norma. It was May Ward.
49
NO ONE, APART FROM HER OWN SISTER, had ever glared at her so ferociously. May Ward had a look in her eyes that put Constance into a cold sweat. The actress’s lips were as red as a poisonous berry, her cheeks as white as death, except for a flaming streak on each side that looked more like war-paint than a lady’s blush.
Constance stared at her for what felt like an eternity, before realizing that she couldn’t keep the glass door between them closed forever.
When she pushed it open, May Ward leaned inside and gave her a whiff of imported perfume, gin, and a costume that needed laundering two days ago.
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
Constance’s first impulse was to lie. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m awaiting a call. The operators were told to put it through here. I believe there’s another booth upstairs.”
But she wasn’t interested. “You are not here to make a call. I saw you watching us, and you’re not the first one I’ve seen following us around. You work for Freeman, don’t you? It’s just like him to send a lady detective.”
Constance was too panicked to answer, so she took the opportunity to look around the lobby. Mr. Impediment was standing nearby, in a spot that had probably been chosen for him by Mrs. Ward. Norma’s armchair was turned away, but the upper edge of her newspaper stood at attention.
“I’m not a private detective,” she told Mrs. Ward. “You might speak to the hotel manager if you believe someone’s following you.” Constance was trying to make it sound as if Mrs. Ward were the paranoid one, when in fact it was her heart that was hammering, and her neck that had grown hot under the collar.
“I don’t need to see any manager,” she spat. “You tell Freeman that I will not have hired men—or hired women—watching me. I’ve gone along with the chaperone, and the porter, but I will not have a spy trailing us from city to city. Go on back to Trenton, or wherever he dredged you up. If I see you in Pittsburgh, I’ll have you arrested.”
She spun around and marched off before Constance could gather her wits about her. She and the porter stepped into the waiting elevator. Constance wriggled out of the booth and ran after her. “If I could only ask you a question?—”
Mr. Impediment put up his hand. “Come any closer and I’ll call the police.”
“But I am?—”
The elevator door closed and they were gone.
Norma dropped her newspaper and rushed over. “What on earth did you do to get yourself spotted?”
“Nothing! I sat as still as I could, and my face was mostly hidden underneath my hat. You were the one calling attention to yourself, with that newspaper held up like a signal flag.”
“I was behind a column.”
They stood, glaring at each other, both of them with high color in their cheeks and a kind of frantic agitation that kept them looking over each other’s shoulders.
“It’s time to go to the police,” Norma said.
There was something about the way she said it that hit Constance in the soft spot right under her sternum. The finality of it slammed into her.
Carrie emerged from the elevator and met them with a shrug. “I have their room numbers. They’re around the corner from us. I couldn’t get a look inside the rooms, but I didn’t hear anyone else in there.”
Norma told Carrie what had happened. They both stood staring at Constance. By some unspoken accord, it was up to her to decide how to handle this. “Go on upstairs,” Constance said. “We probably should go to the police, and ask a few questions of Mrs. Ward, but I just want to sit here for a minute and think about it.”