She didn’t really have the money to be staying here now, but she thought it prudent to keep up pretenses, in case it proved necessary. Bess recalled the first time she and Harry had stayed in a real palace, during a trip to Russia. The Grand Duke Sergius, bored and hearing of Harry’s escapes, had invited them to St. Petersburg, to give a special exhibition in his ballroom. The duke told them he had spent a month building a steel chest that could not be unlocked. Harry, slightly concerned but knowing how much Bess was longing to see the palace, accepted the challenge. Bess was invited to have tea with the duchess while Harry was performing. Afterward, he recounted to her how he was stripped to his underwear and searched, but managed to open the box nonetheless. She knew how it had been done, the picklock clasped underneath his left toes; he had tested it with her the night before. That night they slept in gray silk sheets in a room decorated with candlelight and heavy tapestries. Breakfast was brought in on a tray and eaten on the balcony, which overlooked the gardens.
She had asked Charles Radley to meet her in the lobby at six. Wanting to make sure he was there before her, she arrived at a quarter past six and scanned the cream-colored sofas for a man sitting alone. She had no idea what he looked like or how old he was, but she estimated that he would be wearing a less expensive suit than most of the men there, and would probably wait about a half hour before he gave up on her.
It was a hot evening, but the lobby was cool. The wall was lined with tall, open glass windows bordered by sheer white curtains. Stiff-collared waiters were bringing around drinks of lemonade, and a piano player was playing a soft rendition of “Rhapsody in Blue.” Although the room was crowded, most of the men and women were already in evening dress, the women leaning against armchairs in their jewel-colored chiffon. But there was only one man alone, sweating in a gray wool suit, tapping his foot in an armchair next to the soft carpeted staircase. She was disappointed; she felt certain she would recognize him when she saw him, that it would be instantly clear why Harry had directed her to him. But she had never seen him before; he didn’t seem like the bearer of any kind of message. She sat down quietly in a chair by the door and pulled a novel from her purse so she could study him a moment longer. She had given him a man’s name for the meeting, and she didn’t think he would recognize her at first.
He was much younger than she had imagined. He was clean-shaven and attractive, in his early thirties, his dark eyes hidden behind a thin pair of spectacles. Something about him made her uneasy, though she could not identify what. He seemed harmless enough. He crossed two thin hands over a leather briefcase, which Bess imagined contained a selection of his work. He did not have the body or the demeanor of a dangerous man, although Stella liked to talk about the debauchery of Atlantic City—where the Prohibition laws were essentially unenforced—being even worse than Manhattan’s.
After a few minutes he glanced at his watch, looked around the room once more, and stood up. Bess stood up as well and went after him. She followed him across the lobby, toward the dining room, and through a tall mahogany door next to the kitchen. She found herself standing in what appeared to have once been a library. It was completely windowless, lit only by tall brass lamps and shaded sconces. Red leather couches were scattered around the room, and the walls held floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. It reminded her of Harry’s library at home. The thick, woody odor of cigar smoke wafted through the doorway. In front of one of the bookshelves, a makeshift wooden bar had been set up and was manned by a bartender, who was retrieving drinks from a fully stocked liquor cabinet behind the bar.
Charles took a seat on one of the barstools and asked for a glass of soda water, pulling a folded newspaper from his briefcase and laying it out in front of him. To his right was a young woman, a Mary Hay look-alike, in a blue embroidered evening dress. He leaned over to speak to her and laid his hand on her arm. Bess sat down on the seat to his left and ordered herself a gin on ice.
It became clear to her immediately that Charles and the woman on his right had just become acquainted. But he had told her his name was Wallace, and she was asking him about his work in the bank. For a moment Bess was alarmed; she wondered if the real Charles Radley was still waiting for her in the lobby somewhere, until it occurred to her that he was very likely making up stories about himself to impress the girl.
After a few minutes the woman in the blue dress stood up. “My friends have arrived,” she said. “Perhaps we can chat more later.”
Charles’s shoulders fell. “Oh. Of course.” Bess felt a wave of affection for him. He was not skilled with women.
“Your name isn’t really Wallace, is it?” she asked Charles when the woman had left.
He turned to her, alarmed. “Pardon?” She saw a look of recognition cross his face. “Why—you’re Bess Houdini, aren’t you?”
“I am. But you’re not a banker. I know when a man is lying to impress a woman.”
He blinked at her, startled. She looked at his glass. “Why bother coming to a place like this if you’re only going to drink water?” She called over the bartender and ordered him a whiskey.
He stared at her. “Do you always order whiskey for men you’ve just met?” He pushed the glass away. “I don’t drink whiskey.”
His candor surprised her. “I’m—I’m sorry.” She was mortified; she had tried too hard to charm him and had ended up coming off as domineering. She may just have ruined the one chance she had to gain his confidence.
Around them, the room was filling up with people. The conversations grew louder, and the smoke thicker.
“My name is actually Charles, not Wallace,” he said, pulling his water glass back toward himself.
She looked down. “I know.”