In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,36
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.
I tried to come up with a good answer to this question. “I’m a writer,” I said. “I’m thinking of setting a scene of my next novel on this very street and I’m soaking up the atmosphere.” All right, it wasn’t good, but it was the best I could do on short notice. The constable seemed to buy it, anyway. He smiled and shook his head and went away muttering something about women writers.
It became quite dark and cold. I hopped around a bit until finally Poindexter emerged from the club. He didn’t look pleased with himself this time but annoyed. He hailed a cab and swung himself up. “The Dakota,” he snapped.
After all that, he was simply going home. I was about to do the same, as I was cold and hungry and my feet were hurting me, but I had a flash of inspiration. We were very close to Delmonico’s, a well-known haunt for late-night suppers in very private rooms. It was just possible that Mr. Poindexter had entertained his lady friend there. It wasn’t until I entered the front door and saw the look of horror on the face of the maître d’ that I remembered how I was dressed. I don’t know if he thought I was begging, seeking customers, or simply wanting to make a nuisance of myself, but he marched over with that jaunty, bouncy step that only Italians can master and muttered that I should probably leave. He made sure of this by signaling one of the waiters, who escorted me out the front door.
I waited until we were outside and then took my chance. “Listen,” I said in a low voice. “I’m trying to