In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,37

trace somebody. If I show you a man’s picture, could you tell me whether he’s been seen in the restaurant recently with a woman?”

The waiter looked horrified. He was one of those sad-looking men with longish black hair, parted down the middle, and a droopy black mustache. “I’m sorry, miss, but it is more than my job’s worth to give out any information on our clientele. We pride ourselves on our discretion. So run along, please.”

I could sense the maître d’ watching me, but just then a couple of bona fide diners entered and I took my chance again, whipping out the photograph. “This man,” I whispered. “Has he been to the restaurant lately?”

“I told you, miss. I couldn’t divulge anything like that.”

I moved the photograph just enough for him to see that the dollar bill lay beneath it. “More than my job’s worth,” he said again.

But I had seen from a momentary change in his expression that he had recognized Anson Poindexter.

“So you couldn’t describe the woman who was with him?” I asked.

“With whom?” He stared at me blankly. The dollar bill still rested in the palm of my hand.

“The man you’ve never seen,” I went on. “I just wondered what sort of woman might have been with a man like that, had he decided to come here without your seeing him.”

The ghost of a smile twitched on his lips. “Exotic-looking,” he said. “Not the type you’d bring home to Mother.”

I reached out my hand to shake his. “You’ve been most helpful,” I said and felt him slip the bill into his own palm. “She wouldn’t have a name, this exotic woman?”

“They never have names, only kitten, sugar, or honeybun,” he said, really smiling now.

I came away feeling more optimistic. Exotic-looking. The type you don’t bring home to Mother. That definitely implied the theater to me. It so happened that I knew a bit about the theater life. While I had been working undercover in a theater, I had seen the stage-door Johnnies in operation—those rich young men who hung around theaters, plying leading ladies and chorus girls alike with champagne and flowers. Maybe Mr. Poindexter had met his lady-love this way. Tomorrow I’d start to make the rounds of the theaters and see what turned up.

Now that I had a plan I felt more satisfied as I made my way home. I let myself into my house with a sigh of relief and turned on the gas in the hall. As I was about to go upstairs to get out of this most unattractive of outfits, I glanced into my sitting room and froze. There were some sheets of paper on my floor. I confess to not being the most tidy of individuals, but I would never go out leaving papers on the floor. I went in cautiously and lit the gas bracket. I picked up the papers and examined them. They had been on the stack on my table—of no significance in themselves except that I hadn’t seen them for a couple of weeks. And the papers that had been on top of the stack were there no longer. I could come to only one conclusion—somebody had been in my house.

Of course the moment I came to this realization, the next step was to wonder whether the intruder was still here. I checked the windows but found them shut as before. There was no sign of a forced entry. I hesitated to go upstairs, but when I finally got up the courage, I found the windows up there were likewise shut. Daniel had a key, so that was the most obvious of explanations. Maybe he had found himself near Greenwich Village and had stopped by for a few minutes’ rest. But why would he have gone through my papers? To see if he could find out the truth about my client? No. I shook my head. I could not think that of him.

So who could have gained access to the place, and for what purpose? I crossed the street and knocked on Sid and Gus’s door.

“Molly, how nice,” Sid said. “We were about to eat. Why don’t you join us.”

I felt embarrassed then, as if she might have thought that I only showed up for food. “I don’t want to trouble you,” I said, “but I wondered whether you happened to notice anybody outside my house at any time today.”

“I’m afraid we’d be of no use at all,” Sid said. “I have been fully occupied writing letters.