In a Gilded Cage - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,40

silk robe, trimmed with feathers.

“Molly, my dear—” She held out a languid hand to me. I wondered if she was playing Camille. She patted the bed beside her. I sat and explained briefly what I wanted. She frowned prettily. “Poindexter? The name does ring a bell. I believe he sent me flowers, years ago. A good-looking boy, I seem to remember.”

I produced the photograph. She nodded. “Yes, I do remember him.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard any rumor about who might be the current object of his affection?”

“My dear child, I haven’t the least interest in who is bedding whom if it doesn’t concern me.”

“She was described as exotic looking,” I prompted.

She gave that delightful, tinkling laugh. “Aren’t we all, darling? Aren’t we all?”

None the wiser, I went to my second source in the theater, the irrepressible playwright Ryan O’Hare. I found him in his rooms at the Hotel Lafayette, just off Washington Square.

“Molly, my darling. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said, rising from his desk to embrace me. He was dressed in a white peasant shirt with ruffles at the cuffs and the front open to reveal his chest. His black hair was unkempt and he looked delightfully Byronesque. “Where have you been these past weeks? Devoting all your time to that brute of a policeman, I expect.”

“Not at all. I’ve been working.”

“Working. Exactly what I’ve been doing myself. Working feverishly on a new play. Best thing I’ve ever done, Molly. The theater world will be stunned. Amazed. Agog.”

“I’m glad for you. When is it to open?”

“Ah, now there’s the rub. I’m still without a backer. I had a certain man-about-town in my pocket, my dear. Ready to shell out millions for me and then—disaster.”

“He died?”

“Worse. He went back to his wife.”

I had to laugh. Ryan joined me.

“At least life is never dull with you, Ryan,” I said, and told him of my current mission. He looked at me, then burst out laughing. “Now, Molly, my sweet. Why on earth would I show any interest at all in young men who hang around stage doors to pick up women?”

There was nothing for it but to visit every theater, one by one. I headed for Broadway and began to show Mr. Poindexter’s photograph at the various stage doors. Luckily stage doors are guarded by wise and fierce old men who usually keep a fatherly eye on the welfare of the female members of the cast. This includes keeping away unwanted admirers and taking up gifts from those in favor. I showed Poindexter’s likeness at one theater after another, with no luck. One or two of the stage-door keepers thought they might have seen him, but they had to confess that handsome young men in top hat and tails tend to look alike.

After several hours of walking the streets around Broadway, I was feeling tired and dispirited. I hadn’t begun to visit every theater, not to mention the vaudeville houses and nightclubs. This could take me days, if not weeks. What I needed now was a piece of luck.

On Thursday my generous tip to the cabby paid off. The day before, Mr. Poindexter had left the office in the middle of the afternoon and had been gone for just over an hour. My cabby himself had driven him to an address on East Twenty-first Street. I took a less expensive means of transportation to that street myself, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. A French maid opened it.

“Hello,” I said in friendly fashion. “Would this be the house of Mrs. James Delaney?”

“No,” she said in distinctly foreign tones. “Zis is zee residence of Mademoiselle Fifi Hetreau.”

The name rang a vague bell. Something I had seen on a billboard, maybe? I took a stab at it. “Fifi Hetreau? Isn’t she a dancer?” I asked.

“Mais oui,” she said. “You have heard of her? You like to attend the theater?”

“It’s my brother who’s rather keen on the theater,” I said confidentially. “And he is a great admirer of Mademoiselle Fifi, I gather. Do you think she’d give me her autograph for him?”

“She is not at ’ome, miss,” the maid said. “I’m sorry.”

“No matter. Do you think she’d give him the time of day if he came to visit in person?”

“I am sure she would give him an autograph, miss, but zat is all. She has a beau who would be very jealous,” She wagged her finger in a very French manner and laughed.

I departed then and headed straight