I came home exhausted at eleven and fell asleep with no supper. The next day it was raining and I worried about there being enough light for my snapshot. It was also Saturday, and I wondered whether Mr. Poindexter would be working at his office or maybe taking a trip out to Long Island to oversee the building of his new home. I took an umbrella and lingered within view of Mademoiselle Fifi’s house for most of the day, feeling thoroughly cold, damp, and uncomfortable.
At last I decided that I was wasting my time and that I would go home for a hot cup of tea. I had just reached the corner of the block when a cab turned into the street, moving at a lively clip. Before I could do anything sensible, Mr. Poindexter himself jumped down from the cab and ran to Mademoiselle Fifi’s front door. I moved back quickly and took up position outside the house. After a few minutes he came out again, slammed the front door behind him, and ran down the steps to the cab, which was still waiting. It was all over so fast that I didn’t have a chance to snap more than one picture—probably so blurred that it would be hard to prove who it was and which street it was on.
I wondered whether I should go and see if Fanny had recovered enough to receive visitors. At least now I had seen her husband at Fifi’s house for myself, although his stay was certainly not long enough for a lover’s tryst. Maybe he was there for the purpose of arranging such a tryst, although from what I saw during my brief glimpse of him, he had not looked happy or excited. In fact, grim would have been the word to describe his face.
As I left Twenty-first Street to go home, I glanced back once more and saw Mademoiselle Fifi’s maid emerge from the house and come running toward me. It was still raining and she was in her maid’s uniform, with no hat or coat. I lowered my umbrella to conceal my face and she ran past. On the corner she hailed a cab and rode in it back to the house. A few minutes later I was treated to the sight of Mademoiselle Fifi herself, emerging, draped in a glorious sable coat. I snapped a picture of her, though I’m not sure exactly why. I tried to move close enough to hear the directions she gave the cabby as he assisted her into the cab, but the street noise was considerable and I heard nothing. I watched them drive away, wondering if I should try to find a cab of my own to follow them, or whether she was going on some simple errand, or even to a matinee at her theater. In any case, by the time I had reached the end of the street and spotted an empty cab, they were gone.
I went home, feeling somewhat satisfied. I had seen Poindexter for myself at Mademoiselle Fifi’s house. That would be enough for Fanny to have ammunition to confront her husband. Of course, I had no way of knowing whether the news would be welcome or not. Did she want to get out of a confining marriage in which she saw herself as a prisoner, or did she want her husband to start paying her more attention? One never knew with women. We don’t always fall in love with the right men. I can attest to that. Either way, I decided I should probably wait until Monday to visit Fanny, as her husband would most likely be spending his Sunday at home.
I spent a quiet evening alone. No sign of Daniel, and Sid and Gus were off to the theater. On Sunday morning I slept in late and was just fixing myself a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast when there came a thunderous knocking at my front door. I was still in my robe, so I paused to make myself respectable before opening it. Emily Boswell stood there, a look of absolute distress on her face.
“Emily, my dear. What is it?” I asked.
She staggered into the hallway. “She’s dead. Fanny is dead,” she said, gasping.
“Fanny’s dead?”
She nodded, then drew out a handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth.
I put a tentative arm around her shoulder and steered her into my kitchen. “My dear Emily, I am so sorry,” I said. “I