relief. It would be easier to face his manager and I might even learn something from him. Just as I was closing the drawer I heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming toward me. I spun around guiltily as Mr. Irving came into his office. He started in surprise when he saw me, frowned, and tried to place me.
“Miss—uh?”
“I’m Bess Houdini’s friend, remember? I was the one who filled in as Houdini’s assistant when Bess was taken ill,” I said.
“Ah, of course.” I detected no flicker of interest.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, but I was very upset when I left the theater that night, and I rather fear that I left behind a small cameo brooch that I always wear for good luck. It was given to me by my departed mother, you see. So I just wondered if it had been turned in to you?”
He frowned even harder. “A cameo brooch? I haven’t seen one. Nobody’s mentioned it.”
“Oh, dear. That’s a pity,” I said. “Then it might have fallen on my way into the cab and somebody’s nabbed it.”
“Too bad,” he said. His expression was unreadable. Had he glimpsed me at his file cabinet? Did he suspect me of being anything more than a friend of the Houdinis?
“You can come and check the lost property closet if you like,” he said. “Someone may have just put it there without telling me.”
Again I hesitated. Was my gut telling me not to go with him?
“That’s all right,” I said. “I really shouldn’t trouble you anymore. I’ll give it up for lost.”
“The closet’s right here,” he said, literally steering me back down the passage. “I’d hate for you to lose your beloved trinket.” And he opened a door in the passage.
I was truly expecting to be shoved inside, or to find it led to a flight of dark stairs, but it was a perfectly normal closet. I looked through it for what seemed the required amount of time and was about to close it when I noticed a bag on the bottom shelf. It was a canvas bag and across it was painted in bold letters SCARPELLI.
“That’s Signor Scarpelli’s bag,” I said. “So I see he never came back to collect it.”
“Nobody’s heard a squeak from him after he took Lily off in an ambulance,” Mr. Irving said. “If you want to know what I think, I think he’s scared he’ll be charged with a crime. The police didn’t think it was an accident, you see. So he’s lying low for a while.”
“I could take it to his manager, if you like,” I said. “I’m on my way there right now.”
“Are you? What for?”
I attempted to look coy. “He also represents a friend of mine who’s away on tour. I need his address on the West Coast. He promised to write but he hasn’t. I expect he’s been too busy.”
“Yes, I expect so.” He gave me an understanding smile. “Well, I suppose you could take the bag to his manager. It’s only cluttering up the place here.”
And he handed me the canvas bag. I went off triumphantly. I had done something risky and I had succeeded. I always love it when things go right.
Thirty
As soon as I was out of sight of the theater I opened the bag and went through it. To my disappointment it contained only things that were clearly professional props—some scarves, a wand, and several pieces of false hair, including a variety of mustaches, a box of matches, a packet of cigarettes, and a new jar of makeup-removing cream. But nothing incriminating or threatening. No letters. No addresses.
It didn’t take long to find Morgan Highfield’s office on Lower Broadway for which I was glad, as I was now carrying two bags. Scarpelli’s was remarkably heavy, given the contents, and it seemed to get heavier by the minute. The office was in a seedy area and up on the third floor so that I was panting and sweaty by the time I made it up all those steep stairs. A balding, paunchy man was sitting with his feet up on his desk, wearing no tie and his shirt collar open, and smoking a cigar.
“And what can I do for you, little lady?” he asked, not bothering to remove his feet.
I held out the bag and said that I’d come from Miner’s Theatre, where I’d also been working and thought that he might want to forward the bag to Scarpelli.
“Thank you, my dear. Most obliged. Very kind of you,”