Gus said. “Seriously hurt?”
I found it hard to force out the words. “She was not expected to live, I’m afraid. The manager stopped the show and sent everyone home.”
“How awful for you. You need a dose of Sid’s coffee to restore you to sorts.”
In truth I didn’t need a dose of Sid’s coffee. She made it in the Turkish fashion, abominably strong and more like drinking thick sludge. But my friends’ cheerful company more than made up for the coffee. I followed Gus across the street to her house on the other side of our little backwater. It was a charming haven of twenty brownstone houses set in a cobbled alleyway and gave the feeling of being miles away from the traffic and bustle of Greenwich Avenue and the Jefferson Market opposite.
Gus flung open her front door. “Sid, dearest. Here she is, and with such a dramatic tale to tell.”
We went down the long hallway and through to the kitchen at the back of the house. They had built a conservatory onto it and Sid was sitting in a white wicker rocking chair, the picture of country elegance. I should probably explain that Sid’s real name was Elena Goldfarb. She and Gus led the most delightfully bohemian existence, with Gus’s inheritance to keep them in that lifestyle. Their house was always full of artists, writers, actors—and extremely heady for a girl who until recently had lived in a primitive Irish cottage and whose entertainment had been the occasional dance at the church hall.
Sid jumped up as we arrived. She was wearing a red silk kimono with a large golden dragon curling over it and the effect with her black bobbed hair was stunningly oriental.
“Molly!” she cried, opening her arms to me. “We see you too seldom these days and now you’ve come to cheer up our drab little lives with a dramatic tale.”
I had to laugh at this statement. “Drab little lives? I don’t know of any lives less drab. Who else would convert their living room into a Mongolian yurt?”
Sid looked surprised. “Well, we decided we didn’t really want to go to Mongolia after all. Too cold and windy and bleak, you know. So we decided to have the Mongolian experience at home. Of course we’ve had to do without the horses galloping over the plain, but there are riding stables nearby . . .”
A vision of Gus and Sid, dressed Mongolian fashion and galloping astride through Central Park flashed into my mind before Sid said, “So tell us your dramatic tale.”
“A horrible tale, actually,” I said and repeated what I had told Gus.
When I’d finished there was stunned silence.
“How utterly awful,” Sid said at last.
“She needs coffee, Sid,” Gus said and started to put the French rolls into a wicker basket.
“She most certainly does. You must have been most upset last night. Why didn’t you come over to us when you got home? You know what late hours we keep and we could have given you a stiff brandy.”
“Perhaps her intended was there to offer her more comfort than we could give,” Gus said, giving us a knowing look.
“No, I came home all alone. Daniel sent me home in a cab,” I said. “He had to stay on to conduct an investigation into the incident.”
“A nasty accident, surely?” Sid looked up from putting a small cup of thick black coffee in front of me.
“The illusionist himself didn’t seem to think so,” I said. “He thought his act had been tampered with.”
“Who would do such a fiendish thing?”
“I have no idea. I had to take Mrs. Houdini to her dressing room so I missed a lot.”
“There is a Mrs. Houdini?”
“Indeed yes. A delicate little thing like a china doll. She was in hysterics when she saw the poor girl.”
“Most women would be,” Sid said, giving Gus an amused glance. “I am afraid you have doomed yourself to not being socially acceptable by not being able to produce an attack of the vapors, Molly. A most useful accomplishment for a woman.”
Sid sat beside me at the table and opened the newspaper. She scanned the first pages while Gus and I sampled the French rolls.
“Ah, here we are. ‘Tragedy at Miner’s Bowery Theatre.’ Here’s the whole thing in grim detail, written by someone who was an observer on the spot. They are certainly on the ball at The New York Times, aren’t they? All the news that’s fit to print indeed.” She read us the piece out loud. “Oh, and you’ll