In a Gilded Cage

by Rhys Bowen

  That much accomplished, I decided I still had time to visit the two missionary headquarters before they shut up shop that evening. I arrived at lower Fifth Avenue and paid a call on the Methodist Missionary Society, at number 150.

  I was greeted politely and told my tale. The bewhiskered gentleman listened attentively. “Boswell?” he said. “The name doesn’t immediately ring a bell. Are you sure of the denomination?”

  “Not sure at all,” I said. “All we know is that they were missionaries in China and died in a cholera epidemic about twenty-five years ago.”

  “Let me check for you.” He got up and went to a shelf full of ledgers. After searching for a while he shook his head. “No, they do not appear to be connected with our church. I’m sorry I can’t help you further. I wish you good luck.”

  One down, about twenty to go. I came out and walked a few paces up the street to the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions, at 156 Fifth Avenue. It was next to a fine Presbyterian church. Those Protestants certainly knew how to build some grand edifices. This time there were two gentlemen in earnest conversation when I entered. One was similarly elderly and distinguished-looking, the other a more robust-looking fellow with a fine set of muttonchop whiskers, in a black frock coat. I was offered a chair and they listened attentively while I told my story.

  “Boswell?” the older man said. “I don’t recall the name as one of ours, do you, Mr. Hatcher?”

  “I can’t say that I do,” the man with the muttonchop whiskers replied, “but I haven’t been in the service as long as you, Dr. Brown.”

  The older man nodded. “I have certainly been part of this missionary effort for more than twenty years. But let me go and check the ledgers for you, my dear young lady. Please take a seat and I’m sure our Mr. Hatcher will keep you entertained.” He disappeared into a back room while the other man leaned over to me. “So you’re doing all this for a friend, are you? That’s what I call real Christian friendship. Is the poor dear lady suffering from an infirmity?”

  “An infirmity? No, she’s in good health. Why do you ask?”

  “I just wondered, because from what you said it sounded as if she was not able to make the inquiries herself, so I thought that perhaps she was of frail constitution.”

  “No, not at all,” I said, smiling, although there was something about the man’s overly friendly manner and the fact that he had moved his chair closer to mine that was beginning to annoy me. “The answer to that is simple. She is a working woman, supporting herself with no family behind her. She has neither time nor leisure for this sort of undertaking.”

  “Oh, I see. Then you must be a lady of leisure yourself.”

  I was tempted to tell him it was none of his business, but I controlled the urge and reasoned he was only trying to make polite conversation while we were waiting for the search through the ledgers. Perhaps he wasn’t used to dealing with young white women any longer, and his gushingly friendly manner went down well among the heathen.

  “I happen to have enough time to help out a dear friend,” I said. “Isn’t that what the Bible tells us to do?”

  “Absolutely. Oh, indeed, yes, it is. You sound like you’d be an ideal candidate for the missions yourself, Miss—?”

  “Murphy,” I said. “And I think I’d be the last person to want to serve as a missionary. First, I happen to be a Catholic, although not the most devoted to my religion, and, second, I have no wish to live in a mud hut and be massacred by savages or die of cholera or typhoid.”

  “I assure you it is not as bad as you make it sound,” the gentleman said. “I myself have been harvesting souls for the Lord for quite a while and have come through unscathed, as you can see. Although I was lucky to have been home on leave during the terrible massacre three years ago. You must have read about it. I lost a lot of good friends.”

  “It must have been awful,” I said. “I have just read Dr. Ketler’s account of it. Your fellow Prebyterians Mr. and Mrs. Simcox and all their little children.”

  “Yes, indeed. But they are now reaping their reward at the feet of their maker, aren’t they?” He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. “So tell me, are you still unattached yourself then, Miss Murphy?”

  Really, was he interested in me or just plain nosy? “I expect to be married in the near future,” I said.

  “And your young man, is he in some kind of philanthropic field? Does he have good Christian leanings like yourself?”

  I chuckled. “Some might find his profession a philanthropic one. He is a policeman, sir.”

  “A policeman? Fancy that. One hears some terrible stories about corruption among the police. Let us hope that a young Christian girl like yourself can keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  “I assure you he is of an honest and upright nature, Mr. Hatcher,” I said.

  “That is reassuring to hear, my dear. I am glad to know that there are honest policemen in New York City and that we citizens can sleep sound in our beds. So tell me . . .”

  At that moment mercifully the older man returned. “Ah, I see you two have had a nice chat. You’ve had a chance to talk with our Mr. Hatcher, then, Miss Murphy. One of our most devoted missionaries. He works in the city of Shanghai, among the most depraved of souls in that port city. I can’t tell you the number of souls he has saved for Jesus.”

  I decided that I might have been uncharitable. Obviously the man’s approach was more successful among the Chinese. The thought crossed my mind that he might have been looking for a wife to take back to China and might have seen me as a likely candidate. The idea made me grin.

  “Oh come now, Dr. Brown,” Mr. Hatcher said, twiddling his mustache in embarrassment. “It is Jesus who saves the souls. I am merely an earthly vessel.”

  Dr. Brown sat down at his desk again. “Well, I regret to tell you, Miss Murphy, that we have no record of a couple called Boswell ever having been part of our mission to China.”

  I got to my feet. “I see. Thank you for your time, Dr. Brown. And it was pleasant chatting with you, Mr. Hatcher.”

  “You’ve asked Hatcher about the Boswells, then, have you? The man knows China like the back of his hand.”

  I looked up at Mr. Hatcher as he gave a regretful shrug. “I can’t say I ever ran into a couple called Boswell. Of course, you said you were speaking of twenty-five years ago, and I have only been working in the Orient for the past eighteen years.”

  “But perhaps you might have heard tales of a missionary couple who died in the cholera epidemic and a baby who survived.”

  “Which year would that be?” Hatcher asked.

  “Eighteen seventy-seven or -eight.”

  Hatcher frowned. “There was no cholera epidemic that I know of that year. I remember when I arrived in the mid-eighteen-eighties a sister of the Catholic mission said how fortunate they had been to have been cholera-free for the past ten years. But of course the disease is never completely eradicated and China is a huge country. If your couple had been working far from civilization then they would have been exposed to all manner of foul diseases.”

  “I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help, Miss Murphy.” Dr. Brown shook my hand.

  “Maybe the young lady should leave you her card,” Mr. Hatcher suggested. “Then we could contact her if we happened to hear anything that might be of use to her.”

  “You’re most kind,” I said. “And maybe if you could possibly put me in touch with any missionaries who were working up-country at that time?”

  “I could probably do that,” Dr. Brown said. “Leave your card with me and I’ll go through my records to see which of our missionaries might now be retired and easily available. I’m afraid most of them are so devoted to the cause that they die out in China. So many poor heathen souls waiting to know the Lord, and the workers are so few, you know.”

  I fished in my purse and offered him my card. I noticed Mr. Hatcher leaning forward in his seat to get a look at it. Really, it was amazing that the man’s nos
iness had not gotten him into trouble in a place like China!

  Having completed my missionary inquiries, I went home, grabbed a bite to eat, and hastily changed into a more fashionable outfit. It was a little cold for the shantung two-piece costume I had acquired from famous actress Oona Sheehan while working on an assignment for her, but I was prepared to shiver a little to make sure I looked right. I caught the El down to South Ferry and lurked out of sight until I saw Anson Poindexter emerge from his office building. I noticed which cab he hailed, but I couldn’t hear the directions he gave the cabby. As soon as the cab pulled away, I went into the building and up the stairs to Farnsworth and Poindexter, Attorneys at Law. As I had hoped, a young male clerk was still hard at work. He looked up in surprise as I entered.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re actually closed for the day. I’m just doing some filing.”

  “Oh, dear me, how vexing. So Mr. Poindexter has gone then, has he?” I tried to play the spoiled upper-class miss.

  “Yes, ma’am. Left just a few minutes ago.”

  “Oh, what a pity. I took tea with his wife this afternoon and I promised her I’d pass him a message, as I was going to be visiting my accountant in this area. And now I’m too late and I’ve let Fanny down. You don’t happen to know where Mr. Poindexter went, do you?”

  “I believe he said he was going straight home, ma’am.” The clerk was looking at me strangely.

  “Really? Because Mrs. Poindexter was under the impression he was going to the theater.”

  Did I notice the hint of a reaction to this last word?

  “No, I’m pretty sure he said something to Mr. Farnsworth about ‘heading home.’”

  “In that case my services weren’t needed and I can go about my business with a clear conscience, can’t I?” I gave him my most charming smile.

  I suspected that Anson Poindexter would have said he was heading home even if his intentions were quite different. I had no choice but to go home myself. Not for the first time, I lamented the fact that I was a woman. A male detective could follow a man to his club, could chat with a cabby more easily and blend among men without arousing suspicion. I had taken this assignment blithely confident that I could carry it out. Now I started to wonder exactly how I was going to keep tabs on the wandering Mr. Poindexter.

  Twelve

  The next day I decided I would have to resort to subterfuge. My former employer, Paddy Riley, had been a master of disguise. It was something I seldom used but this might be a good moment. Accordingly, I found my oldest clothes and topped them with a truly awful hat from the used clothing store on Greenwich Avenue. Then I made sure my face was good and dirty with the help of some earth from my back yard. I stopped in at the Jefferson Street market and bought enough flowers to fill a basket, then made my way back to Pearl Street, this time as a flower seller.

  I had actually made four sales—three buttonholes and a posy—by the time Mr. Poindexter emerged. I studied him as he came toward me. A dashing fellow indeed—the classic tall, dark, and handsome, with a strong jaw unadorned by side-whiskers. He carried himself with an air of authority, almost a swagger. I could well see how sixteen-year-old Fanny had fallen for him. He hailed a cab and was about to climb in when I approached him.

  “Buy some flowers for the special lady in your life, sir?” I pleaded with the right amount of humility and desperation in my voice.

  He glanced at my hand, which now held out a posy of primroses and jonquils. His face broke into a charming smile.

  “Good idea. Why not?” he said, fished in his pocket, and dropped a silver dollar into my hand. Then he leaped into the cab.

  Unfortunately, at the very moment he was giving his instructions to the cabby, a large dray passed with a loud rumble and the clatter of horses’ hooves. I thought I heard the word Broadway, but I might have been mistaken. I hesitated a second, then decided to act. I rushed to the nearest cab waiting in the rank opposite. “Follow that cab,” I said.

  The cabby gave me a queer look. “Here, what’s your game, girlie?”

  “I’ll make it worth your while not to lose him,” I said, in the process of hauling myself and the flowers on board.

  “You better have the money to pay for this,” he said.

  “Do you want the job or not?” I demanded, angry now as Poindexter’s cab was fast disappearing up Pearl Street. “Should I take another cab?”

  “Okay, I guess. Climb in,” he said.

  I did and we set off. I have to confess it was rather exciting. The horse even broke into a canter at times and we rocked around a bit. But as we headed uptown and reached Broadway the traffic increased. Several times I thought we’d lost him. The ride took forever and I began to wonder whether Mr. Poindexter was extravagant enough to hire a cab to take him all the way home. This was fast turning into a very expensive cab ride, and I realized that I had yet again failed to establish my fee before I agreed to take the assignment. Still, Fanny Poindexter had claimed she was rich in her own right. She ought to have enough money to pay me.

  At last the cab turned into Forty-fourth Street and stopped outside an imposing building.

  “Stop here,” I called to the cabby. Luckily, there was a line of cabs pulling up and disgorging passengers ahead of us, so I could descend without Mr. Poindexter noticing me. I paid the rather exorbitant amount the cabby demanded. I saw his eyes open wider when he glimpsed my purse, and then an idea struck me.

  “Your normal place is down on Pearl Street, is that right?”

  “That’s right, miss.” He was more friendly now that he had been paid. “What’s this all about then, keeping an eye on your wayward husband, are you? You’re no more a flower seller than I’m the president of the United States.”

  “You’re right,” I agreed, because it was easier than telling the truth. “Get a good look at him as he goes into that building, because there’s a dollar in it for you if you can report to me any address to which he takes a cab.”

  “A dollar?” he sounded disgusted.

  I bit the bullet. “Five dollars then. How about that? I’ll give you five dollars if you can come up with valuable information for me. Is that a deal?”

  He looked at me long and hard. “I don’t know what your game is, lady, but I reckon it’s none of my business.” He reached down his hand. “You got yourself a deal.”

  I left him and approached the building into which Poindexter had disappeared. It turned out to be the New York Yacht Club. Personally, I thought it was a strange site for a yacht club, with no water within sight in any direction, but I knew from what Fanny had told me that he was a member here, as well as at the Columbia Club and the New York Athletic Club. I wondered if he had just popped in for a quick drink and how long I should keep watch. The problem was that this wasn’t the sort of street where a flower seller could remain inconspicuous. There were no crowds, for one thing, and the passersby were well dressed. I discarded the basket of flowers and the hat, and cleaned my face with my handkerchief. But I still attracted the attention of a passing constable. He eyed me from the other side of the street, and when he came around again, he crossed over to me. “Waiting for somebody, miss?” he asked. I was clearly not dressed well enough to be a streetwalker.

  I tried to come up with a good answer to this question. “I’m a writer,” I said. “I’m thinking of setting a scene of my next novel on this very street and I’m soaking up the atmosphere.” All right, it wasn’t good, but it was the best I could do on short notice. The constable seemed to buy it, anyway. He smiled and shook his head and went away muttering something about women writers.

  It became quite dark and cold. I hopped around a bit until finally Poindexter emerged from the club. He didn’t look pleased with himself this time but annoyed. He hailed a cab and swung himself up. “The Dakota,” he snapped.

  After all that, he was simply going home. I was about to do the same, as I was cold and hungry and my feet were hurting me, but I had a flash of inspiration. We were very close
to Delmonico’s, a well-known haunt for late-night suppers in very private rooms. It was just possible that Mr. Poindexter had entertained his lady friend there. It wasn’t until I entered the front door and saw the look of horror on the face of the maître d’ that I remembered how I was dressed. I don’t know if he thought I was begging, seeking customers, or simply wanting to make a nuisance of myself, but he marched over with that jaunty, bouncy step that only Italians can master and muttered that I should probably leave. He made sure of this by signaling one of the waiters, who escorted me out the front door.

  I waited until we were outside and then took my chance. “Listen,” I said in a low voice. “I’m trying to 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.”