Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

  Poor Bev, on the other hand, had taken her widow’s weeds to her father’s rooms for a quiet dinner.

  Mr. Tappington-Jones was all amiability, but Phil had to concentrate not to let the initials she’d seen color the way she conversed. She wanted to grab him by the lapels of his evening dress and shake him. Demand he tell her what his initials were doing in Mimi’s tell-all book. Unfortunately, that might work with an errant husband, but as far as investigation techniques went, she was certain that wrinkling your escort wouldn’t pass muster.

  Patience, she reminded herself. Tonight was to gather information, not to force someone’s hand. She smiled inwardly. Lady Dunbridge, lady spy. It did have a certain cachet.

  The Langham mansion, for mansion it was, was ostentatiously perched on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Fifth Street. With three stories of French doors and tiny balconies and columns along the ground-floor landing, it looked like a stone wedding cake, whose decoration reminded Phil not of confection but of the crenellation on medieval ramparts.

  Phil and Hilda ascended the steps arm in arm, with Mr. Tappington-Jones behind, making Phil think of a sheepherder as he navigated between his wife’s train and Phil’s billowing chiffon.

  She took a fortifying breath. Her debut appearance in New York, and she was thinking about the list. She’d memorized many of the initials. Now to give them a name and a face.

  She expected to identify at least a few. Though as Bev had pointed out more than once as they perused the sheets of paper, they could be the initials of upstarts or lowlifes who had nothing to do with the society she’d be keeping this evening.

  Phil didn’t believe that. Not with the amounts of money—if it was money—after each set of initials. She was trying not to make assumptions without evidence. One of the many pitfalls Dr. Gross had warned of in his criminal investigations book. Still …

  “Lady Dunbridge. How lovely that you were able to come.”

  Phil nodded to her hostess, a tall, thin woman who looked like she might bend in the wind. “Mrs. Langham, I was delighted to receive your invitation.”

  She turned to Mr. Langham. He was a short, heavily joweled man, with thinning hair pomaded forward in an awkward and entirely unsuccessful attempt to cover his shiny pate.

  As he bowed over her hand, he flicked a quick look to Mr. Tappington-Jones down the line.

  If only she could read thoughts.…

  She moved into the hall, Hilda Tappington-Jones by her side. Mr. Tappington-Jones accompanied them as far as the first two groups of people for Phil’s introduction, then excused himself.

  The ballroom was already crowded, but Phil saw Marguerite Beecham standing with several women at the edge of the dance floor. An orchestra was playing somewhere at the far end of the room. The walls of the ballroom were filled with large oil paintings probably bought in Europe from the looks of the subject matter. Money and a modicum of taste, Phil thought and turned so Hilda could introduce her to another group of ladies.

  She’d halfway expected a repeat of the dinner party, not in players but in attitude. But she must have made some friends at the Tappington-Jones dinner because her welcome was warm, interested, with only a few holdouts reserving judgment as to her suitability. Perhaps this time, her reputation had preceded her in a useful way.

  She’d managed to work her way around the room and stood talking with the Langhams, taking particular note of Thomas and filing it away for she didn’t know what, when her hand was claimed by Herr Schimmer.

  He bowed. “May I have the honor of this waltz?”

  Phil put down her champagne glass and he led her to the floor.

  “How nice to see you, Herr Schimmer.”

  “Likewise. I was hoping you would be here.” He took her hand and back and they moved effortlessly across the floor. He smelled of champagne and masculinity, aftershave and—

  “Ah, a pleasure to have such a partner.”

  Phil recollected herself. “Have you been busy while here, Herr Schimmer?”

  “Quite.”

  “Have Mr. Tappington-Jones and friends whisked you off to the track and kept you from your work?”

  He smiled. She imagined he was quite good-looking beneath that beard, and she found herself wondering what those lips looked like when not partially concealed by his mustache. He was an excellent waltzer. And better still, he could carry on a conversation while twirling around a crowded ballroom. She was impressed.

  “I think gentlemen must get an extra excitement being at the rail so close to the actual event instead of sitting with the ladies in the stands. And placing a wager here and there, no doubt.” She smiled coyly up at him. He was several inches taller than she, the prefect proportions for dancing.

  He smiled back at her. “Here and there. These Americans are much more cavalier than we Austrians about throwing their money after fast horses, sometimes to their detriment.”

  Phil immediately forgot about his attractiveness.

  “Oh, dear. Did someone lose heavily? Not you, I hope.” She let her eyes roll up. “Some of them have formidable wives. Though I suppose they manage to keep their losses hidden.”

  “I suppose. Though I doubt the earl could keep his losses from you.”

  She thought his look was much too penetrating.

  “Pardon me, I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”

  “Not at all. The earl didn’t even try. But in England my money wasn’t my own, so it didn’t really matter to me if he won or lost.”

  “Alas. A law that will perhaps someday change.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The waltz ended and he returned her to the group of ladies. Their numbers and identities had changed. New introductions were made and conversation continued. Phil had little time for gossip, as her hand was immediately claimed for another dance.

  So she twirled around the floor while she kept an eye out for the men she did know or had good reason to suspect were on the list. She danced with several of them, who doggedly stuck to the weather and her impressions of Manhattan no matter how hard she tried to lead the conversation to the track.

  She also danced with both Thomas Langham and Arthur Tappington-Jones, but neither of them seemed to be able to carry on more than a monosyllabic conversation while concentrating on the dance steps. And again with the attaché, who was her most attentive and coordinated partner of the evening.

  She’d met several gentlemen tonight whose initials were on the list. Of course it could be coincidental. Still, whenever she wasn’t dancing, her gaze invariably wandered across the room. Anyone watching would be forgiven for thinking she was waiting for a secret lover.

  Alas, not a lover, but a clue.

  Halfway through the night she saw Marguerite sitting on one of the sofas around the perimeter. And she could tell, even from this distance, the poor girl was looking pale.

  “Excuse me,” Phil said, meaning to ask Marguerite if she was unwell.

  As she crossed the room, she saw Thomas Langham nod to someone. A common salutation, except that as he continued toward the door, he was joined by Arthur Tappington-Jones. Off for a cigar and a brandy in the pool room, no doubt. On the other hand …

  Before she could decide whether to continue to Marguerite or follow them, Herr Schimmer appeared at the edge of the ballroom and followed the two men out.

  He might merely be joining the other men for a cigar, though she knew the attaché used a pipe. It left a faint aroma of a distinctive tobacco about his person. She’d noticed it at the Tappington-Joneses’ dinner and again tonight. Faint, intriguing, inviting you to move just a little closer, let your guard down ever so slightly.

  But she had no intention of letting her guard down tonight.

  This migration from the ballroom might be completely innocent, but she needed to know. Dropping her intention to help Marguerite, she, too, sidled toward the door and stepped out into the foyer. Only the usual footmen were there, and a few men and women returning from or going to the withdr
awing rooms. She followed two ladies up the stairs to the landing, which curved left and right, with a central main hallway that stretched toward the back of the house.

  When they turned left toward what was obviously the ladies’ withdrawing room, Phil continued down the main hallway, where she thought the smoking room and billiard room might be located and would be the most obvious destination of the men who had just left the ballroom.

  It was darker in this corridor. Sconces cast sprays of light up the walls between an assortment of tables, cabinets, and objets d’art that lined the way. She paused and listened, thought she heard voices at the end of the hall.

  She moved closer. A door farther along opened and closed. She stepped back out of the light and made a hasty retreat into an alcove, where she squeezed in between the wall and a marble statue of an athletic Greek youth. Then held her breath as Freddy Beecham strode quickly toward the stairs. Not the stride of a man eager to return to the dancing, but a man out of temper. He took the stairs almost at a run.

  She was tempted to follow him, but she was more tempted to find out what had made him so angry.

  She peered down the corridor, now deserted again, and slipped out of her hiding place. Slowly she made her way forward, pausing to listen outside the door he had just exited.

  There was no way she could hear what they were saying without entering.

  And wouldn’t that just put a damper on whatever urgent proceedings were going on inside?

  But there was an adjacent room. She hurried toward it and tried the handle. It turned easily. She took a deep breath and stepped inside. It was a small sitting room, dimly lit by several wall sconces turned low. At the far side was a pair of French doors that opened to a small balcony.

  Perfect. That would at least get her closer to the conversation, especially if the windows to the room next door were open … The possibilities were endless.

  She crept forward, gently turned the door knob, and eased the door open, cringing slightly as it rasped on the doorjamb. She could hear an argument going on next door. Did she dare go out onto the balcony? Were they also out on the accompanying balcony?

  She hugged the wall, afraid to move forward but not willing to go back.

  “I tell you, it’s under control.”

  “Can you guarantee that in spite of what happened?”

  “What are you saying, man? We had nothing to do with that.”

  “The hell you didn’t. Now rumor has it that there’s going to be a crackdown on the whole industry. There’s trouble ahead.”

  “You’re off your bean. There’s always rumors. No reason to think this is any different.”

  “I heard it, too. And after what happened to—”

  “Don’t be such an old woman. I know for a fact that…”

  Phil eased herself closer, peered cautiously around the edge of the door. Caught the unmistakable whiff of an exotic tobacco.

  She froze. Slowly, slowly turned her head.

  He was standing in the shadows, only the glow from his pipe illuminating the trim reddish beard.

  She eased away. His head turned and he brought his finger to his lips. Then as nonchalantly as the last moment was tense, he tapped his pipe on the balcony rail, returned it to his pocket, and stepped silently across the space to the door.

  Phil inched her way back into the room. He stepped inside and closed the French doors behind them.

  “Ah, Lady Dunbridge,” said Herr Schimmer softly. “You have caught me attempting to have a few moments with my pipe.”

  “I believe, sir, there is a smoking room on this floor.”

  “Yes, but I care not for the brands these Americans smoke. I prefer a special blend in fresh air so as not to have the lesser mixes interfering with my enjoyment.” He chuckled in a deprecating way. “One of my little idiosyncrasies.”

  Phil thought he might have more than he was letting on, but she wasn’t ready to call him on them. Not yet.

  He took her elbow and, without a word, ushered her gently but firmly across the room and into the hallway.

  “You, however, seem to have lost your way.” He led her back toward the stairs as he talked. “Ah, I believe that is what you are looking for,” he said as several ladies came out of the withdrawing room.

  Chagrined, she could only thank him and go inside.

  She stood just beyond the door, wondering how long it would take before it was safe to leave. After a few minutes, she stepped out into the hallway and caught a glimpse of Mr. Langham in the foyer below as he said good-bye to some departing guests.

  The meeting was over. It was irritating to have been caught by the attaché, but she had learned a few things. Certain men were worried about some clandestine enterprise they were carrying on, and that someone, presumably some arm of the government or racing commission, was investigating.

  She returned to the ballroom, meaning to go directly to Marguerite and offer to accompany her home, but Mrs. Tappington-Jones waylaid her and introduced her to one of the aldermen of New York, who asked her to dance. After that she was immediately taken up by another gentleman with equally high recommendations.

  Evidently, they all intended to pay their regards to the visiting countess as a part of the duties of their stations.

  An hour later, her feet hurt, her shoes were scuffed from clumsy feet, and Phil was longing for bed.

  She saw Marguerite still sitting on the sofa and talking earnestly to Freddy, and she joined them. Marguerite was extremely pale.

  “Whatever is the matter? Do you feel unwell?”

  “Just the heat. I really must go home. I don’t want to embarrass myself by fainting on Mrs. Langham’s carpet.”

  “Indeed. Why don’t I come with you? Just let me inform Hilda that we’re leaving. Freddy?”

  “What? Of course. I’ll have them send for my carriage.” He left Marguerite sitting there. Phil promptly sat down next to her. “Do you have a vinaigrette?”

  “No. No I’ll be fine.”

  Within minutes they were in the Beechams’ carriage, heading uptown.

  It took awhile to go the few blocks due to an overturned milk cart that had caused traffic to stop in four directions. But after that was overcome, the drive was direct. They let Phil out at her doorstep.

  “Don’t see me in,” Phil said. “Take Marguerite home and put her to bed. Are you sure you don’t need me?”

  “I’m fine, really, but thank you.”

  She was surprised to see Preswick waiting for her in the foyer. “My dear man, you shouldn’t have waited up. I hadn’t intended to stay this long.” The case clock was just chiming quarter past two. “You go on to bed. And we’ll have a strategy meeting tomorrow.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Though she noticed he stood at the bottom of the stairs until she could no longer see him. Dear man.

  The hall lights were turned down low.

  She turned the knob to her room. And was surprised to find it totally dark inside. She’d told Lily not to wait up; she must have forgotten to leave a light on for Phil.

  She groped her way inside, just recognized a faint sweet smell of tobacco before a hand clamped over her mouth, as the door was eased shut.

  “Don’t move, don’t make a sound.” He was holding her against his body, his arm immovable.

  She tried to shake her head, but it was impossible. He was holding her so tight against him she could barely breathe. Her mind seemed to have stopped working. Part of it was saying Herr Schimmer. The other was stultified with fear that she’d interrupted a burglar. Actually, both were terrifying. Why would Herr Schimmer break into her room?

  And how had he broken in? Then she felt a breeze coming through the open window. Gradually, her eyes became accustomed to the dark, and she was able to see that the window was indeed open. But Lily would have never left the window open.

  Déjà vu. The intruder must have gotten in that way.

  But how could he possibly have climbed the walls to the second
floor? He’d been at the ball just … when had she seen him last? If it really was Herr Schimmer. And who else could it be? The pipe tobacco. The arms that had held her waltzing …

  She tried to wrench away.

  “Stop fighting me, Countess. I won’t hurt you.”

  This was not Herr Schimmer. That was an American accent.

  She held perfectly still.

  “I’ll move my hand if you promise me not to scream.”

  She nodded as best she could.

  Why had she told Lily not to wait up for her? If she had obeyed her. A horrifying thought rose in her mind. If he had hurt her maid, she would … would … do something.

  “Lily is fast asleep in your dressing room, and if you don’t want to wake her and cause me all sorts of grief and her some discomfort while she watches me slit your throat, you’ll keep quiet.”

  He let go of her mouth.

  She collapsed against him. “Who are you?”

  “Shhh,” he said in her ear, and it was almost a caress.

  “Could you please let me go? You’re wrinkling my gown.”

  “And a lovely gown it is. I don’t trust you not to run, Countess. Besides, I’m rather enjoying this.”

  “What do you want?”

  He chuckled softly, lifting the tendrils of hair on her neck. “Actually, I have it already.”

  The diary. He had the diary? What was so important about the dratted book? But she knew. The list. It must have something to do with the men tonight. But how had he known about it? And what did it mean? And if Herr Schimmer was still at the ball, who was this?

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Good try. But since I already have what I need, it doesn’t really work. Though I must say, you’ve done quite well so far. Better than expected.”

  “So far? How do you know what I’ve been doing?”

  “I’ve been watching you.”

  “I knew it.”

  “Keep your voice down. I really don’t want you to wake anyone up.”

  She lowered her voice. “I knew someone had been watching me. I thought it was the police.”