Phil returned to the Plaza trying to fit the pieces of her investigation into some kind of picture. And ended up with more questions than answers, a situation that she didn’t enjoy in the least.
A series of bombs and arsons. A shadowy criminal organization. A leak at the newspaper. A dead reporter, his protégée, his typewriter girl, and a politician’s wife in whom he had taken an inordinate interest. A key, a matchbox, and a few measly pages of a notebook that were illegible.
How to make sense of it all.
It was in this state of fierce ratiocination that she arrived at her apartments to the sound of rough voices and the smell of forest pine.
Preswick hurried to take her cape and muff. “The tree has arrived, my lady.”
“So I perceive. What is the commotion about?”
“There seems to be a difference of opinion on where it should stand.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. I’m afraid Lily and one of the men, a self-proclaimed expert in the proper placement of trees, though nothing but a rough hauler, if one were to ask my opinion. I’m afraid I was rather ineffectual in the standoff.”
“Oh well, let us see.” Phil strode into the parlor to find the petite Lily on her tiptoes, better to yell at the burly workman, who towered over her, face nearly as red as his bushy beard or the poinsettias on the mantel.
Oh, but the tree.
Phil was so amazed that she halted on her way to intercede in the altercation just to stare.
It almost reached the ceiling. It filled the center of the room, where two other workers had untied it and were holding it upright while Lily and their cohort argued.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked, skirting around the behemoth of a tree.
“Oh.” Lily made a hasty curtsey. “My lady.”
Phil swore the workman snorted out a laugh.
She beaded her eyes at him.
“And what do you say, Lily?”
“That it should go in the round window, so at night when it’s lit up, they can see it on the moon.”
“Then it shall go in the window.” Phil nodded to the man to move it.
He grumbled, displaying missing teeth, then went to help carry the tree to the alcove. It took a while to set it upright, and Phil sent Lily and Preswick off to get water to pour into the stand that the men had brought.
As she directed them on the proper angle in which to secure the tree, the burly man brushed past her.
“Where have you been?” he said under his breath. “I’ve had a hell of a time keeping Lily at bay.” He turned his head back to the men. “Naw, over to the left more.” He watched his fellow workers adjust the tree. “We need to talk. Send Lily and Preswick to bed early. Unless you’d rather go on another carriage ride, but surely once was enough in this weather.”
“How did you know I—”
“Naw, it’s too far right!” he bellowed, and strode over to adjust the tree until it was perfect.
Of course, Phil thought testily. He could even put up a proper Christmas tree. Which gave her pause. Had he had a lot of experience with Christmas trees? Cozy Christmas Eves by the fire with kiddies around his knee?
She dismissed the idea. Not the elusive Mr. X. Unless he was like Madame Orczy’s Scarlet Pimpernel. No, she couldn’t imagine it.
When he was at last satisfied, he turned back to her. “How about this way?”
“Perfect,” she said, and didn’t miss the twinkle in his eye. Fortunately, the other two men were collecting their twine and didn’t see the interchange.
He touched the brim of his cloth cap and followed them out, letting his fingers brush hers as he passed.
Heavens, the man was brazen.
He stopped at Preswick long enough to collect the tip that Preswick begrudgingly handed him, and winked at Lily before shuffling out the door.
Lily stared after him, then whirled around. “He winked at me, that man who had the stupid idea about the tree. How dare he—” Her face went slack, her mouth opened, and she slowly looked at Phil. “Oh, madam, he wasn’t … was that…? It was!” She bolted for the front door.
“Don’t bother, Lily,” Phil said, hurrying after her. “You know he’s like a cat—or a rat—and can disappear into the most impossible places. I don’t know why he goes to all this trouble when he could just telephone … Ears,” she reminded herself. Telephone operators, policemen, and people on the street willing to sell overheard information to anyone who would pay.
The three of them went to the door anyway, and Preswick swung it open. Unsurprisingly, the corridor was empty.
After several minutes of admiration of the tree—Preswick and Phil both agreed with Lily that the alcove window had been by far the best place to put the gigantic piece of greenery—Phil gave a quick précis of what happened with Roz Chandler that morning.
“She says she has no idea of why Tommy Green had these photos of her, and was rather unsettled that he might have held a certain infatuation with her.
“Now, I would like to go out to purchase decorations immediately,” Phil said. “Because I’m expecting a visit from our elusive friend this evening and I don’t want to chance being late.”
Unfortunately, it turned into a rather longer process, beginning with a stern look from Preswick.
“Don’t scold, my dear Preswick. You will never be able to turn me back into that innocent young girl who first stepped over the threshold of Dunbridge Castle.”
“No, my lady, nor would I want to, if I may say so.”
“You may.”
“But I am concerned with your safety.”
“She will have my stiletto to pr-r-r-rotect her,” Lily said, and reached for her ankle.
“All situations cannot be solved by violence,” said Preswick. “But do give her your stiletto.”
“And I will sit—”
“No, you won’t, Lily,” Phil said. “Tonight is a strategy meeting. You know his own safety depends on his identity not being known. Even to me. We must trust him to do what’s best.” But she would make use of Lily’s stiletto if the occasion arose, not to mention the pearl-handled derringer she’d taken to carrying in her handbag. She trusted him as far as it went. But she was never absolutely certain of his loyalties.
“I intend to question him on exactly who we’re working for and to insist that we get a better means of communication. Tommy Green might still be alive and we would be enjoying a carefree holiday if they had just contacted me at once instead of slipping a note under the door to be found who knew when.
“I will be perfectly safe with you down the hall. Though you might have some champagne sent up. No reason I should go thirsty while we strategize.”
Preswick’s lips pursed slightly, but he merely said, “Yes, my lady.”
“I’m past praying for, Preswick.”
“Yes, my lady. And I will never forgive his lordship for driving you away.”
“Thank you, my dear man, but it was doomed from the beginning. It’s my parents who should be horsewhipped and … perhaps Rosalind Chandler’s. I’ll have to ask Bev for more particulars of that marriage … but in the meantime, we are putting on our coats and going out to the shops to buy decorations for this most gigantic tree.
“Hurry up now! Shall it be Bloomingdale’s or Macy’s?”
“Macy’s,” Lily said without hesitation. “They say they have the most wonderfully decorated windows.”
“Macy’s it is. Come along.”
A few minutes later the three of them were rounding Columbus Circle on their way to Thirty-Fourth Street.
Macy’s windows were indeed a delight. People were pressed three deep, and men carried their children on their shoulders to get a peek at the marvels displayed.
Even Preswick unbent long enough to laugh at a mechanical clown that popped out of a box, swayed and threw up his hands, and laughed back at them.
Inside was a fairy world of invention. Glass balls in bright colors, crystal icicles that hung from gold threads, pinwheels and angels, handblown cars, boats, and Yule logs made in Germany and Poland. Bunches of miniature paper flowers and holly sprigs, tatted snowflakes. Boxes of silver strips of tinsel and garlands to wind around the tree.
A veritable wonderland of shiny excess.
They joined the excitement and very quickly gained their own personal salesclerk as they added ornament after ornament to their purchases. Truly, sometimes doing things for one’s self was so exhilarating.
But when they came to the display of electric lights, Phil paused.
Lily pointed to the sign above the display and shot a horrified look to Phil. “A string of sixteen lights costs twelve dollars. That’s more than most people make in a week.”
“It does seem rather overly conspicuous when you consider the number of poor people in need at this time of year,” Phil agreed.
Lily reluctantly put the box back.
“Not to mention, my lady,” Preswick said, “I’m not certain that we are equipped to run this much electricity.”
Not to mention a possible fire hazard, though they had lived all their lives with candlelit trees. Of course trees were only lit on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, then taken out, never to be seen again.
“Perhaps just a few lights here and there,” Phil suggested, feeling a little disappointed. God forbid they burned down the Plaza when it had just reopened.
“And we could use these, my lady.” Lily reached into the next display and held up an apple-sized ball covered with little mirrored squares.
Preswick took it from her and held it up; it sparkled and danced in the department-store lights. “Perhaps some reflection would be in order.”
“How true,” Phil said, smiling at his play on words. “Lots of those.” She motioned to the clerk to add them to their growing stack of purchases.
“And chains of shiny ribbon,” Lily added. “We used—” She clamped her mouth down on what she was about to say. Phil’s hand tightened on the accordioned paper bell she was holding. Preswick acted oblivious, but Phil knew he had also heard.
It was the first time Lily had slipped—at least had almost slipped—a morsel about her past. She’d caught herself, and Phil’s heart broke a little knowing that she still didn’t trust them enough to talk about her life before they had found her on the Southampton docks.
“How about these?” Phil asked over-brightly to make up for the terrible silence. She held up the crumpled bell. “Oh dear.”
Preswick took it from her and restored it to its original shape. “I think these will do nicely. A dozen, my lady?”
The moment passed. When they left the store, they had all regained their holiday enthusiasm. But there had been a slight shift in their relationship that they wouldn’t admit and yet couldn’t ignore.
One thing about their life in America, it was never dull.
Phil gave the address for their decorations to be delivered, and they squeezed through oncoming customers until they were back on the sidewalk.
They stopped for hot chocolate and pastries at a crowded patisserie. Purchased mistletoe from a street seller, whom Phil did not recognize either as her elusive confederate or the villain who had slipped the Black Hand note in her pocket in Union Square.
They bought hot chestnuts folded into paper coronets, adding an extra one for Egbert, then three more for the other elevator operators who might be on duty, before climbing wearily into a taxi.
While they waited in traffic, Phil took a notebook from her purse and, with Preswick’s help, made a list of everyone who would be expecting a tip for the holidays. It was rather extensive and, for the first time in a while, Phil worried whether her allowance and bonuses would actually cover her expenses.
By the time they reached Fifty-Ninth Street and were headed back toward the Plaza, Phil decided not to worry about the expenses. If it came to it, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d lived on tick, though she devoutly hoped it might be the last.
Miraculously, their packages arrived a few minutes after they did.
“I wonder if the kitchen makes eggnog,” Phil said. “Lily, help me get out of this dress and into something more comfortable.”
They spent the rest of the evening unpacking and decorating, which consisted mostly of Preswick and Lily debating where to put things. And Phil dictating the results from where she lounged on the sofa in one of Poiret’s flowing and exquisitely comfortable new kimono gowns. After several hours and eggnogs, and having joined the looping of garland over the branches, Phil declared a moratorium until the following day and sent Preswick and Lily off to bed.
Fortified with eggnog, Lily’s stiletto, and her pistol, Phil retired to her room to await her enticingly mysterious visitor.
It was a long wait.
Phil wasn’t totally surprised when she awoke to the hint of exotic tobacco in the dark, followed by the sense that she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t alarmed. The Plaza was perfectly secure to everyone, except perhaps to one man.
And she was expecting him.
She didn’t bother reaching for a light; he could move like a phantom in the dark and would be there before her, which was rather galling.
At least she could try. She stretched her arm out; a hand clamped over her wrist.
She sat up, stifled a yawn, and he let go.
“I was beginning to wonder whether I would be seeing—and I use that word in a completely metaphorical sense—you tonight.”
“You doubted me?” said a disembodied voice in the dark. A rich American accent that spread chills up her spine and heat to everywhere else.
“Not really,” she said, trying to get an idea of where he was exactly.
“You knew I would come. Or are you expecting someone else to share that bottle of Moët chilling in the ice bucket? I doubt the good detective sergeant would stoop to sneaking into your boudoir in the dead of night.”
“Unlike you.” Now she really sat up. “How long have you been here, pawing around in my room?”
“My dear, I do not paw around. What inspection I do, I do with finesse. Which I will give evidence of after we open the champagne.”
“Some people would call that attitude arrogant.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“I’m tempted, but I must admit you haven’t exaggerated thus far.”
“I try never to exaggerate.” The opposite side of the bed from where she was looking dipped, and his lips touched hers. It surprised her, and she laughed before she succumbed.
“You’ve lost considerable weight since this afternoon, and the beard is gone.”
And so was he. One moment she was in his arms, the next he’d slipped away like smoke.
“Now what are you doing?” She could see his shadow moving across the room.
He stepped back into darkness. A pop. The fizzing sound of champagne being poured.
“Before we get any further,” she said, focusing on the one thing she could actually see, which happened to be the nacre inserts of the wardrobe, “I have a few questions.”
A laugh in the dark. Not where she expected it. Then a champagne glass appeared before her, and she tried to memorize the long tapered fingers before she was holding the glass and his fingers were gone.
Like “The Blind Men and the Elephant,” the poem by John Godfrey Saxe, she might only get to know him by piecing the parts together. Only in the utter darkness was he himself. And that, Phil told herself, might be the metaphor of her place in this partnership.
“Since you left so abruptly the other night, I am still waiting for a plan. We need to be able to communicate more efficiently. I could have saved Tommy Green’s life.”
“We’ve already been through that.”
“Surely you must agree that better communication is needed. The exchange of information would be most efficacious.”
He ran a finger up her forearm to her shoulder. “It would, perhaps, but a division of labor can also be efficient.”
“I don’t understand. Investigation isn’t like Mr. Olds’s assembly line. It involves crossovers and intersections and things that may or may not be a part of the evidence.”
“Hmm” was all he said.
“I’m quite serious,” she said, removing his hand from a particularly sensitive area of her person. “Combining information could speed the investigation up. Actually, I’m not sure what you expect I can do against the Black Hand.”
“Nothing. That’s not what you’re needed for.”
“Then for what? Or did Tommy Green’s information relate to something else entirely?”
“Countess, watching your mind at work is an exhilarating experience.”
“Not about the Black Hand.” She sat up. “I knew it.”
He pushed her back down again. “Peripherally.”
“How so? What is it about?”
“Tommy Green was going to tell us.”
“Us? You and me? Or ‘us’ as in you, me, and the others whom I’ve never met and whom I assume I’m working for.”
“You are.”
“And will you tell me who they are?”
“Not at liberty. The champagne is getting warm. Now that would be a crime.”
He poured more champagne, and they both sipped without talking.
Phil had meant to wait him out until he gave her a better answer, but she didn’t have the finally honed patience he had. “Where have you been? What have you been doing?”
“I’ve been out of town.”
“Where?”
“On a different matter. Well, not entirely, coinciding but potentially unrelated, except in a tangential way, I believe.”
If she hadn’t been confused before, she was now. She changed tack. “Do you want to know what I found at Tommy Green’s apartment?”
“Yes,” he said, toying with the tassel at the point of her nightgown. He didn’t even seem surprised at her question.
“It may have nothing to do with the Black Hand.”
He flashed her a quick smile. One that she might have seen, or possibly just imagined.
She tried to ignore the feeling it set off in her. “Did you know it had been ransacked before we arrived?”
“We?”
“Preswick, Lily, and I. We had to outwit his typewriter girl and follow her to his rooms. It was completely destroyed. I don’t know what they might have taken, but we found several photographs of Rosalind Chandler, she’s—”
“I know who she is. What else?”
“A matchbox and a key hidden in his shaving cream.”
“Have you ascertained what it’s for?”
“Not yet. A briefcase, safety deposit box, a locker perhaps.”
“I wonder why they left that.”
“Maybe they didn’t think to look in his shaving cream. The surface was smooth.”
“Amateurs.”
“So what is next?” she asked.
“Tommy Green’s wake is tomorrow. I need you to go there.”
“I would have gone anyway. Should I be looking for something in particular?”
He sighed, and his hand resumed its journey. “You said yourself: crossroads and interjections and superfluous details.”
“I said no such thing.”
“Hmm.” He ran his finger down her collarbone, dipped it beneath the lace of her gown.
And she said no more.
“I do have one question,” Phil said some time later.
“You’ve already had quite a few.”
“I don’t even know your name.”
He turned to his side to give her his full attention. “I fail to hear the question in that statement.”
She propped herself up on her elbow until they were face-to-face. “What is your name? Your real name.”
“What do you call me?”
She pursed her lips. “I’m afraid some of the things are not befitting a lady.”
“And you are, above all, quite a lady, Countess.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As well you should.” His eyes flashed in the dark. She didn’t even know their real color. She’d seen them brown, black, gray, blue—glass lenses, Preswick had told her. Sherlock Holmes had often used them in his many disguises. And people thought fiction was stranger than life.
Not her life, Phil was happy to say.
“What else do you call me?”
Phil’s breath caught. “Mr. X.”
He laughed. It was melodious and carefree, and Phil marveled, because she knew he could be ruthless.
“You don’t really? It sounds like a character from a dime novel.”
“Well, what do you expect, with you coming and going through windows, appearing and disappearing in the fog, handing out pistols like cocktails.”
“Hmm. I like it.” And that put an end to further conversation.
It was almost light when Phil roused enough to find herself alone again. She still didn’t know his name—but she felt his presence.
And not in a mystical way. He was still on the premises.
She slipped out of bed, snatched her robe from the chair, and fastened it together as she hurried down the hallway.
He was standing before the tree, his back to her.
“It’s not a bad-looking tree,” he said as she reached the door. She slipped inside and came to stand beside him.
He turned his head ever so slightly away, just enough to blur his features. But she at the moment was more taken with the feeling that standing side by side evoked. Imagining a life much different. But not for her. And she didn’t mind.
Bringing villains to justice was much more interesting.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing. I have to go.” With one last—dare she say, longing—look at the tree, and a quick but deep kiss, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
She caught up to him at the front door.
“You’re using the door?”
“Yes. Really, it’s much too cold to ask me to scale five floors of hotel walls tonight.”
“Could you have?”
“For you? What do you think?” He smiled, and for a second, she thought she actually caught a glimpse of the real him. But she knew better than to congratulate herself. He would be different next time they met.
“And could you go back down that way as well?”
“Of course, but tonight I’ll take your elevator. Good night, Countess.” And he closed the door in her face.
Oh, how she wanted to open that door and see him in the glow of the corridor sconces. But she didn’t. It was almost as if she’d taken a code of honor. One day they would meet face-to-face in the light.