2

Phil loitered at the curb as long as she could.

Curiosity was urging her to return to see what was going on. Her English upbringing, which reared its head at the most inconvenient times, and her sense of survival were telling her to walk away as quickly as decorum allowed.

For once Phil gave in to good sense. There was nothing she could do here. What if she had been found sitting next to the dead man? Not even Mr. X and his secretive organization could save her from Becker.

Had he been expecting trouble? If so, why hadn’t he warned her? Why not tell her what she was supposed to do? And what was she supposed to do now? She didn’t even know who the victim was.

And if Mr. X was there, why did he let the man die? The uncomfortable thought that perhaps he had been the one wielding the knife occurred to her, but she refused to believe it.

Really, it was enough to make any countess tear her hair.

She stopped at a hot corn vendor’s cart, turned to look back toward the theater. The morgue van and the black automobile were both gone. Odd; they couldn’t have possibly examined the body and questioned witnesses this quickly. Not even five minutes had passed.

A slit throat was nothing to blink at. It was murder, pure and simple. To be whisked away like that meant either they were more interested in quelling a panic among the other theatergoers or …

They already knew he was dead and didn’t want the body found there.

The corn seller was watching her expectantly. She smiled and moved on, followed by a few colorful epithets from the disappointed man.

The park was crowded, and if she hadn’t just stumbled on a murder, Phil would have enjoyed the festive air. To walk alone through a park was delightful enough, but with the holiday bustle, the children, the ladies burdened down with packages, and the newsboys, all shivering as they hawked their dailies to the passersby, it should have been a wonderful time.

There were handmade crafts laid out along the sidewalk as hopeful mongers plied their wares. Acorn dolls, papier-mâché puppets, bottles of homemade elixirs, and secondhand items that might bring in a few extra coins for the holidays. An artist making charcoal portraits; a one-legged man selling baked potatoes. A slightly out-of-tune brass trio blared “Good King Wenceslas.”

Phil passed all these without slowing down as she made her way to the taxi stand at the north side of the park. Perhaps there would be another message waiting for her at home.

Preswick opened the door and bowed the way he’d bowed hundreds, maybe thousands, of times before—his bald head shiny as a new penny, his livery pressed and neat as a pin.

She’d never been so glad to see her stuffy old friend.

“Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Martini,” Phil croaked, and walked straight past him to the parlor, unpinning her hat for the second time that day.

Lily was there to catch it when Phil tossed it toward a chair, then relieved Phil of her handbag and gloves and reached to unbutton her coat.

Lily’s hands stopped several inches from the ivory buttons. “What happened here?”

Phil looked down and saw several smears across the bone-colored wool of her left arm. It took a few seconds of bewilderment before she understood. “I’m afraid it’s blood.”

Preswick looked up from the drinks table, where a silver bucket had been stocked with ice.

“Ar-r-re you hur-r-rt?” Lily asked, rolling the r’s, which she tended to do when upset or angry.

“No,” Phil said, feeling an urgent need to be rid of the spoiled coat. She turned around, and Lily slid it off her shoulders.

“Not me—someone else.” Phil sighed. She was about to involve them in another murder, her faithful butler, who should be living in happy retirement, and her new lady’s maid, whose real identity was a mystery. Both of them were completely loyal and stalwart, and Phil marveled at how she’d been so lucky in her choice—more or less—in servants.

“Just leave that now. Come in and sit. You, too, Preswick,” she said as he handed her a frosty glass of the current rage in Manhattan, a dry martini.

Lily perched on a side chair facing the settee, and Preswick pulled up a straight-backed chair—he refused to appear comfortable even in America—and sat.

Phil took a sip of the refreshing cocktail. Would have lingered over it without another thought if she didn’t have news to impart.

“I arrived home earlier to find a note from whom I believed was our elusive friend. It merely said ‘Theatre Unique, one fifteen,’ which as it turns out is a Union Square nickelodeon.

“It was already past noon, so I was consequently late in meeting the person.”

She had their full attention, but she was loathe to bring the horrific scene into her apartment, which in her absence had begun to take on a colorful holiday flair. Two red poinsettia plants had been added to the mantel, and the smell of clove and oranges filled the air.

“My lady?” Preswick encouraged.

Phil brought her attention back to the situation at hand.

“I was to meet him in the back row, which I did, only to find him slumped over and his throat slit.”

Phil heard Lily’s intake of breath.

“That must have been when I got the bloodstains. He was sitting to my left.”

“And did you recognize the gentleman?” Preswick asked in his most even tone.

But Lily hadn’t as yet learned such rigid control.

“Assassin!” She vehemently shook her head. “But not Mister-r-r-r-r X. He would not be so stupid.”

“No,” Phil said. “At least I don’t think so. I didn’t have time to fully investigate. I was whisked out the back door by a man who said he was the theater manager, which is remarkable in itself.”

“They wer-r-re expecting you,” Lily said, and got a sharp look from Preswick for her trouble.

“It seems so, but even more remarkable was that when I returned to the street, I saw Sergeant Becker get out of a black automobile and go inside.”

“The Fir-r-replug!” exclaimed Lily.

“Lily,” Preswick admonished.

“Sorry, Mr. Preswick.”

“If you will proceed, my lady.”

Phil nodded. “That was all. I decided it would be better not to be seen by Le Grand Fireplug.” She attempted a teasing look toward her upright butler, which he rightfully ignored.

“And besides, by the time I made my way back to the park, the police had gone. Gone!” she exclaimed, and took a healthy gulp of her drink before handing it back to Preswick for a refill.

“Where did they go, madam?” Lily asked as soon as Preswick left his chair.

“That’s just it. I have no idea. And to tell the truth I’m not even now certain it was not Mr. X.”

“Bah.”

“You’re right, it’s just that my mind can’t quite grasp the whole situation.” She had been unnerved in that one moment of discovery, not knowing for certain who it was. And rather frightened at the extent of emotion evoked when she’d thought that Mr. X might be dead.

Preswick returned with another drink. Phil already was feeling the first one, since she’d been so busy shopping and discovering murder victims that she hadn’t had time to eat since breakfast.

“What would you like us to do, my lady?”

The telephone rang.

Preswick stood. “That will be Mrs. Reynolds. She has called several times to remind you of the meeting this afternoon.”

“Heavens, the Christmas charity ball. I’d forgotten the committee meeting was this afternoon. I promised Bev I’d put in an appearance. It’s the next-to-last meeting and I haven’t been to one. I can’t let her down.”

“Yes, my lady. What shall I tell her?”

“Tell her that I was detained and … and I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

“Yes, my lady.” He strode away to answer the call.

“Lily, something befitting charitable works with rich patronesses.” Phil started to stand. “Oh, my purse!”

“It’s right here, my lady.”

“I forgot about it.” Phil reached for the handbag, though she dreaded touching the dead man’s possessions again.

She took it over to the little table by the alcove window, just as Preswick rejoined them. He turned on the study lamp, and he and Lily gathered close as Phil unclasped the bag and dumped the contents onto the table. Compact, coin purse, penknife, hankie. She pushed these to one side, leaving the pencil stub, notebook, cigarette pack, and box of matches.

“I took these from his jacket pocket. It was all I found before some young woman screamed and I was abruptly escorted out of the theater.”

Phil picked up the notebook, looked through several pages of indecipherable scratchings, then blank pages. She dropped it back to the table; touched the pencil, the cigarettes; picked up the matchbox. It was quite pretty, black shiny cardboard, with a red rose printed on the top.

“I probably shouldn’t have done it, but I was afraid he would have information that might fall into the wrong hands. I managed to feel in his inside pockets, but I didn’t have a chance to search further.”

“This is pretty,” Lily said, fingering the matchbox. She turned it for Phil to see.

“A better quality than most matchbox advertisers use, wouldn’t you say?” Phil asked.

“Yes, my lady.” Preswick took the box and examined it more closely. “High quality; fine restaurants and private clubs often have these made for their patrons.”

“The victim was hardly dressed like he could afford an expensive restaurant, much less a private club.”

“It’s quite possible that he inadvertently took it from someone else. Asked for a light to his cigarette and put the matchbox in his pocket without thinking.”

“And so a dead end. Unless you can find something in those few pages.”

“Yes, my lady,” Preswick said. “We’ll endeavor to do our best to decipher them while you are at your committee meeting.”

“Ugh, remind me why I agreed to be honorary hostess for this event.”

“You said it was your philanthropic duty, my lady.”

Phil sighed. “A moment of febrile hubris.” She didn’t have a penny to fly with other than the allowance left to her by her grandmother and the apartment in the Plaza in return for her services, not by a generous lover but by an entity or organization—as yet to her unknown—for her detectival skills. A talent that had been as much a surprise to her as useful to them.

There had also been a substantial but inexplicable amount of cash deposited in her bank account several weeks ago, which she assumed was a bonus for a job well done.

Fairly well done. She hadn’t been able to prevent a second murder in her last case. The frustration and, yes, the guilt of that failure still nagged at her.

“I must hurry. I just hope the ladies left me some food.”

Lily took Phil’s coat from the chair where it still lay, and Phil started down the hall pulling out hairpins. She was halfway to her room before she realized Lily hadn’t followed her.

“What is it?” she asked, returning to where Lily was holding her coat under the lamp, scrutinizing the wool. “No time for that now, Lily.”

“Yes, my lady.” Though she didn’t release her hold on the coat or move away from the lamp.

Phil blinked. When they’d first become mistress and servant that spring day on the Southampton pier, Lily refused to call her “my lady.” So they had decided that in private Lily could suffice with “madam.” “My lady” seemed like a silly affectation now that they were in America, and Lily usually reserved it for when they were in company or she was annoyed, angry, or downright cheeky. Or under Preswick’s watchful eye.

“You can do that later, Lily,” Phil said. “Though I doubt if the stains will come out. Lily?”

Lily slowly looked up from Phil’s coat. “My lady?”

The girl must be rattled; two “my ladys” without being nudged by Preswick.

“Yes, what is it?”

“You said the man was sitting on your left.”

“Yes.”

“These smears are on the left side, as they should be. But…” She held up the coat. “But this stain is on your right sleeve. See here, on the upper part.”

Phil looked more closely.

Preswick stood closer to peer at it. “It isn’t a smear. It—it’s the shape of a thumbprint.” He turned the sleeve to catch the light. “And fingers.”

It was. Good heavens. It most certainly was.

Then Phil remembered. “It must be from where the theater manager hurried me down the aisle to the rear exit.” She touched her arm, remembering. “He held me by the arm, and practically dragged me away from the entrance. That’s where his thumb would have rested. But why would the manager have blood on his hands?”

The three looked at each other, loathe to say what they were all thinking.

“Perhaps he had foreknowledge of the man’s demise,” Preswick said.

“He had already discovered the body and left it there,” Phil said. “After possibly searching it.”

“That would explain why the police arrived so quickly,” Preswick said.

“But not why they summoned the sergeant from all the way across town instead of the local precinct.”

“If he’d discovered the body and got bloodied, he could have passed it onto your coat,” Lily suggested.

“Or,” Phil said, her mouth suddenly dry in spite of the martinis, “I was escorted down the aisle by the killer himself.”