In a Gilded Cage (10 page)

Eleven

I
left the Dakota armed with the details of Mr. Anson Poindexter’s life—his place of business, his club, the names and addresses of his business partners and friends. I had been shown several likenesses of him and Fanny gave me a small photograph to carry in my purse. Now I had to do some of that old-fashioned surveillance work that is the backbone of any detective agency.

So I found myself with two cases to juggle again. I was clearly a glutton for punishment. But on this occasion I didn’t think they would overlap very much. Anson Poindexter would be working as an attorney during the daytime hours. It was after work that he would need to be observed and followed. So that gave me the rest of the day to do the more mundane task of visiting missionary societies. I smiled at the incongruity of this—the mistress and the missionaries. What interesting bedfellows!

Before I went home, I decided to check out for myself where Anson Poindexter worked during daylight hours. His chambers were in a solid brownstone on Pearl Street, just around the corner from Wall Street and the stock exchange. I wondered if he had his own carriage or would take a cab or even walk to the nearest form of public transportation, which would probably be the South Ferry station of the Ninth Avenue and Third Avenue trains. I rather thought the cab and looked for cabs waiting nearby. Questioning the drivers proved of no value. None of them knew Mr. Anson Poindexter by name.

“I don’t ask questions. I just drives them where they wants to go,” one of the drivers snapped. “If they pays their money then they could be one of P. T. Barnum’s freaks for all I’d care.”

So much for that line of inquiry. I had been hoping to find a friendly cabby—one who would, for a small fee, let me know where he had taken Mr. Poindexter recently. But so far I couldn’t see this working out. All in all they were a surly bunch. Maybe sitting up on a cab in all weather, exposed to the elements, would make the best of men surly. And maybe after a few days of visiting this location, I could soften them up a little. I resolved to go home and bake cookies, knowing that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

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 nosiness 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.