When they were both seated, Egan said, “Well, I must say, Mrs. Carpenter, you’re quite the most comely detective I have ever met.”
The look in his eyes added undue emphasis to the word “comely.” Sabina was used to men finding her attractive, but there were degrees of male admiration and his was clearly the sort heated by lustful thoughts. How an intelligent woman such as Amity could have been fooled enough to become involved with such a man was a puzzle. One minute in Fenton Egan’s company was sufficient for Sabina to dislike and distrust him.
He waited for her response, and when she gave none he said, “Well, then. Why have you come to me?”
“For the same reasons I visited your wife at your home earlier today.”
“Oh? And what would they be?”
“Your affair with Amity Wellman, to begin with.”
His reaction, or rather lack of one, disappointed her. A lifted eyebrow was the only change in his demeanor; his smile didn’t even flicker. “How, may I ask, did you come by that information?”
“Do you deny it?”
“I see no reason why I should. My wife knows about it. Is she the one who told you?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Wellman, then. Has she retained you for some purpose?”
“An attempt was made on her life last night.”
He showed no surprise at this, either. When he spoke, the mild concern in his voice had a false ring. “The devil you say. Unsuccessful, I trust?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Someone fired a shot at her in her garden.”
“Do you have any idea why? Or who the assailant was?”
“Not yet.”
Egan picked up his cigar, puffed on it in thoughtfully. “And you think, or rather Mrs. Wellman thinks, it might have been my wife or I. Or someone hired by her or me.”
“No accusations have been made, Mr. Egan.”
“Your visit to my home and your presence here indicate a degree of suspicion.”
“Not so. Investigators ask questions of many people for many different reasons.”
“My wife denied any involvement, of course.”
“Yes. Vehemently.”
“A very emotional woman, Prudence.”
“One might even say volatile when she perceives a threat to her marriage.”
“My unfortunate dalliance with Mrs. Wellman posed no such threat.”
“You wrote her a letter in which you professed to be in love with her and expressed the hope of making the relationship permanent.”
Egan raised an eyebrow. “Did she show you this alleged letter?”
“No. She destroyed it.”
“Of course that’s what she would claim.”
“So you deny having written it.”
“Categorically. She made up the story about a letter to throw suspicion on me. Did you or she tell my wife about it?”
“No.”
“I’m grateful for that, at least. The fact remains, Mrs. Carpenter, that I bear no grudge against Mrs. Wellman and have no earthly reason to harm her. Nor does Mrs. Egan.”
“Amity says you were quite upset when she ended the affair. That you threatened to tell her husband about it.”
“Nonsense,” Egan said. “Another fabrication — I made no such threat. I suppose she also told you I seduced her?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No indeed. In point of fact it was the other way around. I succumbed to her advances in a moment of weakness, for which I was properly chastised by myself as well as my wife.”
It would be futile, Sabina thought, to point out that she knew him to be a serial philanderer; he would only have denied it. She had dealt with self-serving liars so often during the course of her career that she’d become an expert on the breed. Fenton Egan was one of the accomplished variety, his voice earnest, his eyes looking straight into hers without wavering, but he fooled her not at all.
She said, “Then you weren’t upset nor the parting scene highly unpleasant when Mrs. Wellman ended the relationship.”
“Not at all. Is that what she claims?” Egan shook his head. “Actually, I was relieved. I was on the verge of ending the affair myself, as a matter of fact.”
“But you weren’t relieved that your wife found out and confronted her.”
“Well, naturally I would have preferred that Prudence never have known. I’m sorry that she found out — for her sake as well as my own.”
“How did she find out?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me.”
Another lie? Sabina wasn’t sure.
Egan tapped ash off his cigar into the copper tray, then gave a liar’s sigh — the mock-sad variety. “I regret to say this, Mrs. Carpenter, but your client is a vindictive woman.”
“Deserving of an attempt on her life?”
“Certainly not. No one deserves to be subjected to violence, least of all a woman. I bear her none of the ill will she apparently bears me and my wife.”
“Do you mind telling me where you were the night before last?”
“Still not convinced, eh? No, I don’t mind. I was at home the entire evening.”
“And your wife? Was she there, too?”
“She was. Prudence and I spent the evening listening to the gramophone. A marvelous invention, don’t you agree?” When Sabina didn’t answer, Egan said, “I do hope you find out who is tormenting Mrs. Wellman. But it isn’t Prudence and it isn’t I.”
There was nothing more to be gotten from Fenton Egan. Sabina rose and, keeping the irony out of her voice, thanked him for his candor. He popped up out of his chair and escorted her to the door, his hand on her elbow. Standing close with his hand on the latch, he said in a casual, offhand way, “Curiosity prompts me to ask — have you been a detective long?”
“Several years.”
“You must have had many interesting experiences, the more so because of your sex. It would be quite fascinating to hear of them, I’m sure. Perhaps we could dine together one day.”
The colossal conceit of the man! I’d rather dine with a wharf rat. At least they don’t hide their slimy predatory ways behind a cultured façade and a rancid-butter smile.
She was tempted to put the thoughts into words, restrained herself, and said coolly, “I think not, Mr. Egan. Good day.” After which she removed his hand from her arm, using two fingers as she would have in disposing of a crawling insect, and let herself out of his lair.
Josiah Pitman and two other men were busily hand-lettering signs and placards with thin brushes dipped in black paint when Sabina entered the Solidarity Party’s alleged suite. The room was rife with their handiwork, propped all along one wall and stacked on tables and floor — preparations for their opposition attendance, no doubt, at Saturday evening’s Voting Rights for Women benefit in Union Square. One she glanced at, a cardboard sign stapled to a length of wood resembling a fence picket, bore the slogan: Woman Suffrage a Folly! Another urged: Keep the Fair Sex Out of Politics! The others would express the same regressive sentiments.
Both men looked up at her briefly, Dobbs’ tubby little assistant with lips pursed and eyes glittering behind his bottle-bottom spectacles when he recognized her; neither of them spoke. There was no need for her to ask if Nathaniel Dobbs was present. She could see him in the second of the two rooms, seated at a desk writing in a ledger with — of all implements — a quill pen with a feather several inches long.
As soon as Dobbs spied her he hopped to his feet and stepped around the desk to the open doorway. “Mrs. Carpenter, I presume?” he said stiffly. “I am Nathaniel Dobbs.”