Her smile was wide and her eyes were narrowed. “Madame will be consumed with the concert for an hour, at least. And my bedroom is quite private, even has a door of its own, opening onto the hallway. . should Madame DePage cut her musical evening short.”
This was all quite agreeable to me and I said as much. This lovely Pinkerton agent was making a splendid case for the independent, modern woman.
We did not enter through the suite, rather going directly into her bedroom, which was larger than my cabin, and included a sitting area with a rose-color sofa. That’s where we sat and chatted and sipped snifters of brandy (she disappeared into the outer suite only long enough to fetch our drinks).
She wanted to know about me, and I told her that I’d been the editor of a prestigious magazine, but my reign had been truncated, because the publisher had lacked courage and foresight. I could not tell if she recognized the names of the authors whose work I’d bought-James Joyce, Joseph Conrad, D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, a sampling-but she seemed impressed with my intensity if nothing else.
I made it clear that journalism was a means to an end-not just for money, rather to gain passage to join my brother in London, and convince him to come home.
“Your brother is one of these modern artists,” she said, clearly fascinated.
“Yes, and an important one-a leading Synchromist. As for myself, I’m working on a book on modern art, which’ll present an entirely new aesthetic. Listen, am I boring you?”
She was half-turned and gazing at me steadily, an arm resting along the top of the sofa. “Not at all-I’m interested. I love the impressionists, but I must admit I’ve not warmed yet to the modernists.”
I was bowled over by this! She not only had wonderful blue eyes and a remarkable figure, but a mind. .
Exhilarated, I said, “Do you understand what I mean when I say that one can stand in front of a great painting, and feel the same incredible emotional effect as hearing a fine symphony, brilliantly performed?”
Her eyes flared. “Oh, yes! That is exactly how I feel, standing before a Mattise, or Cezanne.”
“You see, art is judged by the wrong criteria-with too much concern for literary content and moral values. . not an emotional, visceral response. Don’t be afraid of modern art, Vance! It’s not so much revolutionary as it is evolutionary. . ”
And we talked for perhaps half an hour on this subject, or rather I talked, before I realized I had to know who this fascinating woman was.
“How is it,” I asked, “that a female Pinkerton agent has such refined tastes, and a mind keen for discussion of aesthetics?”
She granted me one of those half-smiles. “I wasn’t born a detective, Van. . I’m afraid I had an even more disreputable profession prior to joining the Pinkertons.”
Her father had been an upper-middle-class businessman in Chicago who worked with Potter Palmer, making “a killing” rebuilding the city after the 1871 fire. The family frequently attended plays, and Philomina grew up fascinated by the theater. She had appeared in school plays, and participated in local amateur theatrics, before pursuing dramatics at private schools.
Still, acting seemed inappropriate for a young woman of her station. . until her father lost everything in the depression of the early 1890s, dying of a heart attack, leaving the family destitute. A theatrical agent who had scouted the budding actress in local amateur and school productions had taken Philomina on, and she quickly achieved some success in the Chicago theatrical scene.
“When I met my husband,” she said, “I was just starting to play leading roles.”
Husband?
“You see,” she said, “Phillip was a Pinkerton agent himself, investigating a group of swindlers called the Adam Worth gang. Have you heard of them?”
I had.
“At any rate,” she continued, “Pinkerton was looking for female agents, particularly ones that could intermingle with upper-class society. . and not just as a maid or servant. My theatrical background was perfect-disguises are part and parcel of the Pinkerton approach.”
“Did you leave the stage?”
“Yes, I was achieving some notoriety in the Chicago theatrical scene, but the financial rewards were frankly slender. . and I had a mother and two sisters to support.”
“And the Pinks paid well.”
“They did and they do. . and I worked for a year before I married Phillip, though I think I fell in love with him the day we met. You see, he loved me, really truly did, in an unconditional way that is rare. . he didn’t care that we couldn’t have children. . an illness in my childhood. . anyway. Phillip was killed two years ago, in the line of duty. Shot by a damned thief.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was: as much as part of me was relieved to hear her husband was no longer on the scene, the pain in her eyes seemed all too palpable. “Did they find the bastard?”
She didn’t blink at my language. “I found him. And killed him.”
That called for another round of brandies, which she kindly fetched.
Leaning back on the sofa, snifter in one hand, her other hand on my arm, she said, “Since then I’ve worked part-time for Pinkerton. . on a case by case basis. You see, I’ve begun acting again. . meeting Mr. Frohman is a hidden agenda of mine, taking this assignment, I must admit.”
Lost in her eyes, I said, “I would love to see you perform.”
“I thought you might,” she said, and kissed me.
Soon the lights had been dimmed, and we kissed and petted on the sofa, like teenaged spooners.
“Are you married, Van?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes it does. .”
“I’m divorced.”*
“So you’re a man of the world.”
“As you’re a woman of the world.”
“And we need partake of no pretense.”
“Not by my way of thinking.”
It took a while to get out of all those clothes, but we managed, and the wrought-iron bed for one accommodated two, nicely, particularly since sleep was not what we had in mind.
Nonetheless, afterward she did fall asleep in my arms, clinging close, and I dropped off, as well, into a contented slumber. Madame DePage must have returned at some point, but I did not hear her come in, out in that adjacent suite. Something else, later, did wake me-I was not sure what, I merely sensed noise, perhaps a commotion in the hall-and I slipped from the bed and gathered my clothing.
I held my pocket watch near the sliver of light from the hallway door and saw that it was five minutes after two a.m. After getting back into the monkey suit in a rather half-hearted, half-buttoned fashion, I bent over the bed and kissed the slumbering goddess.
She smiled and murmured something, and fell back into a deep sleep.
I left her bedroom feeling giddy as a schoolboy with a new crush. Miss Vance was a lively, sophisticated woman, and I could hardly have hoped for a better partner in a shipboard romance. . let alone for said romance to have blossomed so quickly, so fully.
So distracted was I that I almost tripped over the corpse that lay on its side in the hallway.
SEVEN
When she replied to my knock, Miss Vance peered through the cracked door and at first seemed as confused as she did sleepy; then, seeing it was me, she smiled in a lazy, half-lidded manner that normally would have struck me as quite endearing.
“Miss me already?” she almost drawled, opening the door a bit, her curvaceous form barely concealed in her camisole.
“Put something on,” I told her. “There’s a dead body in the hallway-and I suspect foul play.”
She said nothing, her lethargy replaced at once by alertness. Leaning out into the hall, she saw-a few paces down, toward my cabin-the slumped figure of what appeared to be a ship’s steward.
Frowning, she asked, “Is that-?”
“It’s not a steward I killed, coming out of your room, to save your virtue. . No indeed.”