The interruption gave Miss Genevieve the chance to turn the conversation from herself. “And you, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said as her sister poured tea, “your husband is a writer?”
Surprised that “Eugene Cannon” should regard her as amere adjunct of her husband, Daisy said, “No, a policeman.” She regretted the words as soon as uttered. A month had sufficed to teach her that almost as many people looked askance at a policeman’s wife as at the policeman himself.
However, Miss Genevieve was all agog. “An English policeman? I have never met one, but I’ve heard they are very different from our New York ‘bulls.’ He is here with you?”
“He’s in Washington, advising a department of your government.”
“Aha, a man of importance, then. Not … not by any chanceScotland Yard?”
“Yes, actually, he’s a Detective Chief Inspector at the Yard.” Daisy decided it was her turn. “I’ma writer.”
Miss Genevieve had the grace to look a little abashed. She picked up her notepad with a show of attentiveness. “What do you write, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Magazine articles. I’ve written several for an American magazine calledAbroad.”
“IalwaysreadAbroad,” said Miss Cabot eagerly. “It is the next best thing to travelling. I should have liked to travel, but Papa …”
“I do not recall a Fletcher among the contributors,” Miss Genevieve interrupted with a frown.
“I use my maiden name, Dalrymple.”
“Oh!” Miss Cabot dropped her knitting—fortunately she was not holding a teacup—to clasp her hands. “Oh, my dear, notthe HonourableDaisy Dalrymple?”
Less easily impressed by an honorary title, Miss Genevieve was nonetheless moderately flattering about Daisy’s articles on the museums of London, two of which had already appeared. She wanted to know what had brought Daisy to New York. Daisy explained that her editor hadpaid her fare to America so that she could write about the voyage.
Miss Genevieve took copious notes in her neat shorthand. “What are your plans now that you are here?” she asked.
“Mr. Thorwald wants my first impressions of America. We stayed with friends in Connecticut for a few days, and now I have a couple of days here.”
That led to a discussion of what she had seen in New York, what she planned to see, and what the Misses Cabot thought she ought to see.
“Will Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher join you here?” asked Miss Genevieve at last, almost shyly. “I should greatly like to meet him.”
Daisy shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. I’m going to see Mr. Thorwald tomorrow, and the next day I shall take the train to Washington.”
“Perhaps it is just as well,” sighed Miss Genevieve. “I guess British cops don’t like crime reporters any better than ours do. Sister, pass Mrs. Fletcher the fruitcake.”
The leaden fruitcake was all that was left of the spread. Daisy declined a slice, hoping she had not been unheedingly responsible for the disappearance of too large a proportion of the rest. The no bosom, no bottom figure, emphasized by the hip-level “waist,” was as fashionable here as at home. Though it was not a look Daisy would ever attain, she did not want to find herself with the silhouette of a blimp.
“Thank you so much for my tea,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I think I’ll go for a bit of a walk now, before it gets dark.”
“Yes, better get back before dark,” said Miss Genevieve. “It’s Halloween. There will be all sorts of mischief tonight.”
“I’ll just go and look at the General Post Office and Pennsylvania Station, as you suggested.”
This she did. The station was modelled on the Baths of Caracalla, she had been told, though she had not been told precisely what the Baths of Caracalla were. They sounded vaguely Roman. The station was certainly impressive, more so than the post office building on the other side of Eighth Avenue, though both boasted vast numbers of classical pillars. Daisy made a dutiful circuit of the post office to read the motto carved on the architrave:Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.
Then she strolled back by a roundabout route towards the hotel. On Twenty-eighth Street she came across a small park. Most of the trees were leafless, but it was still refreshing after the dusty streets. Children were playing there in the twilight, and she lingered to watch. Though the voices were American, the games seemed much the same as in England—hopscotch, marbles, and tag.
The tag players swirled around her. As she turned to watch, she caught a glimpse of a man dodging behind a tree, as if he were trying not to be spotted.
He looked remarkably like young Mr. Lambert, but she must be mistaken. Why on earth should Lambert follow her?
Next morning she set off for her appointment. The offices ofAbroadmagazine and several associated publications werein the Flatiron Building. On her first visit, Daisy had been too anxious to appreciate the merits of the unusual structure.
This morning she had a few minutes to spare. She strolled through Madison Square Park, noting the ashes of a Halloween bonfire and the corpses of firecrackers. Pausing on the corner of Twenty-third Street and Fifth Avenue, she gazed across at her destination. The Fuller Building, as it was originally named, had been designed to fit on an awkward triangular plot where Broadway crossed the other two streets. To Daisy, its shape made it look less like a flatiron than the prow of a great ship forging its way north across Manhattan.
The chilly wind whistling around it increased the resemblance. As she crossed the wide, busy intersection beneath the gaze of a harried policeman on point duty, Daisy, along with many another passer-by, held onto her hat.
