“That’s Hamlet’s line,” murmured Daisy, waking up.
Not long ago, a dream had helped her solve a murder, so she lay for a few minutes pondering the images. Nothing significant emerged from her ruminations, however, and pangs of hunger began to gnaw at her vitals. What with one thing and another, her tea had been skimpy. It was time for dinner.
Dinner with Lambert, she supposed, but she’d soon be rid of him. She resolved to be extra nice to him.
He was waiting in the passage outside her room. Thorwald and Pascoli were both waiting in the lobby below.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Pascoli cheerfully, “and the more the merrier. Thanks to you, Mrs. Fletcher, I’ve gotten some swell copy. Dinner’s onTown Talk.”
The ebullient news editor took them to what he called a “joint,” where a furtive waiter provided a water carafe filled with white wine, which they drank from tumblers. After half a glass, Daisy stopped worrying about what the A.C. (Crime) would say to a headline reading “Joint raided, Scotland Yard ’tec’s wife pinched.” She stopped at half a glass, though, as she didn’t want to risk getting tiddly and missing Alec at the station.
The wine only made her more determined to meet his train, in spite of Lambert’s disapproval. Penn Station, he pointed out, was an ideal spot for any skulduggery instigated by Tammany or Bender.
“You needn’t come,” she said.
“We’llallcome,” said Pascoli. “There won’t be any shenanigans with three of us to guard you.”
Whether or not they averted shenanigans and skulduggery, Daisy was glad of her triple escort. Beneath the Roman pillars of the Baths of Caracalla and the lacy Victorian ironwork of the vast railway terminal, spread a netherworld, a Greek labyrinth of cavernous halls and gloomy tunnels. Not so very different from the London Underground, perhaps, but Daisy knew the Tube like the back of her hand and had always felt perfectly safe there.
Here, it was all too easy to imagine an assassin around every corner, or someone creeping up behind her, unheard in the constant din of loudspeaker announcements, rumbling luggage trolleys, and locomotive whistles. Besides, she was sure she would have got lost had not Pascoli and Thorwald steered her straight to the right platform.
The editors and Lambert clustered about her, keeping a lookout in every direction, as the train chugged in. Daisy had eyes only for the passengers as they swung or clambered down the steps from the high train to the low platform. Though Alec’s dark hair was hidden by his hat, she spotted him as soon as his head appeared through a door.
Waving madly, she started walking towards him. The walk turned into a run, and she dodged between travellers and porters, one hand holding her hat on. He dropped his attaché case and Gladstone bag to catch her in his arms.
“Darling,” she said, smiling so hard it hurt, “I’ve missed you most frightfully!” And then she astonished herself and him by bursting into tears on his chest.
Alec was horrified. “Great Scott, Daisy, you never cry! Hush, love. It’s not these wretched New York police that have upset you, is it? I’ve been hearing stories about them which would make your hair stand on end.”
“I’ve heard them, too, darling.” Sniffing, Daisy pulled away enough to straighten her hat and blink up at him. His hand went to his pocket. “No, I don’t need your hankie. I’m all right, honestly. Only don’t let’s talk about the police, or the murder, or anything like that tonight. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”
“O.K. by me, as they say.” He looked tired, Daisy noticed. “Let’s get back to your hotel.”
As he reached for his bags, Lambert said eagerly, “I’ll take those, sir!” Daisy’s escort had caught up with her.
“This is Agent Lambert, darling, my guardian angel.” In response to Alec’s darkly lowering eyebrows, she hurried on, “And my editor, Mr. Thorwald, and his colleague, Mr. Pascoli. They kindly accompanied me here so that I wouldn’t get lost.”
“And so … ,” Lambert began, but Daisy’s frown cut him short. “Uh, yes, I guess you want a cab, sir?”
Outside the station, they parted from Thorwald and Pascoli. Much as she wanted to be alone with Alec, Daisy was too well brought up to leave Lambert to take a separate cab to the Chelsea. As they set off, Alec said witheringly, “So you’re my wife’s guardian angel, are you, Lambert?”
Though the streetlamps shed little light inside the cab, Daisy was certain the young agent’s ears were red. “Gee, sir,” he stammered, “I’m mighty sorry I didn’t …”
“It’s not your fault,” Daisy interrupted. “He couldn’t help it, darling.”
Alec sighed. “No, who am I to find fault?I’venever managed to keep you out of trouble. I beg your pardon, Lambert. You must explain to me exactly how it all came about.”
“Tomorrow,” Daisy said firmly. “You promised we wouldn’t talk about it till tomorrow. Let’s meet for breakfast and get it all over with before Mr. Whitaker turns up.”
“Good idea, love.”
“Not in the hotel dining room,” said Lambert, in what Daisy recognized as his cloak-and-dagger voice. “You never know who’s listening.”
True, Kevin would undoubtedly find out somehow what was said, but he knew most of it already. It wasn’t worth the effort of reminding Lambert that practically no guests at the Hotel Chelsea came down for breakfast, and in any case no one but the Misses Cabot had shown the least interest.
“Right-oh,” said Daisy.
After breakfast and explanations, Daisy, Alec, and Lambert returned to the hotel to find the Misses Cabot lying in wait in the lobby, commanding a view of the entrance. Daisy had told Alec about Miss Cabot’s kindness and Miss Genevieve’s part in protecting her from Sergeant Gilligan. Doffing his hat, he submitted to being introduced in his full glory: Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of New Scotland Yard.
