"Perhaps you might wish to take the matter up with my brother directly," I said, glancing at my pocket watch. "If you hurry, you may just be able to see him vanish a bowl of goldfish at Huber's Museum."
Miss Hendricks had not missed the coldness of my tone. "I did not mean to suggest that you are not just as clever," she said quickly. "The two of you work together, do you not?"
"We did. My brother's wife performs his act with him now."
"I did not mean that. I meant that you were both present last night-in the room where Mr. Wintour was discovered."
"We were."
"You saw Mr. Wintour? His body, I mean?"
"Yes."
"Is it likely that you will be returning to Mr. Win-tour's home at any time in the future?"
It seemed a very odd question. "I only meant," Miss Hendricks continued, sensing my hesitation, "that perhaps the police might have more questions for you and your brother? About the room in which Mr. Wintour died?"
"I really couldn't say, Miss Hendricks. I suppose it's possible, but I see no reason to presume so."
"Still, it is possible that you might find yourself in
Mr. Wintour's study at some point in the future, is it not?"
"May I ask why this matter is of such interest to you?"
"Yes, I suppose I really ought to stop talking in circles." She paused and untied the chin strap of her bonnet, allowing her long auburn hair to flow about her shoulders. "If I seem unduly circumspect, Mr. Hardeen, it is because I fear I may be making too much of nothing."
"Go on."
"You are aware that Mr. Wintour and I were once engaged to be married?"
"Indeed."
"Although our engagement ended badly, I never thought ill of him. I am an ambitious woman, Mr. Hardeen, and Mr. Wintour was one of the few men I've met who did not laugh at my ambitions." She paused, as if daring me to belittle the notion of an ambitious woman. When I did not, she continued. "It was no longer possible that Mr. Wintour and I should ever meet, but we corresponded occasionally."
"I see."
"I assure you that these letters were not indiscreet in any way."
"Then why does the matter trouble you so?"
By way of reply, she stepped to the curb and raised her rolled parasol into the air. A private carriage clattered towards us from down the street. "I asked the coachman to follow behind," she explained. "I thought it might afford a bit of privacy."
The carriage pulled up beside us and I helped her inside. As I pulled the door closed she rapped on the roof with her parasol. The driver flicked the reins and we set off down Fifth Avenue.
"As to these letters," she continued, resuming the conversation where it had left off, "I am being courted by a gentleman from England just now."
"Lord Randall Wycliffe," I said.
She looked at me in surprise. "You seem to know a great deal about me, Mr. Hardeen. Did my father mention Randall to you?"
I shook my head. "My brother isn't the only clever one in the family," I said.
"I see. And do you know Lord Wycliffe?"
"No."
"He comes from a stuffy old family with a big castle somewhere. A mansion, I suppose, not a castle. In any case it's very old and it seems that his ancestors all fought in the War of the Roses or some such thing, and his family cares a great deal about appearances and propriety. When Randall began calling on me, my previous engagement to Mr. Wintour was considered a black mark against me. By his family, I should say. They would have preferred that I had spent my life to this point in a boarding school. Of course, Randall isn't like that at all. He doesn't care a hoot about my past. 'What's done is done,' he says."
"Very wise," I remarked.
"Oh, yes. He has very modern views."
"I'm not sure I see your difficulty, then."
"His family has grave reservations about my suitability, Mr. Hardeen. And I'm afraid that when I became aware of these objections, I behaved foolishly. I wrote to Mr. Wintour to seek his advice. Several times."
"And Lord Wycliffe objected?"
"He does not know."
"But surely if he is everything you say-"
"I said some rather indiscreet things in these letters, Mr. Hardeen."
"Oh?"
"Very indiscreet."
"Ah."
"Yes. So you see, Mr. Hardeen, when I heard that Mr. Wintour was dead-murdered, of all things-it placed me in a very uncomfortable position." She began worrying at the fingers of one of her gloves. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette, would you?"
"A cigarette?"
"Don't look so shocked, Mr. Hardeen. You men seem to think that just because-"
"Miss Hendricks," I said, interrupting what promised to be a lengthy peroration, "a woman of my acquaintance not only smokes cigars but also dines on the stubs for the amusement of paying customers. The prospect of a young lady with a cigarette holds no terror for me." I took out my little tin of Shearson's and rolled a cigarette for each of us. She accepted a light and leaned back against the leather seat of the carriage, inhaling with evident satisfaction.
"To return to the matter of the letters-'' she began.
"You are afraid that these letters will be discovered among Mr. Wintour's effects."
"Just so."
"And if they were to be discovered?"
"My engagement to Lord Wycliffe would surely be called off."
"That would be regrettable, of course," I said. "But I'm not entirely certain how I can be of assistance in the matter."
"I want you to recover the letters for me, Mr. Hardeen."
I glanced at my reflection in the glass window at the side of the carriage. I did not appear to be a lunatic, but she had apparently mistaken me for one. "Well," I began slowly, "that might present something of a problem. How do you propose I might go about it without rousing the suspicions of the police?"
"I'm sure you and your brother could slip into Mr. Wintour's study somehow. There must be a way. Whoever killed Mr. Wintour found a way. Your brother proved as much last night."
"Yes, but we don't know how it was done."
She laid her hand on mine. "I'm sure you could manage it, Mr. Hardeen. I have such confidence in you."
I looked deep into her extraordinary blue-gray eyes and I saw only connivance. I knew that she was attempting to take advantage of me. I knew that she regarded me as a social inferior, and perhaps a witless dupe. I knew all of this and more, and yet I could not bring myself to turn away. She thought me capable of great cunning and bravery, and I did not wish to disabuse her of the notion. "How is it that the police did not find these letters the other night, Miss Hendricks?" I asked cautiously.
She pulled her hand away. "Mr. Wintour always kept my letters in a special place. Pressed in the pages of a volume of poetry I once gave to him. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The sonnets. Do you know them, Mr. Hardeen?"
"No," I said, "but I'm well up on limericks involving commercial travelers."
She favored me with a winning smile. "I'm not sure if Mrs. Browning's talents ran in that direction, but I
invite you to judge for yourself. Mr. Wintour kept the volume on the lower shelf of the case nearest the fire. The binding is stamped in gold."
"Surely it is safe enough there? Mr. Wintour had thousands of books in his study. I find it unlikely that your letters will be discovered any time soon, if ever."
"I could not stand the uncertainty, Mr. Hardeen. I must know that the letters have been recovered and destroyed. It is the only way of putting my… my indiscretions behind me."
"Miss Hendricks, I really don't know that I can-"
"I'll pay you, of course. Anything you like. Only you must not fail me."
"It is not a question of payment, I assure you. It is a matter of-"
"If you fail me, Mr. Hardeen, my engagement to Lord Wycliffe will surely be broken. I doubt if my reputation would stand this a second time. Father would be crushed. Could you really stand by and allow this to happen?''