“I suppose this is our lady cop. We were told to expect you.” He was a thin man, almost entirely bald, with a showy mustache and a red bow tie. “Siegfried Wallace. I’m Mrs. Ward’s new theatrical manager.”
At that May Ward glanced lazily up at Constance, took a sip from her glass, then turned again and startled. “She’s not a cop! She’s the detective my husband hired. What’s the idea?”
Now everyone was staring at Constance. She could only assume that the officers in the hall were listening with great interest as well.
“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, Mrs. Ward,” Constance said, with loud and clear authority. “I’ve never been hired by your husband. I’m here on sheriff’s business and I’d like a word with you alone.”
“I’m her attorney,” said Mr. Basch. “Send Siegfried out, but I’m staying here.”
“If I’m to manage her, I ought to know what I’m in for,” said Mr. Wallace. “I’ll stay as well.” Both men leaned against the wall, apparently enjoying themselves, leaving May Ward and Constance staring at each other.
Mrs. Ward was defiant. She put her fists on her hips and pursed her lips. “I don’t know who you are, but I know that my husband threatened to send the police after me under a charge of kidnapping if I wouldn’t come home. That’s nonsense. I’m thirty-five years old, and I’ve been all over the world on my own. I’m no more likely to be kidnapped than you are. Go on back and tell him that I have every right to hire a manager and see him anytime I like in the course of conducting my business.”
“I thought she was twenty-nine,” Mr. Wallace said, in the manner of a vaudeville stage whisper. Mr. Basch laughed. Constance couldn’t have been more grateful for the grave error they committed, for it gave her an opportunity.
“Go on out of here, both of you!” May cried. “I won’t have you making jokes about my age or anything else. Remember who pays you. Now, go on up and have a drink at that club of yours. I’ll take care of myself. I don’t know why I bother with either one of you.”
May Ward stood her ground. The men skulked out of the room. Constance slammed the door before Mrs. Ward could hear them register their surprise upon stumbling into the arms of the awaiting officers. She heard only the faintest scuffle and assumed that the men did a fine job of taking their captives down the hall in quiet dignity.
Mrs. Ward dropped into her chair again and lit another cigarette. “I don’t intend to say a word to you,” she said, “but I couldn’t stand the sight of either one of them. They’re useless, managers. Worse than husbands.”
Constance sat down gingerly in the chair next to her. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said. “I’m the one who’s come to speak to you. I’ve a confession to make, and an apology to deliver, if you’ll let me.”
May arched an eyebrow and blew a stream of smoke at Constance. “Where’d you buy the badge, at a toy shop? Why did my husband hire you?”
“He didn’t. I’ll tell you the truth if you’ll let me. Your husband’s not at fault. I am.”
She laughed. “Well, he’s always at fault. Let’s not go making excuses for him.”
“He didn’t hire me,” Constance said, “and I’m not pretending to be a lady officer. I’m a deputy sheriff in Hackensack. Your husband swore out a complaint of kidnapping in front of a judge, and I do have warrants to arrest both your attorney and your manager.”
“Fine! Take them both!” She waved her hand dismissively and took a long drink.
“I hope it won’t come to that.” Mrs. Ward was making it awfully hard for Constance to get the truth out. “I’m here to tell you that I’m the cause of all these troubles. I did follow you to Harrisburg, but it wasn’t because of your husband. I was trying to keep an eye on my sister.”
At that she threw her head back and shrieked. Constance only hoped that the men outside wouldn’t hear and rush in. “Your sister? Who is she?”
“Fleurette Kopp.” There it was. She swallowed hard and hoped for the best.
At first Mrs. Ward didn’t seem to recognize the name, but then she gave another high-pitched squeal and said, “Flora? Florine? The seamstress? Our little seamstress? You were worried about her?”
“I . . . well . . . my other sister was, really. Norma. She tends to make a big fuss over small things and . . . ah . . . well, she was sure that Fleurette would get into trouble.”
“How would that little girl ever get into trouble? She’s hardly looked up from that sewing machine. I couldn’t believe she wanted to come on for no pay. Our wardrobe was in shambles, but we would’ve made do.”
“I believe she hoped to impress you, Mrs. Ward. She wants to be on the stage someday.”
May Ward cackled at that and slapped Constance’s arm playfully. “What is she, five feet tall? She’s too short for a chorus line and, anyway, she can’t dance. But she’s done an awfully nice job with our costumes. I hope you’ll tell her that.”
Constance hated to hear a perfect stranger talk about Fleurette that way. “Tell her yourself,” she said stiffly. “I haven’t seen her in some time.”
“Well, she’ll be home in another week or so. We only have our New York engagements and then we’re through. But you still haven’t told me what you were doing in that phone booth. You looked ridiculous, by the way.”
“My other sister, Norma, insisted on following Fleurette to make sure she was safe. I knew she would be, but . . .”
“But you went, too.” Now Mrs. Ward was enjoying the story. She leaned forward and filled her glass from a bottle on the desk, then offered it to Constance, who declined.
“I went to keep an eye on Norma, and to stop her from embarrassing Fleurette on her very first time away from home. I never meant to alarm you, truly. Of course, we were trying not to be seen.”
She gave a loud barking laugh. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Mrs. Deputy. Everyone can see you. You might make a good cop, but you’re a terrible spy.”
Constance smoothed down her skirt, which looked awfully drab next to Mrs. Ward’s shimmering silk dress. “Yes, well. I’d like to apologize for setting you against your husband, who, as you can see, had no part in this.”
“Why didn’t you tell that to the judge? Why did you come all this way, with warrants and everything? Oh . . . I see. You don’t want to have to admit to a judge that you’re the cause of all this fuss.” She seemed altogether too gleeful about it.
“It’s not just the judge,” Constance said hastily. “If it made the papers, Fleurette might find out that we followed her. That’s why I’ve come here today. I must ask you to forgive me, and to help me, although I’ve given you no reason to want to.”