extracting from it such detail as he needed. Was that how actors got their lines so quickly? Not so much learning the words as absorbing the sense of a piece, and then re-creating the words from it?
Sayers’ finger stopped on the page.
“Here she is,” he said excitedly.
Sebastian moved to his side, and both read together. It was a small announcement in the society column for a literary lunch to be held at the Rathskeller Cafe and Ladies Dining Room in the Betz Building on Broad Street. The guest speaker was to be the noted actress and
“Mrs. Louise Caspar,” Sebastian read aloud. “That must be a cruel twist of the knife for you. I’m sorry, Sayers.”
“Ignore it,” Sayers said. “I can.”
There were only two photographs accompanying the society columns, and neither was of Louise.
Sebastian reread the piece and said, “I see no actual mention of the Philomusian Club.”
“The name places her in town. That’s good enough for me. And look at the date. The trail is fresh.”
They looked through more issues, but found no further reference. As they were leaving the
“Never mind newspapers,” Sayers said. “Find me a dozen rich women with time on their hands. Find me the clubs and the literary societies. The lecture circuit and the private library. Those are the fields where she beats for her game.”
They stopped at the Automat for coffee and sandwiches. It was early for lunch, and the office crowds hadn’t built up yet. Despite the morning’s excitements, or perhaps because of them, Sayers appeared to have a healthy appetite. His color was better than the day before, his eyes brighter. The cuts about his head were beginning to heal…although for the moment he continued to have the look of a barroom brawler, taken out of his element and tossed into the daylight.
Sebastian said, “Say you find her. What then?”
Sayers was oddly silent.
Sebastian said, “I don’t believe you’ve never thought about it.”
“I have thought about it,” Sayers said. “I have written the scene in my head a thousand times. But until I face the moment itself…I have no idea what will happen.”
Rather than return to the Pinkerton office, where conversations might be overheard and questions raised, they stood outside Wanamaker’s and pretended to study the window displays.
Sebastian decided to be bold.
“You drink, Sayers.”
The prizefighter took this without embarrassment or any show of defensiveness. “I have been known to,” he conceded.
“It will not help you from here.”
Sayers gave a wry smile. He said, “It is very hard for a man to deny something whose companionship has sped the passage of the harshest of days.”
“Nevertheless. If you’re staying in my house, it won’t do to be three days without a shave and have gin on your breath.”
“I can easily get a shave,” Sayers said.
THIRTY
For the rest of the afternoon, Sayers walked around town while Sebastian Becker returned to the office to look up some names and send out a few messages. Some of the theaters on Eighth Street were running a continuous program of variety acts and Sayers considered passing an hour or two in the cheap seats, but he hadn’t the heart or the energy to lay down his money at the box office. He already felt that he’d seen enough comic singers, tap dancers, and unsteady acrobats in his life to last him until the end of it.
And besides, his thoughts would not settle. He was looking for Louise in every woman who passed him on the sidewalk. He ended up sitting on a bench in Rittenhouse Square among all the nannies and their baby carriages, until he became aware that a mounted policeman was eyeing him while circling the gardens a little more often than seemed necessary.
He went home with Becker at the end of the day, and that evening he dined with the family. Elisabeth Becker asked him about his life with the carnival, and his time on the stage before it. She spoke to be polite, but he was quickly able to convince her that he was not the brute he might have appeared, and that the brawl at Willow Grove had not been typical of the booths. He did, however, confess that fairground contests were perhaps not as equal as they might be made to seem; often the challenger would be given eight-ounce gloves to fight with, while the house fighter was able to punch harder with gloves of half the weight.
“How fascinating,” she said, seeming to be genuinely captivated by this piece of showman’s tradecraft.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Sayers. “As you see, it’s not just a sport, it’s a science.”
“So if you ever get to meet Thomas Edison, Elisabeth,” Sebastian said drily, “he’ll whip you in a straight fight, no problem.”
Once it was clear that Sebastian had not introduced some belligerent animal into the household, the atmosphere eased. Elisabeth’s sister, Frances, said almost nothing to Sayers, but stared wide-eyed at him all evening as if storing up something she was ready to blurt out. Robert also stared, but at the table. He’d been forbidden to read his latest dime novel at mealtimes but remained inseparable from it. If it wasn’t in one hand or the other, it was tucked under his arm until he had a hand free again.
Sayers spotted its title and said, “Did you know that Buffalo Bill once took his Wild West show to England?”
It was as if he’d snapped his fingers to bring the boy out of a trance; Robert’s attention went from the table to the dinner guest, with no distraction in between.
“Twice,” the boy said, the first word that he’d spoken all evening. “Once in Eighteen Ninety Three, and again in Eighteen Ninety Seven when he met the queen. He goes again this year.”
“This year? Well, there I was thinking I’d tell you something you didn’t know, and now you’ve told me something
“Now,” Sayers said as the boy let go, “you can tell all your friends that you shook the very same hand that shook the hand of William F. Cody.”
Awe followed. It was a private awe, that Robert kept all to himself; nonetheless, it was heartening to see.
Later in the evening, Sayers kept out of the way while some intense family discussion went on between Sebastian and Elisabeth. It continued for an hour or more. When Sebastian returned to the sitting room alone, he gave Sayers a nod.
Sayers said in a low voice, “What have you told them?”
“That there are two Irish brothers out gunning for me, and that your presence in the house for a few days will bring us an extra measure of security.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Because it happens to be true.” Sebastian glanced toward the door, as if there was a risk that Elisabeth might come through it before he’d finished speaking. “It’s also true that the brothers were arrested on the Boston train on Saturday. I saw the bulletin when I went back to the office. But they’ll serve me for an excuse.”
Sayers slept on the divan again that night.
The next morning, Elisabeth told him, “Mister Sayers, I apologize for your discomfort. I have made up my sister’s room for you to use during the rest of your stay here. Frances will move in with Robert.”
“I don’t know what to say,” he said.
“She gave it up willingly. I daresay there’ll be more lace and ribbon around than you’re used to, but I think you’ll be comfortable.”
“Thank you.”
