day. Sarah would check on him first thing in the morning, too, and do whatever she could to make him more comfortable.
Meanwhile, she’d wait to hear from Malloy and go visit Irene at the Tivoli Theater.
The theater hadn’t opened yet when Sarah arrived that evening, and the front doors were locked. The signs outside urged people to come and see the current product and featured a drawing of a scantily clad female fleeing from an evil-looking man with a handlebar mustache and wearing a black top hat. The names of the actors listed on the sign did not include anyone named Irene.
Sarah knew little about the theater, but she assumed the actors would enter through a rear door, since they had to be at the theater earlier than the patrons in order to prepare for the performance. She had also, in her years of attending the theater, never seen an actor entering or leaving, which meant they came and went at different times and through different doors than the audience. In fact, now that she thought about it, she’d heard about the men who waited outside the theater after a performance to meet the actresses. Weren’t they called Stage Door Billys? No, Jimmies or Johnnies or something like that. She couldn’t remember exactly. Which meant there must be a stage door that the actors used someplace off the main street, a place where would-be Lotharios could wait.
Pleased at her deduction, Sarah walked to the side of the building until she found the alley that ran beside the theater. Just as she’d suspected, she located an unmarked and inconspicuous door on the side of the building, near the rear. It, too, was locked, but when she knocked, an elderly gentleman opened it and peered out at her suspiciously.
“Yeah?” he asked gruffly.
She tried a friendly smile. “I’m looking for Irene. Is she here yet?”
The smile didn’t seem to affect him at all. In fact, he didn’t bat an eye. “Who’re you?”
Sarah surprised herself with her cleverness. “I’m Irene’s cousin, Sarah. I live in Brooklyn, and she told me if I came to see her, she’d show me the stage and everything and let me watch her get ready for the play and-”
The old man interrupted her with a grunt and pulled the door open wide enough for her to enter. “I expect you wanna be an actress, too,” he grumbled. “Well, don’t get your hopes up, girlie. You’re a little long in the tooth to be starting out. Unless you’ve got nice ankles. They might give you a try if you’ve got nice ankles. I could check and give you my opinion,” he offered, glancing down hopefully.
Sarah glared at him, but he didn’t notice because he was looking at the floor, waiting for her to lift her skirt. “I don’t want to be an actress,” she said. “I just want to see Irene.”
He grunted again, this time in disappointment. “She’s down there,” he said, pointing vaguely toward a hallway and turning away. He’d lost interest since she wasn’t going to show him her ankles.
Not wishing to press her luck by asking for more explicit instructions, Sarah set off, figuring if she couldn’t find Irene, she’d most certainly find someone who could.
As it turned out, she needed no further assistance. The dingy corridor she entered led past several doors, but only one was ajar. Through it, Sarah could hear the sound of women’s voices. Deciding this was very promising, she called into the opened doorway, “Irene?”
The voices ceased, and a long moment of suspicious silence followed.
“Irene, are you there?” Sarah called again, feigning confidence. If Irene wasn’t there, she’d have to bluff her way past others the way she’d bluffed past the doorman.
But a voice said, “Who is it?” and Sarah knew she need look no further. She pushed the door open all the way and stepped in to find a narrow room lined on both sides with crudely built shelves that apparently served as dressing tables with mirrors above them. The shelves were littered with the same kinds of grease paints Sarah had found in Anna Blake’s room, along with wigs and brushes, combs and hand mirrors, and scraps of ribbon and hairpins and feathers and all sorts of grooming items. At the far end of the room stood racks of what appeared to be costumes, judging by their garish colors and fabrics.
Three young women in various stages of undress stood in the center of the room. The one who wore a wrapper carelessly draped over her underclothes was staring at her most intently, while the other two seemed merely curious. “Hello, Irene,” Sarah said to the one who was staring. “I’m Sarah Brandt.”
“Do I know you?” she asked warily. She wasn’t old, not in years. Her body still retained its youthful curves and her face showed no signs of dissipation. Her eyes, however, revealed a wealth of experience, and they’d taken Sarah’s measure in one glance. She didn’t seem impressed by what she’d seen.
“I’m a friend of Anna Blake’s,” Sarah tried.
Instantly, the two curious women moved away and busied themselves with the costumes at the far end of the room. Irene looked even warier now, as if she might bolt. Murder had a way of making people cautious, Sarah had learned.
“A newspaper reporter, Webster Prescott, said you knew Anna,” Sarah tried quickly, in an attempt to break through Irene’s understandable reluctance to speak of Anna Blake to a stranger. “I’m trying to find out who killed her, and if you could-”
Sarah doubted Irene would understand her concern for Nelson Ellsworth even if she’d felt like explaining it, which she didn’t, so she said, “I want to see justice done. The police…” Sarah made a helpless motion with her hand. “I don’t think they care very much about finding the killer.”
“I thought that fellow did it, the one in the newspaper who was her lover,” Irene said. “That’s what the reporter said, anyway.”
Sarah only needed a second to come up with a new lie. “That’s what the police are trying to make everyone believe so they don’t have to exert themselves to find the real killer. But he didn’t do it, and Mr. Prescott is helping me find out who did.”
Irene didn’t care about any of this. “I gotta get ready for the performance,” she said impatiently.
“I don’t want to bother you,” Sarah said. “But I only have a few questions, and I’d be willing to pay you for your time. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
The two women who had been so interested in the costumes suddenly turned their attention back to Sarah. “I knew Anna,” one of them offered.
“You did not,” Irene snapped. “Shut your lying mouth.” Then to Sarah, “Come out here where we can talk.”
She led Sarah back into the corridor. Some more women had arrived and were making their way toward the dressing room. Irene took Sarah’s arm and drew her down to the far end of the corridor, into the shadows where the gaslights on the walls didn’t quite reach.
“I can’t talk long,” she warned. “What do you wanna know?”
“How long did you know Anna?”
“A couple years. Ever since I joined the troupe.”
“She was here when you came?”
“That’s right. Been with them a long time, she said.”
“Why did she stop acting?”
Irene smiled strangely. “You mean why did she stop working here?”
“Yes.”
“She was getting old, you know? Too old for any of the good parts. She could still sing, but they put her in the back row. She didn’t like it, but there wasn’t nothing she could do about it. Then she met this fellow.”
“What fellow?”
“I don’t know his name. He’d wait at the stage door for her. Hadn’t nobody waited for her for a long time. We was all pretty surprised.”
“What did he look like?”
She shrugged. “Skinny. Short beard. Nice clothes. Good manners. A real dandy. He owned the house where she went to live.”
“Mr. Walcott?” Sarah asked in surprise.
“That’s him,” Irene said. “You know him?”
“Yes. Are you saying he was a Stage Door Jimmy?”
Irene smiled condescendingly. “That’s Stage Door
