“Look at Vanderbilt hang on every word, as if Bowler Bill were Admiral Nelson himself.”
“On the other hand,” she said with a shrug, “the
I granted her that. “He’s the highest authority we have. Our very lives are in the hands of that old salt.”
That seemed to trouble Miss Vance, who-after a pause-asked, “Do you know how the captain reacted when he heard of the stowaways?”
“Outrage?”
“Hardly. He showed no surprise at all-merely said in his forty-five years at sea he regarded stowaways as just another shipboard nuisance.”
“Like Elbert Hubbard,” I said, “or an orchestra prone to playing Carrie Jacobs Bond.”
That also made her laugh a little, and then we were examining the embossed card that was this evening’s menu. Under a gilt wreath encircling the Cunard flag, a superb bill of fare included oysters on the half shell or hors d’oeuvres followed by soup, and a choice of fish ranging from deviled whitebait to
Between courses, Madame DePage announced she’d be attending a concert in the music room, after dinner, and would be pleased if anyone at the table would care to join her. The Royal Welsh Male Chorus was aboard, it seemed, returning home after touring the U.S. and Canada.
“The Welsh, you know,” she said, that charming accent almost making the offer palatable, “are a race of singers marvelous.”
Everyone nodded and said they would love to join her. . with the exception of myself, who stayed mute, and Miss Vance, who said, “It’s been rather a long day, and I’m afraid I’m quite fatigued-would you mind terribly if I retired to the stateroom?”
Madame DePage didn’t mind at all.
So I walked Miss Vance to the Regal Suite, which was so near my regal cubbyhole, when she presented me with a pleasant surprise. “I was hoping,” she said, “you might join me for an after-dinner drink.”
“I would love to. If madame won’t mind. .”
Her smile was wide and her eyes were narrowed. “Madame will be consumed with the concert for an hour, at least. And my bedroom is quite private, even has a door of its own, opening onto the hallway. . should Madame DePage cut her musical evening short.”
This was all quite agreeable to me and I said as much. This lovely Pinkerton agent was making a splendid case for the independent, modern woman.
We did not enter through the suite, rather going directly into her bedroom, which was larger than my cabin, and included a sitting area with a rose-color sofa. That’s where we sat and chatted and sipped snifters of brandy (she disappeared into the outer suite only long enough to fetch our drinks).
She wanted to know about me, and I told her that I’d been the editor of a prestigious magazine, but my reign had been truncated, because the publisher had lacked courage and foresight. I could not tell if she recognized the names of the authors whose work I’d bought-James Joyce, Joseph Conrad, D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, a sampling-but she seemed impressed with my intensity if nothing else.
I made it clear that journalism was a means to an end-not just for money, rather to gain passage to join my brother in London, and convince him to come home.
“Your brother is one of these modern artists,” she said, clearly fascinated.
“Yes, and an important one-a leading Synchromist. As for myself, I’m working on a book on modern art, which’ll present an entirely new aesthetic. Listen, am I boring you?”
She was half-turned and gazing at me steadily, an arm resting along the top of the sofa. “Not at all-I’m interested. I love the impressionists, but I must admit I’ve not warmed yet to the modernists.”
I was bowled over by this! She not only had wonderful blue eyes and a remarkable figure, but a
Exhilarated, I said, “Do you understand what I mean when I say that one can stand in front of a great painting, and feel the same incredible emotional effect as hearing a fine symphony, brilliantly performed?”
Her eyes flared. “Oh, yes! That is exactly how I feel, standing before a Mattise, or Cezanne.”
“You see, art is judged by the wrong criteria-with too much concern for literary content and moral values. . not an emotional, visceral response. Don’t be afraid of modern art, Vance! It’s not so much revolutionary as it is evolutionary. . ”
And we talked for perhaps half an hour on this subject, or rather I talked, before I realized I had to know who this fascinating woman was.
“How is it,” I asked, “that a female Pinkerton agent has such refined tastes, and a mind keen for discussion of aesthetics?”
She granted me one of those half-smiles. “I wasn’t born a detective, Van. . I’m afraid I had an even more disreputable profession prior to joining the Pinkertons.”
Her father had been an upper-middle-class businessman in Chicago who worked with Potter Palmer, making “a killing” rebuilding the city after the 1871 fire. The family frequently attended plays, and Philomina grew up fascinated by the theater. She had appeared in school plays, and participated in local amateur theatrics, before pursuing dramatics at private schools.
Still, acting seemed inappropriate for a young woman of her station. . until her father lost everything in the depression of the early 1890s, dying of a heart attack, leaving the family destitute. A theatrical agent who had scouted the budding actress in local amateur and school productions had taken Philomina on, and she quickly achieved some success in the Chicago theatrical scene.
“When I met my husband,” she said, “I was just starting to play leading roles.”
Husband?
“You see,” she said, “Phillip was a Pinkerton agent himself, investigating a group of swindlers called the Adam Worth gang. Have you heard of them?”
I had.
“At any rate,” she continued, “Pinkerton was looking for female agents, particularly ones that could intermingle with upper-class society. . and not just as a maid or servant. My theatrical background was perfect- disguises are part and parcel of the Pinkerton approach.”
“Did you leave the stage?”
“Yes, I was achieving some notoriety in the Chicago theatrical scene, but the financial rewards were frankly slender. . and I had a mother and two sisters to support.”
“And the Pinks paid well.”
“They did and they do. . and I worked for a year before I married Phillip, though I think I fell in love with him the day we met. You see, he loved me, really truly did, in an unconditional way that is rare. . he didn’t care that we couldn’t have children. . an illness in my childhood. . anyway. Phillip was killed two years ago, in the line of duty. Shot by a damned thief.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and I was: as much as part of me was relieved to hear her husband was no longer on the scene, the pain in her eyes seemed all too palpable. “Did they find the bastard?”
She didn’t blink at my language. “I found him. And killed him.”
That called for another round of brandies, which she kindly fetched.
Leaning back on the sofa, snifter in one hand, her other hand on my arm, she said, “Since then I’ve worked part-time for Pinkerton. . on a case by case basis. You see, I’ve begun acting again. . meeting Mr. Frohman is a hidden agenda of mine, taking this assignment, I must admit.”
Lost in her eyes, I said, “I would love to see you perform.”
“I thought you might,” she said, and kissed me.
Soon the lights had been dimmed, and we kissed and petted on the sofa, like teenaged spooners.
“Are you married, Van?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes it does. .”
“I’m divorced.”*
