Julia led Philip and Jack to a table at the far side of the room, where the shadows suited her purposes. She’d have rather come alone, but an unaccompanied woman would attract too much attention. Philip had agreed, and Jack was content to spend an evening anywhere that promised his good friend’s company. The Half-Shell was a far cry from the pair’s usual haunts—recital halls, art galleries, theaters, followed by brandies in Philip’s library or at one of their clubs. But they’d accepted the outing without a murmur.
Dispatching a waiter for glasses and soda, Philip produced his flask. At least they knew what they would be drinking. Whatever liquor the Half-Shell was likely to offer might be dubious. Julia was dismayed at the conventional look of the place and the tedious loop of music. Unless the place filled soon and a show began, the men would begin fidgeting for a speedy departure, and she would have to think quickly to disguise her intentions for the evening. She nursed her drink in exact proportion to Philip’s restlessness. She ought to have told him what she hoped to do here, but even Philip—not one to fuss without good reason—would make a powerful case against her plan. And he’d be right. It was foolhardy. Possibly futile, possibly even dangerous. Julia needed all her wits and courage to grapple with her own misgivings. Facing Philip’s too would defeat her for certain, and she had to do this. It was her only remaining idea.
A familiar-sounding commotion at the entrance turned her head. Sure enough, Pablo Duveen stood in the open doors, his West Indian poet friend tucked like a child under his arm. Another pair of men tumbled in behind them, clinging together in an unsteady mix of affection and alcohol. Searching for a table, Duveen saw Julia. “Butter my asparagus! Look who’s here. Quelle surprise.”
They descended with a clatter on the adjacent table. Duveen introduced his friends: Carl Sweeney—remember?—and Edwin and Jay, visiting from Miami. He pushed his chair close to Sweeney’s and yipped small bites at his ear. R-r-ruff, r-r-ruff.
“Are we too boisterous, Miss Kydd?” Duveen leaned across the narrow space between the tables. “Boys, boys, boys, boys—these are boisterous times.”
“You’re drunk, Pablo.”
“I’ve been drunk since 1922. True, true, Cruel Sweet Pea?” He nuzzled Sweeney’s chin. “I’m obscenely happy tonight. I’m celebrating!”
Julia’s hoisted eyebrow was inquiry enough.
“Fortunes have shifted,” he exclaimed. “Harlem Angel flies again. We’re publishing a murderess! Even if she’s not.”
“What?” Julia’s voice sailed on a gust of wild hope. “You’ve found her?”
Duveen’s white head rolled backward, and he belched a laugh that might have danced plates in the kitchen. “No, no, no, no. Not Eva.”
“You said Harlem Angel flies again. You have the manuscript?”
Another blast of merriment. “Not flying, not yet.” He stretched his lips across his protruding teeth in an effort to smile mysteriously. With a trill of fingers he teased, “But a flutter of wings.”
A clarinet’s high yowl extinguished the house lights. At the show’s first raucous notes, amid scraping chairs and hectic orders for fresh ice and soda, Julia bent toward Philip. “I’m off to the ladies’. I may be a while.” She tapped his sleeve—Enjoy the show—and hurried away.
In the service hallway she twisted to smooth her skirt and look behind her. No one. She strode past the entrances to the toilets, past the telephone table, and past another closed, unmarked door. She squinted in the deep murk of a second corridor: unlit, drab, unfurnished. She edged forward, toward the low light and bustle that came from the opening at its far end. Backstage, she hoped.
She slid along the shadowed wall until she could see. Bodies moved back and forth through the smoky haze. A couple of musicians strolled past, peeling off their jackets. Boxes, cartons, and odd chairs and other furniture were piled haphazardly, leaving no clear path for performers and stagehands. They moved in all directions like insects, sidestepping obstacles and each other.
“Hey-ya, lady. You lost?” A boy sat smoking on a nearby crate, watching her. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old.
“I’m looking for someone. Can you help me?”
“Maybe.”
“Is a man named Jerome Crockett here?”
He shrugged, peering hard at her handbag.
Of course. She drew out a quarter. The boy hopped up, stubbed out his cigarette, and laid it carefully in the center of the crate.
“Jerome Crockett?” she asked again.
His nose wrinkled. He wanted that quarter but shook his head.
For heaven’s sake. Not ten hours ago Logan had said Crockett was here. He had to be somewhere in this backstage hive. And if she was lucky—please, God—so was Eva.
She had an idea. “How about Jervis Carter?”
His eyes sparked, fastened on the coin between her fingers.
“Take me to him and it’s yours.”
The boy dashed away.
“Wait!” She mustered the closest thing to a run her shoes would allow. Their course churned up a colorful wake of expletives and catcalls, but no one tried to stop her. She glanced about as best she could, scouting for signs of places to hide. In the dim congestion, possibilities abounded—but not opportunities to explore.
“There.” The child skated to a halt at the end of another unlit corridor. He pointed through an open doorway at a solitary figure bent over a newspaper spread across a table. She could see him only in silhouette, backlit by a yellow light from behind a brick chimney. It was hot. Some kind of laundry room, Julia thought, as the boy snatched the quarter and fled.
She waited until the commotion swallowed the sound of his footsteps. Cautiously she retraced her steps, dipping into the shadows when someone passed nearby. There were jumbled crates and a few rusty racks holding costumes, but no other doors or even alcoves where someone could hunker unseen for more than a few hours. If Eva was sheltering in this building, it wasn’t here. Damn. Julia
