The Floating Lady Murder by Daniel Stashower Page B

city retained much of the hardy character of its original Dutch founders. I seem to remember that Albany was unusually well supplied with stove manufacturing concerns, which interested me not at all, but also a number of breweries, which merited closer study.
    Returning from my walk on our third morning in the city, I found Miss Perdita Wynn seated on one of the quilted pillar-benches in the hotel lobby. At that stage I had met her only once—a brief exchange of greetings during rehearsals, but she had made a forceful impression. She was, as Collins had noted, an exceedingly handsome woman—slim-waisted and fair-skinned—with flowing hair of an arresting shade of red. Her rich, throaty laughter made a delightful accompaniment to each day’s rehearsal.
    Miss Wynn’s face brightened as I came through the revolving door. “Mr. Hardeen!” she cried. “My hero! My absolute hero!”
    I lifted my hat, sending a swirl of melting snow onto the maroon carpet. “Miss Wynn,” I said, “may I ask how I came to achieve such esteem in your eyes?”
    “Because you’re just in time!” She stood up and tugged at the hem of her fitted wool jacket. “I’m positively gasping for a cup of tea. And now here you are! Mr. Hardeen to the rescue!”
    “But surely—”
    “This isn’t the city, Mr. Hardeen. I hesitated to go into the parlor without an escort. Would you deny me the pleasure of your company? I would hate to think of you as anything less than gallant.”
    I suppressed an urge to consult my pocket watch. “I should be honored, Miss Wynn,” I said, extending my arm. “A cup of tea is just what I need.”
    She chatted gaily about a costuming mishap as we were shown to a table by the fire, and gave an animated account of the romantic woes of the property mistress while we waited for our tea. In the firelight, I could not help but notice lines of worry about her eyes and mouth, which seemed strangely at odds with her spirited personality.
    “So tell me, Mr. Hardeen,” she said when the tea had been poured, “have you and your brother figured out a way to save the season yet?”
    “Pardon?”
    “It’s all over the company. The old man has brought you aboard to figure out the Floating Lady. He seems to feel it’s his only hope of fighting off the rising star of Mr. Le Roy.”
    “Mr. Kellar has managed his career quite admirably up to this point. I’m sure that he would be able to carry on without us.”
    “But you are working with Collins on the Floating Lady?”
    “Of course. Why not?”
    “Have you cracked it yet?”
    I leaned back and smiled. “So far the solution has eluded us. Perhaps Mr. Kellar has given us too much credit.”
    “I have every confidence. You and that funny little brother of yours are supposed to be geniuses of some kind. That’s what Mr. Valletin says, anyway. And I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Hardeen, I enjoy my position with the Kellar company, and I wouldn’twant to see the old man get any strange ideas about retiring. I’d be right back with the Gaiety Girls. No, thank you.”
    “I believe you’re exaggerating our abilities.”
    She tugged at the fingers of one of her gloves. “I doubt it, Mr. Hardeen. I was there when the lion escaped. I saw what your brother did—what both of you did.”
    “That was Harry’s plan. I simply executed it.”
    She touched her lips with a linen napkin. “Why do you hide your light, Mr. Hardeen? For a man in show business, you’re strangely unassuming. Silent Felsden seems to expect a government proclamation every time he figures out how to load a rabbit into a top hat. Malcolm Valletin once spent a good forty minutes showing me how he rigged the vanishing candelabra with two extra flames. But when you trap an escaped lion, you claim it was someone else’s doing.”
    “I told you—”
    “Yes. I know. I know how brave and clever your brother is. He’s told me so himself, three or four times. But your brother isn’t the one stifling an