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“I like your hair the way it is. But I’d take you bald, if it made you happy. Where do you suppose Fern Hawley found Prince André?”
“If broke aristocrats find rich American heiresses in New York the way they do in Hollywood, he would have wrangled introductions so he could show up in some place she was comfortable—a country club or an expensive restaurant.”
“She told me they met in Paris.”
“I’m sure Miss Hawley was comfortable in Paris.”
“May I have this fox-trot?”
They danced to a jazzed-up “Melancholy Baby,” Bell sweeping Marion around other couples in order to pass repeatedly close to Fern and Prince André’s table. The heiress and the Russian refugee were deep in conversation.
When Bell and Marion returned to their table, Marion said, “Despite her stick-it-in-your-eye smirk, Miss Hawley is not happy.”
“Why?”
“I think she’s disappointed.”
“Could the bloom be off the rose?”
“No, that rose is still blooming. It’s something else.”
Bell noticed a broad-shouldered man in evening clothes watching Fern’s table from the bar, his highball glass untouched. When Prince André looked toward him, he straightened up slightly, as an employee might, confirming Bell’s strong impression he was a bodyguard. The Russian’s active gaze wheeled his way. Before he could see Bell watching, Bell turned to Marion.
“Speaking of blooming roses, I forgot to tell you Pauline sends her warm regards.”
Across the room, Prince André rose to his feet and extended his hand to Fern Hawley. He guided her onto the dance floor and took her in his arms.
Marion said, “You see what I mean about the rose? These two enjoy each other. Isn’t he a wonderful dancer?”
Bell agreed. “He looks like he trained in the ballet.”
“He’s tall, for the ballet.”
“Maybe he was a short boy. At any rate, I’m shopping around for the right fellow for Pauline.”
“Who?”
“Dashwood is nuts for her.”
Marion looked skeptical. “I’ve always thought that Dashwood is uncommonly close to his mother.”
“She starred in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show and taught Dashwood how to shoot.”
“Mr. Freud would have a ball with that one. On the other hand, if anyone could wean Dashwood, it would be Fräulein Grandzau.”
Bell glanced through the crowds again. “Do you suppose you could get Fern Hawley to open up to you?”
“I’ll try. How can we get the prince out of the way?”
“I’ll ask the waiter to tell him he’s wanted on the telephone.”
“What do you want to know?”
“I want to know how Miss Hawley happened to be sitting in her limousine on a slum street outside the back door of Roosevelt Hospital the night the killer who shot Johann Kozlov got away from me. I wondered then, and I wonder more now. It had to be a coincidence. But . . .”
“But you hate coincidences. I’ll try and work my way around to it . . . Too late, there they go!”
Bell watched closely as Fern and Prince André left straight from the dance floor. A waiter ran after them with the feathered boa she had left on her chair.
