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By Root 990 0

with a curtain. “Is there something you want to tell me? Confidential enquiries is my line, after all.” And then your great-uncle unburdens himself to me, which people always did. He explains he’s trying desperately hard to do the right thing for his “little girl,” but she drinks and she’s had problems with—he moves his mouth a bit before the word finally falls out—opium, and twice he’s thought she was cured of it. The last time he’d put her in a sanatorium and paid a fortune to hire away one of their nurses (the buxom Swede I saw around the house from time to time) to monitor her at home, and give her the medications that were supposed to reduce her appetite for “the dragon’s breath.” But Margaret’s started sneaking out again, Finneran says, slumping back into his chair. Inge, the nurse, is supposed to keep an eye on her, not let her out of the house unaccompanied, but she’s been slipping free of her guard and is obviously unwell again, and if Trilipush ever found out about it, the engagement would probably be off, and Finneran looks defeated at the thought of it, forgetting for a moment that the blessed fiancé has lied to them about his education and perhaps more.

This display was grotesque, Macy. The strong, rich businessman was on the verge of sobbing because he was unsuccessful in his attempts to imprison his daughter, who suffered, it was plain to me, from nothing more than youthful high spirits and a nasty engagement to a sodomistic murderer, whom the family had desperately been trying to impress. They had been lying to him, telling him Margaret suffered from a rare but curable disorder causing her sleeping spells, mood swings, and so forth (as if Trilipush would even care, since his interest in her extended no further than her father’s bank account). It was the sheerest, most sickening lunacy. Finneran didn’t want my opinion, which would’ve been simple enough: save your daughter by letting her be. You’re going to kill her in a social-climbing accident. And any pommy idiot who’d refuse to marry her because of a little high-spirited adventure deserved to be shot between the eyes. But I couldn’t quite tip my hand that far, and instead I just said I’d try to keep an eye on Margaret, if he wanted, see if she was really in any kind of trouble. He shook my hand. “That’s a great relief to me, Ferrell. Thank you, thank you. I didn’t know who else to turn to,” he says, as if it’d been his idea. “She’s my little girl, you know, just want what’s best.” Right, course you do. Humans, my dear Macy, are one and all champions at claiming they’re worried about someone else when they’re only worried about themselves. “Count on me, Chester. I’ll look after her for you.”

“Your father’s worried about you,” I told her that evening, sitting on a couch at JP’s, before she’d gone upstairs. I thought she’d laugh with me, find our new situation funny, not without its charms, and maybe that would lead to a gentle discussion of Trilipush’s weaknesses, and that would lead to—

“Harry,” she said. “We’re having fun, aren’t we? It’s nice to have a pal to escort me out on the town when my beau’s away, right? So now, please, Harry, I’m begging on my hands and knees: don’t be a stinking bore.” She stood up, her first step towards the stairs. “Why don’t you talk to one of those nice girls while I’m gone?” she suggested, pointing to the tarts JP employed to set the male customers at ease. “Do you even like girls, Harry? Don’t they teach you how to talk to girls down there on the bottom of the world? Just don’t bore ’em, Harry, even if these ones here are paid to listen to you.”

Friday, 20 October, 1922, Hotel of the Sphinx

Margaret: My love. The first thing this morning, while I was sitting for my portraitist, a boy brought up the oddest cable from your father. Absolutely the oddest thing. I read it without exaggeration a dozen times and then finally, feeling anxiety spread to my gut, I had no choice but to send the painter home. It is a nine-word communication from across an ocean, but apparently across even vaster gulfs of confusion: CLARIFY