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Molly.”
    She produced one piece after another, carrying on a constant commentary. “Lion tamer? Harem dancer? French maid? Japanese geisha? Oh, how about this—French cancan dancer?”
    She held up what amounted to a black corset with fishnet stockings attached by large suspenders.
    “Gus, I could never wear that. It’s not burlesque and anyway I wouldn’t have the nerve,” I said. “I’d be arrested!”
    “I believe Sid was, when she wore it.” Gus laughed. “Then it appears I don’t have anything suitable in here for your costume. And as to your outfit for tonight—you’re welcome to check out our wardrobe, but you know that we don’t dress to appease fashionable society any longer. Sid has some divine silk trousers and mens’ smoking jackets, but I suppose they might give the wrong impression.”
    “Yes, they might,” I agreed.
    So I left empty-handed. Whom did I know in the theater who might have something suitable for me? Oona Sheehan came to mind, of course, because she did still owe me a favor and she was my size. So I caught the Sixth Avenue El up to Madison Square and went to the Hoffman House, where Oona had rooms.
    “I’m afraid Miss Sheehan is not in residence,” the hall porter said. “She has left the city for the summer. I have not been informed when she will return. If you care to leave a message?”
    “Drat it,” I muttered, coming out into the warm sunshine again. So whom did I try now? Of course, how thick of me. Anyone who could afford to do so left town to escape the summer heat. My only hope was to see if Ryan O’Hare was still in the city. He knew everybody in the profession and besides, seeing him was always a pick-me-up. It also occurred to me that Ryan might prove to be useful in my current assignment. He loved to gossip and probably knew every piece of juicy scandal in the theater world. I returned posthaste to Washington Square and to the Hotel Lafayette, where Ryan had rooms.
    I tapped on the door to Ryan’s suite and was greeted by a doleful voice saying, “Go away and leave me to die quietly and alone.”
    I bent down and tried to see through the keyhole, but the key was in it. “Ryan,” I called through the crack in the door, “Ryan, it’s Molly. Is something wrong? Please let me in.”
    After a moment I heard shuffling feet and the door was opened. A fearsome apparition greeted me and I took a step backward. Ryan was still in his nightshirt. His long dark hair stood out wildly. His eyes were bloodshot and stared me at blearily.
    “Holy Mother, Ryan. What in God’s name’s the matter with you. Are you sick?”
    “Dying,” he said dramatically. “Probably won’t last the day.”
    “My dear man, have you seen a doctor?”
    “No doctor. No hope,” he said.
    I led him back into his room and closed the door. “Lie down and let me go for one.”
    “No use,” he said, sinking dramatically onto the bed.
    That was when I noticed an empty bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey on his bedside table.
    “Did you drink all this?”
    “How else was I going to drown my sorrows?” he exclaimed.
    “Then I suspect that all you’ve got is an almighty hangover,” I said. “Lie there, I’ll have them send up some black coffee.”
    “Don’t bother. I just want to die anyway,” he said. “There is no point in continuing to live.”
    I ignored him and phoned down to the front desk.
    “What on earth is wrong?” I asked.
    He turned his face away, staring bleakly out of his window, where a large sycamore tree shimmered in the breeze. “Everything,” he said. “Life has no meaning.”
    I waited and at last he said, “You remember the divine young man with the yacht? We went on a cruise up the Hudson?”
    “I do remember,” I said.
    “He’s left me,” Ryan said bleakly. “His father told him to shape up and marry a suitable girl or he was going to cut him off without a penny, so money won out over my broken heart.”
    “Ryan, why did you decide to be a