Chapter 29
CHAPTER 29
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1927
L ouisa
I hang Clara’s uniform in front of her locker and ready myself for the day ahead. My thoughts turn to Mrs. Rose Oxley-Barnes and what I might say to the woman, should I be lucky enough to secure a way of contacting her.
I spent all morning considering my options. I don’t imagine reaching her at home is possible, despite it being the most appropriate setting for her to learn of her husband’s transgressions.
First, I considered sending a telegram to Thomas in the hope that he may have a way of locating Mrs. Oxley-Barnes’ telephone number. But that is a tall order, especially with only four days until New Year’s Eve, and I have no desire to add the extra load to Thomas’s already long workdays.
I laughed out loud when Gerald’s name came to mind. The man was a thorn in my side for several weeks leading up to the opening night of Craig’s Wife . On the day he almost ruined Thomas’ production, he left us standing on the street as he headed to the train station, outrunning a gang of thugs he owed money to. Gerald has since sent me a letter informing me that he is out of harm’s way. I can only assume he felt bad about his abrupt departure.
Gerald, it seems, is in California, pursuing his acting career while evading the riffraff who still seek his whereabouts. Though I have little doubt Gerald would be able to weasel his way into the inner crowd that Mrs. Oxley-Barnes runs in, I have no desire to have my own future thwarted by being linked to such a morally challenged man.
Instead, I turned to the man who has joy and kindness running through his veins. Before leaving home this morning, I made a telephone call to Mr. Johnson at the theatre. Knowing the good-natured janitor would be at work first thing in the morning, I sweet-talked my way past the theatre’s office receptionist, and within minutes Mr. Johnson’s friendly voice greeted me hesitantly. “Hello, this is Mr. Johnson.”
Though he may not be able to put me in direct contact with Mrs. Oxley-Barnes, I am sure he will be able to persuade the theatre’s receptionist to help him track down the information I need. The only thing I can do now is wait until the midday meal so I can slip out of the hotel and discover what Mr. Johnson has learned.
By noon, I am wound tight with worry over whether our plan will work. Plan B is a whole other level of brazen, and I would prefer to not have to try to pull it off. Instead, I am hopeful a simple telephone call to Mrs. Rose Oxley-Barnes will be all it takes to set things right.
A benefit of my whirring mind is the speed with which I tend to each of the guest rooms on my roster. I’m thankful Ms. Thompson decided to pair Gwen with Hazel this morning. I do not mind missing the girl’s incessant chatter, which I’m sure would have come with far too many questions and elicited dagger-laced looks from me.
Grabbing my winter wear and lunch from the locker room, I trudge through the melting snow toward the theatre, snacking on my sandwich as I walk. Upon my arrival at the theatre’s doors, I am careful to wipe my winter boots thoroughly, not wishing to spread dirty snow onto Mr. Johnson’s sparkling lobby floors.
The whoosh of the door closing announces my arrival. I am barely inside when the kindly man reaches my side. “Miss Louisa, I did what you asked, and I am happy to say we have good news. We’ve managed to track down the telephone number for Oxley Pictures in Los Angeles.”
“Oh, Mr. Johnson, that is fabulous news. You are a true friend, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Mr. Johnson extends his elbow for me to take, and we head to the back of the theatre, where the offices are located.
I greet the receptionist and thank her for her assistance with the matter. She hands me the slip of paper with the company’s name and telephone number before extracting her purse from a low desk drawer and standing to leave.
“You know,” she says, “the theatre makes frequent telephone calls to California. I’m sure an extra one won’t be any cause for concern.” Her unmistakable wink does not go unnoticed.
“Well, that is a bit of interesting news. Thank you for the information.” I smile wide as she moves toward the office door, the fresh scent of her perfume leaving a path behind her.
“I’m heading out for lunch now, Mr. Johnson, and I’m quite certain I’ll be gone for at least thirty minutes.”
Mr. Johnson’s bemused expression tells me he was expecting this additional bit of assistance. “Thank you, Miss Carol. We’ll be sure to close the door up tight once we’re through here.”
With a nod of her head, Miss Carol is through the door and on her way to lunch, leaving us to telephone California.
“Well, Miss Louisa do you know what you’re going to say?” Mr. Johnson gestures to Carol’s chair for me to sit in. “We could jot it down if it will help you.”
I pick up the telephone handle and meet Mr. Johnson’s eyes. “I know precisely what I am going to say.”
* * *
Arriving back at The Hamilton, my delight at having completed the first half of the mission is subdued by the reality that Clara and I must be prepared in case the woman does not arrive before New Year’s Eve. In speaking with a secretary at Oxley Pictures, I was informed in no uncertain terms that Mrs. Oxley-Barnes was unavailable for the remainder of the day. Leaving a message with a somewhat uppity clerical worker was the closest I could come to convincing Mr. Barnes’ wife that she is needed in Vancouver.
Rather than feeding a rumour mill among the office staff at Oxley Pictures, I decided to protect the woman’s privacy and instead leave my phone number along with a slightly coded message—one that I am hopeful a wife who suspects that her husband’s activities are roaming beyond the bounds of a marital relationship will understand.
To: Mrs. Rose Oxley-Barnes
From: Miss Louisa Wilson
Message: I am a theatre actress from Vancouver, Canada, who has become acquainted with your husband during his stay at The Hamilton. As you are sure to be aware, your husband is a busy man, so I thought it best I contact you directly to invite you to The Hotel Hamilton’s New Year’s Eve celebration. The evening is sure to be intriguing and informative for all. I hope you will be in attendance as your husband is awarded the recognition he has so indisputably earned during his stay. If your schedule allows, we welcome your visit to Vancouver and look forward to meeting you in person.
I trek up the five flights of stairs toward the fifth-floor guest rooms, my footsteps heavy with the weight of our backup plan. Even if the message is delivered, there is no guarantee Mrs. Oxley-Barnes will take my note seriously. Then there is the consideration of the train travel from California to Vancouver. It took Thomas several days and nights to arrive in Los Angeles from Seattle, after being shuttled from one train to another. Only a first-class ticket keeps travellers from spending time waiting in train stations along the route.
But surely, if Mr. Barnes can afford to stay on the eighth floor for weeks on end, Mrs. Oxley-Barnes can manage a first-class train ticket to Vancouver. Maybe there is hope yet.
Stepping onto the fifth floor, I straighten my apron and move toward the supply cupboard at the opposite end of the hall, where my cleaning cart awaits. As I near the lift, hushed voices grab my attention. I slow my steps so as not to interrupt what is likely a private conversation among guests. Waiting for the lift to arrive, I circle back a few feet to give the couple some space.
Ding . “Fifth floor.” The lift operator I know as Mr. Tuppary is a short man with a booming voice. I swear he could be heard a floor above and below his current one.
I step forward and am crossing in front of the lift’s closing doors when I glance beyond the grate and the brass detailing to see Mr. Barnes, smug as ever, inside the lift.
The grey-blue carpet feels as though it has rippled up to greet me, and I trip, falling slightly forward in my stride. I recover myself just clear of the lift, and that is when I spot her.
Gwen is tucked into a small alcove in the hall, peering down at something in her hands. My mouth is open, about to tease her and ask if she’s lost her way, when she pivots slightly, her body no longer shielding the card she holds. The triumphant smile plastered across her face worries me. My eyes travel again between the card and Gwen’s admiring expression before understanding dawns on me.
Gwen is holding an invitation to The Hotel Vancouver’s New Year’s Eve ball, and I know without a doubt that Mr. Barnes gave it to her.
Instinct kicks in, encouraging me to look straight ahead and pretend I haven’t seen either one of them as I move swiftly through the hall. The swish of my skirt is the only sound thrumming through my pounding ears as the guest-room doors fly past me at an alarming rate.
There is no backing out now. Gwen will certainly not be inclined to listen to anything I have to say, now that she’s got the attention she was angling for. My anger with Mr. Barnes knows no bounds, and disdain for him rises within me. How clearly I see it now, the manner in which he preys on the innocence and aspirations of young women.
Knowing all too well what I have to do next, I walk right past the supply closet and toward the stairwell. Clara needs to know. It’s time to put plan B into action.