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at nightfall. He did not call the Winslows, for he had nothing to report. On his note pad he wrote down a prayer and dated it: God, help me to find Grace Winslow. I’m not smart enough to do it by myself, so I’m asking you to put into my mind something that will help.
    Exhausted, he put the pad away and lay down on his cot. “Good night, Miriam,” he said. The parrot immediately called back, “Good night, Francis.”
    Key tossed for a while but finally fell into a deep sleep. The next thing he knew he was sitting up straight in the bed, startling Miriam, who began squawking and quoting Scripture. Key paid her no attention, for he knew something was taking shape in his mind that was not of himself. Perhaps it was the result of all the questions he had asked, but in any case he knew it was time to quiet his mind and listen. He sat there in the silence of the room while various thoughts came to his attention—like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He made no attempt to put them together, but let them configure themselves into a logical picture. He smiled and murmured, “Thank you, Lord” and then lay down and went back to sleep.
    ****
    As Francis Key mounted the worn concrete steps that led up to an ancient brownstone building, he had the sensation of time long gone. Years of wind and weather had stripped away the building’s surface, leaving a dull, pitted exterior. He entered the dark foyer and thought of how he came to be here. After the epiphany he’d had in the middle of the night, he had waited until a reasonable hour and then called Finley Crane, a man he knew in show business. Crane had been a help to him in a case he had worked on before, and when Key questioned him, Crane said in his booming voice, “You want somebody that knows all about the history of show biz? You’re talkin’ about Blanche Fountain. If she don’t know it, it never happened. I got her address right here.”
    Key approached the third door on the right and knocked gently. There was no answer, so he knocked louder, and finally, after what seemed like a long time, the door swung open with a creak. Key found himself looking at a woman dressed in a brilliant crimson gown. Her hair was as black as night, but the eyes that regarded him were not young. “Mrs. Fountain?”
    “I’m Blanche Fountain. Who are you?”
    “My name is Francis Key. I would like to talk with you if I might.”
    “Are you a reporter?”
    “No, but I understand from a mutual friend of ours, Mr. Crane, that you know everything about show business.”
    “Oh, so Finley sent you. Well, in that case, come in, young man. I can give you a few moments.”
    He entered the room and was struck by an assortment of odors—the place smelled of age and deterioration and cat. Several cats of various sizes, shapes, and colors regarded him conspicuously. The room was as jammed as his own, every wall covered with posters from Broadway shows, new and old.
    “I was just about to have my tea. You will join me.”
    Since it was not a request but a command, Francis smiledand said, “I’d be honored, Mrs. Fountain.” He sat down in a fragile-looking antique chair that he distrusted, but it held his weight. He watched as the woman fixed the tea and fetched the cream and sugar. She had obviously been a beautiful woman in her youth, but that day was long gone. Now she was made up heavily, the wrinkles unsuccessfully covered by pancake makeup, the eyes accentuated by heavy mascara, and her dry, brittle hair woven into a complicated arrangement. Her hands gave away her age, for they were thin and covered with liver spots.
    “I understand you’ve been in the theater a long time, Mrs. Fountain.”
    “Oh yes, all of my life. I was born in a dressing room in Madison, Wisconsin. My parents were doing Julius Caesar there.” She did not mention the date but went on quickly to say, “I am planning my comeback, you know.”
    “That must be very exciting. What will you be doing?”
    “None of this