“It’s Syd Walsh,” Peter explained. An expression of absolute certainty was on his face. “Syd Walsh is another old-timer like Tom Agate and Johnny Dwyer. But instead of being a song-and-dance man, he was a vaudeville magician. Sydney the Great, he called himself. He retired years ago and started a theatrical costume and prop shop.”
“But what makes you think—?” Peggy asked as she ran to keep up.
“Syd Walsh,” Peter said, “was known as the tallest man in vaudeville. He was six foot five at least. And,” Peter added significantly, “he had only one eye. He wore a black patch for all his performances.”
“The one-eyed giant!” Peggy breathed.
“That’s it,” Peter said. “It all fits together now. The kings and queens—Tom was talking about Syd’s costumes.”
“And the trunks, too,” Peggy cried. “Memories in trunks! Old theatrical costumes!”
“Right,” Peter said, as they turned the corner of Forty-ninth Street. “Tom Agate’s got a job looking after Syd Walsh’s costume shop at night. I’m convinced of it.”
Peter pulled to a stop in the middle of the block and scanned the darkened buildings. “It’s right around here,” he muttered. “I remember coming here years ago.”
“There it is!” cred Peggy, pointing to a plate-glass window on the fifth floor of a dingy brownstone building. Across the front of the glass was lettered: Syd Walsh’s Theatrical Costumes. The light of a street lamp barely caught the faded sign.
Peter took her by the arm. “Come on,” he said. “In we go.”