by Brenda Joyce
Joel had deliberately increased his pace, and Francesca did so as well. She turned to look back at the stoop, but a huge dray was blocking her view. There was hardly any vehicular traffic in the neighborhood, she realized. That was odd, too.
Then she realized that if the neighborhood was nothing but tenements—and she saw but two saloons and one small grocery store—there would be hardly any traffic, other than that of its impoverished residents.
One of the boys had turned to stare openly at them. He was a tall, lanky redhead, a wool cap pulled partly over his shaggy hair. His gaze met Francesca's and he grinned. He turned and nudged a companion.
"Don't look at 'em!" Joel hissed beneath his breath.
Francesca turned away as the entire pack of five boys stared at them.
"This is it," Joel said, tugging hard on a rusted bolt. The door fell slowly open, and a stench came from the unlit hall inside.
"She lived here?" Francesca gasped.
"She and the girls shared a room with two other families. One of 'em is the Jadvics," he said.
"Poles?" she asked, finding a handkerchief in her purse. She had to hold it to her nose. It was clear that someone had become violently ill some time ago in the stairwell.
"Think so," Joel said. On the first landing he went to the first door and pounded on it. "Mrs. Jadvic!" he called, sounding very much like a ten-year-old boy. "You at home? It's Joel Kennedy! Mrs. Jadvic?"
Francesca almost smiled, but the rotten building was just too depressing.
The door was cracked open. An old woman with hanging jowls in a worn yellow housedress—the color now more beige—eyed them suspiciously.
"It's me, Joel Kennedy, Grandma Jadvic. This is me friend, a real lady, Miss Cahill. Can we come in? It stinks out here," he protested.
The door was opened more widely and the woman's face softened. She nodded.
Francesca entered a room with a stove, a small table, two rickety chairs, and five mattresses. Four of the mattresses were inhabited by children of various ages, playing with paper dolls and one tin soldier. The youngest, a little girl of two or three, was sucking on a teat. Another door was partially ajar; inside, Francesca glimpsed a sleeping man, more mattresses, one chair, and a small bureau.
She had been inside tenements before. But never one as crowded and inhumane as this.
Somehow, she smiled at the old lady. "Hello, Mrs. Jadvic. I am Francesca Cahill." She extended her hand.
The old woman just looked at her. Then, "What you want?" She spoke with a heavy Polish accent.
Francesca pointed at the little blond girl with big blue eyes sucking on the teat. "Is that Mary O'Shaunessy's daughter?"
Before the old lady could answer, the front door opened and another woman entered, in a stained and faded brown coat. The hem was coming undone, but the woman's blond hair was pinned beneath a new red scarf. Her hazel eyes were bright. She looked from Joel to Francesca and her brows shot up. "Joel?"
"Hi, Mrs. Jadvic," Joel said. "This is Miz Cahill, from uptown."
"I see that," Mrs. Jadvic said. She had a slight accent, not as strong as her mother-in-law's. Francesca could not determine her age—she might be twenty, thirty, or forty; she was too worn-looking to tell.
"Miz Cahill's a sleuth," Joel continued. "She's here to solve Mary's murder. To find out who dun it."
Francesca had already taken one of her cards out of her purse. She handed it to Mrs. Jadvic, who put her bag of groceries down. The tired blonde said, "I don't read."
"I am a sleuth, Mrs. Jadvic. And Maggie Kennedy has retained my services. She wants to know who murdered Mary O'Shaunessy, and why."
Mrs. Jadvic bit her lip and tears filled her eyes. "Them two are hers. We can't keep 'em. We just can't."
Francesca looked at the blond girl with the big blue eyes, who had thrown her teat aside. Then she looked at another skinny little girl, this one with dishwater brown hair and the exact same big blue eyes. She wondered if she could bring the girls home until they were placed with a real family; then she recalled that she was on a probation of sorts with her parents. The girls would have to go, temporarily, to a foster home or an orphanage, she realized. It hurt her thinking about it.
The older sister seemed to understand her thoughts, because her expression turned sullen and she took the little blonde's hand and gripped it tightly. The smaller child made a sound of protest.
"I will find them a home," Francesca said abruptly, turning back to Mrs. Jadvic. And the sisters would not be torn apart. "How long can you keep them here?" she asked.
"I cannot feed them. I can't feed my own," Mrs. Jadvic said tiredly. "When Mary was alive, it was different. She gave me five dollars every week for them, and she came home late Saturday night, returning to the Janson house on Monday morning."
Francesca took out a pen and notepad. She wrote down "Janson house." "Do you have an address for the Jansons?" she asked.
"They're on Madison Square, twenty-fourth, I think," she said.
Francesca wrote "Mad Sq." on her pad. That was where Bragg lived. "Were you—" She stopped.
Bragg lived on Madison Square in a very nice town house with his servant, Peter. He had several bedrooms. Oh, dear, he might be furious at first, but couldn't he keep the two girls until she placed them? It broke her heart, sending them to an orphan asylum.
"Lady?" Joel asked curiously.
Francesca wet her lips. "Mrs. Jadvic? Have the police been by?"
She nodded. "But I wasn't home. They said they would come back. My mother-in-law told them about the girls. One of the detectives said he would take care of moving them, that he would alert the proper people."
Like a sack of potatoes, Francesca thought with heat. "We do not have much time," she murmured.
"Wut?" Joel asked.
"Mrs. Jadvic? Can you pack up the girls' things? I have a nice home for them to stay in until we find them new parents." Francesca walked over to the girl with dishwater brown hair. "Hello. And what is your name? I am Fran. My niece calls me Auntie Fran."
Big blue eyes stared suspiciously up at her. The six-year-old did not speak.
"That's Katie, an' her sister is Dot," Joel said.
Impulsively Francesca ran her hand over Katie's head. She pulled away, scowling. Her gaze remained wary and even hostile. Francesca smiled at Dot. The little blonde had been watching her, and now she grinned back. She had several new baby teeth and the grin was enough to melt anyone's heart.
Francesca faced Mrs. Jadvic. "Did Mary express any fears to you recently? Did she know her life was in danger?"
Mrs. Jadvic shook her head. "No. She was happy with her new job. She'd come here with food and trinkets for the girls, humming a ditty beneath her breath."
It was so unfair, Francesca thought, more determined than ever to bring Mary's killer to justice. "When did you last see her?"
"Sunday," she said, without hesitation.
So Francesca had seen her more recently, last Tuesday. Perhaps on Sunday, Mary hadn't known that her life was in danger.
"And her husband? Is he around?" Francesca asked.
"She never spoke of him to me." The blonde hesitated. "I don't think the girls have the same father."
Francesca nodded, hoping she was not blushing. "Where did Mary work before she was hired by the Jan-sons? And for how long? And when was that?"
"She worked in a small tailor shop with four other seamstresses; it's on Broadway, maybe on Eighteenth Street. She's been with the Jansons five or six weeks now, less than two months. They would know better than me," Mrs. Jadvic added.
Her mother-in-law had been unpacking the groceries, which consisted of several old potatoes, a loaf of stale bread, three eggs, and a slab of bacon. Francesca realized they were about to cook dinner. Mrs. Jadvic took two coats off of wall pegs and, along with them, several scarves. She handed Francesca a small burlap sack. "They each have a change in here, and a Sunday church dress. Mary was devout."
Francesca accepted the
sack, then handed it to Joel. "Is there anyone else who was close to Mary? Someone that I might talk to?"
"Maggie Kennedy was her good friend. You might try some of the girls at the Broadway shop." She shrugged.
"And that is all?" Francesca asked.
"There's her brother," Mrs. Jadvic said. "Mike O'Donnell."
Francesca used the door knocker at No. 11 Madison Square. The door was opened almost instantly by a huge man. Peter was undoubtedly six inches over six feet, broad-shouldered, and large of frame. He was blond and blue-eyed; Francesca thought he was Swedish. He rarely spoke, although Bragg had said he was quite wise, and he was Bragg's man. That is, he did just about everything and anything for Bragg; when Francesca had first met Peter, she had thought him to be a police officer.
"Hello, Peter," she said brightly, clutching Katie's and Dot's hands. She had given both girls lollipops, and they were busy sucking on the candy sticks.
Peter nodded, glancing from her to the two children, then at the cab waiting in the street. He then espied the burlap sack that Joel held.
"Peter, this is a dire emergency," Francesca was brisk, and with courage she walked around him—no easy task— with the two girls and into the narrow entry of Bragg's town house. "These two little girls are homeless. I would bring them home with me, but I am rather in a predicament with my parents—I am not allowed to sleuth. However, I shall find these girls a new home—within the week, I assure you. But until then," and she did smile at him, "they must remain here. I shall send over a nanny."
Peter's expression did not change. If he was surprised or dismayed, he did not show it. He asked, "Does the commissioner know?"
"I am on my way to headquarters even as we speak," she said, very brightly. "You know Bragg. He will never turn these two little girls out on the street. I promise you, he shall welcome them with open arms."
Peter said, "Please call him. The telephone is in the study." He turned and started to walk down the hall, toward the small study that was just before the parlor. Francesca released the girls, closed the door firmly behind them and Joel so no one could leave, and ran after Peter. "Peter!"
He halted in the study, handing her the telephone.
Francesca took it. The study flooded her with memories, and briefly she did not move.
She looked around the small room, where a desk, its chair, a huge and worn upholstered chair, and the fireplace were the only furnishings. Bragg still had three boxes of books to unpack, she noted. And the last time she had been in that room, he had kissed her, right there, pressing her up against the wall.
And the next day he had apologized, and told her about Leigh Anne.
"Miss Cahill?"
She jerked, and came out of the reverie that was at once painful and heated and sweet. She replaced the phone on its hook. In a low voice she said, "Bragg told you about the murdered woman we found last night?"
He nodded.
"Her name is Mary O'Shaunessy, and those are her two little girls."
If he was surprised, his blue eyes did not show it.
"I will convince Bragg to keep them here. It shall only be for a week or so. But I must speak with him in person."
Peter did not indicate what he was thinking, and he did not bat an eye.
"Please, Peter," Francesca whispered, and the plea was genuine.
He nodded, and he seemed to flush as he looked away. And then he was walking out of the study and into the front hall, where Dot was piddling on the floor, her sister watching and sucking her pop.
"We have one more stop to make before headquarters— and our visit to Mike O'Donnell," Francesca said breathlessly as the cab pulled away from the curb. She was still disbelieving. Dot had peed on Bragg's floor, not even asking to use the bathing room. Francesca had been horror-stricken. But Peter had not batted an eye, and he had helped her clean up the mess and change the little girl's drawers.
Francesca prayed that was not going to happen again.
She did not think Bragg would be so calm about another incident. "Driver! Sherry Netherlands, please!"
The horse began a brisk trot, behind an electric trolley. Joel faced her. "Why are we goin' there?"
Francesca patted his hand, which was wrapped in a rag to ward off the cold. She must buy him gloves, she decided, and the girls did need new clothes. Not to mention a nanny. There was so much to do now that it made her head spin, and then she recalled Biology.
She had promised to rewrite her essay, the one on mammalian digestive systems, the one she had failed. Oh, dear. Another task that she must add to her agenda.
She smiled at Joel. "My sister had a one o'clock luncheon there. I must stop by; it is urgent." She had to know what was happening between Hart and Connie. "Lady, it's three or so, ain't it?" "A two-hour luncheon is quite normal. I would even expect them to still be there at half past the hour."
Joel blinked, amazed. "How much do you rich folks eat?"
She laughed then. "Joel, it's far more social than it is anything else. We go out to dine to meet with a friend, to chat, to enjoy a few hours. The food is truly secondary."
He stared at her with disbelief. "Only the rich," he said,
"would treat a good meal like that."
She sobered. For he was right. And which employment agency should she use to find a nanny for the girls, and could she hire one on credit? Sleuthing was quite expensive, as cab fares and bribes ate heavily into her allowance. Traveling back and forth to school did not help matters. And then there was the list of items she had promised herself while on the Randall Murder that she would purchase, items that she had quickly come to realize were crucial to investigative work. At the top of that list was a small gun. There were just too many killers in the city. She sighed. Tomorrow she would visit a gun shop.
Fifteen minutes later, as it began to flurry, the cab halted at Sherry Netherlands. As Francesca had kept the cab waiting on Avenue C, the fare was outrageous—two and a half dollars. After she paid the driver, she and Joel alighted. The doormen smiled at her, then saw Joel and barred her way.
Francesca smiled her best smile. "Hullo. Might we enter?"
"No rowdies in here," one of the doormen said, a fat fellow with a handlebar mustache.
"I beg your pardon. I am Francesca Cahill, Andrew Cahill's daughter. And Joel Kennedy is my friend and assistant—he comes with me." She instantly dug a calling card out of her purse, slapping it against the man's chest. He caught it. "Or shall I speak with the manager of this fine establishment—where I dine frequently with my family?"
"Hey, are you the young lady who caught Randall's killer?" the second doorman asked.
Francesca nodded, surprised and proud all at once.
"Hey, Joe, she caught the killer all by herself, used a cast-iron pan or something. Been in the papers." The doormen exchanged looks. Then they moved aside.
"Please," the first doorman said. "And I beg your pardon, Miss Cahill."
Francesca felt like a famous person. She gave Joel an amazed look, and together they walked into the wide lobby of the hotel.
Pillars graced its perimeter and huge Oriental rugs covered its marble floors. Francesca knew the way to the restaurant, and she and Joel crossed the lobby quickly. A maitre d' came forward, smiling apologetically. "I am afraid we are not serving lunch, miss."
Francesca did not answer. Only three parties remained in the large dining room, and in one corner, at a white, linen-clad table, sat her sister and Hart.
He was touching her hand. She was laughing and pulling her hand away. He leaned forward, speaking again. Connie seemed somewhat flustered and was definitely acting coy.
Francesca could only stare. Even from a distance, Hart was the kind of man to attract a woman's attention. He was dark, deadly so, with swarthy skin and thick black hair. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a small cleft in his chin. Today he was wearing a starkly black suit and a snowy white shirt. She realized every time she had seen him, he had been wearing black.
&
nbsp; But it suited him.
As if sensing that he was being watched, he turned and looked her way.
And even from a distance, she sensed his surprise. And then, she sensed his pleasure.
He stood, still looking toward her.
Francesca turned to the maitre d'. "My sister is dining with Mr. Hart. I have an urgent message for her."
"Oh, please, then do go in." He smiled and turned away, and she and Joel walked past his small desk and through the spacious dining room.
Hart remained standing, his gaze unwavering, upon her. Francesca briefly felt flustered, and she looked at Connie, who wasn't smiling. If looks could kill, why, Francesca surely would be dead.
There was also an empty bottle of wine on the table, she saw. Connie's glass contained a sip or two, while Hart's was empty.
"This is an exceedingly pleasant surprise," Hart murmured. He had a way of speaking that was purely sensual. It reminded Francesca of the fact that he enjoyed visiting two supposed sisters at the very same time. Daisy and Rose worked in a brothel and Francesca had met them on her last case. She could not stop her thoughts from turning to a very intimate image of Hart with both striking women.
"We were just passing by," Francesca said cheerfully. "My, a burgundy with lunch."
"I am sure you were," Connie said coolly.
"The wine was superb, as was the meal—and the company." He smiled warmly at Connie, who cast her eyes demurely down, and then Hart grinned at Joel. "Hey, kid," he said.
Joel eyed him with hostility. "Name's Kennedy."
"I see your little hoodlum has not changed his manners," Hart said, unruffled and amused. "Pray tell the both of you are not chasing ruffians these days."
"His manners are just fine," Francesca returned.
"Ever the defender of the underdog," Hart said. "It is ever so charming, Francesca."
She was pleased, because she knew he meant it. "Should I change overnight?" she bantered.
"I hope not!" He laughed, his hand going to his heart. "I would be stricken. What would I do without such a unique friend?"
She smiled, realizing he was flirting with her and she loved it. "You would be at a complete loss; I assure you of that." She glanced at Connie. "How was lunch?"