by Brenda Joyce
And Bragg was throwing the sergeant against the wall, shouting at him, his face flushed with rage. Francesca could imagine why. The police raid would ruin contact with the crooks responsible for Jonny’s abduction. Apparently, lines of communication had been seriously crossed.
And suddenly a huge man was standing not far from Bragg, who had apparently finished shouting at the sergeant. Francesca stared at the man, clad in a poor baggy brown jacket and dirty brown boots. He looked as disreputable as anyone she had thus far seen that morning, and she just knew that he was the criminal intending to make contact with Bragg.
Bragg also saw him.
But the big, dark man in the loose jacket and gray trousers turned and walked into another saloon.
“Darnation,” Francesca cried in consternation.
And she thought she heard Bragg shout, “Get that man!”
Which was precisely when she realized that the boy who had been so annoying was racing into the street. She suddenly comprehended what he was doing—he was making a beeline for Bragg, while two patrolmen were entering the saloon where the big hoodlum had disappeared. Francesca’s eyes widened even more. The beggar boy pressed something into Bragg’s hand, and then he turned and fled.
Bragg looked down at a crumpled piece of paper. Then he glanced up, and took off after the boy. The two of them disappeared from Francesca’s view on Mott Street.
“Oh, dear God,” she said, straightening now and tossing off her hood.
That blasted little boy, the one who had tried to blackmail her for a few dollars, had been the contact with whoever was responsible for the abduction. He was working for the criminal responsible for the abduction! And she had been conversing with him ... Francesca just stood there, not able to believe it.
Cries and shouts were coming from the saloon across the street, as was the sound of furniture being tossed around or broken. Apparently, there was opposition to the forced closing, and a fight had broken out.
Francesca couldn’t care less. She was still in a state of shock, and she turned, to head down Hester Street and then across to Mulberry Street where her carriage and driver were waiting.
The big, frightening man smiled down at her. “Hello, lovey,” he said.
It was the hoodlum who had seemed to want to approach Bragg, but who had instead walked into an adjacent saloon. Francesca’s heart felt as if it would burst right out of her chest. Her every instinct screamed at her that this was not a welcome circumstance.
He grinned at her, revealing yellow, slimy teeth. “Now what is a rich lady like you doing down here with the likes of us poor folk?” he asked.
Francesca did not have to think twice. She produced her purse, shoving it at him. “Here,” she said, and she turned and ran.
But she only took two steps. For he had caught her hood, and he yanked her so hard back around that she fell against his huge barrel chest.
“I think it’s my lucky day,” he said, laughing.
His breath stank. But not of beer, gin, or rum, nor even of tobacco, it just stank of rot and decay. Francesca tried to press herself away, but his grip tightened on her arms, and she screamed.
He smiled, pulled her close, and pressed his stinking mouth to her face.
Francesca jammed her one-inch heel as hard as she could into the top of his foot, and he pulled back with a cry. She was still trapped in his grip, and she screamed again and again, as loudly as she could.
There must have been a hundred people on the sidewalk and in the street. No one appeared to hear her, which was impossible, and if they did, no one cared.
And all of the police were inside the damned saloon they were trying to close down. It sounded as if a riot were taking place there.
“That wasn’t very mannerly of you, little lady,” the hoodlum said, and his mouth was down-turned.
Francesca looked into narrow black eyes and it truly hit her then—she was in very serious jeopardy, indeed.
When he cried out.
Francesca looked down as he grunted again, and was confronted with the sight of the beggar boy kicking the bejesus out of the ruffian’s shins. The little boy would not stop.
Francesca lifted her knee, hard, into the man’s private parts.
He finally released her, howling, dropping to the ground.
“Run, lady, run,” the boy shouted, grabbing her hand.
“No, this way.” Francesca pulled him around and they set off through the throng, pushing past women and children, mindless of everything except escaping that horrible man.
Francesca had to look over her shoulder. He was following them!
“Blast it,” she panted, for she thought his intentions had now changed. Rape was not on his mind, revenge was. Revenge, and maybe even murder.
“Faster, lady, can’t you run faster?” the boy shouted, ahead of her now, but then, he was an expert at weaving his way through the crowded street—clearly, he had done this many times before.
They turned right on Mulberry Street, which was no improvement from Hester—if anything, it was worse. Saloons, brothels, opium dens ... they ran past every imaginable establishment of illegality and ill repute. And then Francesca espied her carriage and driver.
“There,” she shouted, but she had to look back again, and he was almost close enough to reach out and seize her by her hair—which had come loose and was flying behind her like a cape.
The boy leapt into the carriage first. Francesca gripped the squabs, shouting, “Go, Jennings, go, go now!” She was still on the running boards as the coachman whipped the bay in the traces; the boy reached down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her up into the safety of the box.
Francesca turned and looked down and saw one thick hamlike hand on the door, and she met his black, furious eyes. And then the carriage sped away, leaving the thug standing in the middle of Mulberry Street, staring after them.
Francesca collapsed against the leather squabs, panting and shaking like a leaf.
“Whew,” the boy said, wiping his brow. “That was close! That Gordino, he’s no good, a real rough, yes sir-ree.”
Francesca turned and suddenly grabbed his ear, hard. He cried out. “Who are you and do you know that man and who is he?” she shouted, furious with herself and thoroughly shaken. In fact, she remained shocked. For she had been assaulted.
“You’re hurting me,” he squealed.
“Answer me this instant!” She pulled on his ear, with very little mercy, her insides now churning dangerously. She had been assaulted. That disgusting man had kissed her.
“Me name’s Joel and he’s Gordino an‘ he’s real mean, he’ll pop off his own mother and never think twice!”
Francesca’s heart was still pounding so hard that it hurt. But now she began to shake uncontrollably, while fighting the terrible urge to vomit. Oh, God. That horrid thug had actually tried to stick his tongue inside of her mouth! She released his ear. “Pop off? What does ‘pop off’ mean?” She must not vomit now.
He rubbed his red ear, grimacing. “You know. Knock off. Kill. Murder.”
She stared, hugging herself and trembling. “He murders people?”
Joel nodded, still massaging his ear.
“He murders people and he is not in jail?” Francesca could hardly believe it. She was shocked anew, and it eased her distress.
He looked at her as if she were not in possession of any degree of normal mental ability. “He’s been in the Tombs more times than a body knows.” He shrugged. “Guess them flies got more use fer him on the street.”
Francesca was staring when she realized that she was being stared at, as well. She lifted her gaze and saw a larger carriage keeping pace with her brougham, and sitting in the passenger seat was Bragg. Her heart sank like a rock.
He gestured at her. “Pull over,” he said.
Francesca stared, then hurried to obey. “Jennings.” She tapped on the window partition. “Please halt the carriage.” This was not good, she thought. No, this was definitely not go
od.
Bragg’s carriage pulled over, angling in front of them in such a way as to block her carriage from moving forward—should she even try to do so. Francesca’s apprehension increased.
“Damnation,” Joel cried, and he was suddenly scrambling across Francesca’s lap in a mad dash to leap out of the other side of the carriage.
Bragg jumped in, caught him by the shoulder just as he gripped the door handle, and pushed him down into the seat. “Sit,” he said.
Joel sat In fact, he sat as still as a statue. His white cheeks were now red.
Bragg calmly sat down opposite Francesca. “Good afternoon, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca could not summon up a reply.
He did not turn, but he tapped on the window partition. “Driver. Three hundred Mulberry, please.”
Oddly, Jennings did not hesitate. He moved the carriage backward and then around the commissioner’s carriage, and back into the street.
Francesca did not like the way events were developing, oh no. “Where are we going?” she asked with great trepidation.
He finally smiled at her. “Police headquarters,” he said.
Chapter 4
Francesca sucked in her breath, loudly. “Why are we going to police headquarters?” she asked. As if she did not know. He was furious with her; how could she have thought, even for a moment, to help solve the abduction?
His gaze was benign. “We have matters to discuss.”
She tried not to fidget. The five-story brownstone, which she had passed earlier on her way to Mott and Hester streets, was already in view, just up the block. Of course, she had never before seen the police headquarters, although upon occasion, there had been a drawing in the Times. Now she stared with open curiosity; a curiosity that could not ease her nerves. Several patrolmen were loitering on the sidewalk in front of the building, and there was some activity as gentlemen and patrolmen entered and left the premises. “Commissioner, I would love to discuss whatever it is that is on your mind, but I am afraid I am running late and I must be getting home.” She managed a smile, hoping against all odds to avoid an unpleasant interview with him.
He smiled in return and said nothing as Jennings braked the carriage directly in front of the entrance to the building.
Francesca glanced at Joel, her trepidation rising. She reached for his hand, perhaps to comfort herself as well as him. The boy was clearly restless—Francesca had the feeling that he would bolt and run given the slightest opportunity to do so.
Bragg leapt down from the carriage, then held his hand out to help her down. Francesca accepted it, acutely aware of his touch. She drew uneasily away as Bragg’s own carriage halted behind hers. Two detectives were already escorting Joel from the brougham, as well.
Bragg gestured for her to precede him up the stairs and into the building. As she did so, she asked, “What are you going to do with the boy?” For one of the detectives, a tall, husky man, had his hand clamped down hard on the thin child’s shoulder. Joel was complaining vocally about it, too. “Damn blast tarnation!” he shouted.
“He has information that I want,” Bragg said, as if he had not heard the child’s cursing.
Francesca did not like the sound of that. Her worry increased. Bragg was so grim. It did not bode well for either of them. And they paused in the front reception room.
Francesca glanced around, wide-eyed, briefly forgetting what might lie before her. She had never been inside a police precinct before, much less police headquarters. Several officers stood behind a desk, faced with rows of benches and a milling crowd of men, some in uniform, some not. Francesca could hear the occasional sound of a typewriter, the constant pinging of the telegraph, and the intermittent ringing of telephones. One very scruffy and dangerous-looking man was standing in manacles between two roundsmen. And suddenly every horror story that she had read about the police department came to mind.
Innocent passersby being brutally clubbed by roundsmen. The innocent being jailed for days on end in the most wretched of conditions, for crimes they had not committed. But surely, that was not her fate. After all, she was a Cahill and Bragg was friendly with her father.
She imagined the worst that would happen was that she would receive a polite setdown. Yet another glance at his face caused her anxiety to spiral upward. And what about poor Joel?
“Bragg,” she began valiantly, returning her attention to Joel. She smiled at him reassuringly. “He is a little boy—”
“Thompson, escort Miss Cahill to my office.” He looked at Francesca. “I will be a few moments, and you may wait for me until I return.” Clearly there were no ifs, ands or buts about it and he turned and signaled his men, who followed him up the stairs with Joel.
Joel flung one last glance over his shoulder at Francesca, and his plea was obvious.
Francesca tried to smile at him, but her expression felt weak and feeble.
“Miss Cahill?” The detective smiled at her, gesturing her toward the elevator.
Francesca was hugging herself. Bragg had been curt and brusque—not a good sign. She realized she had no choice. She entered the cage, and a moment later found herself alone in Bragg’s office on the second floor, the door closed firmly behind her.
Her trepidation began to vanish in the face of her growing curiosity. She looked eagerly around, trying to remind herself that curiosity had killed the cat and that in the past, at times, her snooping and prying had engendered some disagreeable conclusions.
Her mental battle failed. She smiled and studied his desk, approaching it. His desk was about half the size of her father’s, and every inch was covered with books and papers and folders; a telephone sat on one end, as well. Clearly he was a prolific reader; clearly he did not shy away from a huge workload. A swivel chair with a woven cane seat and back was behind the desk, but it was turned away, as if he had last been looking out of the window onto the street. Francesca smiled, imagining him sitting there, lost in thought and deliberation. She turned. There was a fireplace on the adjacent wall, a clock above the mantel. Numerous photographs were propped on the mantelpiece.
Facing his desk were two rather sorry-looking chairs; once, she supposed, they had been a pleasant shade of green, now they were brown and stained. The small rug between the desk and the chairs was threadbare and torn.
His office needed a woman’s touch.
Francesca walked over to the mantel and could not refrain from picking up a photograph of Bragg and Seth Low. They were smiling and shaking hands; they were standing on the steps of City Hall. She suspected the photo had been taken on New Year’s Day, the day of Low’s taking office and the day of Bragg’s appointment.
She glanced at the other photos. Bragg with Carnegie, Bragg with her father and two other gentlemen she did not recognize, Bragg with Platt and Theodore Roosevelt—undoubtedly before he had become President of the United States. Francesca was impressed.
There was also a photograph of him standing with a dozen gentlemen on the wide front steps of the Union Club, and another of him with an elderly man standing across the street from the Fifth Avenue Hotel. The last picture at one end of the mantel held Francesca’s attention the longest. He stood with his arm around the waist of a very attractive woman, behind three smiling, freshly scrubbed children, two boys and a little girl.
His family? She felt an unfamiliar pang. She really knew nothing about him; she assumed he was a bachelor because she hadn’t read anything about his being married, or she didn’t recall having read that he had a wife, and he had been at the ball last night alone. She stared at the photograph for another moment, trying to find a resemblance between the woman and Bragg. She couldn’t find any, but what was worse, she thought the children did resemble him more than a little bit.
Suddenly disturbed, perhaps even dismayed, she walked over to the window behind his desk, chastising herself for snooping into his private affairs—which were none of her concern. She stared down at Mulberry Street.
Snow still clung to t
he curbs, but it was already blackened from dirt and manure. It was so little different from Mott or Hester streets, she thought, amazed. For the crowd below looked like an assortment of ruffians and scoundrels, beggars and pickpockets. How could so many scoundrels go about their illicit if not illegal affairs right in view of the police department? For even as she stared down, she watched two men brawling violently, fists flying. One finally landed in the gutter in a heap, causing a bevy of pigeons to take flight—directly at the feet of a pair of patrolmen. They looked the other way, pretending not to see.
Francesca turned away, but not before she saw a woman open her coat and flash her mostly naked body at a man. She shook her head in disbelief.
Then she had to look again. The woman was accepting something from the man—cash, Francesca assumed—and she was then leading him across the street. Eyes wide, Francesca watched them walk down into a basement-level establishment. She could guess what would happen next.
Her thoughts returned to Bragg. What did he want? If only he had evinced the slightest degree of compassion or even friendliness earlier. But he had not, he had been brusque and abrupt. He had been all business. He had been the commissioner of police.
Of course she knew what he wanted. He would demand to know just what she had been doing on Mott and Hester streets. And what would she say? What excuse could she make? Especially as he knew that she had read the note left for the Burtons?
Francesca closed her eyes. If only she knew what the second note had said! If only she could speak with Joel herself. In fact, she would give an arm and a leg to be a fly on the wall right now, listening to Bragg question the boy.
She had to know what the second note said. It had to be a ransom demand.
And as Francesca thought about it, her gaze fell on the notes left on the very top of all the papers and books on Bragg’s desk.
Her heart began to pound.
She looked at the door of the office. The top half was glass. But it was so thick and opaque that it was creamy white and one could not see out of the room, or into it, either. Francesca wet her lips, knowing she should not snoop, and then she walked right over to the desk. She hesitated.