by Brenda Joyce
He was staring at the typewriter on the smaller desk set off to the side of her father’s desk. Francesca’s eyes widened. Surely he was not thinking what she thought he was.
He sat down in the small utilitarian chair behind that second desk, saying reflectively, as he placed a sheet of paper in the machine, “This is a Remington, and a new one, I think.”
She wet her lips, excited in spite of herself. “It is new— we purchased it last year. It is the latest model, a Remington 5. But Bragg, it is a double-character machine. Papa’s secretary uses it,” she added as an afterthought.
He began to type, slowly, painfully, using his two index fingers.
Francesca rushed over. “May I?” she asked.
He stood and their gazes locked. “Absolutely,” he replied.
She sat down, trembling, and quickly typed, “A is for Ants. If you want to see the boy again, be at Mott and Hester streets at 1 p.m. tomorrow.” Then she scrolled the page out and, with a flourish, handed it to him.
He studied it.
“You said you thought a shift-key machine was used,” Francesca said.
“It is only a guess,” he said. Then, “You have a good memory.”
She was pleased. “Will you compare the notes? Do you really think someone was so bold as to type the note on our machine?” She was not just incredulous, she was absurdly thrilled, as well.
He eyed her. “This is not a game, Miss Cahill.”
“I am aware of that. And I do not think our machine was used, of course. I am only going by my recollection of how the first note appeared.”
He smiled slightly. “Very well, Miss Cahill,” he said. “I will also be frank with you. I do not think your machine was used.”
Francesca felt somewhat deflated. Then he said, “I was also hoping that you had seen someone lurking about this room or in the corridor.” His smile was brief and self-deprecating. “I appreciate your efforts, and if you do happen to recall anything, please call me directly either at home or at headquarters.”
Francesca realized that the interview, as brief as it was, was over. “Of course I will call if I happen to remember anything.”
That seemed to satisfy him. She watched him fold the page she had just typed and tuck it into his interior breast pocket. He then said, “Have you recovered from the afternoon’s events?”
She had been about to leave; she faltered. His words were not harsh, nor did they insinuate any condemnation or judgment on his part based on her earlier behavior. He seemed to be implying that he held some degree of gentlemanly concern for her welfare. In fact, his voice was rather warm.
“I do believe it will be some time before I venture onto the Lower East Side again,” she said hesitantly, an image of the foul Gordino flashing through her mind.
He smiled. “I hope so, Miss Cahill. I do hope so.”
She smiled back.
His gaze fell onto the table in front of her father’s chair, where he was now standing. Francesca followed it, and her smile faded; she winced.
He picked up Harper’s and chuckled. “Is my nose really so big?”
She laughed, glad he had a sense of humor. “Hardly. The cartoonist did his best to detract from your attractiveness.” The moment she had uttered the words, she wished she had said something else, anything else—something entirely noncommittal.
His smile faded. He did not look at her as he set Harper’s down, exactly the way it had been, folded back and revealing the caricature of himself.
When he looked up, it was as if he had never heard her. “Shall we?” He moved toward the door.
Francesca preceded him into the hall, relieved that he had not noticed that she found him rather handsome, when a fact struck her. She seized his arm. “Bragg!”
He halted. “Now what, Miss Cahill?” he asked, but quietly, without censure.
She wet her lips. Did he know that Gordino had given Joel the note? Had Joel told him while being questioned at police headquarters? Of course, she could not tell him the entire truth, either, for then he would know that she had found Joel after his having escaped the police, and he might even surmise that Joel was present in the house now. But she could not keep such a clue from him. “Commissioner,” she said quickly, “just before you waylaid my carriage when we were leaving Hester Street, the boy told me that the thug Gordino had given him the note to deliver to you.”
He studied her. Something flickered in his eyes, and for an instant, she was uneasy, afraid he suspected the truth was not wholly that, but embedded with a small lie. “Thank you, Miss Cahill, for sharing that fact with me. But our mutual friend, Joel Kennedy, quickly confessed that bit of truth while you were waiting for me in my office.”
Francesca stared. Did he know that his detective had struck the boy? And would he condone such violent behavior on the part of one of his men? She could not confront him now, for then he would know she had seen Joel afterward. Francesca swallowed all that she wished to say, with difficulty.
She refused to believe that he knew about Hickey’s behavior.
He took her arm, firmly. “And that is, of course, the end of your involvement in this terrible affair.”
“Of course,” she said demurely, avoiding his eyes.
She must have been far too sweet and far too meek, for his gaze shot to her, filled with alarm. But Julia interrupted them before he could speak, hurrying toward them from the other end of the house.
“Commissioner,” Julia said, perturbed. “This is very strange! My guest list was on the secretaire in my sitting room, and now it is gone.”
Francesca froze.
“Gone?” Bragg stepped to her. “You mean it is missing? Misplaced?”
“I left it right on my secretaire,” Julia said firmly. “I last glanced at it yesterday before the ball, just to remind myself of those few names that were new to me. Letitia is the only one who cleans my apartments—she swears she did not touch it. And she also thinks she saw it there yesterday, as well.” Julia hesitated. “So much happened today but...” She paused.
“But what?” Bragg asked quickly.
“But I could almost swear that I saw it this morning, right on the secretaire where I had left it.”
Francesca felt sick.
Bragg stared. And when he spoke, he was grim. “Someone stole the list. Well.”
And Francesca did not have to be a mind reader to know what he was thinking. He was thinking that one of the guests had stolen the guest list to hide his identity; he was thinking that one of the guests was involved in the dastardly affair.
Francesca felt her cheeks flaming. She must tell them the truth. But then what would happen? Surely he would not charge her with obstructing a criminal investigation.
He had been very angry with her for her foray to Mott and Hester streets.
In that instant, Francesca succumbed to cowardice. She decided she would furtively return the guest list to her mother’s secretaire without admitting to what she had done. No one would ever know and tomorrow Bragg would get his list.
She did not feel better. Perhaps she really was obstructing his investigation.
“Hello, Mrs. Burton, I do hope I am not intruding, but I thought you might like this.” Francesca managed a friendly smile as she stood on the threshold of the small parlor she had been escorted to.
She was holding a boxed raspberry tart in her hands. The Cahill cook was not pleased, but Francesca had cajoled him into making another one to serve at supper that night.
She had also cajoled her way into the Burton home. For two patrolmen remained on the Burtons’ front steps. It had been a rather laborious task.
Eliza sat in a huge armchair, wrapped in a woolen blanket. Her face was exceedingly pale, her eyes remained swollen, the tip of her nose red. A fire roared in the hearth in the center of the small drawing room, but the room still remained cold. Eliza looked at her with very little interest.
“It is a raspberry tart, and it is delicious,” Francesca tried.
>
Eliza bit her lip. She nodded. “You are very kind. I have always thought so.” She looked away, dabbing her eyes.
Francesca set the tart in its box down on the table in front of the couch. “Can I get you anything? Have you eaten today?”
Eliza looked at her. “If it were your child who was missing, would you be able to eat?”
Francesca sat down hard on an ottoman, not far from her hostess. “I guess not. I am so sorry! But we will find Jonny, I am so sure of it.”
Surprisingly, Eliza reached out to pat Francesca’s knee, and then she wept, briefly.
Abruptly Francesca stood. She walked over to an open bottle of sherry. Its presence on the table in front of the sofa was very conspicuous; Francesca had noticed it and the empty glass beside it the moment she had crossed the threshold of the room. The sherry bottle was nearly full, though, and Francesca thought it might be better if it were mostly empty. Francesca poured a full glass, and brought it over to Eliza.
Eliza waved it away. “I have had two glasses. I cannot even get drunk.”
Francesca did not know what to say. She knelt beside Eliza. “Are there any clues? What does Bragg think?”
“The clues are insane!” Eliza cried, standing. “Insane! ‘A is for ants, B is for bees.’ ” Suddenly she doubled over, hugging herself, as if in the worst pain.
Francesca threw an arm around her. “What is it? Are you in pain? Is it your stomach? Should I get a doctor?”
“No, no, I am fine,” Eliza gasped, although clearly that was not the case.
Francesca helped her back into the big chair, then covered her with the blanket. Eliza continued to clutch her midsection. She was so starkly pale, except for two very bright pink spots in the center of her cheeks.
When it was clear to Francesca that the stomach ache, if that was what it was, had subsided, she sat down on the ottoman again, this time pulling it close. “There has been no ransom request?” she asked, with acute dread.
Eliza looked directly at her. “No. Just that second, horrid note.”
Francesca stared. “Is that what it said? ‘B is for bees’?” She was whispering, and she did not know why.
Eliza nodded, and briefly her eyes closed. When they opened, she cried, “And that is all it said. But there was a lock of Jonny’s hair glued to the page!”
“Dear God,” Francesca said.
“Who is doing this?” Eliza cried into her hands, covering her face. “Why is he doing this? Why won’t he ask for a ransom? When will I get my child back?”
Francesca had no answer to make. And Robert Burton suddenly came into the room.
He did not look at Francesca. Indeed, perhaps he did not even notice her presence. His expression stricken, he raced to his wife, pulling her into his arms, holding her there, trying to hush her. He rocked her as he might their missing son.
Francesca knew it was time to leave.
Chapter 6
Monday, January 1902—11:30 A.M.
Please describe the difference between the nervous system of a toad and a human being.
Francesca thought she knew the answer to the fifth question on the examination. She sat at a large table with the twelve other women in her class. Beth Brooke was absent, and Francesca hoped she had a note from her doctor; otherwise she was in serious trouble, indeed. Francesca began to write, then she paused.
A is for ants, B is for bees.
Sunlight was streaming into the classroom. It was one of ten large rooms in the brick-and-mortar building that had been finished the previous year. In fact, it was only last year that the college had moved to 119th Street and Broadway from its previous location downtown. The college occupied an entire acre and consisted of a library, an administration building, and this hall. All of the students lived off campus, most of them at home.
Francesca stared at dust motes dancing in the air. There had not been a ransom demand, and whenever she dared to think about it, she was overcome with dread. The feeling made her ill.
What was happening? Why were the Burtons being toyed with? What if ransom was not the intention of the crook responsible for the abduction? But if that was the case, then what could possibly be his intention?
Bragg had asked Robert Burton if he had enemies. Francesca shivered, recalling that moment yesterday morning at the Burtons’ home.
Had it only been yesterday that Jonny’s disappearance had been remarked, making headlines? It felt as if it had been weeks ago.
“Miss Cahill?”
Francesca started and looked up at the professor, who happened to be a woman not much older than herself.
“Are you having trouble with the examination?” Professor Wallace asked. She was a small, plain woman with a severe expression that lightened only when she was lecturing upon her favorite subject, biology.
“No. I am not.” Francesca smiled, ducked her head, and began answering the fifth question. Fortunately, she had stayed up most of last night studying, and she knew the material. Unfortunately, she was exhausted. She had overslept that morning and had barely made the class on time.
A is for ants ... Ants were busy creatures; they built, lived, and traveled in tunnels in the ground. They could be found beneath rocks, in fields, and in the woods. Was the crook they were seeking directing them to a tunnel? Or was he directing them to fields, or the woods? Was he even directing them at all?
And what about the second clue, “B is for bees”? Bees were also very busy creatures, and they worked hard to harvest honey, and they were ruled by a queen bee. Francesca laid her pencil down. She was at a loss. Was there a significant connection that she was failing to see?
Ants and bees were both busy workers, she decided. Busy workers were everywhere in New York City, but especially downtown, where no one lived, but where everyone worked, whether it was as a professional on Wall Street or a laborer on South Street. But how in God’s name would they find Jonny if the crook intended for them to go and search downtown?
Francesca rubbed her temples. Rocks, fields ... she suddenly froze.
And for one moment, she did not breathe.
Fields ... busy workers. And she stood up.
“Miss Cahill? Are you finished?”
Francesca did not even hear Professor Wallace. The field behind the Burton house was a construction site. A lawyer was building a new house there, and right up until it had snowed on Saturday, a crew of workers had been laying the foundation and frame of the house.
Ants were found in fields. So were bees, if the field was full of flowers. That field had been a carpet of wildflowers last summer, and now it was filled with busy workers ...
“Miss Cahill?” Francesca sat back down. What if she was right? What if the crook was directing them to that field?
Finishing the examination was the hardest thing she had ever done.
She did not expect to be right. New York City was full of fields, and maybe the clues indicated Central Park, which was filled with ants and bees in the appropriate season. Or maybe the clues did refer to downtown, or even to a tunnel. Francesca had done nothing but think as she had traveled south on the Ninth Avenue El before getting off at Fifty-ninth Street and taking a trolley across town. The busiest tunnel in the city was the one where the trains on Fourth Avenue went underground from Fifty-seventh to Ninety-sixth streets.
But the envelope was nailed onto a wooden beam that was rising out of the concrete foundation of the yet-to-be-constructed house.
Francesca stood there in the snow, huddled in her fur-lined coat, her hands in a fur muff, staring, wide-eyed. She was almost disbelieving.
But the envelope was there, and it was frozen solid.
Francesca hurried forward, slipping as she stepped up onto the foundation. She dropped the muff and took off her gloves. And very carefully, she jimmied the envelope free of the nail and the beam.
And the moment it was in her hand, she saw the frozen blood.
Nausea overcame her. Francesca opened the envelope with stiff
, frozen fingers, extracting a frozen, bloody page.
C is for Cub.
Francesca ran into the house and through it to the library where the telephone was. The envelope was thawing, and it was becoming sticky in her hands. She was shaking as she put it down and reached for the telephone.
“The police commissioner at police headquarters,” she told the operator tersely. An image of Bragg came to mind and she imagined just how surprised he would be when she told him that she had found the third note.
As she waited impatiently for him to come onto the other end of the line, she stared at the envelope. There was blood on her fingertips and blood all over the note. She thought that the page had been literally soaked in blood. She felt like throwing up.
“The commissioner is out to lunch,” a man said on the other end of the line.
“Out to lunch!” Francesca cried.
“Who is this?” The policeman’s tone was sharp.
“Francesca Cahill. Where is he?” she demanded.
“He’s at the Fifth Avenue Hotel,” the officer returned. “Should I take a message?”
“When will he be back?” Francesca stared at the bloody envelope, feeling perilously close to tears. How could Bragg be eating now! How?
Was the blood Jonny’s?
Oh, God! Was he alive?
“He just left,” the officer said.
Francesca hung up the receiver. “Darnation,” she said harshly. Then she picked it up again. A moment later she was speaking with the hotel operator. “Please, Commissioner Bragg is having lunch in your hotel, this is an emergency, and I must speak with him.”
“I will see if we can locate him,” the operator said. “What is your name, miss? Are you certain everything is all right?”
“Of course everything is not all right,” Francesca shouted. “Please, just put Bragg on the line.”
She wanted to pace, but she could not, otherwise she would yank the phone from the cord. She could only stand there and fidget, breathing harshly, wishing that this were not happening. Why was there so much blood on that note?