by Brenda Joyce
Francesca entered the room more fully, closing the door behind her. “I have made a terrible mistake,” she said softly, smiling in apology. “I forgot all about our luncheon date.”
He came forward, having now turned quite red. “That is quite all right... let me take your coat... this is a delightful surprise!”
Francesca did not want to linger, but she had already been rude enough, and she handed him her coat. “Please allow me to explain,” she said.
“Of course—although no explanation is necessary,” he said, his gaze earnestly upon hers. “I cannot believe you would come downtown now, in this weather.”
Francesca only smiled as he hung her coat up on a wall peg, then opened the door and called for his assistant to bring them tea and cake. He closed the door, saw that she remained standing, and he hurried forward to drag one of the room’s spare chairs forward. “Please, do sit.”
Francesca smiled and sat. She felt worse now than before. He seemed to be smitten with her, and she had so callously disregarded his feelings. “You have heard about the Burton affair,” she said as he pulled another chair out to face her, settling his too-long frame there.
“A terrible tragedy,” he said gravely. His cheeks had paled now, their coloring almost normal. Only a slight pink flush remained.
“That is what distracted me. I know both twins, quite well, and I am sick over Jonny’s disappearance.”
“I am so sorry,” he said fervently, leaning forward as he spoke.
For the first time, Francesca looked at him. He seemed to be a nice man. “Thank you.”
“How is Mrs. Burton? Mr. Burton?” he asked. “They must be in a panic.”
She studied him. “They are. But there is little to be done except wait for the police to solve the case.”
“Poor Mrs. Burton,” he said.
Francesca started and stared at him again. She instantly recalled how he had looked at Eliza with such frank admiration on Saturday night. She reminded herself that so had dozens of other gentlemen, but still, she had to wonder if Wiley was somewhat infatuated with Eliza. “Have you known them long?” she asked.
“Not only have I known them for some time, but Robert Burton and I golf together in Saratoga Springs, where we have our summer home.” He smiled. “The Burtons are only three miles down the road from us.”
“I see,” Francesca said, her heart speeding. “I hadn’t known.” She estimated Wiley as being a few years older than herself; he was close to Evan’s age. Evan was twenty-four. Eliza Burton was perhaps a few years older than that. “The Burtons have had their home in Saratoga for just a year or two, haven’t they?” she asked, having no idea at all.
His brows rose. They were the same light brown color as his hair. “Actually, they have had that house for many years. I remember first meeting the Burtons in the summer at the lake when I was but a boy. I think I was fourteen years old or so at the time. They were newly wed.”
She gripped her hands. She sat up even straighter. Her pulse raced at a faster pace. Wiley might be an important source of information, as he clearly knew the Burtons well. “You must know the boys very well, then?” she said, but it was a question.
“I have known the twins since they were born.” His smile disappeared. “This is terrible. Whoever is responsible should be shot.”
“In this case, I think I might agree. Can you think of any acquaintance of the Burtons’ who might secretly despise either Eliza or Robert? Who might secretly hold a grudge against one or the other or both of them?” Francesca asked.
Wiley’s pale brows furrowed. “No, I am afraid I do not. Miss Cahill, Commissioner Bragg has already asked me a number of similar questions. Unfortunately, I was hardly of any help.”
There was something in his tone that made her sit up straighter and suddenly she wondered if Wiley was a madman. Of course, that idea was far-fetched. Still, someone who was close to the Burtons, someone who appeared gentle and innocuous, had done this. There was a person out there who was not at all what he-or she-seemed to be.
She must share this theory with Bragg. She stood. “I would love to linger, but I am afraid the weather will worsen, making it a terrible drive home.”
He had already leapt to his feet. “I would not want you to get stuck in traffic on an afternoon like this.” He guided her to the door, retrieving her coat and helping her put it on. “Miss Cahill?”
She buttoned it up. “Yes?”
“Might we reschedule lunch?” He flushed wildly again.
She was about to put him off. Instead, she thought about how well he knew the Burtons. “Of course,” she said, feeling a twinge of guilt for accepting his invitation for the wrong reason. “Could we wait until Saturday?” she asked. There were no classes on the weekend.
“That would be perfect,” he said happily. And then, at the door, which he held open for her, “I will walk you down, if you do not mind.”
“Of course not,” Francesca replied.
In the lobby of police headquarters, Francesca asked if Bragg was in. The sergeant behind the desk told her that he was, and asked her what her business was.
She hesitated, in the midst of unbuttoning her coat, her gloves and muff in one hand. “He is a friend of the family’s,” she said. “The Cahill family. I am Francesca Cahill.”
The sergeant raised a brow and barked out to a younger policeman to go see if the commissioner would see Miss Cahill. Francesca watched the patrolman take the stairs. She wondered if Bragg would turn her away. But she had not dared state her real business.
Suddenly there was a cough behind her and Francesca turned, to face a gentleman perhaps thirty years old with a long, twirling mustache. His hand shot out toward her. “I am Arthur Kurland, with the Sun. Did I hear correctly? You are Andrew Cahill’s daughter?”
She found herself accepting the journalist’s hand. “Yes, I am,” she said, taken aback.
“So what brings you to Mulberry Street?” he asked, point-blank.
She wet her lips. “The commissioner is a friend of my father’s.”
“And he’s a handsome fellow, eh?” Kurland grinned.
Francesca drew herself up. “I do not think my business here is any of your concern.”
“Just nosing around,” he said quickly. “No need to get in a huff, Miss Cahill. I meant no offense. Do you know the Burtons? Aren’t they neighbors of yours? Weren’t they at your house when their son was abducted?” he asked.
She blinked at him. What nerve! she thought. “Yes, they are friends,” she managed stiffly, when the patrolman returned and told her that Bragg would see her now. Relief flooded her. “Excuse me,” she said, following the officer to the elevator.
“May we speak when you come down?” Kurland called after her.
Francesca entered the elevator and waited for the door to close. The wait was interminable, but she refused to reply. And finally she was ascending to the second floor. “What a forward man,” she murmured, more to herself than to the patrolman.
“They’re all that way, if you don’t mind my saying so, miss,” he said. “Like vultures, they are, waiting for a scoop.”
She smiled at him. “A scoop?”
“A story.” He held the door open protectively and she went out first. Bragg’s door was wide open. As Francesca approached, she could clearly see inside.
He was at his desk, in his shirtsleeves. They were rolled up, revealing strong, muscular forearms. His tie was askew, the first few buttons of his dress shirt open, revealing the hollow of his throat. He was on the telephone, with a stack of folders in front of him. The rest of his desk looked as if a hurricane had passed over it.
Francesca truly admired his work ethic. For one more moment, she took the liberty of staring. Had he been more cleanly shaven, he truly would have been a devastating man.
He glanced up, motioning her in and motioning the patrolman to shut the door. The officer backed out, doing so. Bragg gestured for Francesca to sit. “Thank you. And keep
me apprised,” he said.
He replaced the receiver in the telephone and looked at her. “Hello again, Miss Cahill,” he said. And he smiled.
Francesca smiled back, finding it impossible to look away, unable not to think about what her mother had said. Did it really matter that Bragg was illegitimate? It was hardly his fault, after all. And he was certainly well educated and a gentleman. Suddenly, she fervently wished that he had not suffered from the fact of his birth.
She sighed. “I have just come from downtown. Bragg, I may have a suspect to add to your list.”
His brows lifted and he steepled his hands. “Do go on.”
Francesca told him about her visit to Wiley, omitting nothing.
Bragg shook his head. “Francesca, you are jumping to conclusions—false ones, I fear. There must be dozens— no, hundreds—of young men in this city who openly admire and perhaps secretly love Eliza Burton. The fact that he has known her for years does not qualify him as a suspect.”
Francesca was somewhat dismayed by his tepid reaction to her news; on the other hand, a part of her was relieved. “But do you not agree that there is a wolf out there in sheep’s clothes? Surely we must keep that in mind.”
He leaned back in his cane-backed chair. The window behind him was open, in spite of the cold, allowing in fresh, icy air. “We must keep this in mind?”
She flushed. “I am sorry. I just cannot stop thinking about that... that ear!”
His expression changed. It became so dismal that it more than dismayed Francesca, but he was on his feet, moving away from the desk, turning his back to her. He paced and she could not see his face.
“Have you located Gordino?” she asked hopefully, thinking now about Joel Kennedy.
He faced her, his features composed once more. “We are working on it around the clock. Francesca,” his tone softened, “I understand that you are a woman of extreme compassion. But please, allow me to manage this investigation-alone.”
“I only want to help,” she whispered, her gaze on his.
“I know you do. But it would be more helpful if you did not help,” he said firmly.
She felt terribly deflated. How could she not help, if there was something that she could do? It felt like such an impossibility.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
She wet her lips and stood, clasping her hands nervously. “I have a confession to make.”
He looked at her. “I am almost afraid to hear it.”
She winced. “But I think you should.”
He folded his arms. “And?”
She inhaled for courage. “Sunday afternoon when I was leaving police headquarters I saw Joel running on the street. I picked him up and gave him a ride.”
Bragg groaned. Then, “Will you never learn?”
“I thought he might be useful and I felt sorry for him. His mother died of tuberculosis, his father of... well, never mind. I offered him a job and took him home and fed him and found him a bed.” She paused, realizing she was hugging herself, as well.
His smile was a grimace. “I assume there is a moral to this story?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Let me guess. The little bugger made off with the family jewels?”
She met his nearly golden eyes. “No. He stole some of our silver. The ingrate,” she cried, dreading her mother’s reaction to the theft.
Bragg shook his head. “Francesca, I hate to tell you this, but you have been conned. Kennedy’s mother is very much alive, although who and where his father is, I have no idea. Maggie Kennedy is a seamstress who works for Moe Levy. In fact, she is an honest, hardworking woman, and she has three other, younger children whom she struggles to feed. She lives in a tenement on Avenue A, just off Tenth Street. Unfortunately, Joel does not take after his mother.”
Francesca stared in disbelief and dismay. “I believe the terminology is, I have been suckered.”
He laughed, but the sound was brief. “I’ve been round to Maggie’s twice since Sunday afternoon, in the hopes of finding Joel. At least now I know why she hasn’t seen him, although she tells me he rarely comes home.”
“I’m sorry,” Francesca finally said.
“Perhaps you have learned your lesson?” Bragg asked.
Francesca met his gaze. There was no mistaking that he was hoping that was the case. “I think I have,” she said.
He smiled.
So did she.
There was a knock on the door and a head poked in. Francesca saw a fleshy face and a balding pate. “Heinrich, what do you have?” Bragg barked, moving toward the other man.
“Not the best of news,” Heinrich said, opening the door wider. He was a hugely obese man. He handed Bragg a page. “This is my report, Commissioner.”
Bragg took the page and scanned it. And then he seemed to stagger slightly, as if struck by a physical object.
“What is it?” Francesca whispered, almost afraid to know.
But Bragg did not seem to hear her. To Heinrich, he said, “Are you certain? How can you be certain?”
“It’s my job to know the difference between the living and the dead. That piece of ear came off a corpse that’s been dead at least eighteen hours. Sorry, sir.”
Francesca looked from the one man to the other and slowly she sank into her chair. This could not be happening. This could not get any worse.
She was wrong.
Chapter 8
Heinrich and Bragg stepped outside of his office in order to speak privately. Francesca realized she was shaking uncontrollably.
Jonny Burton was dead.
Bragg stepped back into the office. He did not seem to be aware of her presence. Francesca managed to get to her feet, holding on to the chair for support.
In that one moment, he looked as if he had aged a good ten years. The few crow’s-feet around his eyes suddenly seemed pronounced, as did the laugh lines around his mouth. His brow was deeply furrowed. He walked to his desk, but clearly he too was in shock.
She went over to him, laying her hand on his back. “This is not your fault!” she heard herself cry vehemently.
He started, meeting her gaze with wide eyes; clearly he had forgotten that she was present. “If he is dead, it is my fault,” he said evenly. Too evenly.
She was about to refute him but instead she breathed, “If?”
His jaw flexed and he moved away from her, so that her hand fell to her side.
Francesca grew uneasy. She crossed her arms, wondering if he had rejected her in a way that was distinctly disturbing. “If he is dead? Heinrich said—”
He cut her off. “I know what Heinrich said.” His tone was cool and sharp. “But this is a city filled with corpses, including those of children.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was saying. She gasped. “You think that perhaps Jonny is alive? That the ear came from a different child?”
“It is certainly a possibility,” he said. Abruptly, he moved behind his desk and sat down so hard that the chair groaned.
But was it a possibility? Or was it very unlikely? Was the commissioner of police indulging himself in wishful thinking, in hope? Francesca continued to hug herself. “Well, let us assume the ear is Jonny’s,” she said.
He had been staring out of the window; he whirled in his chair, his gaze flying to hers.
“In which case, the perpetrator of this deed is clearly insane, cruelly so. Clearly he wishes to inflict the gravest torture, psychologically speaking, upon the Burtons. Am I right?”
He was grim. His temples throbbed visibly. “Go on.”
She swallowed. He was making her even more uneasy. “And if the ear does not belong to Jonny, if it was taken from a dead child, then this madman is also bent on the crudest kind of torture. But that would also mean that he has some interest in keeping the boy alive.” Her last thoughts, which had arisen while she was speaking, excited her. Perhaps there was hope after all!
“The only point in either case is that we are deali
ng with a madman. In the first case he is an insane killer, in the second, merely insane.” He stood. “I am sorry that you have overheard this latest development.” He was suddenly standing in front of her. “Under no circumstances are you to reveal what you know to anyone. Am I clear?”
“I would never say a word,” she said, hesitating.
“What is it? What have you already said?” he shot.
She must never forget that he was astute, she reminded herself. “I did tell my mother about the third note,” she said reluctantly.
He grimaced. “I wish you had not done that.”
“She will not tell anyone,” Francesca cried.
“Please stress upon her that she must keep her knowledge to herself. You have no idea, Miss Cahill, of just what these reporters are capable of. They somehow sniff out the details of all that they should not know. I do not want the details of this case blasted throughout the city on the front pages of every newspaper. It will, I believe, only incite the madman to further extremes—while making it even harder to locate him.”
She thought about Kurland, downstairs, waiting for her to descend so he could pounce upon her with more questions. “I will speak to Mama as soon as I return home.”
“Thank you. Now, if you will excuse me?” He waited impatiently for her to leave.
But Francesca did hesitate. “Will you tell the Burtons?”
He looked at her, but not with exasperation. “Let me share something with you,” he said. “Something it has taken me twenty-eight years to discover.”
Francesca nodded.
“Words are so easily spoken. But once spoken, they can never be changed, and they can never be taken back.”
She stared into his eyes. “I understand,” she said.
“Good day,” he returned. He was already out the door, shouting, “Murphy! Hicky! Newman!”
Francesca left and he did not seem to notice.
The Montrose home was at 698 Madison Avenue. Francesca entered the drawing room with her parents. It was a large room with a huge green, blue, and gold Oriental rug covering most of the floor. Numerous seating arrangements were interspersed throughout the room, the furniture a collection done in various shades of gold and green, in damasks, silks, velvets, and brocades. The lower half of the walls were paneled in wood, the upper half a fantastic mural depicting various classical scenes from Greek and Roman mythology. Two huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling, which was frescoed in colorful, tight pink and gold squares.