by Brenda Joyce
“Are you sure there’s no hope?” Evan was asking, cutting into her thoughts.
Her smile felt wan, as an image of Bragg as he had been last night flashed through her mind’s eye. Still so undeniably attractive, but so defeated and resigned. He believed as she did, she knew. “I suppose there is always hope, until the body is found.” She pushed aside the covers, about to slip from the bed.
Evan caught her wrist, restraining her. “Actually, we must talk.”
His tone confused her. It was hard. She paused, seated on the edge of the bed, staring at him. “Is something wrong?”
His expression hardened. “Where were you last night?”
She blinked and blinked again. And then she felt the heat of guilt invading her cheeks. “I... What?”
“You heard me, Fran. Where were you last night? I wanted to talk with you, and knowing that you are up so late most nights studying, I stopped by your bedroom. It was a quarter past midnight. Not only weren’t you here, but your bed was untouched, and no one, Fran, not a single person in this house, knew of your whereabouts.”
She was flushing so hard she felt feverish. The same lie she had told last night came unbidden and as naturally as the cold draft from her window. “I was at Connie’s,” she said, avoiding his eyes. She would have to go to her sister before she did anything else that day. Go to her and beg her to protect her in this lie. Connie would not be easy to convince.
“I don’t believe you,” Evan said, shocked. He stood up.
She stood, as well. “I was at Connie’s, Evan.” She wet her lips. She wanted to add, I wouldn’t lie to you, but she could not. “Please,” she added, instead.
“Please, what? Believe your lie?” He flushed with anger and paced. Then he faced her. “Do you know that I had the oddest conversation with Montrose a few days ago?”
Francesca froze, thinking, Oh, no.
“He was asking me all of these strange questions— about you. He wanted to know if you have been behaving strangely of late. Of course, my reflexive response was to say no. But then I started to think about it. You are an oddball, Fran. But lately your behavior has been even odder than ever.”
“It’s just college,” she managed.
“He asked me if you had a sweetheart.” Evan stared. “Of course, I knew the answer to that one, and I told him no, you do not. And when I said that, he had a look on his face that I did not fully understand at the time— but I just cannot forget it. Damn it, Fran, he did not believe me, and for some reason, he has been prying into your life!”
“It’s nothing,” Francesca said firmly. “And you, my big brother, are making a big to-do about nothing, as well. In any case, I must bathe and dress and get uptown before I am thrown out of Barnard on an unmentionable part of my anatomy.” She managed a smile. “I will see you downstairs?”
He folded his arms, regarding her with a small, tight smile, and he did not budge. “Where were you last night, Fran? And more importantly, with whom?”
She regarded him carefully, then blurted, “Evan! I know you will not understand, but I am helping with the Burton investigation, and I cannot tell you where I was last night!”
His eyes widened. “What?” he exclaimed.
“It’s true.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he cried.
“No, I am not. Please, Evan, let this go.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe. Bragg would never let you help—”
“It’s unofficial, of course, and he doesn’t know,” she said in a rush.
“As I was saying,” he replied, “I do not know what to believe, but if you are sleuthing, that is exactly the kind of odd behavior you just might engage in! I know how passionate you are, Fran, and I have been waiting for the day when you discover love. With great anxiety,” he added flatly.
“I have not discovered love,” she whispered, and even as the words came forth, she had a flashing image of Bragg, seated at his desk at police headquarters. That was too disturbing to even speculate upon, and she dismissed the image immediately.
“I don’t know what to believe,” he reiterated. “But whatever you are about, I advise you to stop. Isn’t secretively going to college enough, Fran? How could you possibly entertain any other endeavors? Or should I say, affairs?”
“Good-bye, Evan,” Francesca said firmly. “I am getting dressed.” And without waiting for him to leave, she walked into her bathroom, closing the door behind her, locking it. And then she leaned on it for a good long minute, trying to recover her composure.
Her three classes came one after another. On a normal day, Francesca would have then gone to the library to study and do homework. But this was not a normal day.
She had important information. Information she must share with the police.
As the hansom she had found on Fifty-third Street, after getting off the Ninth Avenue El, stopped in front of police headquarters, she wondered if the commissioner would even be in his office. She imagined that the police were busy visiting cemeteries, looking for freshly dug graves. The thought made her ill.
She would have to call on Eliza later, as well. To provide whatever small measure of comfort she could. At least she no longer had to visit Connie; the notion of persuading Connie to go along with her earlier lie had not been a pleasant one. Now the lie no longer mattered, as she was on her way to fully disclose her whereabouts of the previous evening to Bragg.
She paid the driver and started up the steps of 300 Mulberry Street. As she did, she had to glance over her shoulder. It was another pleasant day, and a group of gentlemen in overcoats and bowlers were loitering across the street. One of them waved at her. She recognized Kurland.
She quickly looked away, pretending not to have recognized him, and she hurried inside. A desk sergeant she did not know was at the reception counter, a shackled man sat on a bench, guarded by two patrolmen, and one of the department’s female secretaries was entering the elevator. Two detectives were coming downstairs, on foot. One was smoking.
Francesca approached the reception desk when another officer stepped out from a back office. “Yes, ma’am?” the first sergeant asked.
“She’s here to see the commissioner,” the second officer said. “He’s in. Go on up, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca flushed with pleasure; the second officer had been on duty the day before when she had come looking for Bragg, and somehow, he remembered her. As she hurried to the stairs—she did not feel like waiting for the elevator—she heard the sergeant say, “Who is that?”
“Dunno,” was the reply. “But she’s Andrew Cahill’s daughter and a friend of the commissioner’s. I think she has business with him.”
Francesca smiled as she went upstairs. She did have business with the commissioner, indeed.
And then she thought about the fifth clue, and her smile vanished. If only she was wrong.
But how could she be? It was such an obvious clue.
Bragg’s door was open. He was standing behind his desk, but with his back to the door—he was in his shirtsleeves, staring out of the window at Mulberry Street. There were papers all over his desk. Several folders were open. A newspaper was also on his desk; another stack of papers was piled on the floor.
She thought about the way he had been holding Eliza. A moment later she was envisioning herself in his arms. And she was so flustered that she halted right in her tracks.
Whatever was she thinking?
“Miss Cahill?”
Francesca suddenly realized that Bragg had seen her standing there in the open doorway and that he was speaking to her and trying to get her attention. She blinked. “Bragg.”
And then their eyes met and he smiled, somewhat quizzically. “Good afternoon, Miss Cahill. What a pleasant surprise.”
She could not smile in return as she stepped into his office. It actually seemed as if he were pleased to see her, and that notion did something funny to her heart. But then, as he gestured to one of the two worn chai
rs in front of his desk, she noted that he had not shaved that day, that the circles under his eyes were even darker than they had been yesterday, and that a lock of hair was hanging carelessly over his brow. The uncombed effect was rakish, but her heart twisted at the sight of him—he was exhausted and under extreme pressure, she realized. She prayed he did not blame himself for the failure of the police to locate Jonny Burton. Such guilt would be an intolerable burden.
Then she had to remind herself that this man was having an affair with Eliza Burton, and he did not seem to feel in the least bit guilty about it. Her confusion increased.
“Francesca?”
“I hope I am not intruding,” she said, settling into the chair, trying to clear her mind and gather her thoughts. She now had to face the prospect of telling him the truth about last night. Francesca was no fool. She knew they would quickly engage in battle; she only hoped the battle would be brief, and that she would not be the one to lose.
He was smiling at her again. “The intrusion is a delightful one.” Something dark and unhappy flitted through his eyes.
It did not matter that he was Eliza’s lover, she thought fiercely. He was a caring man, a good man, and he was tormented by the Burton case. “Bragg? Have you found anything?”
He settled one slim hip on the edge of his desk. Francesca looked away from the hard line of his wool-clad thigh. “Have we found the body? No. And until we do, I refuse to believe that the boy is dead.”
She nodded. “Have the police been canvassing cemeteries?”
He stood, hands on his hips. “Of course.”
“Did Heinrich see the latest evidence? The pajamas, the note? Do you have any idea who is entering the house like that?”
His eyes briefly widened, and then he shook his head. “Francesca, we may be dealing with a murderer. I can no longer share any information with you—and it is for your own good. Not only that,” he hesitated, frowning, “if the boy is still alive, it is best for his sake that the investigation remain highly classified.”
She nodded, wondering who had called on the Burtons yesterday—that list would surely contain the name of the madman responsible for the abduction. And now Francesca was noticing the newspaper on his desk. She stood and pulled it free of the papers there. As she did so, she glimpsed the headline, which screamed, “Bragg Fails to Find Burton Boy.” And a batch of papers fell to the floor.
She hadn’t had time to glance at the papers that morning. The headline did not surprise her; what surprised her was that it was not worse. She stooped to pick up the other papers that had fallen, and at the exact same time, so did Bragg. Their heads knocked and their hands touched.
Francesca froze and looked up.
He was motionless, too.
Then he said, “Let me.”
Francesca nodded, aware of the electricity between them, and she stood, allowing him to pick up the mess. But as she did so, her eyes fell upon one page. It was the original note, stuck there in the folder. “A is for Ants.” “Did you ever find out what kind of typewriting machine was used for the notes?” she heard herself ask.
He replaced the folder on his desk. “Francesca.”
She realized that she had trespassed. “I cannot help myself. I have a curious nature.”
His smile was slight. “I know you do.” Then, “An old Remington 2.”
“A Remington 2?” she asked, perplexed. “I have never even heard of such a model,” she said.
“That is because such a model first came into use shortly after you were born.”
Francesca’s eyes widened. “Why, that is a wonderful clue! A twenty-year-old typewriter—how many of them can there still be?”
He did not answer her, turning away, fingering the papers on his desk. Then he turned abruptly back. “Why have you come to call?” he asked.
She became still. She suddenly imagined a dozen unhappy scenarios ensuing after she told him about her adventure last night with Gordino. Then, she said, low, “We found Gordino. Last night.”
His eyes popped. “What?”
“Please, please, don’t be angry!”
His eyes remained wide. “Angry?” he said, as a huge flush covered his face. And then his jaw went tight. “Where is he?” he asked.
It was the most dangerous tone she had ever heard in her life. It was far worse than the tone she had heard Gordino use with her on Sunday. She trembled. “He was at a saloon on Twenty-third Street, off Broadway. Last night. Around midnight.”
Bragg stared and stared while Francesca broke into a sweat. Then he said, “Sit down. Right now.” She was already sitting. “And tell me just what the ... just what the hell you were doing in a saloon last night, and why the hell wasn’t I there instead?”
His eyes were ablaze. Francesca felt tears come to her own eyes—and no man-or woman-with the exception of her mother—could reduce her to tears. “I went to visit Maggie Kennedy,” she cried. “I found Joel. He hates the police, Bragg. I wanted to tell you, because I was really afraid, but I knew Joel wouldn’t help if the police were involved! Gordino was in this saloon and I tried to bribe him but he took my money and didn’t tell me anything and that was why I got home last night so late, alone. There is ‘word’ on the street, though, that the motive is revenge against Burton. Oh, God. Are you going to tell my parents?”
“Yes, I will, but after I...” He stopped. “After I decide what to do with you myself!” he exploded.
Francesca shrank back in her chair.
He began pacing, then turned and fired questions at her. Francesca knew she had no choice but to answer them.
“Where did you find Joel?”
“Staying with neighbors on the fourth floor, apartment C.”
“And he knew where Gordino would be?”
“He said that Gordino was in hiding but if he was out, he would be gambling at this place. In self-defense, Bragg, Joel did not tell me that we were going to a saloon until we were on our way there!”
He ignored that. “I want the exact name of the saloon, the exact location.”
Francesca hesitated. “The entire street was nothing but bars and saloons and houses ...” She stopped.
“Of ill repute. Go on.”
“I... I would have to show you.” She began to panic. She had been in such a nervous state last night, would she even remember which saloon she had gone into? “I think I would remember which saloon it was—”
“You think?” he shouted at her.
“I was so scared,” she cried back as loudly. “I was so scared, I have never been so scared in my life and I did not want to go inside but I had to, because of the boy! I think I would remember if we went, but maybe not in daylight.”
“I am not taking you there at night,” he ground out. He began to pace. Francesca was quite certain he was silently cursing.
“What is it?” she finally asked fearfully.
“If we go looking for this saloon during the day, and we are noticed, that’s the end of Gordino. I cannot risk it. If I go at night with my men, from saloon to saloon, the word will be out on the street before we have even left the first saloon, and again, Gordino will hole up like a fox in its den. Damn it.” His face was filled with frustration.
“Oh, no,” Francesca whispered, beginning to understand.
“Joel will have to tell me where the two of you were last night.” His fists clenched and unclenched.
Francesca finally stood up. And their gazes met.
“What?” he barked.
“He won’t. He won’t help you, Bragg, I am certain of it.”
“Oh, yes he will.”
“What will you do? Beat him up the way your detective did?” she cried.
“My detectives never touched him.”
“They did. He told me, and it is a travesty,” she said angrily.
He stared her down. “I hate to tell you this, Francesca, that boy was in my sight the entire time we questioned him. He was never alone with the detectives. Once again, France
sca, he lied to you and you swallowed it hook, line, and sinker.”
She stared back and she began to flush. “Oh, dear,” she finally said. Then, “But Bragg. I am serious. He hates the police. He’ll lie to you, then run away, and you’ll never find Gordino.”
He stopped in front of her and gripped her by both arms. “I hate to do this,” he ground out. “But a little boy’s life is at stake. You will have to go back to Joel, now, and enlist him to take you there again tonight.”
“What?” Her voice sounded like a squeak.
“You heard me. And I will follow you, Francesca. Now, sit down. And just listen carefully.”
Francesca obeyed.
“I am sorry, Miss Cahill. Mrs. Burton is not receiving callers,” the butler said.
Francesca was standing wearily in the foyer of the Burton home. She handed the slender servant her card, having already scribbled a short note upon the back. “Please tell her that if she needs anything, anything at all, not to hesitate to call me. Does she have a telephone?”
“I am afraid not,” the man said.
“Well, I am right next door.” Francesca smiled at him. “Good day.” She left, unable to recall his name.
But before she had gone down the front steps to the sidewalk, she paused and faced the Burton home again.
Time was running out. Jonny Burton was probably dead, but on the slim chance that he was alive, that the monster was toying with them, he had to be found. Any clues to his abduction and whereabouts had to be in that house.
Francesca stared at the solidly closed front door.
Someone had left those pajamas yesterday on Jonny’s bed. She had no doubt Bragg knew within a matter of hours just when the clothing had been left there with the pinned note. Bragg probably also knew exactly who had called on the Burtons during that period of time. But now Francesca wondered if it had been a caller after all. What if the monster was a servant? Because a servant would have even easier access to the Burton home at any time of the day or night than a mere guest.