by Brenda Joyce
“This is so terrible. But Francesca, how could you be involved and how can I help?” Connie asked.
“It is far too long a story to explain how I came to be involved,” Francesca said firmly. “But Connie, it is very possible that the notes were typed in the Burton home.”
Connie gasped.
“They have a typewriter that is very old, and it is a shift-key model. The notes were typed on a Remington 2, one of the first typewriters ever developed. It was also a shift-key model. Con, we need to go to police headquarters. I feel certain Bragg is not there; in fact, he might still be at the Burtons‘. You can stand guard outside of his office while I go in and obtain one of the original notes. I saw them in a folder on his desk the last time I was there.” Francesca sat back in her chair. She was smiling. Now she had a firm course of action, indeed.
“What!” Connie cried, aghast.
“If I obtain an original note, then sometime later today, I will sneak into the Burtons’ home and type a few letters and then compare the notes.”
Connie gaped at her. She was flushing. She said, her tone extremely high, “You think to burglarize the office of the commissioner of police?”
Francesca straightened. “Well,” she began.
“You think to commit that crime at police headquarters?” Connie continued, in sheer disbelief.
Francesca scowled. “You are making it sound far worse than it is.”
Connie was on her feet. “I do not think so! Burglary is burglary, Fran! You have lost your mind! To even think of going into Bragg’s office and steal evidence in a criminal investigation. And I shall not aid and abet you in such a crime.”
“But a little boy’s life is at stake,” Francesca cried, leaping to her feet.
“Fran!” Connie cried. “Why don’t you just tell Bragg about the typewriter the Burtons have?”
Francesca looked at her blankly.
“I am sure he would like to know about its presence, and he will probably take it as evidence, and he can compare the notes himself.” Connie shook her head.
Francesca realized Connie was right. “Why didn’t I think of that?” she muttered.
“I’ll tell you why,” Connie said. “You have gotten completely carried away with this new idea of yours, this new persona, with being some kind of crime-solver extraordinaire! You’re enjoying this!”
Francesca sort of smiled. It felt faint. “I want to find Jonny—alive.”
“I am sure that you do.” Connie sighed, walking past Fran to the door. “I am going over to the Burtons‘. Care to come?”
Francesca’s heart lurched. She did not answer, because Connie was already in the hall. Instead, she ran after her.
Everyone was in the drawing room at the far end of the hall.
Francesca entered with her sister, her gaze immediately taking in the scene. Eliza sat on a tufted gold settee, alone. Montrose sat in a chair angled toward it. Burton stood behind the settee and his wife, hands in his pockets, as disheveled as he had been a few hours ago. Bragg stood beside him, and it was apparent, as Francesca and Connie arrived, that the police commissioner was preparing to leave.
Francesca stared at Burton, and saw that he was trembling ever so slightly, ceaselessly. She looked at Bragg, and her heart turned over for him. He was so tired, and even though she already knew that, seeing him even after just an hour or two made her newly aware of all that he was facing and all that he was going through. She turned her gaze to Eliza and Montrose.
She was sitting very primly, her hands clasped in her lap. Her face was pale, and blotchy, perhaps from tears. She was so still that she could have been a statue.
Montrose had leapt to his feet at the sight of Francesca and his wife. He was now kissing Connie’s cheek and exclaiming over her presence.
“I saw your coach from Francesca’s window,” Connie said, with a smile.
“I thought to stop by and see if there was any way I could help,” he returned. “Hello, Francesca.”
Francesca nodded grimly. She found that she could not look him in the eye, not now, not there, with Eliza—his lover—just a few feet away.
Eliza suddenly stood. “I am sorry. I must go. I am going upstairs to rest.” She quickly left the room, her pale green silk skirts rustling as she did so.
Francesca wondered if her precipitous exit had to do with her sister’s entrance, or the mere fact that Eliza was exhausted with the burden of her grief. If she was the one behind the abduction, then she was also an amazing actress. Because Francesca had seen sheer hopelessness in her eyes.
Burton wandered away from everyone, standing with his hands in his pants pockets, gazing out of a window at the snowy gardens. Francesca caught Bragg’s eye and he came to her. They stepped into a corner of the room, their comprehension mutual.
“What is it?” he asked without ado.
Francesca glanced past him at her sister and Montrose. He had put his hand on her waist. Connie was saying something. Francesca could only see three quarters of her face. Did she see a tension there that she had not noticed before?
“Francesca?” Bragg prompted. He spoke in a low tone, while following her gaze.
Francesca turned her attention back to him. “When I was here earlier, I saw an old typewriter upstairs in Eliza’s sitting room. It is in use—on her desk. In fact, her manservant says she uses it frequently. I think we may have found our Remington 2, Bragg.” Francesca spoke very softly, not wanting to be overheard. She glanced back at her sister and Montrose.
He was speaking now. Connie seemed nervous, no, she seemed anxious.
“Perhaps that is our machine. Right now, I shall leave it alone, since even if it is our machine, it tells us nothing new,” Bragg said. Then, “Francesca. They will have to solve their own problems.”
She jerked back to face him. “I suppose you are right,” she whispered. “But I don’t want her hurt.”
“There are too many instances to count in a single lifetime when one cannot control circumstance. This is one of those instances, Francesca,” he said with compassion.
She met his gaze with all of her attention for the first time. He had so much on his mind. Yet he had given her his undivided attention—and his undivided compassion— for this single moment. “Thank you, Bragg,” she said.
His smile was faint, his regard intent. “Is that all?”
She hesitated. “No.” She inhaled, glanced backward, and saw Connie and Montrose staring at them. She flashed the pair a smile and grabbed Bragg’s hand, pulling him into the hall. “I confronted Neil.”
His eyes widened. Then they flashed. “I wish you hadn’t done that!”
“I had no choice.”
“You had a choice,” he said, hard. “We are dealing with a very dangerous and unpredictable human being, Francesca. I do not want you getting hurt.”
His words thrilled her. “He told me that Eliza hates Burton with a vengeance. And that is a quote, Bragg.” She did not look away.
And neither did he.
“Why do you not seem surprised?”
“I’m not,” he said.
She tensed. “You already know. You already know her feelings!”
He did not respond, but he did not have to.
Francesca was upset. She realized that she was jealous. Even though it had been years ago, Bragg and Eliza had been so close then that he knew her well even now. Then she whirled back. “And is she on your list of suspects?” she flashed.
“Not really.” His amber gaze was steady. He did not seem perturbed.
“Not really?” She was incredulous. And suddenly she was angry. “Why isn’t she on the list of suspects?”
“Look, Francesca.” He sighed. “I know her very well. We have remained friends for all of these years. She is many things. But she is not insane. Many people despise a spouse. Most people do little about it.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I think you want to protect her.”
“Maybe. But has it
ever occurred to you that Montrose lied to protect himself?”
Her heart lurched unpleasantly. “Yes. It has.”
He nodded.
“I have one other suspect,” Francesca said, hating that Bragg wanted to protect Eliza, and hating even more the notion that Montrose had lied, tossing them a red herring, in order to protect himself.
He smiled. “Let me guess. MacDougal?”
She gaped. Then she cried, “And for how long would you keep that one to yourself?”
“I think you have forgotten that this is a police investigation. I have no obligation to share any information with you, Francesca.”
She sighed with dismay and frustration. “You are right. Connie is right. I have gotten completely carried away.” And she thought, crime-solver extraordinaire. It had quite the ring.
“I interviewed the entire staff on Sunday, remember?” Bragg said. “MacDougal struck me from the start as rather unusual.”
“Does he have a police record? Has he ever been convicted of a crime? Has he ever been in jail?” Francesca asked quickly.
Bragg seemed to smile. “The answer to all of your questions is no. But two years ago he was abruptly dismissed from his employment and his employer would not say why. A little digging produced some sordid gossip. He might have been involved with the mistress of the house’s best friend.”
“Touchdown,” Francesca cried with unfettered excitement.
Bragg smiled. “Are you a football fan, Francesca?”
“I have gone with my brother three times to watch the Columbia University team. I rather enjoyed myself.” She was arch. If MacDougal was the madman, she would be happy and relieved. “What are you going to do?”
“We have been shadowing him since Sunday. The bad news is, he has behaved with the utmost innocence ever since the abduction. If he is involved, he has a partner.”
“Gordino?”
“Maybe.”
Francesca clenched her fists. “Bragg, we are going round and round in circles!”
“Yes, we are,” he said gravely. And she saw the flash of anguish in his eyes.
She touched his hand. “Arrest MacDougal. Give him that ‘third degree’ you were talking about.”
“I may do more than arrest MacDougal,” Bragg said. And his gaze moved past her.
Francesca had a horrific premonition and she turned to find that Montrose was the object of his stare. “No,” she said.
“Excuse me,” Bragg said.
But before he could go, Francesca grabbed his hand. “Not now, not here. Do what you must, but not in front of my sister,” she begged.
Their gazes locked. “Then take your sister now, and leave.”
There was no mistaking the warning in his tone. And Francesca knew he would not compromise. Frightened, she nodded and hurried over to Connie and Montrose.
Connie was looking at her oddly. “This is interesting, Fran,” she said, her gaze moving between Francesca and Bragg.
Francesca was in a near panic, and she did not have a clue as to what she meant. “Con! Would you come back with me to the house, just for a moment? There is something I forgot to show you.”
“All right,” Connie said. She glanced at Montrose. “I’ll see you at home?” And it was a question.
He nodded and kissed her cheek. “Don’t hurry.” He smiled. “Whatever the two of you are up to, have a good time.”
Francesca couldn’t manage a smile in return. She grabbed her sister’s hand, and the moment they had their coats, hurried her outside. As they went down the front steps, she flung a last glance over her shoulder. Bragg was speaking to Montrose. Neither man seemed cordial or social; in fact, both seemed angry and ready to do battle.
Oh, dear, Francesca thought as the front door was closed.
But one moment later it was opened again, and Bragg hurried down the steps. “Excuse us for one moment, Lady Montrose,” he said with a polite smile at Connie. And he dragged Francesca aside.
“What is it?” she cried, alarmed.
“I forgot to mention something to you. Although I doubt you will be in any danger, I want you to be cautious,” he said.
“What happened?” She prepared herself for a blow.
He was grim. “Gordino escaped the Tombs this morning.”
Chapter 17
Thursday, January 23, 1902—5 P.M.
“Actually,” Francesca said, the moment they had stepped inside the house, “I want to ask you something.” She was stalling for time and trying to invent an excuse for having dragged her sister away from her husband.
Connie glanced at her, brows lifted. “Francesca, something odd is going on. You are behaving strangely and I almost get the feeling that you are hiding something from me.”
Francesca avoided her sister’s direct stare. “You are now the one with the imagination, Con,” she said, as they removed their coats. She wondered what was happening over at the Burtons‘. Was Bragg going to interrogate Neil? Would he take him downtown to police headquarters? She winced, thinking about Kurland and the rest of the press. She could imagine tomorrow’s headlines, which would be something horrific, such as “Lord Montrose a Suspect in Burton Boy Abduction.” She prayed Bragg would not go so far as to force Montrose downtown. Surely anything he wished to say to him could be said at the Burtons’.
If only Neil were faithful to his wife, she thought despairingly.
“So? What is it?” Connie asked. Then, “Did you by any chance notice something amiss between Neil and the police commissioner?”
Francesca almost choked. She was saved from responding by Julia, who breezed into the hall, clad in a pale blue jacket and skirt. “Hello, girls,” she said, smiling. “What are the two of you up to?”
“We were just visiting the Burtons, Mama,” Connie said.
Julia’s face fell. “I feel so terrible for poor Eliza. Is there any word?”
Francesca and Connie exchanged glances. “Not really,” Francesca said.
Julia sighed. Then, “I have just got in myself. I am going to take a nap before supper. We are going to the opera tonight,” she said.
That was twice in one week. They waited until Julia had left, walking into a salon together. A brilliant idea struck Francesca. “Con, I am going to confront Papa over his choice of Sarah Channing as Evan’s bride. Would you come with me? And lend me your support?”
Connie blinked. “Fran, if you mean, will I unequivocally state that I am opposed to the match, my answer is no.”
“But how can you favor the match?” Francesca cried.
“I do not know that I favor it, either. But this is really Evan’s business, and Papa’s—not ours. I don’t think you should get involved.”
“How can you say that?” Francesca said with anger, shaking her head. An image of Montrose and Eliza in a torrid embrace on the sofa in the Chinese-style salon filled her mind. Perhaps Connie did know, but pretended not to, looking the other way. Yet how could anyone pretend ignorance of an unfaithful spouse? For it suddenly occurred to Francesca that her sister liked to mind her own business; keeping blinders on. “He is our brother. We should most definitely become involved, and that means expressing our opinions on the matter of his marriage.”
“I love Evan as much as you, but I disagree. Besides, Papa is usually right. And Evan is wild—a wife like Sarah Channing might be the best thing that ever happened to him,” Connie said firmly.
“Or the worst,” Francesca retorted. “Will you at least give this matter some serious thought? Once the engagement is announced on Saturday, it will be hellishly awkward to get out of. I am hoping Papa will postpone the announcement, instead of rushing forward with it.”
“I will think about it,” Connie said. She paced to a window, but the view was mostly of the lawns, with just a sliver of Fifth Avenue visible from this angle. “I wonder what Bragg wished to discuss with Neil,” she murmured.
“I am sure it is nothing,” Francesca said, far too quickly.
Connie g
lanced at her. She wasn’t smiling. “Maybe I should go back to the Burtons‘,” she said. “I really do have a bad feeling.”
“Please come with me while I speak to Papa,” Francesca said, taking her arm firmly. “I need your support, Con.”
“Very well,” Connie said. But as they left the room, she glanced again at the window. “I wish I knew,” she began. Then she stopped, shaking her head.
Francesca’s pulse was pounding. Only one thing had become clear, she realized. Connie loved her cheating husband, and must be protected from the truth—and any hurt—at all costs.
Francesca did not know if she was strong enough to bear such a burden.
“So, what grave matter brings you both to me?” Cahill said with a fond smile. He sat at his desk in the library, going over papers he had brought home from his offices downtown.
Francesca shut the door carefully behind her sister and herself. “Did you have a good day, Papa?” she asked with a smile in return. There was always something so cozy and comforting about the library when her father was at his desk and a fire was roaring in the hearth. Even the cigar— which he had apparently just put out—smelled wonderful.
“As good as can be expected, I suppose,” Cahill replied. “Considering the tragedy unfolding next door. I am disturbed that they have not found the boy and the madman responsible for his abduction.”
“We are all concerned,” Connie said softly, sitting down in a big green chair.
“It is not an easy case,” Francesca found herself saying, in defense of Bragg’s efforts to solve it.
“Apparently not. The criminal responsible is clearly sadistic. I saw Bragg yesterday at the Fifth Avenue Hotel. We spoke briefly. I can see that he is beside himself, trying to bring this case to a successful conclusion.” Cahill shook his head. “He seems to be taking this almost personally.”
Francesca stiffened. Her father was one of the smartest men she knew. He rarely missed a thing. “What are you thinking, Papa?” Francesca asked, perching herself on the edge of his desk. She was as curious as she was uneasy.