by Brenda Joyce
Francesca was horrified. “After her?” she whispered.
“You know!” he cried. “He wants her in his bed and he’s been threatening her for weeks now! She cries whenever he comes near!”
“Oh, Joel.” Francesca reached for him but he dodged away. “We have to stop this, we do.”
Tears had appeared in Joel’s eyes. “If your fox friend had locked him up right, he would have been stopped, now wouldn’t he?”
“Yes,” Francesca whispered, thinking of what it must be like to be Maggie Kennedy, working so hard to feed her children, and then having to deal with a horror like Gordino, as well.
“So, I want to come clean,” Joel was saying.
Francesca looked at him in total comprehension. “Who is it? Who gave you that note, Joel? Who?”
“Sort of a nice fella, actually. Name of Mack. A gent’s gentleman, I think.”
“Is that all you can tell me?” Francesca asked, in more despair. When it clicked. Like lightning in her brain. Mack. MacDougal.
“Well, he was Scots. An‘ a bit of a ladies’ man, if I don’t miss my guess,” Joel began.
Francesca grabbed his hand in excitement. “Joel! I think I know who this person is. Can you come with me? Now? I need you to identify him.” And then she would forgo her classes—she was going to get expelled if she was not careful, but she would explain—and go directly to Bragg with this new bit of evidence.
Joel nodded slowly. “I guess.”
“It’s very important,” Francesca cried. They hurried down the drive, Francesca not releasing Joel’s hand, her breath hanging in heavy puffs of vapor in the frigid air. Her mind was spinning, racing. “When and where did Mack make contact with you?”
Joel shrugged. “That mornin‘, I think. On the street. Not far from where I was supposed to wait for the spot.”
Francesca paused on Fifth Avenue, staring at the closed front door of the Burton house. Now what should she do?
“Is that where he works?” Joel asked.
Francesca nodded, some of her excitement fading as she was faced with the reality of confronting MacDougal and making sure he was really the one who had given Joel the note. “We can’t politely knock and ask for MacDougal. That will tell him that we are close to the truth. Oh, no. I must figure out a way to get inside so we can sneak a peek at him.”
Joel chuckled. “Follow me, lady,” he said.
Francesca followed him around the side of the house, keeping close to the walls, wondering what he was up to.
She quickly found out. After trying three windows, he found one that had been left slightly ajar. He grinned at her then pushed it open. Then he gestured for her to follow him inside.
Francesca watched him climb over the sill with a small boy’s effortless agility, and duck into a darkened room. Her heart was pounding now. She could hardly believe what she was doing, but she had no choice. She lifted her skirts, flung one leg over the sill, and found it harder than she had thought to get her other leg up and over it, as well. She finally scrambled over and in, a small tug from Joel aiding her immensely—hitting her head on the window in the process.
Once she jumped down, the sound far too loud in the silence of the morning, she crouched down with Joel, waiting breathlessly for the door to fly open and voices to accuse them of breaking into the house. Nothing happened.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. They were in a small parlor. She had never been inside this particular room before.
But it was at the back of the house. She assumed the library was next door. “Now what?” she whispered.
“Guess we go hunting for your friend MacDougal,” Joel said.
It did not sound particularly pleasant, but Francesca nodded. The only positive aspect to their adventure was the early morning hour. Eliza would still be in her apartments. Burton might be taking his breakfast, but with any luck, he was already out.
They crept across the room and cracked open the door. The hall was empty. The door facing them on the opposite side of the hall was closed. Another corridor led deeper into the house.
They strained to hear and heard nothing and no one. “I think the kitchens are back there,” Francesca whispered. “Let’s go that way.”
Joel nodded. They left the parlor and scurried down the hall. Within moments, voices could be heard, as well as the clanging of pots and pans. They froze before turning the corner.
“I’ll go sneak a peek inside. If he is there, I’ll come back and then you can do the same. Then you can tell me if MacDougal is Mack or not,” Francesca whispered.
“Sounds good to me,” Joel said with a grin.
Francesca looked at him again. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
Then she turned the corner and pressed up against the wall beside the kitchen door. Her heart flipped hard, because she could hear him speaking—she was certain it was MacDougal with his silky soft voice and barely—there Scots accent.
Still, she did not dare be wrong. She pressed the kitchen door open an inch, then another inch, and peeked inside.
She saw five servants, including the cook, a big man in a white hat. She did not see MacDougal.
She hesitated, then pushed the door open another inch. And saw MacDougal whispering in the ear of a pretty blond housemaid. She laughed at whatever it was that he had said.
Francesca began to slowly close the door when MacDougal looked right at her.
She froze.
So did he.
And then she closed the door and rushed back around the corner, waiting for his shouts.
But no shouts came. Yet he had seen her, hadn’t he?
“Well?” Joel asked.
“I think he saw me,” Francesca said, grabbing his hand and hurrying through the house. “We had better get out of here.”
“If he saw you, wouldn’t he say something and come after us?” Joel asked, glancing back over his shoulder. But there was no pursuit.
“Maybe he didn’t see me. I don’t know,” she cried, her heart hammering madly. “Now what are we going to do?” she asked in a whisper. “You have to get a good look at him,” she said as they turned another corner and entered the front hall.
Joel did not respond.
Francesca stopped short.
MacDougal smiled at them both. “I didn’t realize the Burtons were receiving callers at this hour,” he said. And he withdrew a deadly-looking revolver from inside his suit jacket and he leveled it at them both.
Chapter 18
Friday, January 24, 1902—1:30 A.M.
Francesca stared not at MacDougal, but at the long frightening black barrel of the gun. She could not breathe, and her knees seemed to buckle. This could not be happening, she managed to think, panicked.
“Turn around,” MacDougal snapped, grabbing Joel’s arm. “And I do mean you, Miss Cahill.”
Francesca met his eyes and saw anger reflected there. “What are you going to do? Surely you—”
He cut her off by jabbing the gun into Joel’s temple. “No one in this city will even blink if he disappears,” he said.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Sweat had gathered on the boy’s forehead. He had paled. “Fuck you, you bastard,” he spat.
MacDougal jammed the gun harder against Joel’s head. “Move down the hallway, Miss Cahill. Now.” Urgency laced his tone.
Francesca did not want to obey. Surely at any moment someone would walk into the front hall and find them being held at gunpoint.
“Now,” MacDougal gritted.
She despaired and she quickly obeyed. As she walked down the corridor, he followed directly behind her with Joel, forcing her to an even faster pace. “Where are you taking us?” she asked. Her tone sounded high with her fear, even to her own ears.
“Shut up,” he said. “Stop right there.”
Francesca stopped in front of a solid, plain door, which she suspected led to the cellars below the house. Her fear increased. Still holding Joel tightly by the arm, he opened
the door, then let the boy go, only so he could push him down a steep, dark flight of steps. Francesca could hear Joel falling and she cried out. He jabbed the gun into Francesca’s back. “After you,” he said.
Francesca stepped down and stumbled. “I can’t see.”
“I do apologize,” he said, not kindly.
She managed to grope her way down to the bottom, using the rough cement wall for support. “Joel?”
“Right here,” he said, moving so close to her that his arm brushed hers.
A light came on, from a single bulb suspended from the rafters overhead. Francesca looked at MacDougal, who stood at the bottom of the stairs, aiming the gun at them both. “Now what? Surely you are not so mad as to kill us both?”
“I am not mad at all,” he said. “It is truly too bad that you had to involve yourself with Joel.”
“I think it is too bad that you are a criminal,” she said. “Is Jonny Burton alive? What have you done to him?” she cried. “Where is he?”
He hesitated. “Actually, I don’t know if he is alive or dead.”
Francesca felt her eyes widen. For one moment, she stared in surprise. But shouldn’t she have known that it could not be this easy to solve the case? “Who are you employed by?” And she waited for him to tell her who the monster was.
He smiled. “I am not that dumb, Miss Cahill. Boy. Bring me that rope.”
Francesca glanced to her right and saw a coil of rope.
Her heart sank. If he tied them up, how would they ever escape?
“Like hell I will.” Joel glared.
MacDougal’s nostrils flared. And he took several vicious strides forward, raising the gun. Francesca realized he was about to strike Joel down, perhaps even killing him with such a brutal blow. “No!” she shouted.
But it was too late. MacDougal struck Joel with the gun on the back of his head. He went down and lay prone and unmoving.
“Oh, God!” Francesca cried, rushing to him. She dropped to her knees, cradling Joel, who had been knocked out cold—either that, or he was dead. “Did you kill him? You are insane!” She realized that tears were forming in her eyes. Joel remained motionless. She bent over him, hoping to feel his breath feathering her cheek. She felt nothing.
MacDougal gripped her arm and dragged her to her feet. “I mean business,” he said, dragging her over to the rope. A small stool was there by a worktable cluttered with carpenter’s tools. He shoved her down on it.
Francesca didn’t even think. She kicked him hard in the shin, then tried to grab the gun.
He shouted in pain, and for an instant, Francesca actually got her hands on the gun, and she tried to yank it away from his grasp. He jerked it free, and as he did so, it went off.
She cried out, clapping her hand over her ears, as the shot was deafening. Then she met MacDougal’s wide, angry eyes.
“You could have killed me or yourself,” he said harshly. Still holding the gun, he picked up the rope and, within seconds, had tied her hands tightly behind her back.
“You will not get away with this,” Francesca cried. “Bragg is on to you, you know. You are on his list of suspects!”
“Be quiet.” He laid down the gun and pulled her ankles together.
Francesca stared at the gun, lying just inches from her feet, her mind racing frantically. Did she dare make another try for the gun? Would anyone know she was missing? And if so, how long would it be before someone did realize that she was gone? If only Bragg would conclude that MacDougal was involved—but the problem was that she did not think he was close to reaching such a conclusion. And what about Joel?
She found herself staring at him, breathing harshly. He still hadn’t moved. Her heart lurched. He was terribly white, and now she could see the small blossom of red beneath his head. “Did you kill him?” she asked fearfully.
“Don’t know.” He tied her ankles to the legs of the stool, giving them one final, hard yank. Then he picked up the gun, tucking it back inside his suit jacket, and he stood. Their gazes locked. “You can scream all you want. No one will hear you from down here.”
“Please don’t do this,” Francesca pleaded. “You don’t have to do this, MacDougal. I can see that you are not an evil person—”
“Shut up!” He gave her such a hard look that she went silent, dismayed and panicking now, while he bent over Joel. Francesca watched him searching for a pulse. And then he pulled Joel’s hands on top of his small body and he tied them together, as well.
“He’s alive?” she asked, hope surging.
“I think so.” MacDougal stood. His expression changed. “I am sorry you had to get involved, Miss Cahill. A beautiful woman like you. I truly am.” And he turned to leave.
“Wait!” Francesca cried.
He paused.
“If you are not in charge, if you do not know what happened to Jonny, then you are only an accomplice,” she cried in a rush. “I am sure you will not suffer the same fate as whomever it is that you are working for! But if you kill us, then you are a murderer, MacDougal. And you will be electrocuted. That, MacDougal, is the law.”
He was grim. “Not a bad try, Miss Cahill. But I am in far too deeply to get out now.” He went up the stairs.
“Please come back!” Francesca called.
His only response was to turn off the room’s single light, casting it in darkness. And then she heard the heavy cellar door slam closed. A moment later, she heard a lock turning.
Julia found her husband in the library. It was, as she well knew, his favorite room. He was reclining on the sofa, in front of the fireplace. He was reading from a folder of papers he had brought home from the office. “Hello, dear. How was your day?” She smiled at him.
He looked up, smiling in return. “It was a good day, actually. Dear, I have decided to build a new wing at Lenox Hospital.”
“That is wonderful,” Julia said approvingly. Then, “Dear, have you seen Francesca? I have been hoping to have a word with her all afternoon, but no one has seen her since this morning. Do you know where she went off to?”
“Don’t have a clue,” Andrew returned, laying down the folder and sitting up. He had exchanged his suit jacket for a smoking gown with satin lapels. “Have you asked Evan?”
Julia frowned. “He is not home. He went out directly upon arising this morning, and has not been back since, either.”
“He did not come to work today.” Cahill sighed, standing. “If he thinks to punish me with his juvenile show of defiance, well, he should think again.”
“Well, you are rushing the engagement,” Julia said.
Cahill stared. “I thought we had gone over this? I am not changing my mind, Julia.”
Julia went to him and hugged his arm to her side. “Dear, I know you will not change your mind. And you know I like Sarah, although I still think Evan could do better. I only suggest that you delay the engagement and give him some time to come round to the idea.”
“Absolutely not.”
Julia knew when to back off. “Where could Francesca be?”
Cahill pulled out his pocketwatch. “Hmm. It is almost five o’clock. Knowing our daughter, she could be off anywhere. I am not sure I like this.”
Julia exchanged a worried glance with him and went to the telephone on the desk. In a matter of minutes, Connie was on the other line. “Do you know where your sister is, dear?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not, Mama. Is something wrong? You sound worried,” Connie replied.
“I am a bit worried. According to Mrs. Ryan, she left this morning at nine, and has not been back since. Where could she possibly be?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t know, Mama. I’m sorry I cannot help.”
“Very well.” Julia said good-bye, but only after reminding her that she would like to see the girls the following day for lunch, as it was Saturday. Both women hung up.
At 698 Madison Avenue, just around the corner on Sixty-second Street, Connie walked over to the huge
marble fireplace in the library, and stared unseeingly into the flames. For Francesca to take off for a few hours without telling anyone where she was going was not unusual. But for her to be gone an entire day, why, that was very unusual. Where could she be?
Connie realized she was hugging herself. Francesca had been behaving strangely for the past few days, and Connie knew her sister very well. Something was going on. Francesca was keeping secrets.
Connie did not like it.
Her sister was too adept at prying into other people’s affairs. She was too adept at involving herself in noble but difficult if not radical causes. She was too adept at getting herself involved in things that might not turn out the way she planned.
I am helping investigate the disappearance of Jonny Burton.
Connie stiffened. And she was assailed with dread.
Con, I know you won’t believe this, but I found several of the notes.
Connie’s dread increased. She did not have a good feeling, oh no. But surely Francesca’s disappearance that day had nothing to do with the Burton affair. Surely not.
Had her sister also disappeared?
We found another note. I can’t tell you what it says—Bragg will throttle me if I do.
Feeling sick to her stomach, Connie walked back over to Neil’s desk and sat down behind it. As always, sitting in his huge chair, she could smell his cologne, which was spicy and male and so utterly lovely, and ensconced there in his big chair, she could almost feel his presence. She touched the worn leather top of the desk, a top he had run his hands over hundreds of times, and briefly, she was comforted. This desk reminded her of her husband so much that it was bittersweet. She wished Neil were home now.
But he was rarely at home these days.
Connie refused to think about that. She picked up the telephone and requested the commissioner of police at police headquarters.
Francesca wondered how many hours had passed since she had been tied up. She was desperate. Joel was clearly dead, but she could not cry, not yet, not now. She must plan an escape. Still, every time she looked at his small, lifeless body, she felt sick, and she felt a tide of anguish and anger, which she had to forcibly tamp down so she could remain calm, so she could think rationally. Yet how could she escape?