by Brenda Joyce
Francesca started at the sound of Joel Kennedy’s voice. She smiled, her day brightening considerably, as he came rushing toward her, appearing out of the crowd of milling pedestrians. As usual, he was wearing his shabby brown tattersall jacket and a gray cap pulled low over his forehead and ears. His chin was blotched with dirt. He grinned back at her.
“How are you, Joel?” Her spirits lifted considerably at the sight of the small boy.
“Right fine, Miss Cahill. Shoppin‘?” he asked, hands in his pockets. He was shivering. He glanced at her shopping bag.
“Yes, indeed. It’s a beautiful day, but terribly cold. Can I give you a ride?” Francesca asked.
Joel accepted eagerly. Jennings was double-parked just up the block, and they started toward the coach. “What brings you to Union Square?” Francesca began, and then she knew. She halted in her tracks. “Joel! I hope you”— she lowered her voice—“are staying on the right side of the law!”
He avoided her eyes. “Of course. I learned my lesson, I did.”
He was lying. He was strolling about Union Square, picking pockets, Francesca was quite sure. “Come on,” she said. They climbed into the coach and she instructed Jennings to go to Mulberry Street. “I am going to stop briefly at police headquarters; you may stay in the coach. Then we’ll drop you at home.”
Joel sat in the seat facing her, legs outstretched. “I see.” His grin was wicked.
Francesca ignored that comment, refusing to decipher its meaning, and inquired after his mother, his brothers, and his sister. A few minutes later Jennings had halted the carriage in front of the brownstone she had become so familiar with. “I’ll be right back,” she told Joel.
He winked, somewhat lewdly. “Take your time,” he said.
Little boys, she thought, hurrying up the building’s front steps. In the lobby she approached the policemen behind the front desk, her nervousness increasing. She reminded herself that this was a proper social call; she was not making advances on anyone and certainly not the commissioner of police. There was a captain behind the desk whom she did not recognize. But she did recall the other burly, bald man. “Hello, Sergeant,” she said with a smile.
He glanced up. “Miss Cahill.” He smiled. “Go right up.”
Francesca felt a thrill and she smiled at him, about to go. Then she paused. “Sergeant? What is your name?”
“O’Malley,” he said.
She nodded and hurried up the stairs, as the elevator was in use.
His opaque glass door was closed. Francesca hesitated, heard him speaking, and wondered if he was on the telephone or with his men. She knocked and was told to enter.
She did. Bragg was standing behind his desk, his hands on his hips, his expression grim. As usual, he was in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up. He was not alone; a gentleman in a dark suit with dark hair stood with his back to the door and Francesca. Looking at Bragg made Francesca’s heart skip a series of beats; she realized she was so glad to see him again.
Today he was cleanly shaven and it did wonderful things for the planes and angles of his strongly sculpted face. She took another look at his set expression and knew that something had happened. Another thrill swept over her, followed quickly by concern.
His eyes widened; he had seen her. The gentleman he was with turned and Francesca saw a dark, swarthy, good-looking man who somehow had a dangerous air about him. Their gazes met.
Francesca looked away as Bragg said, “Francesca?” He smiled then. “This is rather unexpected.”
She hesitated upon the threshold of the room. “I hope you do not mind.” She twisted her hands anxiously.
“How could I possibly mind a call from you?” he asked with a small smile. Then his smile faded and a ruthless expression replaced it. “Besides, my ... guest... is about to leave.”
Her eyes widened, her smile disappeared, and for one instant, she was speechless. Was Bragg flirting with her? Was it possible? And suddenly the dark gentleman strode past her, nodding to her as he left. Francesca turned to stare after him, forgetting all about Bragg’s flattery. He had not introduced them; it was the height of rudeness.
She turned and met Bragg’s cold eyes. “Who was that?” she heard herself ask.
“That,” he said flatly, “was Calder Hart, my stepbrother.”
Calder Hart? The stepbrother he despised? She stared. A dozen questions raced through her mind.
His expression softened. “So? What brings one of this city’s most beautiful and adventurous women calling?”
The questions got lost, muddled up inside of her head.
She blinked at him. “Are you flirting with me, Bragg?” she asked cautiously. Was he flirting with her?
He set one hip down on the edge of his desk, knocking a newspaper to the floor as he did so. “And if I am?” His smile reached his amber eyes.
His gaze was so direct, his smile so promising, that she was once again briefly at a loss.
“It is hardly a crime, Francesca,” he said, a tad more softly than his usual tone. “And it has been a while, hasn’t it?”
She knew, or she thought she knew, that he meant it had been a while since she had last seen him. Was it possible that he had also felt that the past five days had crept by at an excruciatingly slow pace? Undone, Francesca bent to retrieve the newspaper. As she handed it to him, their hands brushed. She knew she was behaving like a schoolgirl, and then she saw one of the smaller headlines on the front page of that morning’s New York Times and she forgot all about her nervousness. “Masterpiece Stolen from Socialite’s Home.”
Francesca glanced up at Bragg wildly. “What is this? Is this your latest case? A painting was stolen?” And even as the questions spewed forth, even as she had visions of the two of them traipsing through the city, attempting to find the stolen artwork, she glanced down at the article and read that a Rubens had been stolen from the home of the art collector Mrs. Lionel Carrington.
The levity in his expression vanished. “Francesca, have you not learned your lesson? You are not a policeman, or should I say, a policewoman?”
Francesca just stared at him. Her intention had been to become one of the country’s first and leading female journalists. But what if she became one of the country’s first policewomen?
Then she thought about that morning’s endeavor. And she was torn.
“Francesca?”
“Oh, dear,” Francesca said, glancing up at him. “I do not know Mrs. Carrington, but my mother does, and well. Of course, I have been to affairs where she has also been present—”
He made a sound. It wasn’t pleasant. She looked closely at him. “Bragg?”
“No. No. Absolutely not. Stay out of police work, Francesca. I mean it.” He was standing, facing her, his arms folded across his chest.
She debated numerous replies and decided that none of them was sufficient. “Bragg, I only want to help.”
“I give up!” he cried, throwing his hands into the air.
He gave up what? She just looked at him.
Abruptly he put his arm around her. The gesture was unnerving, and it scrambled Francesca’s thoughts as he led her to the door, their hips brushing and bumping repeatedly. She quite forgot her next question. “I am glad you dropped by, Francesca,” he said. “I have been thinking about you.”
She almost stumbled in the hall in front of the elevator. “You have?”
He smiled a little. Then his gaze became serious, indeed. “Of course I have. But I have a police department to run, and frankly, since I took this appointment, I have not had a single day off, or any time to myself in which to enjoy the finer things in life.” He rang for the elevator without taking his eyes from hers.
She felt a rush of pleasure. “You must find time for yourself,” she admonished.
“You are right.” His eyes held hers, then moved over her face. “When can I take you for a drive in the country? Long Island is beautiful at this time of year.”
Her heart seemed to sto
p. The elevator door opened. They both walked inside and it closed and the cage began descending. He is inviting me for a drive in the country, she managed to think, dazed. “How about Saturday?” she said, a tad hoarsely.
“Saturday it is, then.” The door opened and he walked her out of the lobby and down the front steps. “I hope I am not being rude, rushing you out like this. But I have so much work to do, and 1 doubt I will finish before eleven or twelve tonight.” They paused on the curb before her carriage.
She suddenly realized he was standing there in his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and it was eighteen degrees out. “Bragg, you will catch your death!” she cried. Then, frowning, “Wait a minute. You have rushed me out because there is something about the Carrington case that you do not want me to know.”
He looked up at the sky, as if asking heaven for mercy. And then he looked at her. “The investigation is classified.”
It was classified. Thrills swept over her. She smiled at him.
He groaned. “Please, Francesca, try and stay out of trouble until Saturday, at least.”
She smiled again. “Of course I shall stay out of trouble.” She decided a social call upon Mrs. Carrington was the very next order of business. Surely Mrs. Carrington could use her new services—now that she was prepared to offer them.
He guided her to her waiting carriage. “Shall I pick you up at noon? I know a wonderful inn where we can stop and have lunch on Oyster Bay.”
Francesca was exhilarated. A new case for them to solve together and a drive in the country on the weekend. Perhaps he was courting her after all. And to hell with Julia! “Noon is perfect,” she said happily.
He opened the carriage door for her, when she remembered why she had called in the first place—or at least, one of the reasons, and not the primary one, for now it was safe for her to be honest with herself. “Bragg! I forgot. There is something I must show you.” She smiled at him as she dug into her purse and produced a pile of ivory calling cards, which she had just picked up at Tiffany’s. “Fresh off the press an hour ago,” she said triumphantly.
He read, his eyes widening more and more. “ ‘Francesca Cahill, Crime-Solver Extraordinaire, No. 427 Fifth Avenue, New York City. All Cases Accepted, No Crime Too Small.’ ” And he looked at her with sheer disbelief and absolute astonishment.
She beamed. “I must confess that Connie came up with the ‘crime-solver extraordinaire’ part.”
He just stared at her, clearly speechless.
“Bragg?”
“Francesca!” He was turning red. “You are not a detective! We have trained detectives on the police force and then there are the Pinkertons! You are a woman!”
She was not really surprised by his antiquated male reaction to her new profession. “Bragg, I refuse to be held back from my true avocation merely because of my gender.” She was calm.
“Merely because of your gender,” he sputtered.
“I think the cards are lovely,” Francesca said, meaning it.
“And what do you mean—your true avocation?” he cried.
“I shall offer my services to those in need of crime-solving,” she said.
“And what about your parents?” he demanded, gesturing wildly.
She shrugged. “Oh, you know my parents. Papa will say I shall soon enough grow out of it, not to worry, dear. Of course, I do intend to hide this from them for as long as possible.”
He continued to stare at her as if she had come down from the moon in front of his very eyes.
Francesca climbed into the coach and waved airily at him. “Until Saturday then, Bragg,” she said, but now she was not envisioning their interlude in the country, she was thinking about poor Mrs. Carrington who was mad about her collection of art, and she was wondering just when and how the painting had been stolen. Did Bragg’s mug book contain art thieves as well as burglars and pickpockets?
“Until Saturday,” he said, closing the door. He seemed to slam it a bit harder than was necessary. Seeing Joel, he shook his head. “And what is he doing here? Oh, God. Do not tell me he is your ... your ... sidekick!”
Francesca grinned. “Joel is very handy to have around, as he is so familiar with the world of crime.”
Bragg stared and stared and then he signaled the driver to proceed. “Francesca,” he said, warningly. “Do not do anything rash. Stay out of the Carrington case.”
“I promise.” She smiled widely at him and the coach moved forward and she settled back in her seat. Her contentment was vast. She uncrossed the fingers of her right hand.
“Whoa!” Joel exclaimed, laughing.
Francesca smiled at him. “What is it?” she asked mildly, her mind racing with too many possibilities to count.
“Do you see the way that bleedin‘ fox looks at you? That spot’s in love with you, Miss Cahill, the rotten sod!”
Her pleasure knew no bounds. “Balderdash,” she said.