Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  He inhaled harshly and suddenly whirled and walked out of the room.

  She stared at the closed doors. And then she began to smile, sitting down, clasping her corset and shirt to her chest. Life with Calder Hart would never be easy, she thought, but it would always be interesting. Her smile grew.

  And clearly, the wedding was on.

  SHE WAS THE MOST faithless bitch of them all. He stood at the window, staring into Calder Hart’s library, watching Francesca Cahill smiling like the whore she was as she dressed. His fingers gripped the hilt of the small penknife so hard that they ached.

  And the little bitch dared to call herself a sleuth, dared to think she could outwit him.

  She would have to go, he thought. But not yet. Eventually, but not yet.

  Clearly, she wanted to play games.

  He smiled, unhinged the three-inch blade and touched it with his thumb.

  Blood spurted. He had honed the blade last night, and it was no longer dull.

  Let the games begin, he thought with real relish. For he knew who to strike next, oh yes, and his next victim would make Miss Cahill weep.

  He could barely wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Monday, April 28, 1902 11:00 a.m.

  EVAN STOOD AT THE window of his hotel suite, staring down at Fifth Avenue. From where he stood he could glimpse most of Madison Square. It was the beginning of the week, and even though it was midmorning, pedestrian traffic was heavy. Gentlemen in their business attire were hurrying down the street, attending to urgent affairs.

  The street was also congested with vehicular traffic. Numerous drays were heading downtown, loaded with wares, causing hansoms and coaches to fight for the right to pass and move on more swiftly. His temples drummed painfully as he watched. How had his life come to this—estranged from his family, lacking sufficient funds and on the verge of wedlock to a woman he did not really care for? And then he saw a woman with pale reddish-blond hair alighting from a hansom. His heart skipped erratically.

  Evan leaned on the sill, thinking it was Maggie Kennedy, his pulse now racing swiftly with excitement. He quickly realized that the woman was a very elegant lady and he straightened, the tension in his body instantly vanishing. Watching her disappear into the hotel, he was disappointed.

  He closed his eyes.

  Bartolla was having his child and they had agreed to elope at the end of the week.

  He could hear the roll of the die, the spinning of the roulette wheel, the shuffle of cards, the hushed, intense conversation, the tinkle of fine glassware.

  Sweat trickled from his forehead.

  He desperately needed to go down the block and to the club, but he still owed his creditors well over fifty thousand dollars. On the other hand, the entire world knew Hart had paid off almost half of his debt, so maybe his credit was good. It would be good, he decided stubbornly, if he made the right case for himself with the proprietor of the establishment.

  His blood heated and rushed.

  He only needed one game, he thought, one more game and then he would quit, this time forever.

  But he knew it was a lie.

  If he went back to the tables, he would play until he was incarcerated by his creditors.

  Bartolla would then bear his child alone.

  Maggie smiled at him, but her blue eyes were so sad. “Of course you have to marry her. She is having your child. One day, you will look back and realize this was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  How in hell had this happened? he thought, at once furious and despairing. He had used protection, goddamn it, but that had failed, and now he was going to have to marry Bartolla. He had tried to convince himself that it was a good match—she was a wealthy widow, after all, and he would never go crawling back to his father—but he had long since given up. He dreaded the day they would tie the knot. He did not want to marry her and while he knew he would love their child, he wished desperately that another woman carried it.

  “Damn it,” he cursed, livid with himself. He couldn’t take it anymore, and if he wanted to gamble his life away, he had every right. He whirled and stormed across the suite, shrugging on his jacket. He found his hat and cane and was on his way out when Bartolla Benevente walked in.

  “Darling!” She smiled widely at him, dressed in some ruby- red ensemble that was hardly appropriate for day, as it left no doubt as to the extent of her charms. But he was immune now to her lush, exposed bosom, her narrow waist, her extraordinary eyes and lips. “Are you on your way out? Have you forgotten? You promised to buy me a ring!” She laid her gloved hands on his shoulders, her rouged lips seeking his.

  He stiffened, pulling away. Damn it, he had to get her a ring.

  She stiffened, too, her eyes wide and wary. “Evan? What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” He was rude and abrupt but could not help himself. “I have to go out.”

  “But…but we have a noon appointment at Harry Winston.”

  “I’m afraid you will have to reschedule,” he said coldly. He knew he was being a boor, but he could not prevent himself. He bowed. “I am sorry, but I have a pressing matter that I must attend.” He turned and strode out.

  She ran after him. “What pressing matter?”

  He did not answer, sweating now. The roll of the die, the shuffle of cards, the spinning wheel were a symphony in his mind. One game, he told himself, it would be just one game and he would escape the misery of his life.

  But Maggie’s blue eyes filled his mind, not accusing, merely sad.

  “FRANCESCA! YOU ARE ON your way out? I heard the news and I was hoping to talk to you,” Connie cried.

  Francesca was in the front hall, about to pull on her gloves. Joel had walked in a moment ahead of her sister, as he was to accompany her downtown. She beamed at her sister, who was lovely in a rose hued skirt and jacket. “Good morning!” Her hearty greeting was followed by a bearlike embrace that left Connie blinking.

  Connie shrugged off her lightweight mauve coat. “My! You are in quite a good mood. Either you and Calder have made up, or Papa has changed his mind about the wedding.” She smiled at Joel. “Hello there.”

  He blushed wildly. “Miz Montrose,” he murmured, looking away.

  Francesca smiled at Joel’s vivid reaction to her very beautiful sister. Even her father’s disapproval could not shake her current state of happiness. “I have yet to sit down with Papa and explain to him that I am marrying Calder Hart no matter what,” she said. Then she gripped Connie’s arm, lowering her voice, even though Joel could certainly hear. “I think he loves me!”

  Connie began to smile, amusement in her eyes. “Francesca, a man is usually in love when he asks a woman he barely knows to marry him, and on the spur of the moment at that.”

  “Calder asked me to marry him because I am his best and only friend,” Francesca said. “But that has changed, I think.”

  Connie slipped her arm around her. “Fran, did you really believe that lame excuse? No man marries a woman for friendship.”

  Francesca suddenly realized that her sister was right. “But he has insisted all along that we are simply well suited, that he is tired of his womanizing life and merely wishes to settle down with me.”

  Connie raised an eyebrow. “I doubt Hart could ever get down on one knee and profess to having fallen in love like the rest of us mere mortals.”

  Francesca had to stare. “You think he has been in love with me from the moment he proposed?”

  “Of course I do. I just assume he refuses to admit it—to you, to anyone and especially to himself.”

  “He almost admitted it last night,” Francesca said with a blush. Could her sister possibly be right? “In a way he did admit it, but of course, indirectly.”

  “And what will you do about Papa?” Connie asked bluntly.

  Francesca sighed, glancing at Joel, who was, of course, all ears, while pretending with poor results, not to hear. “I need your help. In fact, the entire family must form a united f
ront and convince him to change his mind,” Francesca said firmly.

  “I will gladly help,” Connie said. “Where are you off to? Are you sleuthing today?”

  Francesca nodded. “I must speak with one of the suspects again—Sam Wilson. It turns out the alibi his fiancée gave was a lie. I also want to speak somewhat further with Kate Sullivan’s brother and other family members.” She grew thoughtful. “How odd it is to suddenly learn that Kate came from a wealthy background. And her brother hardly seems to be grieving.”

  “You suspect her brother?” Connie wondered.

  “I have three suspects, but yes, that includes Mr. Pierson, although he has some rather convincing alibis. Con, the killer has struck on subsequent Mondays and I am very afraid he will strike again today or tonight.”

  Connie appeared uneasy. “I am not comfortable with you running around today, not if the killer is out and about looking for another target, Fran.”

  Francesca smiled at her. “Don’t worry. I not only have Joel, but Hart gave me Raoul as a bodyguard. And Bragg is joining me. In fact, I am running late—I am supposed to meet him at headquarters at noon.”

  “Then I won’t keep you,” Connie said. She smiled. “I am so glad you and Hart have made up.”

  Francesca drew on her gloves. “So am I,” she murmured, and she blushed, thinking about last night.

  “Miss Cahill?” Goodwin, the doorman, spoke. “An envelope was dropped off for you after you finished your breakfast. Do you want it before you leave or shall I send it up to your rooms?”

  “I’ll take it now, thank you.” Francesca came forward, hardly surprised by the missive. She received notes every day, mostly from Sarah, who disliked using the telephone. In that moment, she realized that she had not told Connie that her portrait had been stolen. But the moment she saw her name scripted on the envelope’s creamy vellum, she knew the note was not from Sarah and she decided she did not want to broach the distasteful subject of the missing painting. Curious, she slit the envelope with her nail and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

  Miss Cahill, I know who the Slasher is. Meet me in front of the Sherry Netherland at noon.

  Francesca gasped.

  “What is it?” Connie asked quickly as Joel ran over, trying to peer over her arm at the note.

  “Someone claims to know the identity of the Slasher,” Francesca said, racing away from the front door and down the corridor to her father’s study. Had the killer just contacted her? Was it Francis O’Leary, referring to Sam? But why would Francis not identify herself? Or was it someone else, someone who had somehow stumbled onto the Slasher’s real identity?

  Connie ran after her. “Oh, God, this is too dangerous, I am certain!”

  Francesca picked up the telephone, Joel at her elbow. “We had better git downtown, Miz Cahill,” he said.

  She gestured at him to be silent.

  “Yes, Miss Cahill?” the operator asked.

  “Beatrice, please ring up Mr. Hart at his Bridge Street office.” Her pulse was racing with excitement now. This was most definitely a new development and she prayed it would break the case.

  “Certainly, Miss Cahill. You sound very excited. Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is fine,” Francesca said, tapping her foot impatiently. She should have called Bragg first, but it was too late now.

  “Mr. Hart, your fiancée is on the line,” Beatrice said cheerfully.

  “Thank you, Beatrice,” Hart said firmly, his tone indicating that he wished for her not to eavesdrop on their call.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Hart,” Beatrice murmured as if she was rather smitten with him.

  “Francesca? What’s wrong?” Hart asked.

  “I have just received a note from someone claiming to know who the Slasher is,” Francesca cried. “The note is not signed and he or she wants me to meet him at the Sherry Netherland hotel at noon.”

  “It’s a trap,” Hart said flatly. “You are not going—Bragg can handle this.”

  “Of course I am going,” Francesca cried. “The note was explicitly addressed to me. Whoever wrote it wants to confide in me.”

  “I don’t care who they want to confide in. Has it occurred to you that the note might be from the Slasher himself?” Hart said tersely.

  She ignored him. “Hart, I mustn’t be late—call Bragg, I am heading downtown. Just make sure he is discreet when he arrives. Thank you!”

  “Francesca!” he began furiously, but she hung up.

  She realized Connie was pale and wide-eyed. She handed her sister the note. “Keep that safe. Now, don’t worry, I will be fine.” She pecked her sister’s cheek. “I am going to the Sherry Netherland.”

  “Francesca, you can’t,” Connie protested, ashen.

  But Francesca was on her way out. “Don’t worry, I have Joel, Raoul—and I have a gun.”

  Connie cried, “Now I am really worried!”

  SHE PACED, FEELING TERRIBLY ALONE.

  It was a pleasant spring day, the sun warm and bright, the sky blue, the overhead clouds puffy and white. If Bragg had come, she could not tell, as there was no sign of him or any detectives anywhere in sight. Joel was a bit farther down the block, begging for coins and in general, appearing absolutely unremarkable. Hart had arrived by a cab, and he had disappeared into the hotel, looking madder than hell, but he had, somehow, refrained from even looking at her once. Francesca wished his temper was not so easily ignited but she would worry about mending that fence later.

  Traffic was heavy in front of the hotel, with many hansoms and coaches pausing before the gold-and-cream-colored canvas canopy to discharge the various gentlemen arriving for lunch, as well as pairs of handsomely attired ladies, mostly middle-aged matrons. Francesca loitered by the lamppost, just a few steps from the hotel’s entrance, watching every passerby and every hotel guest. No one bothered to look her way, other than the occasional single gentleman who hoped for some sign of interest from her. Of course, she gave none.

  She paced, dismayed. Today was Monday and even though the Slasher had broken the pattern by murdering Kate Sullivan Thursday—and probably murdering her husband as well— Francesca felt certain that he would strike again that day. Every victim thus far had been female, poor and pretty. All had been Irish except for Margaret Cooper, but she had been Irish by descent on her mother’s side. Everyone except for Margaret Cooper had attended Father Culhane’s church—Margaret had been Baptist. Francesca could not help but go back to her original theory that Margaret had been a mistake—the killer had intended to strike at Gwen, but had mixed up his victims.

  If that were the case, would he strike at Gwen again? But Gwen had police protection—and that would keep her safe.

  Francesca tensed, an alarm going off inside of her mind, one warning her now that she had just missed an important clue. She felt strongly that Margaret had been mistaken for Gwen, but Gwen was now safe. So what was she missing?

  In frustration, she paced. Francesca did not feel like going over the list of suspects in her head, but she did. She knew she should not dismiss David Hanrahan as a suspect. He hated his wife, who had betrayed and left him, and he had the motive to start killing women like her. And he had not one alibi for any of the murders or attacks. Not only did he not have a single alibi, he had been in the country—in the city—when the Slasher had first struck. How easily he could be the killer. Francesca simply felt certain he was not their man. Their man was a real gentleman—and he was clever, oh yes. She would bet her life that Hanrahan was not their man.

  Which led her right to Harry de Warenne. Lord Randolph she could not dismiss—like her husband, he had followed Gwen, his lover, to America and that was more than extreme. He was an Irish Protestant landlord, she was a housemaid and she had jilted him. Surely he felt betrayed. But was he insane? Insane enough to act out his grief, rage and frustration on a series of women who reminded him of Gwen? And if he was their man, would he eventually go after Gwen?

  Yet how coul
d he? Gwen was being guarded night and day by the police.

  Francesca knew she was missing something—and it screamed at her now.

  Francesca paused besides the tall iron lamppost once again, this time hardly seeing the group of chattering ladies entering the hotel. She rubbed her temples, turning her thoughts away from Gwen. It was indeed striking that Kate had come from a genteel background, that her family had disowned her, that her brother had come to her funeral, but not to grieve, and that he was a gentleman with a rock-solid alibi forevery attack and every murder in question. Frank Pierson could certainly be the killer, she thought. He remained at odds with his sister for what she had done, and even now, with Kate dead and buried, he was not forgiving her, oh no.

  Finally, there was Sam Wilson. He had no motive that Francesca could discern, but he also had no alibi for any of the nights in question—and he had let Francis lie for him to create an alibi for last Thursday, too.

  Francesca rubbed her temples. The killer had to be one of the three gentlemen. But which one? And who had sent her that note? And what, dear God, was she missing?

  She glanced around, a very strong image of Kate’s funeral coming to mind. It did not seem that the person who had sent the note was coming after all—surely she had been waiting for a full half an hour. Hart had said it was a trap, but he had been wrong. It was a diversion.

  She tensed. Her mind was seared with images of the funeral now. Everyone had been there. She and Hart, Bragg and Farr, Francis and Sam, Gwen and her daughter, both David Hanrahan and Lord Randolph, Kate’s brother and Maggie. The im ages and faces tumbled through her mind until they were spinning and blurred. Father Culhane stood at the pulpit, giving his emotional eulogy, his blue eyes brilliant with passion and righteous anger.