by Brenda Joyce
It seemed to take an eternity to cross the lobby and find track 10. The train hadn’t arrived yet, but a hundred passengers stood beside the rails, with their larger bags and carry-on valises. Evan hesitated, then saw a glint of red about halfway down the track.
Fury consumed him. There she was, in a navy blue ensemble, a tiny blue hat barely covering her red hair. He started viciously forward.
She had meant to hurt Maggie.
She was selfish, vindictive and evil.
And it was his fault, because once he had lusted for her.
Bartolla saw him and froze.
He slowly smiled at her, lifting a hand.
She blanched but smiled. “Darling! Have you come to wish me bon voyage?”
Evan reached her side. “Why else would I come?” He took her arm in his as an approaching locomotive sounded, its engines roaring.
She seemed nervous. “That must be my train, darling. I am going to miss you.… I heard they found that poor child.”
“Yes, they found Lizzie.” He felt as if he had somehow stepped outside of himself, like a madman. He wasn’t sure if he could control his need to destroy her for what she had done. He tried to remind himself that she was carrying his child—or so she claimed.
“What is wrong?” She tried to tug free of him and failed. “You look so strange. That child is all right, isn’t it?”
The train was coming closer and its whistle sounded again. The noise was almost deafening and he had to raise his voice to speak. “That child has a name.”
Bartolla seemed terribly frightened now. “Yes, I know—her name is Lizzie! You are holding me so tightly! That is my train, look!”
He glanced at the huge, black locomotive. One push was all it would take.
“Ow,” she gasped. “What is wrong with you?”
His grasp had tightened. It was now or never—the train was almost upon them. But as much as he hated her for what she had done, he was not a killer—and she might be carrying his child. He did not release her. “Are you pleased with yourself? You drove Maggie insane with fear.”
“Let me go, Evan,” she cried as the train roared past them. Her body shuddered against his from the force of the locomotive. “I don’t know what you are talking about!”
He did not release her, the train now slowing. “Hart apprehended one of your thugs,” he said.
Her pale expression did not change. “You are speaking gibberish.”
“Am I? Because he confessed to your involvement.”
Her eyes locked with his.
“You are about to be arrested,” he said softly—with relish.
“How can you let them arrest me in my condition?”
And he could take it no longer. “Is there a condition? There are no signs! If there is a child, is the child even mine?” He realized that he was shouting, that passersby were turning to gawk at them.
“Of course it’s yours,” she gasped. “You’re hurting me!”
He stared, refusing to let her go, and she stared back. He loathed her, but he would never abandon his own child, not if the child proved to be his. But first, he must learn if she was even pregnant. There was one way to provoke her, he decided grimly.
He leaned close. “I can’t do this, Bartolla. I do not want anything to do with you. I don’t care if you are carrying my child. I suggest you find another means of support. There will not be any more monthly allowances.”
She choked, shocked. “You are cutting me off now?”
“My generosity is over. In fact, I intend to marry Maggie as soon as she will have me. Father will probably disown me all over again, so even if I wanted to, I will never be able to support you when I go back to clerking. You will have to find another means of support.”
She was breathing hard, her eyes still wide with disbelief. “Are you insane? You would marry that tramp—that slut—that little fortune hunter?”
He wanted to strike her, but he somehow kept his free hand at his side. “I’d be careful, if I were you, about calling the kettle black.”
She struck him hard and viciously across the face. “What did I ever see in you?” she screamed. “You are a weakling and a fool! Thank God I was not foolish enough to become pregnant, Evan. You are right—there is no child! And I am glad!”
His knees buckled with relief. She had lied. For one more moment, their stares locked and he saw the vindictive look in her eyes. “You will never come near Maggie or her children again,” he warned.
She spat at him.
He turned, still holding her, his burning cheek now damp, and faced the two approaching policemen. “I believe you are looking for this woman,” he said. Then he smiled at Bartolla. “There has been a change of plans, Bartolla. I know you have been looking forward to a view of the mountains. I hope you enjoy a view of concrete walls through iron bars.”
ROSE HAD TO BE the thief.
Surely she was the dark, angry woman whom Marsha Moore had seen! She had argued with Daniel Moore at his gallery just a few days before Francesca had discovered the stolen portrait there. How could it be a coincidence?
Could Rose hate her that much? Francesca hugged herself as her cab approached the driveway of her house. Rose hated Hart with a vengeance. Apparently she felt the same way about Francesca.
But how had she discovered the true nature of the portrait? Hart would have never told Daisy.
And if Rose was the thief, the man who had loitered outside the gallery and the flat could be insignificant. He did not have to be related to the case at all.
There was one problem with her newly drawn conclusion: Randall had been in the city on both Saturdays. Randall hated her and he hated Hart—he was just as vengeful as Rose. Francesca realized she had to determine if he truly came to visit Henrietta every weekend. If so, Randall’s presence in the city might be unrelated, after all. But then why had he bothered with such an elaborate alibi?
Francesca had debated stopping at headquarters on her way uptown, but she had decided to rush home to change her clothes so she could call on Hart. They were making headway, and she meant to press on. She had visions of spending the evening in his arms. She had never been more determined. There would be reconciliation sooner or later. Now she couldn’t wait to tell him about this latest clue.
But she would call Bragg the moment she got home to apprise him of the latest developments. Rose should be brought downtown immediately for further questioning.
They had almost reached the Cahill front gates. As the cab turned into the driveway, Francesca noticed a black hansom parked just inside the front gates, quite a distance from the house. It was very odd. “Driver, please stop beside that cab,” she said. As she spoke, she realized Dawn was in the other hansom.
Brakes screeched and the horse whinnied as it was pulled up far too quickly in the traces. “I’ll be but one moment.” She opened her door and Dawn got out of her cab. Francesca could not imagine what she wanted. She saw that the woman was agitated and unsmiling. “Dawn! Are you waiting for me? Is everything all right?”
Dawn hurried forward, clutching an envelope, her expression terse. “Yes, Francesca, I am. I have a note for you—I was asked to deliver it myself.” Dawn shoved the white envelope at her.
The front was pristine. Francesca turned it over, but the word Urgent was not printed on the envelope. She looked up. Dawn was hurrying back to her taxi. “Who gave you this?” she cried.
Dawn climbed into her hansom, closing the door and calling, “You must be very careful, Francesca. Very careful!”
“Please don’t go,” Francesca tried, but the hansom was already moving past her, the gelding in the traces trotting briskly toward the house, where it would circle back out of the driveway and onto Fifth Avenue. Her heart hammering, Francesca slit the envelope with her nail and extracted a piece of stationery. A woman’s script greeted her. “Meet me at The Fountain at 4 pm today—SM.”
She inhaled. Solange Marceaux had finally surfaced.
But
why now? Solange was no longer even on her list of suspects, was she?
Of course she would meet her. Solange was still wanted for her participation in child abduction and prostitution. But she was going to have to rush. It would take twenty minutes to get downtown to the vast department store Siegel-Cooper, where the famed water fountain was. The fountain was a very popular meeting spot for the ladies, and Francesca did not doubt that was what the note referred to. She would not be able to dress up for her evening with Hart, she realized.
Francesca paid the driver, tipping him generously, and hurried to the house, dwelling upon the possibilities the note brought. She could not get over the timing of when she had received it.
Francis was on duty when she went inside. Still holding the note, she paused. “Is anyone at home? The house seems vacant.” The last thing she needed was to be delayed by her mother.
“Most of the staff has left for Saratoga to get the house ready for the family,” Francis said. “Your mother has decided that she and Mr. Cahill will leave tomorrow afternoon. I believe Mrs. Cahill is around the block with your sister, Miss Cahill. Your father is at the club.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprised that Julia had decided to leave the next day. She knew she would be pressured to do so as well, with Hart. But that was impossible. They were closing in on her portrait and the thief. She couldn’t go anywhere, July Fourth or not.
Briefly worried, she rushed down the hall to Andrew’s library. Julia was formidable when her mind was made up. They would have a rousing battle over her staying behind in the city.
Hart’s image was engraved on her mind, and Bragg’s flashed there, as well. She wasn’t so foolish as to contemplate meeting the madam alone. She picked up the receiver and asked for Mr. Hart’s residence, her pulse beginning to pound. Although he had told her he was going downtown to his Bridge Street offices, she prayed he was home by now. When Alfred answered, her heart sank. “Alfred, where is Hart?” she cried. “He said he had business matters to attend, but I thought he’d be home by now!”
“I don’t know, Miss Cahill. He might still be at his offices, or he might be dining somewhere. Mr. Hart rarely leaves me with an explicit schedule.”
“Alfred, this is of the utmost urgency. Locate Calder and tell him he must meet me at The Fountain at four! But he must hide—we are on a case, and if he is recognized our quarry will flee. Tell him I am meeting Solange Marceaux.” She made a mental calculation in her head. “And send someone to his offices, please, in case he is still there.” If Hart was downtown on Bridge Street, it would take a servant forty-five minutes to reach him, even without traffic.
She prayed he would walk through his front door at any moment. What if he was traveling uptown, even now, while Alfred sent her message downtown?
She thanked Alfred and hung up, beginning to perspire. When she reached the operator at police headquarters and asked for Bragg, she was told he had stepped out.
She groaned. Now what?
“Miss Cahill, can I be of any help?”
She froze at the sound of Chief Farr’s voice. “Hello, Chief,” she managed to say. Her mind raced. There were warrants outstanding for Solange Marceaux’s arrest. She could use the help of the police. But she wanted a word with the madam alone first. Yet even if she lied to Farr and told him to arrive at a later time, she feared he would arrive earlier to hide his men. She inhaled. “I’m afraid not. When you see the commissioner, would you ask him to meet me for a coffee at Siegel-Cooper, perhaps at a quarter past four? I have some new leads I’d like to discuss with him, but I must buy my niece a birthday present first.”
“Sure,” Farr said amiably. “I’ll do just that.”
Sweating, Francesca hung up. Well, if she had to confront the madam alone, she would. But she was hoping that either Hart or Bragg would get her messages and show up.
She heard the floorboards creak as someone paused on the threshold of the library.
They were a man’s heavier footsteps. She turned, expecting to see her father standing there. Her heart dropped with sickening force.
“Hello,” Bill Randall said pleasantly, closing the library doors behind him. He locked them. “I heard you are looking for me.”
Shock gave way to fear. She had left her purse with her pistol in the front hall. She was defenseless—almost. What did he want? “Hello, Bill. Yes, we are looking for you.”
His gaze was almost black, but he did not remind her of Hart, not at all. Something was wrong with this man, although it wasn’t as obvious as with his sister. She tensed as he started toward her. “I haven’t committed any crime, Francesca. In fact, I turned state’s evidence on my poor sister. So why are the police looking for me? I can’t even go home.”
His intensity was frightening. “I am very, very sorry about Mary and your mother.”
His odd smile vanished. “Like hell you are. Because of you, my sister was locked up at Bellevue…because of you, my poor mother is in the workhouse.”
Francesca stepped back against the desk, groping for a paperweight. “Your sister murdered your father, Bill. I merely solved the crime!”
“You have destroyed my family,” he said. “I intend to destroy you and my brother now!”
“Did you steal the painting? It was you, wasn’t it?” she cried.
He slowly smiled at her. “Now you accuse me of being a thief? Why would I steal a painting, Francesca?”
Was he as insane as his sister? “Hart and I are over. It’s in all the newspapers.”
He laughed. “You are only over because someone locked you up on your wedding day. I wonder who that could be. I wish I had been there to see Hart jilted in front of three hundred guests.”
“It was you, wasn’t it? You locked me up—you stole the portrait. Where is it?” she cried desperately. How else would he know that she had been locked up? Or had he bribed a police officer to learn the fact?
He approached. She cringed against the desk, crowded there by him. His body pressed against hers, making her want to retch. He cupped her jaw, then slid his hand around her neck. “One snap is all it would take,” he murmured roughly. “I would love to come to the funeral and watch Hart crying over your coffin.”
He was going to kill her. She managed to close her right hand over the paperweight. “Where is the portrait?”
“I don’t know.” He smiled viciously at her. “For my sister, Francesca, and my poor, dear mother.”
As his hand slowly tightened on her neck, she raised the weight and slammed it at his temple. He saw it coming and dodged the blow, releasing her to do so. Francesca screamed at the top of her lungs. “Help!”
For one moment, Randall crouched before her, clearly debating murdering her anyway. Then he ran for the closed doors, unlocking them. They flew open. The doorman and a maid stood there. He shoved past them, vanishing down the hall. Francesca felt her knees give way. Francis and Bette would never be able to stop that madman.
“Miss Cahill! Are you all right?” Francis reached her first.
She was already recovering and reaching for the phone. By the time Bette had brought her a scotch whiskey, Farr was on the line. “Bill Randall just left my home.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wednesday, July 2, 1902
4:15 p.m.
SIEGEL-COOPER AND COMPANY took up an entire block on Sixth Avenue, between Eighteenth and Nineteenth streets. When Chicago-based Siegel-Cooper had first arrived in New York City, it set an entirely new standard for department stores in the city. Every competitor had imitated the great emporium, taking up vast retail spaces and filling them entirely with merchandise. The fountain was in the exact center of the store, a replica of the French sculpture The Republic in its center. It had become a popular meeting place for ladies on their way to have lunch, tea, shop or go to the afternoon theater. The refrain “Meet me at The Fountain” was often heard.
Francesca stood rigidly by the edge of the fount
ain, able to see the main Sixth Avenue entrance, as well as the entrances from the side streets. The store would close for the evening at five, but it was still relatively busy with customers, all of them women. Everyone seemed to be in a rush that afternoon, and she supposed a great deal of the present company would be outward bound on the morrow. She began to fidget, her tension high. It was fifteen minutes past four. Where was Solange Marceaux?
She clutched the small penknife Hart had given her as a wedding gift in the palm of her right hand. Her pistol was tucked in the waistband of her skirt, beneath her jacket, instead of in her purse. Of course, she was not wearing gloves, the better to handle either weapon. She supposed she was very nervous.
And why wouldn’t she be? She had just had a frightening encounter with Bill Randall. He was clearly mentally unstable.
Francesca knew she must forget about the terrible encounter. She had to remain on guard. She was about to confront a very ruthless woman, who despised her just as much as Randall.
Francesca stared at the glass doors that opened onto Sixth Avenue. No one came in. She inhaled. From her past experience with the madam, she felt certain that Solange would not think twice about murdering her on the spot. Or, she would bring her thugs with her and order her dumped in the East River, with shackles on her wrists and ankles.
With her ungloved left hand, she wiped a trickle of sweat from her brow. Her anxiety increased. She hadn’t seen a glimpse of Hart or Bragg, so she assumed she was working alone. But she was armed. She was ready. Whatever Solange intended, she would be on her toes, anticipating her every move.
A beautifully dressed woman in royal blue was coming up the aisle from the Eighteenth Street entrance. Francesca tensed, for she had Solange’s proportions and pale hair, but as she came closer, she finally saw her face. Her heart sank. It was not Solange.
Someone tapped her shoulder from behind…a woman’s soft touch.
Francesca whirled, her heart exploding in fright.
“Hello, Francesca.” Mary Randall smiled at her. “Fancy meeting you here.”