"It was awful, Lizzie. You can't imagine.”
Truly, she couldn’t.
“I've been in jail."
"Jail!" Elizabeth clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from alerting her father on the other side of the door.
She was suddenly propelled along the hallway by Ross's grip on her elbow. "Criminy, Lizzie," he grumbled. "The old man'll be on us in no time with your big mouth."
They hid in a small alcove under the stairs, and even in the dim light from a hall lamp, Elizabeth could see the ravages of the last miserable hours on her brother's face. "All right, Ross," she began as calmly as she could, "tell me what happened."
"Okay, but it's going to sound worse than it is."
She gave him a look of stern disapproval. "Somehow I think it's going to be worse than it sounds."
He sighed and leaned against a wall. "I was at this place, Lizzie, where all of us guys go. It's a...well, a 'house' of sorts over on Delancey. You know, women and such..."
"I know, Ross," she snapped. "You don't have to spell it out. That's why you were arrested? For being with a prostitute?"
"No, not really. I don't think the cops would have bothered with that. They charged me with bookmaking."
"Bookmaking! You were taking bets in a brothel? Ross, how could you be so stupid?"
"Shhh, Lizzie. You're raising your voice again. I told you it would sound really bad. It's not like I've done it a lot of times. In fact, this was only the third time. I set up in a room and just wait there for the bettors to come up and give me their race picks. I take their bets and collect on the previous night's winnings. Then later a guy comes up, an Italian I think, and gets the money. Minus my ten percent, of course. But tonight the runner never showed, and a bunch of cops did."
Elizabeth shuddered to think of it. Her brother had resorted to criminal activity, and just after he'd started his new job at the bank.
"Why in the world would you do something like this, Ross? Did you need money so badly?"
He looked at her sheepishly. "'Fraid so, Lizzie. Plus, I owe some guys a couple of favors, and this was the way they wanted me to pay them back. They aren't the kind of fellas you can argue with."
"Well, what's going to happen now? How did you get out of jail?"
"I got out on bail. I called Charles Townsend."
"Papa's attorney?"
"What choice did I have? I couldn't stay in that place another night. The people in there are real rotters. I feel like I've still got their vermin crawling on me."
"Is Charles going to be able to get you off?"
"There's going to be a trial in a few months, you can count on that."
"Oh, Ross, Papa's going to find out. You won't be able to hide this."
Ross nodded glumly. "Charles only gave me tonight to tell him. He's threatened to spill the beans to Father tomorrow. But he's hoping he can keep the whole incident out of the papers. It wouldn't do for this story to leak out. Father'd probably kill me then."
That was close to the truth. Winston Sheridan avoided public humiliation at all costs. He said no newspaper editor could afford to have his reputation sullied or his integrity questioned. Readers wouldn't stand for it. If Ross's arrest became fodder for the Manhattan gossip mill, Winston would be devastated. "When are you going to tell him?" she asked.
"Right now I guess. I can smell Cook's rack of lamb coming from the dining room and I don't want to miss supper. The food in the slammer is no better than garbage."
Elizabeth shook her head in wonder as Ross ambled back toward the drawing room to face their father's anger. Either my brother has an indomitable spirit, she thought, or he's the most addle-brained soul that ever lived! She very much feared that the latter was true. One fact was certain...Ross refused to grow up and accept responsibility for his actions. He had just turned twenty-six, and in the years since he'd graduated from Columbia he'd not only failed to take significant steps forward with his life, he seemed to be continually sliding backwards.
Elizabeth headed toward the stairs and the safety of her room. She didn't want to be anywhere near the drawing room when her father's voice shook the foundation of their house. Poor Papa, she thought. He truly has had to endure an awful lot from his children.
She was half way up the stairs when she suddenly halted in mid step. A cold chill gripped her and she grasped the banister to steady herself. Delancey Street! Did Ross say the house of prostitution was on Delancey? Max Cassidy's words came back to her in a nightmarish rush. "I've got an important appointment over on Delancey..."
"Dear God," she said. "This is just the sort of story Max would chase." There wasn't a second to lose. Elizabeth ran down the stairs and grabbed her cape from the entry closet. She was just about to exit the front door when Bridey came into the hall.
"Miss Lizzie, where are you going at this hour? It's past dark."
"Bridey, don't tell on me. What I've got to do is very important. Tell Papa I'm lying down...that I wasn't feeling well enough for dinner." Elizabeth grabbed the maid's hand. "It's true, really...I'm not at all well at the moment. I really should lie down."
"But supper is ready."
"I'll eat when I get ba...get up. That's all you need to say, all right, Bridey?" The maid cast a forlorn gaze to the ceiling. Elizabeth stood on her tiptoes and kissed the woman's soft cheek. "Thanks, Bridey. I love you." She could just make out the maid's fervently mumbled prayer to Saint Frances as she bolted out the door to find a cab.
The sidewalk in front of the Gazette building was nearly deserted when the cab stopped by the curb. A few dim lights burned deep in the building's interior, evidence of a minimal staff working the night shift. Probably in the print shop since newspaper presses were never idle. What was the chance of finding Max Cassidy in his office at this hour? Not good, Elizabeth admitted dejectedly. If he wasn't there, she'd just have to find out where he was.
She instructed the carriage driver to wait for her while she tried the front entrance to the building. The door was locked, but her pounding aroused the attention of a night watchman in the lobby who peered over a counter at her. He came around to see what she wanted and slid back the glass panel of a small window in the door. "What is it, miss?" he inquired. "We're closed."
"I know, but I'm looking for Max Cassidy. Is he here?"
"He's been gone at least three hours. Said he was going home for once."
Elizabeth fixed a look of utter hopelessness on her face, turning her lips down into a pitiable pout. "Oh, dear, now what shall I do?"
"Is there a problem?" the watchman asked, taking the bait.
"I'm afraid so. You see I'm Max's sister come all the way from Boston on the train this evening. I would have gotten here well before closing except the train was delayed, making us several hours tardy."
"Well, I'm sure Mr. Cassidy has gone to the station to meet you, miss. He wouldn't leave a young lady like yourself to wander the Manhattan streets after dark."
Elizabeth added an extra measure of desperation to her voice. "No, no he wouldn't, but you see, he didn't expect me until tomorrow. I discovered at the last minute that I could leave today, and I didn't have time to alert Max of my early departure. He thinks I'm still in Boston."
"You could try his flat then. Like I told you, Max said he was headed home."
Elizabeth feigned an attempt to smile bravely despite her misfortune. "You'll think I'm the biggest ninny, but I haven't the faintest idea where Max lives. I've never been to New York before. And in my hurry to leave Boston, I regrettably left Max's address on my bureau."
Elizabeth's eyes started to mist over causing her to consider the possibility that she might go into acting if a career in journalism failed her. She let her shoulders sag in defeat. "Oh, I just don't know what I'm going to do! I haven't any money for a hotel, and...and..." Oh, yes, her breakdown was imminent.
The door to the Gazette offices opened, as she knew it would, and the night watchman patted her arm. "There, there, Miss Cassidy, I ha
ve an idea. I know what I'm about to do is against the rules, but I'm going to get Max's address for you. It's what I'd hope someone would do for my own sister if she were in such a pickle."
Elizabeth regarded the kind man with a grateful batting of her moist eyelashes. "Would you do that for me, sir? I'd be so thankful."
"Indeed I will, miss. I'm sure Max will thank me for this in the morning. No more fretting now."
A few moments later, with Max Cassidy's address in her hand, Elizabeth climbed into the cab and instructed the driver to take her a few blocks from the Gazette building. Soon they were in front of a modest four-story brownstone. "Wait here for me," Elizabeth told the driver. "I'll be as quick as I can."
Max lived on the third floor at the end of a narrow, dark hallway lined with cheerless plain doors. Elizabeth would have been able to pick out his flat even without the tarnished brass numbers on the doors, for his was the only apartment that showed light spilling out from underneath the entry onto the faded red carpet of the hall. Also, a persistent clacking sound emanated from his flat, evidence that someone was intently hitting typewriter keys. This had to be a reporter's home all right. She knocked loudly to distract him from his work.
The door opened to a significantly different Max Cassidy than Elizabeth had left at Flanagan's a few hours before. His dark hair was tousled onto his forehead as if he'd run his fingers through it dozens of times. He still had on the pin-striped shirt she'd seen him wearing that afternoon, only now the sleeves were rolled up past his elbows revealing a coarse dusting of dark hair on his forearms. His gray suspenders hung uselessly at his sides. The waist of his trousers slouched at his hips. After a quick but thorough glance, Elizabeth took care to avoid looking at this fashion indiscretion.
But it was Max's eyes that were most unusual of all, for when he looked at her, their deep blue color lost the dazzle of self-confidence and darkened to smoky blue-gray, like a thundercloud heralding a storm. They widened with shock before Max blinked hard as if convincing himself that Elizabeth were indeed in his hallway. She allowed herself a brief inward smile in spite of her serious errand. So it was possible after all to shake the unflappable Max Cassidy.
"Where did you...how did you...?" Intelligent words failed him.
Elizabeth wasted no time stating her reason for being there. "I have to talk to you, Max. Where did you go when you left Flanagan's today?"
A few seconds passed before he responded, but it was enough time to bring the old Max back, confident and self assured. He gave her a crooked smile and leaned against the door jamb. "You've answered a question with another question, Betsy. Bad form."
"I'm not the least bit worried about my form, Max."
His gaze scanned the length of her. "And so you shouldn't be. Your form looks quite all right to me."
Max's comment became embarrassingly clear when Elizabeth felt his slow perusal of her dinner dress, which was totally inappropriate for street wear. Her cape had fallen loose at her shoulders and exposed the scooped neckline of the gown, a flattering look for dining, but one that was much too suggestive for a lady visiting a gentleman's residence. But then Elizabeth well knew that being at Max's flat in the first place was definitely out of bounds for a young woman of her background.
She clutched the yoke of the cape to her chest as a warm flush crept up her neck. "Did you hear my question?" she challenged.
"Yes, certainly," he answered. "As well as the pounding on my door. So did half of my neighbors."
He inclined his head, and Elizabeth followed the cue. Looking down the hallway, she was astounded to see several heads poking out of half open doorways.
"Obviously you don't live in a flat, Betsy," he whispered. "If you did, you'd know that your business quickly becomes everyone's business if you don't practice a bit of tact. My neighbors are used to hearing my typewriter at all hours of the night, but apparently the sound of your bully fist and lilting voice was something of an aberration."
He stepped into his apartment, allowing her room to enter. "Perhaps you'd better come in.”
Elizabeth brushed past him and turned around in the center of the room, half expecting to see Max following close on her heels. He wasn't. He shut the door quietly and immediately began picking up the clutter which covered nearly every piece of furniture. A small dining table was littered with papers and pens. Two chairs sat back to back with rope stretched between them. Hanging from the line were several damp male undergarments. Elizabeth had obviously caught Max on laundry day, a fact which did nothing to ease the warmth suffusing her face.
She averted her gaze from the unmentionables and looked at Max's desk which held his typewriter and a mound of writing tablets. Shelves on either side of the desk were crammed with books in no particular order. Some were standing upright, while most were leaning willy-nilly, the result of a thoughtless hand shoving them into the closest available slot.
The chairs in the sitting area were littered with more paper and magazines, but it was these pieces of furniture that Max was attacking by scooping all the items into his arms and depositing them on a bed which occupied one corner of the room. The bed was neatly made, a fact which surprised Elizabeth considering the condition of the rest of the living quarters. She noticed, too, that the suits of clothing in the open wardrobe were hung in meticulous order according to type of garment.
The term "organized chaos" came to Elizabeth's mind as she hastily scanned the nooks and crannies of Max's apartment. She avoided watching Max, finding it much easier to look at Max's possessions than to actually look at the man himself. With steadily increasing anxiety, she became aware of the incredulity of her situation.
Good God, Elizabeth, what are you doing here? she wondered, fighting down a mounting panic. As she listened to Max scurry around, her nervous gaze settled on the closed door. It took all her willpower to resist racing headlong for the exit, blurting out a humble plea for Max to forget she'd ever come, and returning to the security of the waiting cab. No, she told herself. You're here for a reason, a very important reason, and you've got to see it through.
"There, that's better," Max said coming up behind her. "It's hot in here. Can I take your cloak?"
He was right. Despite the open windows, it was terribly warm for October. Elizabeth felt dizzy. She let him remove her cape, but she took it out of his hands and placed it over her lap as soon as she sat down. Max sat opposite her, well back in his chair and watched her with a guarded alertness that she found quite unsettling.
"Now, what do you want to know?" he asked.
She took a deep breath. "You said you were going to Delancey Street today. I want to know why. What story were you covering?"
She knew she had no right to ask him such questions, and at first it seemed like he might refuse to answer her, but after a long moment he expelled a breath, leaned forward and settled an earnest blue-gray gaze on her.
"I went to Delancey Street to visit the establishment of a Miss Dixie Lee, a lady who's been in business in that neighborhood for a long time. I don't need to tell you what business Miss Dixie's in, but yesterday she had a raid in her place, and today I was there to hear all about it in the lady's own words. That, in itself, is a reporter's dream, but I had the added bonus of discovering that one of New York's most pedigreed young gentlemen was involved up to his eyeballs in a bookmaking scheme in one of Miss Lee's upstairs 'meeting rooms.'"
Elizabeth clasped her hands under the cloak to keep them from trembling. "Do you know the name of this man?"
"I do. His name is Ross Sheridan. He's the son of Winston Sheridan, the editor of the Courier News and the man who happens to be your boss...and, if my sources check out in the morning, also your father."
"Then you’ve figured out that Ross is my brother."
Max nodded.
"So, what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to write the story, Betsy."
Elizabeth shot forward in her chair, and the cape fell to the floor. "But you can't!"
"What I mean, Max," she continued more calmly, "is please don't write about Ross. You can't imagine how this will affect him."
"He's a big boy. He'll get over it...just like he got himself into it."
"But you don't know him. He's had so many problems..."
"And now he's got another one. But I have a hunch his daddy or the lawyers will help him."
"That's another thing you don't realize. My father will be devastated. His reputation is very important to him. He'll never live this down."
Silver Dreams Page 4