Francesca got up, trying to compose her breathing and failing. It was hard not to glance at the front door, which she had closed but left unlocked, the better to abet the strangler’s entry into the apartment—and her trap.
But she had to walk around and give the strangler a chance to enter the apartment and steal up on her. And just as Francesca was about to force herself to walk into the bedroom, a movement behind her made her whirl.
A mouse dashed across the wood floors, disappearing beneath the sofa.
She laughed in relief, turned, and screamed.
Thomas Neville stood in the bedroom doorway, staring down at her.
Her dazed mind swung into action. Neville was the one.
Francesca whirled, but he seized her from behind, and just as she opened her mouth to scream, she realized that he was not wearing a stocking over his face. She turned—and saw that he was crying.
But silently. Tears were streaming down his face.
“She’s dead, isn’t she? That’s why no one can find her. Is she dead?” he cried, dropping his hand.
Francesca’s heart surged wildly in her chest. She backed away carefully, never removing her eyes from him. “I think so. I am sorry.”
Neville walked over to the sofa and collapsed there, weeping.
Francesca stared. Thomas Neville was not their killer. She walked over to him, then sat down beside him. “You didn’t do it, did you?”
He sobbed into his hands. “No. I loved her. She didn’t love me, but I loved her. She was the mother I never had.” He sobbed more loudly, then said, “I lied. I lied to you and the police, Miss Cahill. She loved Hoeltz. And he loved her. God, I hate him!”
Francesca patted his back, pitying him. She got up and went to the window. She pulled the draperies wide, pushed open the window, and was blasted with icy air. She waved, but she was grim, because her clever idea of trapping the killer had failed.
Neville sprawled on the sofa now, no longer crying but despondent. Francesca whispered, “I am so sorry. We will find her killer, Mr. Neville.”
He looked at her. “I admire you, Miss Cahill. Melinda was like you, you know. Brave and determined, and so very intelligent.” His face crumbled. “She didn’t love me. Not at all. I’m her brother !” he cried.
“I’m sure she loved you,” Francesca said gently.
He looked at her sadly, clearly not at all persuaded by her words.
Bragg walked into the room with Newman and Hickey. He took one look at the scenario in front of him and said, “So we’ve cleared Neville.”
“Yes, we have,” Francesca said. She rubbed her temples. If the killer was Farr, why hadn’t he taken the bait? Either he was too clever or the killer wasn’t Farr, and their only other suspect was Andrew LeFarge.
Just as the only other targeted victim was Sarah Channing. She, like Francesca, had survived the City Strangler’s attack.
“Bragg!” Francesca cried. “Sarah—we must get to Sarah—before the strangler strikes again!”
Their gazes met. His eyes widened with comprehension, and they turned and rushed out of Melinda Neville’s flat.
Bragg pounded on the door. It was opened immediately by a servant. Francesca cried, “Where is Sarah?”
Taken aback, the doorman blinked and said, “I believe she has gone out.”
Francesca stared at Bragg, dismayed. He seemed equally grim. He faced the doorman. “Where has she gone?”
“I have no idea, sir.”
Francesca began to shake. Sarah had gone out, and, if Francesca’s theory was right, was making herself extremely vulnerable to another attack.
“Commissioner! Miss Cahill! I thought I had heard the door.” Abigail Channing beamed, coming into the front hall.
“I am afraid we are here on police business,” Bragg said. “We must locate Sarah, Mrs. Channing. Do you have any idea where she is?”
Mrs. Channing started. “She said something about a second chance, and then she simply raced out. You see, she received a note this morning.”
Francesca’s heart lurched. Sarah was walking into a trap. “Please, Mrs. Channing, you have to think! We have to know where Sarah went—and whom she was meeting.”
Mrs. Channing was dismayed. “I have no idea. She was so excited and in such a rush. But wait! Perhaps we can find that note—unless she took it with her.”
Five minutes later Sarah Channing’s pretty pink-and-white bedroom was being turned upside down, with Francesca growing more frightened by the moment. There was nothing on the secretaire or the bureau, nothing in the dressing room. “Let’s try her studio,” she whispered dryly.
“Oh! You know, she did leave with one of her paintings in hand. Wrapped in brown parcel paper,” Mrs. Channing said.
For one moment Francesca stared, and the comprehension seized her. A painting, a note, a second chance . . . “Hoeltz!”
The front door of the brownstone building where Hoeltz had his gallery was unlocked. Confused, Sarah pushed it open, as her repetitive use of the door knocker had not produced any results. No lights were on in the hall or stairwell, and as there was only one window by the front door, it was exceedingly dark inside. Sarah hesitated, alarmed.
But there was no reason for alarm, she told herself. This was the most amazing opportunity, and she could only conclude that Hoeltz had glimpsed her at the exhibition Friday night and had decided to give her work another chance. Sarah picked up her wrapped canvas, and as it was large she needed to carry it with both hands. Her coach and driver waited on the street.
She entered, used her knee to close the heavy front door, and, when it clicked closed, grew more nervous. A terrible memory of the attack Friday night overcame her. She found it hard to breathe.
Oddly, she thought about Rourke’s timely rescue, and his handsome face seemed to calm her shattered nerves a bit. She hadn’t ever thanked him. She knew she was being disgracefully rude in not doing so, but for some reason, she simply could not be herself around that man. He set her on edge.
She sighed and smiled ruefully. It was time to admit the truth. He was fascinatingly handsome, she had never met a man like him before, and that was why his mere presence turned her into a tart shrew. Thank God he would be returning to Philadelphia next week.
She started up the stairs.
By the time she reached the second floor landing, she was breathless. To her surprise, the door to the art gallery was also ajar. Warnings went off inside her mind, as explosive and sudden as fireworks. Was something wrong? “Mr. Hoeltz?” she called out, pausing on the threshold of the first exhibition room.
There was no answer. Sarah laid her painting down carefully, leaning it against the wall. “Mr. Hoeltz?” she called out again, more nervously now.
There was no answer. The huge room with its dozens of paintings and its several sculptures seemed empty.
But Sarah knew she was not alone.
In that instant, she felt eyes upon her, and she froze.
She tried to tell herself that it was her imagination, while her brain began screaming at her that she must run, leave, now. Her heart beat with such power and speed that her chest ached. Sweat began to gather on her brow, in her armpits, between her breasts. But surely the attack Friday night had made her paranoid, when nothing was amiss.
Sarah scanned the room. Other than two very large busts on solid three-foot pedestals, there was nowhere to hide. She was alone. But that in itself made no sense. Where was Mr. Hoeltz?
Her gaze moved back to each pedestal, but only a child could hide behind one.
The eyes remained, boring holes into her, but were they on her back?
Sarah turned quickly, but no one stood behind her in the hall.
She turned as quickly, but no one faced her, either.
Then she saw the hand.
Lying on the floor, peeping out from the next room.
Sarah gasped, realizing now where Hoeltz was—in the next room, unconscious, hurt, or dead. Shaking like a leaf, she ha
d begun to back away when she smacked into a hard, big body.
It was her worst nightmare come true.
“Hello, Sarah,” a terribly rough and familiar rasping voice said.
It was a voice she would never forget: the voice of her assailant—the voice of the man who had tried to kill her.
Sarah screamed.
The hansom had just halted in front of the brownstone housing Hoeltz’s gallery. Bragg was about to pay the fare when a scream filled the morning.
Francesca and Bragg leaped outside, the cabbie shouting at them, demanding his money. As they raced across the sidewalk, Francesca fumbled in her purse for her gun. From the corner of her eye she saw that Bragg had already withdrawn his own revolver.
The front door of the building was locked.
“Damn it!” Francesca shouted, sweating madly now.
Bragg didn’t hesitate. With his elbow, he bashed in the glass window next to the door. “Wait here,” he said, using his arm to sweep the window clean of glass shards.
As if she would stay behind. Francesca waited for him to climb through; then she did the same. She lifted her skirts and ran up the stairs on his heels.
“Damn it, I don’t want you in here!” he shouted, not looking back.
She didn’t answer, using all of her breath to run. They burst into the front room of the gallery and saw a huge man with a stocking over his head strangling Sarah Channing.
She wasn’t against the wall. She was facing them, and her face was turning blue.
“Release her!” Bragg shouted, aiming the gun.
The strangler saw him and pulled Sarah in front of him, using her as a shield now, no longer strangling her to death. She began to cough and choke, but the blue hue faded from her face, leaving it starkly white instead. The killer did not answer for the obvious reason of not wanting to give his identity away.
He started backing up, with Sarah in his arms.
“Release her,” Bragg commanded. “It’s over. You will not get away. My men have surrounded the building.”
That, Francesca knew, was a lie. And Brendan Farr was clever enough to know it, too.
The killer seemed to smile at them as he dragged Sarah around the corner and into the next exhibit hall.
Francesca and Bragg raced after him. When they reached the threshold there, they paused, exchanging glances, pressing against the wall. “Stay here. Don’t move,” Bragg said.
She had no intention of staying safely behind the wall while a killer had her friend in his power.
Bragg looked around the corner, as did Francesca.
The strangler had Sarah in one arm, but he had already pushed open the window at the exhibition hall’s far end. An iron fire escape was there. Francesca suddenly glanced down and gasped. Bertrand Hoeltz lay at their feet, dead. His head had been blown away, a revolver lay in his hand, and a note was on the floor beside him. It quickly crossed her mind that the strangler had set up Hoeltz to take the fall for him.
The strangler began pushing Sarah out onto the fire escape.
“He’s going to take her with him,” Francesca shouted.
Bragg aimed his gun. “No, he’s not,” he said grimly, and he fired.
Francesca had no idea how good a marksman Bragg was, and when the strangler jerked, apparently hit in the shoulder, she cried out in relief. But he shoved Sarah face-first onto the iron stairs, then turned, withdrawing a gun, and he fired back at them.
Acting purely upon reflex, Francesca dived to the floor.
“Get down!” Bragg shouted simultaneously. He knelt and fired back, around the wall and into the other hall.
Francesca scrambled to her knees and crept up to the corner.
“Get back!” Bragg shouted, sweat pouring down his face. But Francesca dared to peek, and she saw the killer standing there, still and erect, holding his gun, aiming it at them. Then blood blossomed on his chest and he slowly keeled over, finally crumbling to the floor.
Francesca began to rise.
Bragg pushed her down. “Stay down!” he hissed.
A gunshot sounded, striking the edge of the wall where Francesca and Bragg huddled. Francesca ducked, holding her head, and heard Bragg grunt beside her as an odd thick plop sounded. She turned, afraid he had been hit, but she saw nothing—there was no blood on his tan greatcoat. “Stay back,” he said tersely, his golden eyes wide with determination, his face drawn into savage lines.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” she whispered. “I don’t want to bury a hero.”
He grunted and she realized he had been shot and that he was in pain. Very carefully, aiming his gun, he started slowly forward toward the prone killer now.
The strangler lay on his back. He did not move. But his gun rested loosely in his hand.
“It’s a trap,” Francesca gasped, terrified that Bragg would be shot again—this time fatally.
And just as she spoke the killer kicked at Bragg, causing him to lose his balance and go down in a heap. Bragg’s revolver skidded across the floor. The killer got to his knees, raising his gun as Francesca screamed in warning. Bragg rolled over, kicking out and tripping the other man, who fell. And suddenly both men were in each other’s grip, wrestling back and forth on the floor. Francesca quickly realized that the strangler had not released his gun—and that he and Bragg were fighting over it.
Francesca ran forward. Bragg had the killer’s wrist and the gun was aimed at the ceiling—it went off. Francesca did not hesitate. She seized Bragg’s revolver and tried to avoid being tripped by the flailing men. Bragg had been flipped onto his back, and now, his coat open, she saw the blossoming blood on his chest.
She jammed the barrel of the gun hard in the back of the strangler’s head.
“Freeze!” she shouted. “Freeze, Farr, or I will kill you!” And she meant it, too.
He froze.
But Bragg had taken matters into his own hands. He jammed his knee into the other man’s groin, and as the strangler collapsed, Bragg got out from under him and up to his feet. Instantly he knelt on the killer’s back, one knee grinding into his kidney, jerked the man’s wrists behind him, extracted handcuffs from his belt, and snapped them on. Then he tossed the killer’s arms down, looking up at Francesca. “Thanks.” Sweat was pouring down his face. Blood was pouring down his white shirt.
Fear blinded her now. “You’re hurt!”
“It’s not as bad as it must look.” As he rose, he pulled the stocking from the man’s head and turned his face to one side.
Francesca gasped.
It wasn’t Brendan Farr.
It was Thomas Neville.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 23, 1902—1:00 P.M.
SHE HAD BEEN SO cleverly duped at the eleventh hour. Francesca simply stared, recalling how Neville had been weeping on his sister’s sofa not too long ago and how she had tried to comfort him.
“So it was you after all,” Bragg said, pulling Neville to his feet. He was bleeding profusely from a third wound in his chest.
But Neville’s eyes burned now, and hatred was etched all over his face—he didn’t seem to know that he had been shot three times. “She loved him! She hated me! I was waiting and waiting for her to return from Paris, and when she does, it was to be with Hoeltz! Mellie was a good girl until she met him. Don’t you see?” His tone turned pleading, and tears filled his eyes.
Francesca’s stomach heaved precariously. But Neville seemed to be in a talkative mood, and she seized the opportunity. “There is only one thing I truly do not understand. Why did you vandalize Sarah Channing’s studio?”
His eyes turned black. He staggered, but Bragg held him up. “Mellie had promised me supper—yet she did not show up. I went to the Royal, and the moment I saw your brother, I recalled the fact that he despised his fiancée and that she was also an artist. As the night progressed, I became intrigued with the idea of meeting Miss Channing. Of meeting her and punishing her for all that she had done to your
brother. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. I didn’t plan to vandalize her studio, Miss Cahill. But when I found an open window and let myself in, when I saw her portraits, her portraits of whores, it just seemed so right. She, too, was clearly a whore! Mellie was a good girl until she met Hoeltz! She was a decent woman, a lady! He turned her into a whore! He lured her away from me, from our genteel life, from the family that we were, into his world, a world of art and sex. He took Mellie away from me.” He spat blood at her feet.
“Wreaking havoc upon Sarah Channing wasn’t enough, was it?” Francesca asked quietly, but with some worry now. This man needed a doctor, but then, so did Bragg. His shirt, beneath his sack jacket and coat, was covered with blood. She did not know how much was his and how much belonged to Thomas Neville.
Neville stared, and for a moment she thought he would not answer—or that he could not. “No, it wasn’t enough,” he finally said, suddenly subdued. He seemed to gasp then in pain and he almost collapsed, except for Bragg. “I tasted what revenge could do. I yearned for more. I yearned to do to Mellie what I did to Miss Channing.” His eyes glittered with lust and insanity.
“So you went back to Mellie’s flat,” Francesca said flatly. “You broke in. She caught you in the act. You killed her—and Miss Conway happened by. Then you killed Miss Conway, as she was a witness, and Miss Holmes, too. And I assume you went back to murder Sarah, as you had acquired quite a lust for murder, Mr. Neville.”
“How clever you are,” he said, smiling now, but the expression was twisted with pain. “And yes, I did enjoy killing those whores—and every single woman deserved to die! I went back to get Sarah because she deserved to die, too. But you are wrong about one thing. I did not kill Mellie. I would never kill her. I love her. How could you think for a moment that I would kill her?” he cried.
Francesca exchanged a startled glance with Bragg. Then she saw Sarah climbing back inside through the window from the fire escape. She was as white as a sheet, her brown eyes huge in her small face. “Francesca? Are you all right?” she cried.
Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05] Page 33