A Promise of Ruin

by Cuyler Overholt

  Returning reluctantly to the task at hand, I settled my gaze on the target, but hesitated as I heard voices waft up from the street below. “Won’t the police come running if they hear shots?” I asked.

  “I’ve already cleared it with Patrolman Flaherty.”

  Of course he had. “What if the bullet goes astray and hits someone?”

  “There’s nothing to hit behind that target but the party wall, and it will forgive you,” he answered drily.

  Balancing my weight evenly between the balls of my feet, I relaxed my shoulders, lifted my chin, and raised my arms to line up the sight with the bull’s-eye.

  “Now just breathe out nice and easy, and at the end of the exhale, pull the trigger all the way through.”

  I did as he said. The revolver kicked up in my hand when I fired, forcing me backward. Simon caught me by the shoulders and set me upright.

  I swivelled toward him. “Did I hit it?”

  “No, but you put a good scare into the party wall,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Go ahead, try it again.”

  It took me a while to get the hang of it, but thirty minutes later, I was hitting the target every time, and had come close to the bull’s-eye more than once.

  “Nice work,” Simon said when we finally called it quits.

  I gave the gun an affectionate pat. My headache was gone, I realized, and for an entire half hour, I’d forgotten to be afraid. “I think I’ll call her Calamity,” I said, “after Calamity Jane, the shootist.”

  Simon cocked an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound very promising.”

  “No, I suppose you’re right. Annie then, after Annie Oakley, ‘sure shot of the west.’ Where should I keep her, do you think?”

  “I couldn’t get a holster that would fit you on short notice, but I’ll keep working on it. In the meantime, keep it somewhere you can get to it in a hurry.”

  I opened my bag and tucked the gun carefully into the inner pocket along with a box of ammunition, feeling better than I had in some time. The only thing Velloca and his men really had over me, when you thought about it, was their sheer physical strength and the willingness to use it—and that imbalance, it seemed to me, had just been corrected.

  • • •

  Simon took me home in a hansom cab and saw me safely to my door, introducing me to Officer McNulty, the new man on watch, and instructing me to call him at the saloon if I needed anything. I let myself into the house, and had barely taken off my hat and gloves, when Katie emerged from the sitting room with a feather duster in hand and planted herself in front of me.

  “So you’ve been to see the detective,” she said.

  “Why, yes,” I said, wondering what had put such a scowl on her face. “He needed to take my statement about the kidnappers.”

  Her scowl deepened. “White slavers, the officer told me. Not kidnappers.”

  I silently released my breath. “You spoke to Officer McNulty.”

  “Who was kind enough to tell me the truth. Unlike some people.”

  I dropped my bag onto the console table. “I’m sorry, Katie,” I said, feeling ten years old all over again under her reproachful gaze. “I should have told you everything.”

  “You know, I do worry about you, Miss Genna,” she said stiffly. “Like I’d worry about a child of my own, if I had one.”

  “I know you do; that’s why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to upset you.”

  “I can always tell when you’re keeping something from me,” she went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. “It makes me sad to think you can’t trust me enough to confide in me.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust you! I just don’t want to burden you with my problems.”

  She pressed her lips together, unmoved by this response. “The people who care about you deserve to know when you’re in trouble.”

  “You’re right,” I said, now thoroughly contrite, “so let me tell you now.” Leading her into the sitting room, I sat beside her and told her all the frightening and unsavory details I’d omitted earlier. She took it like a soldier, making no comment, although I knew she must be turning somersaults inside.

  “All this for some girl you’d never even met,” she said when I was done, shaking her head. “And a foreign girl at that.”

  I studied her face, wishing there was some way to make her understand. “How old were you when came to America, Katie?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “What if someone had abducted you right off the boat and sold you into slavery? Wouldn’t you hope and pray that some stranger might come along to help you?”

  She crossed her arms. “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to get kidnapped in the first place.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t,” I said with a sigh. “Well, I’m sorry it’s all come so close to home, in any event. Can you forgive me?”

  She sniffed. “I just thank the Lord the neighbors are all gone so I don’t have to explain why there’s a policeman standing at our door.”

  The day had thoroughly drained me, and after a light supper, I retired to my room and crawled into bed in relief. But although I desperately needed it, I was not blessed with restful sleep. Instead, I had a terrible dream—a dream of cruel hands pushing me into a pit, deeper and deeper into the earth, their steely grasp inescapable. When I tried to scream, the hands moved to my face, clamping over my mouth and nose and cutting off my air. I woke with a sob and sat up in bed as the first rays of the new day’s light entered my window.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Detective Cassidi telephoned me the next morning as promised, just as I was finishing breakfast. “Stimitz denied ever taking photographs for Velloca,” he told me, “and a search of the premises didn’t turn up any other pornographic materials. The strange thing is, I got the distinct impression he was expecting us. Do you think he might have suspected you weren’t who you said you were?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said, wiping crumbs of buttered toast from my lips. “Why would he have given me the pictures if he had?”

  “Maybe he got suspicious afterward and contacted Velloca to check.”

  I considered this. “He did say he’d promised to have the prints ready by late yesterday afternoon. I suppose if Velloca tried to collect them then, he would have discovered that someone had already been there.”

  “That would explain Stimitz’s emotional state. He seemed terrified, but not of us.”

  Velloca would have realized, of course, that Stimitz could link him to the girls in the stable. Even if he didn’t know who’d taken the pictures, he’d want to make sure the photographer never revealed his identify. “You think Velloca threatened him?”

  “If he did, it did the trick, because Stimitz refused to cooperate, even when we told him he’d be spending considerable time in jail if he didn’t.”

  “Did you arrest him?”

  The detective sighed. “We did, but since we don’t actually have the pornographic pictures in our possession”—he paused to let the silent rebuke sink in—“I doubt the district attorney will decide to prosecute.”

  I bit back an apology for destroying the evidence, for I didn’t see how I could have done things any differently. Showing the pictures in open court would have devastated Teresa. Even if Antonio never saw them, knowing that they existed and what they captured would have been just as bad—and possibly worse—for it would have left too much to his imagination. “What about Nucci? Has he shown any inclination to bargain with you?”

  “To the contrary, he baits us with insults at every opportunity.” He hesitated, then added, “And I’m afraid I have some more bad news. Francesca Ragusa has changed her mind. She’s not going to testify against Gallo.”

  I sank onto the closet seat.

  “She received an anonymous letter threatening harm to her sister in Italy if she testifies. We told her it’
s most likely just a bluff, but she said unless we could guarantee that her sister would be safe, she couldn’t risk it. Of course, we could give her no such guarantee.”

  “Can she do that? Back out now, when things are already in motion?”

  “The DA could always commit her to the House of Detention as a hostile witness, and hold her in contempt until she talks. But I don’t think he’ll want to do that.”

  “And I wouldn’t want him to,” I said with a sigh. “She’s been through enough already.”

  “You understand what this means?” the detective asked. “The entire case against Nucci now rests on you. I think you need to prepare yourself for the likelihood that he and Velloca will be threatening you as well.”

  So we’d gone from slight chance to probability in just a few hours. “Fortunately, I don’t have any sisters,” I muttered.

  “Brava, Doctor,” he said, sounding relieved. “I knew we could count on you. Rest assured that we will continue to guard your house around the clock. In light of the circumstances, I will ask again, as a personal favor, that you stay indoors as much as possible.”

  “All right, Detective. But you will you do me a favor as well?”

  “Of course. Anything you wish.”

  “Don’t call me again unless you have good news.”

  • • •

  In my new spirit of honesty, I brought Katie up to date on the latest developments, telling her I’d be taking all my meals at home for the foreseeable future and helping her write up a more extensive weekly shopping list than usual, since I wouldn’t be able to run errands for myself. I caught her looking at me more than once as we worked on the list, her forehead creased with concern.

  “Try not to worry too much, Katie,” I said finally. “I’ve got Simon and Maurice to look out for me, and we’ll have a policeman standing guard around the clock.”

  She snorted. “Fat lot of good the police will do you, if they’re all three sheets to the wind.”

  I frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

  She jerked her head toward the front stoop. “I saw that one takin’ a tipple out of his flask before the sun was barely up in the sky.”

  “Good heavens! You mean to say he’s drunk on the job?”

  “No more than usual, I expect,” she answered darkly.

  From what I’d seen of the New York police, I guessed this was a fair conclusion. “Well, bring him a strong cup of coffee, will you? And tell him to pour out his flask immediately, or I’ll have to report him.”

  I was at the desk in my bedroom, trying to prepare for my therapy class the following day, when the telephone rang for the second time that morning. I trotted down to answer it, remembering my words to Cassidi and praying that he was, indeed, calling me with good news.

  “Genevieve Summerford,” I announced.

  “Good morning, Miss Summerford,” a male voice replied.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled at the Italian inflection. “Who is this?” I asked, although I was pretty sure I already knew.

  “A great admirer of yours.”

  Velloca. It took all my willpower not to drop the earpiece like a venomous scorpion.

  “I believe you have something of mine,” he said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I managed to reply.

  “Mr. Stimitz has an eye for the ladies. I recognized you immediately from his description.”

  I said nothing, my mind racing.

  “I can only assume that our mutual friend is as eager to preserve the mementos of our time together as I am, and prevailed on you to intervene. But alas, I find I cannot live without them. I do hope, for your sake, that they are still in your possession?”

  What was the best answer? Should I tell him that the photographs had already been destroyed? Or perhaps pretend that I’d given them to the police? Either might keep him from coming after me to try to recover them. But then again, he might not believe me, or he might discover that the police actually didn’t have them and come after me anyway. If he thought they were still in my possession, on the other hand, I could threaten to give them to the police unless he and his thugs stayed far away from me, now and throughout the trial.

  He was waiting for my answer. “Yes,” I said. “I still have them.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. You have caused me much inconvenience, Miss Summerford, but if you bring them to my office right now, I am prepared to put the past behind us.”

  “Why would I do something as stupid as that?”

  He chuckled. “It pains me to think that the pleasure of my company is not a sufficient reason. But let me give you another. Your housekeeper. She is with my man Gallo as we speak.”

  Katie. I swiveled toward the hall clock. She had left to do the marketing forty minutes ago.

  “Perhaps you remember Gallo from your stay with us?” he was saying. “I’m afraid that he is not the most patient of men. If you don’t meet me at my office with the photographs in twenty minutes, there’s no saying what he might do.”

  Katie, with Gallo. My mind went suddenly blank, wiped clean by fear. I squeezed my eyes shut. Think. I wasn’t defenseless; I had a gun. I could bring the patrolman outside up with me and have him wait nearby while I…

  “She’s being held where she will never be found, to be released only when I give the word,” he continued, as if I’d been speaking out loud. “If you bring anyone with you, I’m afraid I will not be able to keep her from suffering badly.”

  “Well, I’m not going to come alone,” I said, my voice cracking like a dry twig. “If I do, you’ll only take us both.”

  “So much pluck,” he said with a sigh. “I truly am sorry we didn’t have a chance to become better acquainted while you were enjoying my hospitality.” He was silent for a moment. “Very well, we will meet at a public place. Say, the café at 105th Street and Third Avenue? If you leave now, you can be there by eleven. Don’t be late, or your housekeeper will pay for it.” He hung up the phone.

  I stood paralyzed with the receiver in my hand, random thoughts careening through my mind. Gallo wouldn’t care that the arthritis in Katie’s knees made it hard for her to go up steps, or that she needed to call her sister every Sunday, or that she’d been like a mother to a frightened and lonely young girl. He’d hurt her without a moment’s hesitation and enjoy doing it. I swayed on my feet, undone by the knowledge that once again, I’d put someone I loved in mortal danger.

  I braced myself against the telephone box, struggling to think clearly. I had to meet with Velloca and try to get him to reveal Katie’s location. That much was clear. But I had no guarantee that he wouldn’t try to abduct me as well, even if our meeting was in a public place. Which meant that despite his warning, I’d have to bring someone to protect me.

  But not the patrolman outside. I needed someone stealthy on his feet and quick-witted enough to avoid detection, not someone stupified by alcohol. I tapped the telephone hook and told the operator to put me through to the Italian Legion.

  Detective Silva answered the call.

  “I need to speak to Detective Cassidi,” I told him. “It’s an emergency.”

  “He’s already on his way to court.”

  Of course, I remembered belatedly; he was taking Nucci to his arraignment. I quickly explained my predicament.

  “Lieutenant Petrosino is at the Harlem station house, interrogating a prisoner,” Silva told me. “That’s only a few blocks from the café. Maybe he could go over and take up surveillance.”

  “Could you ask him to?” I pleaded, gripping the receiver cord.

  “I’ll call the station house right now. If I can’t reach him, I’ll tell them to send one of the precinct detectives.”

  I thanked him and hung up, glancing again at the wall clock. Three minutes had elapsed. Tapping the hook again, I put a call throug
h to Simon’s saloon.

  “No one answers, ma’am,” the operator said after several rings.

  I supposed Billie hadn’t arrived yet to open up. And Simon didn’t have a telephone in his private quarters, so I couldn’t reach him there. I tried to tell myself that Petrosino would be enough, but my self wasn’t convinced. It was suddenly very clear to me that I needed Simon to go with me. I simply couldn’t do this without him.

  I dashed out of the phone closet and up the stairs to my bedroom. Pulling the revolver from my handbag, I grabbed a handful of garters from the bureau, pulled them over my stockings onto my thigh, and slid the gun underneath them, distributing the garters evenly along its length to hold it secure. Continuing to my father’s study, I took a large manila envelope from the desk drawer and wrote “Stimitz Studio” with a fountain pen on the top left corner. I carried this down to the pantry, where I pulled two boxes of Malt-Too Flakes off the shelves. Dumping out their contents, I sliced the boxes into pieces with a paring knife and slid the pieces into the envelope.

  A moment later, I descended the front steps with the envelope under my arm. Waving to the officer so as not to alarm him into following, I continued up the block and around the corner at a brisk pace, then ran the remaining distance to the carriage house. Our groom, Oliver, was mucking out the stalls when I arrived.

  “Where’s Maurice?” I asked, pushing my hair out of my eyes as I glanced around the building. I’d forgotten my hat, and chunks of hair had escaped their pins in my mad dash to the stable.

  He straightened, resting his shovel blade on the ground. “In the park, exercising the carriage horses, miss,” he said, disapproval of my breathless and disheveled condition written clearly across his face. Although he was at least two decades younger than Maurice, Oliver often acted much older, and was averse to excitement or impropriety of any sort.

  “Damn!” I cried, slapping the stall gate, which only caused Oliver’s frown to deepen. With my parents away, Maurice had taken it upon himself to exercise the carriage horses in his spare time. I had hoped that by having him drive me in the motorcar—ignoring the speed limit, for once—I could pick Simon up at the Isle of Plenty and still get to the café on time. I strode to the side of the motorcar and peered over the door at the controls. “Do you know how to drive this thing?”