The Christmas Eve Daughter - A Time Travel Novel: The Sequel to The Christmas Eve Letter

by Elyse Douglas

He was short and broad; his chin had a proud angle, and his teeth were crooked. He was probably in his late 30s.

  “It’s my story, you know,” he continued.

  “And what story would that be?” Patrick asked.

  The reporter regarded Patrick with a frank curiosity. “Who are you working for, friend? Big Jim? Casterbury?”

  Patrick was silent, hoping to learn more without revealing anything.

  “You a gumshoe, friend?”

  Patrick glanced about to see if they were being watched. He didn’t see anyone.

  Indicating with his head toward the elevators, Patrick asked, “Who was the highbrow lady in the fur, who just went to the twelfth floor?”

  The reporter took another draw on his pipe, studying Patrick. “I’m Stuart T. Bates,” he said with some pride. “New York World, since I assume you don’t know who I am.”

  Patrick held up his New York World newspaper.

  Stuart grinned. “Well, don’t you have the good taste, friend.”

  Stuart looked past Patrick to the elevators. “Who is the fur dame? Friend, whoever you are and whatever you’re up to, you can’t be the fastest horse on the track if you don’t know that is Mrs. Mary Daisey Crocker.”

  Patrick didn’t have a clue who she was, not being of this time. Again, he stayed silent, hoping to appear all wise.

  Stuart flashed a crooked grin. “They said they’d shoot me in the neck, you know, just like James J. Gallagher shot Mayor William Jay Gaynor in the neck in 1910 on board the SS Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse, docked at Hoboken. Now I know you recall that one, friend.”

  Patrick nodded, but he was faking it.

  “They know I covered that story in great detail. It was one of my best, if I can put on the fine coat of a braggart. Well, you know what happened to Mayor Gaynor, friend. He lived for three years with that bullet stuck in his throat, but he finally died in February last year. You recall all of that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Patrick lied. “But who is ‘they’?”

  Stuart shrugged. “Big Jim, of course. You know Big Jim, don’t you, friend?”

  “Yes, I know of Big Jim.”

  “So why are you here, friend? I’ve been doing all the talking. Now it’s your turn.”

  Patrick pulled something out of thin air. “My client wants something on Casterbury.”

  Stuart grinned again, and again it was the grin of a bad guy in an old cartoon.

  “Then you’ve got it, don’t you?”

  Patrick’s face didn’t betray his ignorance. “You mean the lady in the fur?”

  “Or are you working for the City and Comptroller Connolly?”

  Patrick’s eyes shifted. He wished he knew what this reporter was talking about.

  Stuart nodded, taking his own meaning from Patrick’s shifting eyes.

  “Well, you know Connolly is trying to clean up the corruption of the Tammany years, which Big Jim and Casterbury are working very diligently to maintain.”

  Patrick nodded. “Yes.”

  “The City controls valuable water grants—rights to construction piers and storage facilities along the East River. You must know that members of some of the most prominent families in New York—families with names like Casterbury, Goelet, and Delano—received water grants at prices far below their market value. Addison Casterbury is into honest graft, isn’t he? What is honest graft, you may ask, friend? Well, Addison Casterbury learns that a park or a bridge is going to be built. He travels there, and he buys up all the land he can in the neighborhood. Then, just like magic, the Board makes its plan public, and there is a rush to get Casterbury’s land, which nobody seemed to care about before. So Casterbury thinks it is perfectly honest to charge a good price and make a profit on his investment and foresight.”

  “What about Big Jim?” Patrick asked.

  Stuart was obviously a man who liked to talk about what he knew.

  “Now Big Jim, on the other hand, makes most of his money in graft—blackmailing gamblers, politicians, saloon-keepers, disorderly people, and the like. He also owns a fair number of brothels and gambling joints. But then, I’m sure you know that.”

  “So that brings us back to the lady in the furs,” Patrick said, venturing another look toward the elevators.

  “And what do I get in return, friend? That’s how business works, isn’t it?”

  Patrick knew but one sure thing about 1914. From his historical research in 2018, he’d learned a remarkable event happened on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day on the Western Front during World War I. There were movies and documentaries about a truce, a cease of hostilities in an otherwise brutal war.

  Patrick decided to be bold. “On Christmas Eve of this year, on the Western Front, there will be a Christmas truce.”

  Stuart looked away, unimpressed. “Yeah, so Pope Benedict XV has already proposed a truce on Christmas Day, and all the leaders on both sides of the trenches have said no.”

  Patrick fixed Stuart with his eyes. “It will happen.”

  “And how do you know this, friend? Have you been to the gypsy card readers?”

  Now Patrick grinned, his clear eyes meeting Stuart’s. “I came to this time, 1914, from the future—over a hundred years in the future—and I can tell you for sure that it will happen.”

  Stuart stared hard into Patrick’s eyes, trying to read him. And then he laughed, stopped and then laughed again at the absurd statement.

  “You’ve got some kind of humor, friend. I like it.”

  “Even if I’m wrong, if you write articles supporting that truce, you can’t go wrong. You know how much everyone in the world loves Christmas and the idea of peace on earth. And you know how much they really do want to believe in Christmas miracles. If you’re wrong, and there is no truce, the public will love your positive effort. If there is a truce, you will be a hero. Maybe your boss will even give you a raise or a byline. How can you go wrong?”

  Stuart took in Patrick’s words carefully, scrutinizing them, turning them over in his cunning head. He twisted up his mouth in thought. “So, you’re from the future, huh?”

  “Yes…” Patrick said, with a wry grin. “I am. And there will be a Christmas truce.”

  Stuart shook his head, chuckling. “I don’t know where you’re from, friend, but with your size and manly looks, you should join the gypsies and go into prognosticating. You could make a fortune.”

  “Maybe I will,” Patrick said.

  “All right, friend. Mary Daisy Crocker has been married to J. W. Crocker for nearly two years. Of course, you know he’s one of the richest men in New York, if not the entire country. He’s thirty years older than she, and he is insanely jealous. He also hates Addison Casterbury, who he thinks is a corrupt upstart with visions of political grandeur.”

  Stuart paused for dramatic effect. “Mary Daisy Crocker is pregnant with Addison Casterbury’s child and, so far, he has refused to own up to it. He, in fact, just wants her to go away. She is not happy about going away, and as you saw when she entered the hotel, she has not gone away. The scandal is about to explode, and I will be the one to expose it, with several articles already written and waiting for my editors. Well, why not me? Who else in this town wants to risk being shot in the neck by Big Jim’s men? Addison Casterbury is Big Jim’s clean and wealthy front man, you know. Big Jim doesn’t like Casterbury, but he will fight to keep him alive and not let him get all caught up in any publicity scandal that could come back and bite Big Jim in his big wallet.”

  Patrick spoke up. “Speaking of Big Jim. Any idea where his girlfriend is, Maggie Lott Gantly?”

  Stuart’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Now there, my friend, is a woman. She’s the best-looking woman on the stage today.”

  Patrick threw a glance toward the elevators. “Nobody seems to know where she is. I think she’s upstairs, maybe in a suite on the twelfth floor. What do you think?”

  Stuart placed the stem of the pipe between his teeth and worked it up and down, considerin
g his answer. When he pulled it out, he licked his lips.

  “And you’d be right again, friend, but you didn’t hear it from me. Big Jim would have me sliced up and thrown into the river. No one, and I mean no one, messes with Maggie Lott Gantly. She is Big Jim’s property, and she will continue to be his property until one of them dies.”

  Patrick hated the reporter’s use of the word “property.”

  “So, friend, even if a newsie or bootblack knows where Maggie Gantly is, they won’t say, nor will anybody else. So, you’d best leave it alone, friend, unless you want to wind up in the river floating to China. But, what the hell, yes, Maggie is upstairs on the twelfth floor.”

  Suddenly, both men heard a sharp sound. Patrick pivoted to see that the fastidious front desk manager, now alarmed, had slammed down the telephone. His face went white, filled with terror. He called for the house detective, but Patrick knew he was upstairs with Addison, so the house manager snatched up the phone, shouting at the cop on the other end.

  “Shots have been fired!” he yelled.

  An elevator returned from the upper floors and people scrambled out, women crying, men shouting at the free elevator operators to hurry up to the twelfth floor to offer assistance.

  “What the hell just happened?” Stuart asked, as a man hurried by, heading for the street to call a cop.

  “A man has been shot!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Call the police.”

  Both Patrick and Stuart broke for the elevators at the same time, shouldering in as the doors were sliding closed.

  “Take us to the twelfth floor,” Patrick ordered, pulling out his police badge.

  Stunned, Stuart’s eyes darted toward it. “Well, I’ll be a dumb mug’s mutt,” he said. “I should have known.”

  Patrick stayed quiet. “Hurry,” he told the nervous, bug-eyed operator.

  “It was the dame,” the young operator said. “The dame in the furs shot Casterbury in the chest two times. Right through the heart. He’s cold, stone dead. What about that?”

  Stuart yanked out his notepad and began to jot down notes, while Patrick ran through escape steps that he ticked off in his head. When the elevator doors slid open on the twelfth floor, Patrick burst out first, casting darting looks. Stuart charged out, turned right and loped down the burgundy-carpeted hallway.

  Patrick faced the anxious elevator operator. “Do you know where Maggie Gantly is? Which suite?”

  The elevator operator’s startled face flushed. “I… I can’t say, sir.”

  Patrick held up the badge. “Where? Tell me now!”

  Hesitating for only a moment, the operator pointed left. “She is in Suite 1203.”

  Patrick hurried off, pausing when he came to the end of the corridor. 1203 was located left, around a corner. He slowed, listened and placed his back flush against the wall. Carefully, he peered around the corner. A man stood by a chair outside the door, his attention focused on the commotion down the hallway in Addison’s suite.

  Patrick inhaled a breath, pulled himself to his full height and turned the corner, striding fast toward the man, who straightened, ready to face the threat. Patrick didn’t stop. He walked aggressively toward him and, for a second, the guard seemed confused. Patrick stopped two feet away, cocked a fist and punched the man in the stomach. He doubled over, his hands going to his stomach. Not waiting, Patrick hit him with a solid left in the jaw. The man slammed back against the wall and Patrick finished him with a good hammer blow to the back of his neck.

  The guard slammed into the carpet, head first, and sagged out cold. Patrick glanced about for an exit. He didn’t see one. Pulling in another good breath for strength and courage, he grabbed the doorknob, twisted it and swung it open wide, body poised for any attack.

  There she stood, his daughter, Maggie Gantly, frozen in terror, dressed in an emerald green dress and flat shoes. Patrick took her in, his heart slamming into his chest. He had come a long way for this—to see her. To help her. To save her.

  He melted for a minute, taken by her poise and beauty. The reality of the moment was almost too much for him to take, but he had no time to think about it.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” she shouted.

  “Is anyone else here?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Are you alone?” Patrick barked.

  She stepped back, scared. “Yes… I’m alone. What are you doing?”

  “I’m a friend of Eve Gantly. We have to go. Now. Do you have a passport?”

  “What?”

  “A passport. Get it, now.”

  Maggie threw up her hands, left the room and soon returned, holding up the passport.

  “What is going on out there?”

  “Never mind.”

  He reached out a hand. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

  “Eve Gantly sent you?” Maggie said, as if the name was something she’d nearly forgotten.

  “Yes. Come on, Maggie.”

  Maggie glanced about, as if trying to decide what to bring. “I should pack some things.”

  “There’s no time for that. We must go now. Grab a coat with a hood and let’s go. Hurry!”

  CHAPTER 32

  They rushed down the hallway to the elevator, hearing frantic voices. As Patrick had hoped, all the focus was on Suite 1201, Addison Casterbury’s suite. It would provide the perfect cover for escape.

  An elevator was standing open, the operator leaning out, staring down the hallway. When Patrick and a hooded Maggie approached and stepped inside, he snapped to attention.

  “Hurry,” Patrick demanded.

  The elevator doors whispered shut, and Patrick felt beads of sweat run down his back.

  “The basement,” Patrick said.

  “The basement, sir?”

  “Yes, the basement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Maggie was staring at Patrick, intently. She whispered. “Who are you?”

  Patrick ignored her. His every sense was on alert, his pulse high and drumming. As they descended, Patrick smelled Maggie’s lilac scent, and, in the glow of golden elevator light, she appeared angelic. He observed that both her jawline and her mouth favored his; the color of her hair, the shape of her nose was from her mother. Patrick fought a chaotic mix of emotions: fear, pride, confusion, as the elevator seemed to take an eternity to reach the basement.

  “Can you make this thing go faster?” Patrick said, impatiently.

  “All most there, sir,” the operator said, as the elevator finally came to rest at the basement level. Patrick handed the elevator operator a generous tip, seized Maggie’s arm and ushered her out.

  The elevator operator stared down at the bills in surprise and uttered, “Thank you, sir.”

  Patrick hoped the money would help compensate the man for the grilling and perhaps the beating he would get from Big Jim’s men.

  Patrick glanced around at a rustic gym area, sparsely in use, and spotted an exit door leading to 31st Street. Gripping Maggie’s arm, he made for the door.

  Outside, traffic was heavy, snow flurries drifted, and a gray and quilted sky rolled overhead.

  “You’re hurting my arm. Where are we going?” Maggie asked, feeling the vice grip of Patrick’s fingers.

  Searching the street, Patrick spotted a cab near the curb and yanked Maggie toward it. Once inside, he told the driver to take them to Broadway at Madison Square. As the taxi nudged into traffic, Maggie shoved the hood back and stared hard at Patrick, his face filled with a watchful anxiety.

  “You said you’re a friend of Eve Gantly?”

  Patrick jerked a nod, glancing back over his shoulder to ensure they weren’t being followed. “Yes.”

  “Are you her brother or something?”

  “We can’t talk now.”

  Maggie turned away, crossing her arms, frustrated. “I hope you know what you’re doing, whoever you are, because if Big Jim catches us, he’ll kill us both.”

  “Don’t talk,” Patrick scolded. �
�And put your hood back up.”

  Maggie huffed out a sigh, but she obeyed.

  When the cab bounced to a stop, Patrick gently led Maggie out and away down the street to the Hoffman House. He hoped and prayed Eve had left a telegram or phone message telling him where she was, so he and Maggie could immediately flee the City.

  They entered, Maggie still hooded, her face turned away from the lobby desk, and Patrick was handed a telegram. He eagerly took it.

  Upstairs in the room with the door locked, the two stood for a time in strained formality, eyes not meeting. Neither spoke as Patrick anxiously tore open the envelope and read:

  WILL CALL WHEN ARRIVE IN CANADA

  Patrick blew out a frustrated breath, cursing. “Where in Canada, Eve? Where?”

  Maggie looked on, concerned and nervous. “Was that from Eve Gantly? Is she in Canada?”

  Patrick didn’t look at Maggie. He hung his head, thinking. After it was discovered that Maggie was gone, it would take only an hour or so before Big Jim would have men combing Grand Central Terminal, the shipping piers and the exits out of the City. Big Jim had police connections. They’d try to lock down the City.

  But Patrick couldn’t leave until he knew where in Canada Eve was. Without an address or phone number, they’d have no way to connect. If they left, could he trust the front desk clerks to take a message? Could he call in later and learn where Eve was?

  No, he couldn’t take that chance. What if Big Jim’s men somehow found out about the Hoffmann House and monitored the calls. A remote possibility, yes, but still too risky. For now, Patrick would have to sit tight and wait for Eve’s call, or for another telegram from her.

  What about Ann Long? Perhaps she would know where Eve had gone. He called the front desk and had them put a call into the Augustana Hospital. And then he stalked the room, waiting.

  Maggie studied him, her face stern and rigid. “What is your name? And don’t tell me any lies. I’m sick and tired of lies.”

  “Patrick…”

  “How nice. You do know what you’re doing, don’t you, Patrick?”

  Patrick tried to hide the storm that was raging inside. “Of course. We’ll be leaving town soon and you’ll be safe.”