by Brenda Joyce
She turned as he entered. Her blue eyes widened and she cried in her soft, breathy voice, a voice that was childish and belied her extreme intelligence, "Calder!"
He had already remarked the interview in progress and its nature. A heavyset middle-aged woman was seated in a gold bergere, and she had been trying to keep her expression impassive—but he also saw the distaste and disapproval in her eyes.
Daisy glided to him, smiling with genuine pleasure. "What a surprise," she whispered.
He took one of her hands and kissed it gallantly—he refused to make an open display of either his affections or his desire in front of anyone, much less a servant.
Daisy smiled into his eyes.
He smiled back briefly and then walked in front of her and met the not quite blank gaze of the seated woman. Coolly he said, "Miss Jones will not be needing your services. Thank you. You may go."
The woman stood. Her jaw clenched, she said, "But I have good references, sir."
"You are dismissed." He did not move, reminding himself of patience.
Stunned, she stood. "But I don't understand," she began.
Daisy stepped forward, her smile kind and apologetic. "I am sorry, Mrs. Heller. Apparently Mr. Hart has already filled this post, and I do apologize for the waste of your time."
Mrs. Heller gripped her purse quite tightly. "If you change your mind, the agency will know where to reach me. Of course, by then I might be employed."
"I am sure you will be," Daisy said in her soft voice while Hart stood beside her, trying to be patient, acutely aware of the proximity of her slim, perfect body.
Mrs. Heller made a sound and hurried out of the salon. Hart knew it was an effort for her not to glare back at him, but to her credit, she did not.
Daisy walked after her and closed the salon doors behind her, so that she and Hart were entirely alone.
He watched her face him, wanting to take her in that moment, against the doors. He did not.
"Calder? Why?"
"She looks down on you as a whore, and thinks me the Devil," he said quietly.
Her eyes widened. "I trust your judgment, of course," she said, and she did not continue.
"I said I would take care of you, but perhaps you did not quite understand my meaning." He sauntered toward her. "I did not mean strictly monetarily, nor did I mean strictly in matters of the flesh. She would cause you grief in the end—she was not to be trusted."
Daisy relaxed against the door. He sensed the moment her interest changed, and his own interest flared. "Thank you." She regarded him with her steady blue cat eyes.
He leaned his shoulder against the door, near her but not touching her. "A glass of champagne? I sent over a case of Dom Perignon. Did you receive it?"
She nodded, smiling slightly, and she touched his cheek, cupping it with her soft, unblemished palm. "I even chilled a bottle." She moved her thumb over his lips. "This is such a nice surprise."
"I forgot to warn you—I am a man of impulse. I should have sent word I was coming—I apologize." On that last word, he kissed the heart of her palm.
"You never have to send word," she murmured.
"I want to kiss the heart of your sex," he said as she melted against him. "You know what, don't you?"
"Yes," she said on a tight and indrawn breath.
Their eyes locked. He slid his hands over her shoulders, smiling a little, feeling the last of his annoyance melting away. "I like the dress."
She smiled, pleased. "I hope so. If ever I do anything you do not like, you must tell me," she said.
He leaned close. "We shall argue and then make up." He smiled as he kissed her.
She did not answer, as she could not. His tongue was in her mouth, exploring every wet inch of her. "This is the prelude, Daisy," he said later. "My tongue here, this way, and there, later."
When she could speak, she asked, "What about now?"
He pulled his mouth from hers, sliding his hands down her satin-clad back and over her high, ripe buttocks. Even through several layers of fabric, he separated them. "First, champagne," he murmured. "And you shall tell me about your day and the progress you are making on the house."
FIVE
Friday, February 7,1902—5:00 P.M.
Bragg strode through the precinct, barking commands to Inspector Murphy, who trailed him. Francesca raced beside him excitedly, Joel on her heels. A roundsman assigned to the station house that day rushed up to Murphy, waving a piece of paper. The tall, burly inspector snatched it from the young man's hands. "Is this the O'Donnell address?"
"Yes, sir," the young patrolman answered, his eyes wide and excited behind owlish eyeglasses.
"Kathleen O'Donnell's place of residence," Murphy said, handing it to Bragg. "Before she died," he added unnecessarily.
Bragg glanced at the paper and handed it back to him. "Take a police wagon. Bring two men, and follow me downtown."
"Yes, sir," Murphy said. He turned to the bespectacled young officer. "Harold, fetch Potter and let's go. Full gear!"
Bragg was already donning the coat he had carried over his arm. He suddenly looked at Francesca, his severe expression changing. It softened. "Once again, well done, Miss Cahill."
She could not smile back; she was so breathless with excitement. Was O'Donnell related to the first victim? Was he her husband? A brother, a cousin? Surely there was a connection, as the coincidence was too great, his being Mary O'Shaunessy's brother and his having the same last name as the first murder victim! "Thank you," she said crisply. "I am coming, Bragg."
He had been about to launch himself through the precinct's wide front doors; now, he whirled. "Absolutely not. It is time for you to go home while I conduct police affairs alone."
His words were a stunning blow. "But I must come!" she cried.
This time he did not answer her, racing through the front door. She ran after him. He could not leave her behind now!
He had not put on his gloves, which were jammed in a coat pocket. He began to crank up the roadster's engine, turning the lever round and round.
Joel tugged on her sleeve.
"Not now," Francesca said. "Bragg," she began.
Joel stood up on his toes and whispered, "Lady! Did you see the paper before he crushed it? Did you see her address?"
She started and gazed at him. "Unfortunately, I did not."
"Too bad," he said, giving her a significant look.
The engine coughed as if it would not start, and then it roared to life.
By now, they had attracted a crowd of gawkers and passersby—some prostitutes and several shady-looking men, a ragged child or two. Bragg walked briskly around to the driver's door, opened it, and slid in, reaching for the goggles he kept at hand. A police wagon was now halting behind the roadster; Murphy, Harold, and another officer were rushing down headquarters' front steps.
Francesca did not hesitate. She pulled open the passenger's door, and as Joel scooted into the narrow space behind the front seats, she leaped into the Daimler. "It is because of the girls, Bragg. I am not taking no for an answer." She slammed her door closed.
He was disbelieving. "I cannot put you into this kind of danger," he said. "And I will not."
"What danger?" she cried. "We are merely going to question a man about his relationship to two women."
"Two dead women, who were brutally murdered," he said with anger.
She shivered, recalling the cross carved into Mary's throat. "The knife to the throat was not what killed her, was it?" The cut had not looked that deep. How Mary had actually died had been bothering her no end.
He stared, his jaw clenching. "Francesca, good night."
It was hard to believe, but she was going to lose this round—she was going to have to leave. "I will find out, eventually. I am sure the press will go into every ghastly detail."
"She was stabbed," he said bluntly. "In the back, repeatedly."
Francesca looked at him, and as his words sank in, she shivered. "What?"
"Now do you s
ee why I do not want you involved? And after the brutal attack, her clothes were carefully rearranged. She died slowly, Francesca—but fortunately, she would have passed out first."
Francesca stared in horror.
"Please go home," he said, suddenly weary. "I have a responsibility to the families of these two young women, and I cannot be responsible for you, too."
Francesca got out of the car. She was grim. "I want to help you, Bragg. Can I help? Perhaps in some other way? I do not want to add to your worries."
"I know you wish to help. But you will have your chance, another time."
She managed to nod, crestfallen.
Suddenly he closed his eyes, but briefly. When he opened them he said, "I may not find O'Donnell today. You know that."
She nodded.
He added, "But I will meet you at my house in two hours or so."
She realized what he meant and she started. "You will meet the girls?" she asked, stunned.
"But they cannot stay," he warned. "Except for a single night."
She wanted to hug him. Of course, she did not dare; she beamed. "In two hours then, Bragg." And never mind that she might be late for her supper and that Julia would be waitings at home, demanding to know where she had been.
He smiled a little, and she watched him drive off. The police wagon followed, pulled by a large Clydesdale horse.
"Now wut?" Joel asked peevishly.
Francesca was thoughtful, watching the Daimler turn right at the end of the block. The crowd quickly dissipated and she turned. "It is five o'clock. I think I shall make a purchase I have postponed and then go check on the girls—before Bragg returns home." Suddenly that seemed like a very good idea, just in case Peter had had a rough time taking care of them.
Joel grinned at her slyly. "But don't you want Kathleen O'Donnell's address? Don't you want to go down there an' ask her folks all kind of questions?"
She studied him, somewhat amused. "You know I do! But I cannot go now, in any case, for Bragg and the police will be there. Besides, it might take some time to learn where she lived."
"I know how to get O'Donnell's address," Joel returned with a grin.
"You do?" she asked, startled. "How?"
"Got a fiver?"
Francesca was about to open her purse; she stopped. "Surely you do not expect me to bribe a police officer for the information?"
"Best way to get it," Joel said cheerfully.
"Joel! That happens to be a criminal offense!"
"Lady, everyone pays off the spots. An' you know it. He knows it." Joel said, nodding his head in the direction Bragg had disappeared.
She stared at Joel, for one moment debating walking inside the station house, handing Captain Shea the five-dollar bill, and asking for Kathleen O'Donnell's last known address. Then she shook her head, trying to clear her spinning mind. "I will not bribe a police officer," she said firmly.
Joel held out his hand.
"What?" But she knew what he wanted and, more important, what he intended to do.
He grinned at her.
She handed him the five dollars. "Oh, dear," she said.
"Be right back," he said, and he ran up the front steps of the squat brownstone building.
The gun shop was on Sixth Avenue and 45th Street, a block lined with stores, many of them apparel stores, with a music store next door. Joel had succeeded in gaining Kathleen O'Donnell's address, which was on Avenue C, but Francesca would wait until the morning to go there— as Bragg and his men might still be at the flat, looking for clues and evidence, and Julia was expecting her for supper. Sixth Avenue was busy now; suited men, huddled up in their overcoats, top hats pulled low, were either walking briskly up- or downtown on their way home from their place of employment or leaping onto one of the electric trolleys that ran uptown. Black cabs congested the traffic, and all were occupied. An occasional gentleman's carriage or coach was visible, and one block away a series of el trains roared downtown, one after another, clearly on a rush-hour schedule.
Francesca looked at the display window, which was filled with every kind of gun imaginable, and then she faced Joel, her pulse accelerating. She did not like guns— she never had—nor had she ever fired one. "Wait out here, and under no circumstance are you to come inside. In fact, our relationship is a suspicious one, so pretend you do not know me."
"OK," Joel said happily.
She smiled at him and because his shaggy black hair was covered by his wool cap she tugged on his earlobe affectionately; then, inhaling, for courage, she walked into the small shop. After all, she was a citizen, and everyone had the right to bear arms, so how difficult could it be to purchase a gun?
Somehow, she expected it to be difficult indeed.
Inside, it was poorly lit, but perhaps that was due to the fact that it was almost closing time and outside it was already dark. The shop contained three glass counters in the shape of a U, all filled with merchandise, and a bulky bald man with a thick black mustache was behind one of the counters. He had his back to Francesca, and was shoving something into a cabinet drawer, but as the bell on the door tinkled, he turned.
"Hello," Francesca said with false cheer, gripping her purse tightly. She did not understand her own state of nerves. Perhaps it was because she did not believe in guns—they were tools of injury and death. Yet a gun was a necessity in her new line of work; she had learned that lesson the hard way.
Of course, she would only use it as a very last resort, when placed in the gravest imaginable danger.
Francesca smiled at the owner, a plump-cheeked man of forty or so. "Good evening, sir," she said, coming forward. As she did so, she saw that the counter to her right was filled with small weapons, some extremely dainty, and as a half a dozen had pearl handles, they were clearly for ladies.
"May I help you, miss?" he asked.
"I wish to purchase a gun," she said.
"Well, that is what we do here; we sell guns." He eyed her closely. "But I have very few young ladies asking to buy for themselves. If you do not mind my asking, how old are you?"
She hesitated, thinking quickly. "I am twenty-one, sir," she fabricated. "But the gun is not for myself. My sister wishes to learn to shoot, and as her birthday is dawning, I have decided to buy her a gun. She is Lady Montrose," she added.
Most Americans were in awe of nobility, and he was no exception. Connie's title gave him pause, and respectfully he said, "I have read about Lord and Lady Montrose in the social columns. So you are her sister?"
Francesca smiled. "I am Francesca Cahill."
It was a small town, in a way, and she knew he was familiar with her last name, as his eyes widened slightly. Her father was very wealthy, although it hadn't always been that way—as a boy, he had grown up on a farm, and he had worked in a butcher shop before he had acquired it himself. That had led him into meatpacking, and at the age of twenty-three Andrew Cahill had begun his first meatpacking plant.
"Well, let us look at some guns, then." The salesman smiled.
She walked to the counter filled with pearl-handled derringers and other small pistols. He followed. "Sir? What about that little one with the silvery pearl handle?"
He smiled at her and said, "The handle is opal. What kind of shooting does your sister wish to do?" He unlocked the case and removed the tiny gun.
Francesca accepted the gun from him. It was so small, it was the size of her hand. It weighed perhaps a half a pound, surely not an ounce more. She lifted it and pointed it at the mirror on the other side of the room. This gun would be easy to use.
"This will do nicely indeed," she breathed, suddenly fascinated. It was beautiful, actually, and it would fit inside her purse easily. "I think she merely wants to own a gun, in case she ever needs one for protection," Francesca added as he stared at her.
He softened. "Well, then perhaps that derringer will do. If your sister wished to become a marksman, I would not recommend it. But if she wants a pretty bauble, why, this is perfect for her. Shall I g
ift-wrap it?"
"That would be wonderful," Francesca said, thinking that no one would ever suspect she was carrying a gun if it was in the box and in a shopping bag. It crossed her mind that he had referred to a weapon of death as a pretty bauble, but then she dismissed the thought. After all, this salesman was used to handling weapons, and compared to the huge and threatening revolvers in the other cases, not to mention the hunting rifles mounted on the walls, he would consider such a pistol a bauble indeed.
It had been so easy!
A tiny warning voice told her it had been too easy, but she ignored it.
Outside, Joel was waiting for her, watching the passersby, his back against the storefront window, one foot up on the brick. Francesca smiled at him. "Mission accomplished," she said lightly.
"Let me see what you got!" he cried eagerly, coming off of the wall.
She held up the box, which was wrapped in a pretty red, white, and blue paper. She had asked not to use the store's wrap so that her sister would be genuinely surprised by the contents of the box; he had told her most of his customers preferred not to have al's gun shop emblazoned on their box or bag. "I shall sneak it home this way," she said, feeling rather triumphant.
Joel was clearly disappointed that he would not have an opportunity to admire her new gun. "Can I see it tomorrow?"
"Of course." She took his arm. "I am off to Bragg's. Shall I put you in a cab and send you home? We can meet early tomorrow and continue our work then."
"Wut time?"
"How does nine o'clock sound? I can meet you directly at Kathleen O'Donnell's."
They agreed to meet at nine. "I'll take the crosstown," he said. "Why waste the dough?"
"Are you sure?" Francesca had begun when a voice said, "Miss Cahill! What are you doing down here, on Sixth and Forty-fifth?"
She recognized the male voice, although she had only met its owner twice. Reluctantly she turned to face Richard Wiley, a tall, thin man who had thought to court her and who was blushing furiously now. "Why, Mr. Wiley, what a pleasant surprise," she said.
Francesca knocked on the door to Bragg's house again— for the third time. Some anxiety filled her—in the past, the door had been opened by Peter almost the very moment she arrived on the stoop. Now she wondered what could be taking him so long. Then she told herself that no one answered the door so promptly all of the time.
