by Brenda Joyce
Mrs. Hopper nodded but said, "I wish I had more to add, but I don't. I just want those two sweet girls back."
They left her and hurried down the hall. "These are too many disappearances, Bragg. They must be linked. But why?" Dread was creeping over her now.
He glanced at her, his expression severe. "Perhaps the children are being forced into a sweatshop, Francesca."
She was relieved. For she had begun to dread another possibility—one she dearly did not want to think about. "I read about immigrants being forced into labor in the worst conditions in Jacob Riis's book," she said quickly. "But I never expected to encounter the situation in reality. I never thought to uncover such an elaborate plan to find workers and then abduct them into the workplace." She had become outraged. "And children at that!"
"Every now and then a ring of white slavers is broken up. We will find the perpetrators of these crimes."
Francesca was silent as they paused before Principal Matthews's door, thinking about the fact that all four girls were missing now. The plot had certainly and quickly thickened. She glanced at Bragg. He hadn't even remarked on her worst fear. And he was so terribly grim, so terribly concerned. He must ache for the girls, as she did—how frightened and despondent they must be. How could this be happening in the twentieth century, in the greatest and most modern city in the world? Very easily, she thought, as the schism between rich and poor, between the haves and have-nots, was so terribly vast.
Matthews called out for them to enter, breaking into her dark thoughts. He was a portly man with heavy side-whiskers, and he was at once surprised and oddly pleased to see them. "Do come in," he said. "I feel certain you are not parents of any of our students?" It was a question.
Bragg shook his hand. "I am Police Commissioner Bragg, Principal, and this is Miss Cahill, a sleuth employed by the O'Hares. We are here in regard to the students missing from your school."
Matthews's face fell. "Do sit down," he said somberly. "It has been so odd, first Rachael Wirkler, then Bonnie Cooper and Deborah Smith."
"Were the police called in?"
"That was a decision I left to the parents. When Bonnie disappeared, her father refused to seek the help of the police. He is a rather disreputable sort, and I gathered he disliked the police. I encouraged him to ask for help, but he never did."
"He has a criminal record?"
"I think he was in jail, yes."
Francesca had taken out her notepad, and she made a few quick notes. "What was his name?"
"I am not sure. Perhaps it was John. Yes, it may have been John Cooper."
Francesca glanced at Bragg. "Can you have one of your men go over the mug book?" she asked, referring to the book of sketches and photographs that was otherwise known as the Rogues' Gallery, as it contained almost every known criminal in the city.
Bragg nodded. "Principal, what is the Coopers' home address?"
Matthews said, "My secretary has left for the day. I'm afraid I do not understand the filing system, but I can get you the home addresses of all the missing students Monday, if you wish."
"Monday is too late," Bragg said. "Why don't you try to find the records we need?" He smiled politely now.
Matthews stood. "Of course. I'll be right back," he said, walking into the adjacent front room, where several small desks were.
Francesca turned to watch him go to some filing cabinets. "It is odd that he did not summon the police, Bragg."
"Yes, it is."
"And what was that nonsense about not knowing how to file?"
"I am not sure." They shared a glance.
Bragg walked into the next room, Francesca following. Matthews was bent over the file drawer. "And the Wirklers? Is there a reason they did not file a police report?"
"I think they did. At least, I seem to recall them telling me that they would." He looked up and smiled at them.
Francesca could not help herself. "I find it odd that you would not be certain about the police being asked to investigate when a student of yours has disappeared. I also find it odd that you did not summon the police yourself. After all, the children here are in your care and they are your responsibility."
He visibly stiffened but continued to smile. "I have eight hundred children in this school. I cannot begin to tell you the work involved in administering it all. If the Coopers felt that the police should not be involved, I felt it was their decision to make. As for Rachael Wirkler, I do believe but cannot recall clearly that the police were asked in." Matthews continued to smile. "This is a trying job. I do the best that I can."
Francesca thought him negligent in both his duty toward and responsibility for his students.
"Has any student volunteered information regarding the disappearances?" Bragg asked calmly.
Matthews softened. "No. No one seems to know anything. We had a general assembly a month ago, requesting help. No one came forth."
"Children do not disappear into thin air," Francesca said tersely. "Surely someone in this vast school saw strange suspicious men lurking about."
"You are suggesting foul play?" Matthews was surprised, his dark eyes wide.
"I most certainly am."
"You do know that children at the adolescent age these three girls were at often run away, sometimes with a lover."
"Yes, I do. But Deborah Smith was not that kind of girl, and I have no doubt that if I speak with the Coopers and Wirklers I will learn the very same thing about their daughters," Francesca said, now firmly disliking the principal.
"Francesca, you are leaping to assumptions," Bragg murmured, touching her elbow.
"I feel very strongly about this, Bragg," she warned. "Principal Matthews, have you found any records?"
"No." Matthews hesitated. "They seem to be missing, Miss Cahill. There is no Wirkler in the 'Ws,' no Cooper in the 'Cs.' I will try 'Smith' now."
Bragg quickly stepped past the principal. "May I?"
"Please." Matthews stepped back, looking quite uncomfortable now.
A moment later Bragg straightened and met Francesca's regard. "Well, well," he said. "It appears there are three missing files."
She stared. "Perhaps they are misfiled?"
He gave her a doubtful look. "Perhaps."
"I am certain my secretary can solve this matter on Monday," Matthews said.
Francesca doubted it. The files had been removed—or even destroyed. She smiled grimly at him. "You may be sure I will find out what happened to the three girls, Principal Matthews."
"And I look forward to your findings, Miss Cahill." He walked them to the hall. "Are you the infamous sleuth who caught the Randall Killer with a fry pan?"
"Yes, I am," she said, unsmiling. She not only disliked the man, but he had a strong body odor that was offensive as well.
Once in the hallway, with the principal's door closed behind them, Francesca faced Bragg in disbelief. "You were very hard on him," he said softly.
"I don't like him. He should be dismissed instantly for negligence of duty. He should have called in the police the very day Bonnie Cooper did not come back to school!"
Bragg smiled and clasped her shoulder. "I happen to agree, but we will get more from him with honey than vinegar."
She softened. "You are right. Bragg, someone has removed those files, obviously to cover any trail leading to what really happened to those girls!"
"That may be the case. Or there may be another explanation."
"I don't see how there could possibly be another explanation!" she cried. "I am beginning to think that Matthews is involved himself, somehow."
"That is a huge conclusion to draw. Francesca, you are getting very emotional and that is not a good way to get to the bottom of this case."
She hesitated, because he was right. With more girls missing, with the possibility of foul play now a near certainty, she was angry. She could not bear the idea of sweet, innocent girls being forced into slave labor—or, God forbid, something worse. But to successfully conduct an investigation
, she needed her wits about her. "I want those children safely home, Bragg."
He held her shoulder for one more instant, his grip reassuring and warm. "I know you do," he said. "And so do I."
Their eyes met and she softened and they smiled at each other in understanding. It crossed her mind that no one understood her the way that Bragg did, not even Hart. She pulled away then. He gave her a look, as if understanding her still, and they started down the hall.
"What's next?" Francesca asked. "It's already half past four. I'd like to speak to Will Schmitt again, but I fear that will have to wait until tomorrow. I promised Calder I would speak with Sarah today and get that portrait started." The moment she spoke, she regretted her words and wished she had not mentioned Hart's name. She did not want to argue now. It had already been a long and eventful day.
He didn't speak as they walked out of the building.
Francesca winced, trying to make out his expression, but it was engraved in stone.
Then he said, "I will have my men canvass the neighborhood until we locate the Wirklers and Coopers. I can give you a ride, if you wish. I have a meeting at the Fifth Avenue Hotel at five, so I have the time."
"That would be nice," she said.
His Daimler was parked ahead. He said, "Are you seeing him tonight?"
She faced him squarely and declared, "I don't think so. We made no plans. Bragg, you will be out and about with your wife tonight, so even if I am with Calder, it should not bother you so much."
"Well, it does."
She seized his arm as he started past her, halting him. "The girls adore her. And she adores them."
He stared, looking annoyed now, dangerously so. "They do adore her. I admit to being more than surprised. But it is the one light in my life right now."
"The one? She is determined that you be at a very important political dinner tonight, one which benefits your future, not hers. I think you are behaving terribly toward her, Bragg, I really do." There, she had said what was on her mind and eating at her all afternoon.
"The dinner affair tonight only benefits my future? I beg to differ, Francesca. Leigh Anne covets the glory that she will have should the day come when she is a senator's wife! She is already thrilled at being Mrs. Police Commissioner. And yes, she allows people to address her that way."
"That is not an uncommon way for a commissioner's wife to be addressed!"
"Why are you defending my wife? You know as well as I do that she returned only because of you—and only because I am in some degree of position and power, now. Damn it, Francesca, the woman slept her way through Europe."
"Did she? And even if she did, so what? Were you celibate the four years you were separated? Will you never forgive her and give her another chance? She seems a wonderful mother, Rick. She seems a devoted wife. I have never met a more graceful woman, if you want to know the truth." Unfortunately, it was true. She hesitated and then added, "She reminds me of Connie, in a way. At once elegant and gracious and always composed."
"She has bewitched you, too, for that is what she does best." His eyes glittered with anger now.
Francesca stiffened. "You can be a dolt at times."
"No, but I know better than to go by appearances, Francesca, for I know the woman far better than you do."
"Do you? Oddly, I really don't think so."
He stared, flushed with anger, and she stared coolly back.
"Why not give her a real chance? She is your wife. If you are right and she is the terrible woman you think her to be, the truth will eventually tell. And you can separate or divorce then. But why not see, first, if there is some goodness and love left? What do you have to lose?"
"You."
She recoiled.
He stared, the anger fading until only frustration was left in his eyes. "Why are you doing this? So you can continue on with Hart with little or no guilt?"
She was relieved to be attacked and she bristled. "This isn't about Calder, damn it. This is about you—and it is about a woman I can't help but like no matter how hard I try not to. And that's the real problem. I feel you are being terribly unfair with her, when you are more than fair with every stranger on the street."
His eyes blazed. "That is enough! I refuse to allow you to butt into the state of my marriage."
She cried out.
He realized what he had said and reached for her, but she jerked away. "Don't!" she cried.
"I am sorry. I didn't mean that."
She stared, shaken to the core, and said, "But you did. You more than meant it, and not for the first time. However, you are right." She inhaled harshly, trembling. "I have been concerned with your private life, and it is not my affair. Because you are married and we are merely friends."
"Francesca."
She turned her back on him and got into his motorcar.
Sarah Channing lived with her mother, a wealthy widow, on the city's West Side, commonly referred to as the Dakotas, because that part of town was so far away from the rest of the city and was both so bleak and desolate. The rather Gothic mansion, recently built, was huge, and the only building evident for several blocks. All the surrounding lots were vacant or had rough lean-to structures upon them where homeless squatters lived. Francesca always felt that she was entering a foreign country when going to the West Side.
The Channing doorman swiftly answered Francesca's knock and she found herself standing in a dark entry hall that was a tower with high ceilings and gleaming oak floors. Some animal heads adorned the walls, as Sarah's father, Richard Wyeth Channing, had been keen on hunting and had assembled a collection of animal trophies from all of his various hunting trips in Africa, India, Russia, and Europe. As she waited for Sarah, she tried to forget about Bragg, and her thoughts quickly turned to Hart. By now, or very shortly, he would be facing her father in the interview that would ultimately decide her fate.
Her heart lurched, but before she could analyze why, Sarah appeared at the far end of a hall, a tiny figure in a huge and drab gray dress that was splotched with old dried paint in various colors. Sarah was beaming, and it lit up her tiny face. Francesca knew most people thought Sarah plain, with her mousy brown hair, dark eyes, and unremarkable figure, but Francesca was finding her prettier and prettier the more she got to know her. And now, with Sarah filled with excitement, her long, curly hair coming down about her face, in spite of the ugly dress, she was truly beautiful. In fact, no spirit seemed freer.
"Francesca!" Sarah broke into a run and the two women embraced. "Hart sent me a note telling me that you returned. I have been so worried about you!"
Francesca noted some ocher and rust tones of paint on Sarah's face. "I am fine. But how are you?"
"I am wonderful," she said, with a grin. "You do know that Evan broke it off about two weeks ago?"
Francesca saw that Sarah was simply thrilled. "I heard the moment I came home."
"Please, don't be angry with me that I am so happy. But I don't want to ever marry and you know it. Besides, we both know Evan is smitten with Bartolla."
Francesca had to hug her. "I know it was a terrible mismatch. Has he been with Bartolla as often as she led me to believe earlier when I saw her at a luncheon?"
"They have become lovers, it's obvious. I think she is with him every night." Sarah smiled happily. "Perhaps another engagement is in the air?"
Francesca thought that might well be the case, too. "How is your mother taking the news?" she asked.
"Not well! Try telling Mother that we were the worst possible match! She took to her rooms for an entire week, weeping and sulking in turns. Now, if the Cahill name comes up, she leaves the room. She refuses to listen to me when I explain that I am married already—to my art. And Bartolla and I agreed not to let her know that Evan is courting her."
Sarah was in many ways a kindred spirit, and Francesca laughed as Sarah took her hand and hurried her down the hall. Her studio was in the back of the house on the ground floor. "That would be like my telling Mama that I am a
professional investigator with no time for a husband."
"Yes, it would." Sarah lifted Francesca's hand and beamed at her ring. "How wonderful! I saw this coming a mile away!"
"You did?" Francesca paused before the open door of Sarah's studio, which was artificially lit now due to the late time of day. Sarah favored portraits of women and children, and her walls were lined with her work, some in progress, the others finished. She had several standing easels, and two had canvases upon them. Francesca thought Sarah's work brilliant. She had clearly been influenced by the impressionists, but her work remained classic.
"Oh, Francesca, when a man insists upon your portrait, the writing is clear upon the wall."
Francesca was delighted, even if she didn't want to be. "Hart only insisted on my portrait to annoy me because we were fighting at the time."
Sarah gave her a look of disbelief. "Please. So why did you leave the city? Did you really have an ailing friend?"
"I needed to think," Francesca said.
"I thought so." Sarah squeezed her hand. "But you are back now and I am so glad, and not just because of the portrait."
"I am actually glad to be back, as well," Francesca said, and now she meant it. It was good to be back; and thank God she was back, otherwise she would not be on this new investigation, with so many children's fates upon the line. "I am also glad to see that you have fully recovered from the last investigation," she said, referring to Sarah having been a killer's target.
Sarah's eyes widened. "I am fully recovered. Thank God that terrible time in my life is over. In fact, I hardly ever think about it!" Her tone was a bit high now.
And something in her eyes alarmed Francesca—she felt certain that Sarah wasn't quite over the trauma of almost being murdered. Francesca took her arm. "Is Rourke still in town?" she asked, referring to Rourke Bragg, Rick's younger brother. He was a medical student in Philadelphia, but he had been helpful in the last investigation.
"Rourke left a month ago. I haven't heard from him," Sarah said briskly, looking away as if avoiding Francesca's gaze.
