by Brenda Joyce
Francesca’s disappointment was acute. They were foreigners, clearly visiting the city and admiring the view.
She glanced around, but she and Joel remained the only ones on the bridge, other than the German tourists and the cabdriver. She turned to stare suspiciously at him, but he was curled up in his seat, reading a news journal. Where was the blackmailer?
She was incredulous and frustrated, all at once. The two ladies returned to the cab, climbed in, and it drove off. Another carriage approached the bridge, along with a bicyclist. Francesca tensed, but a moment later, the carriage passed by her, unoccupied. She turned to stare intently at the oncoming bicycle.
A man was riding it. As the bicycle came closer, she saw that the rider was a man about Bill’s age, but it wasn’t Bill or anyone else that she knew. He looked like a laborer in his dark tweed trousers and cotton shirt. He even had a lunch pail strapped to the handlebars.
She sagged in disappointment. Francesca opened her purse and glanced at her pocket watch. She had been on the bridge for over twenty minutes. And as she wondered if the blackmail note had been a ruse, she looked up—the cyclist was veering toward her!
He meant to run her down.
Too late she realized she was about to be rammed. But instead, just as the front tire brushed her skirts, he jerked the handlebars and something was shoved into her hand. The impact was forceful enough to send her stumbling backward. She recovered her balance, her heart exploding, and glanced at the piece of paper she had reflexively grasped. Francesca opened it—and saw a rough charcoal sketch of her in the nude, clearly an imitation of her portrait.
She cried out, stuffing the paper in her purse, as Joel reached her side. “Are ye hurt?” he demanded. “He ran ye over on purpose!”
“We must get him!” she cried, about to chase after the cyclist, who had turned abruptly around and was pedaling as fast as he could back the way he had come. Then she saw the valise. She could hardly leave it.
“I’ll get him,” Joel said and he broke into a run. But the cyclist was already a speck on the street ahead, on the west side of the bridge. Joel would never catch him now.
“Joel!” Francesca called. “Come back!”
Joel faltered and slowed. He halted, shaking his fist as the cyclist vanished from sight. Francesca felt like shaking her fist, too. Worse, she almost felt like crying.
“Goddamn it,” she said softly.
She felt Raoul come up behind her and she turned. “Can you take the valise for me?”
But Hart was standing behind her, not Raoul.
His expression was hard and grim. “Did you really think I would let you meet a blackmailer by yourself?”
She cried out incoherently.
He cupped her jaw. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She began to tremble.
“Let me see the note.”
“You followed us?” She was incredulous, but she opened her purse and handed him the note.
“I followed you in a hansom, Francesca. Had you not been so preoccupied, you undoubtedly would have noticed.” She recalled a cab passing their coach when they had halted before the bridge.
“That was you?” she gasped.
“It most certainly was.” He looked at the sketch and darkened. “He is toying with you, Francesca. This is not about money, at least, not yet.”
“What does the thief want?” she cried in frustration. “Does he or she mean to torture me before destroying me?”
“It certainly seems that way.” He took her arm, signaling Joel, and guided her back to the coach. When they were all inside, Hart looked at Francesca. “May I assume that there is a blackmail note?”
Francesca hesitated. He was angry with her. And she hadn’t told Hart about the visit to Blackwell’s Island, either. Her tension escalated. “Yes, you may.” She bit her lip. “Why did you follow me today, Calder?”
He eyed her. “You made it clear that you were not going to tell Rick about the blackmail threat. I would never let you meet a dangerous rough by yourself.”
She’d had Raoul as protection, but she decided not to remark on that. “I am glad you cared enough to follow me, but as you can see, it was all for naught.” She trembled, opened her purse and handed him the blackmail note. “I am so very disappointed.”
“You were almost run over by the cyclist,” he said sharply. He stared at the envelope with the word URGENT written on it in bold block letters. “We will give this to that fel low at headquarters, the one who is so brilliant at crime analysis.”
“Heinreich,” she supplied.
“What aren’t you telling me?” He handed the note back to her.
She wished she did not have to tell him that their number-one suspect was his half brother. “As planned, Rick and I went to see Henrietta Randall today.” He became very still and watchful. She said, “Bill Randall was in the city on Saturday. He visited his mother at the Blackwell’s Workhouse at ten in the morning. Henrietta let that slip and we confirmed that he signed in the visitors’ log.”
Hart finally said, “So my damn brother is behind the theft of the portrait.”
“Perhaps. We have requested the logs for April. They are in storage.”
“The university is closed for the summer. If his roommates are not traveling, we shall certainly find them, in order to interview them another time.”
He sat facing her in the rear-facing seat. She reached out to touch his knee. “There is a chance his alibi is the truth, and his being here on Saturday is a mere coincidence.”
“You do not believe that.”
“No, I do not.”
They exchanged a long look. Very softly, Hart said, “If Bill stole that portrait—if he is the one who has put us through hell, if he is the one who thinks to destroy us—I am going to kill him.”
Francesca cringed and looked at Joel, who sat beside her, listening raptly to their every word. “You do not mean that!” She faced Joel. “He was speaking figuratively, Joel, not literally. He did not mean it.”
“He meant it,” Joel said. “But that’s okay. My lips are sealed.”
Francesca groaned as Hart called to Raoul, “Fifty-seventh and Lexington, Raoul—the old Randall residence!” He gave her a black look.
“Do not even think of blaming yourself for any of this,” she cried.
“And who should I blame? Sarah, for painting the portrait? You, for agreeing to it? Mrs. Channing, for failing to lock all her doors?”
“Yes and yes and yes!” she cried.
He suddenly reached across the small space separating them and seized her hand. Their knees bumped. “I despise it when you place yourself in danger. And I am even unhappier when I place you in danger.” He released her, his eyes ablaze.
How would they ever get through his belief that he was at fault for all that had happened? It might have been different—easier—if he hadn’t come to this conclusion on so many previous occasions. She said somewhat lamely, “We are getting closer to the thief.”
“No, he is getting closer to us.”
She turned to look out the window, realizing that the day wasn’t going to have the happy ending she had so hoped for. Then she glanced at Hart, acutely aware of his presence in the back of the coach. He filled up the large space, making it seem small and tight. He would turn her away that night, too, she thought dismally. It was as if the thief wanted to permanently estrange them—and was succeeding.
She looked at Hart directly. “We should speak to Daniel Moore after we search the Randall home. Joel has learned that he was at the gallery Saturday morning with another man. And someone did lock it up after I left Saturday afternoon—unless breaking that glass was a ruse.”
“And the plot thickens.”
“Moore is involved in my entrapment.”
“Obviously, but he isn’t our thief—and he isn’t our blackmailer. If he knew where the portrait was, we would have it by now. He is desperate for funds, in spite of the deposit he recently made into his sav
ings at the East River Savings Bank.”
Francesca sat up straighter.
“I checked out his finances. He is behind on both leases, to the gallery and his Broadway flat. But he deposited a thousand dollars into that savings account on this last Thursday.”
“A payoff from our thief—to use his gallery?”
“I would assume so,” Hart said. They were on Lexington now. The traffic was always heavy on that avenue, where huge wagons laden with retail merchandise and industrial supplies vied for the right-of-way with electric trolleys and mostly empty cabs. Theirs was the only private coach in sight.
Moore knew who they were pursuing. It was time to drag him downtown and make him break.
“We’re here,” Hart said abruptly. As they all alighted, he clasped Joel by the shoulder. “By the way,” he said to the small boy, “I am proud of how you tried to protect Francesca from that cyclist.”
Joel beamed at him. “I saw him change direction and knew he meant to run her over.”
“You have good instincts, Joel, and more importantly, you are terribly brave. Francesca is fortunate to have you at her side.”
Joel flushed with more pleasure. Francesca hid a smile and said, “We are looking for any clues relating to the blackmail note, the theft of my portrait or Bill Randall having been in the city. Joel, why don’t you take the upstairs. Hart and I will nose around the ground floor.”
They started for the redbrick home, which was just off Lexington Avenue. A large For Sale sign was posted on the iron gate. Hart unlatched it and they walked inside. “Did you know the house was for sale?” Francesca asked.
“No, I did not,” Hart said.
He sounded so grim. Francesca imagined that his memories of this house, which he had been to only a few times, were not pleasant. She hated the fact that his own father had rejected him. Impulsively she reached for his hand.
For one moment, he let her take it, before he slipped his palm free. “I don’t care about Paul Randall,” he said flatly.
She grimaced, wondering if he truly believed that, while trying the front doorknob. Of course it was locked.
Several moments followed, with Joel attempting to pick the lock. Hart went to walk around the house, hoping for an open window. Francesca tried to pretend that nothing was amiss, but several shopgirls looked at them oddly as they passed, as did the street vendor on the corner of Fifty-seventh Street. He was selling candles, but he gave that task up, instead watching with interest as Joel kept jimmying the lock.
Hart appeared from inside the house, opening the front door for them. “The back door is unlocked.”
They hurried inside. “That street vendor might rouse up a roundsman.”
Hart shrugged. “I got in through the parlor. Francesca, come look.”
He took her arm and they walked into the small parlor where she had interviewed various members of the family after Paul Randall’s murder in February. Joel ran upstairs. Francesca hesitated, a memory of poor Henrietta coming to mind as she had been while the matriarch of this small house, and as she now was, at the Blackwell’s Island Workhouse. She had lost her husband, her family and her life.
The parlor remained dark and dreary, as if in mourning, with wine-colored draperies and wine-and-cream-striped walls. She glanced past the sideboard, with its bric-a-brac and photographs, ignoring those of Bill, past the candelabra and small painting on the mantel of the fireplace, to the main seating area. A moss-green sofa faced two red chairs. There was an empty drinking glass on one side table, some newspapers on the occasional table in front of the sofa. The glass, of course, could have been left there months ago—or by one of the family’s real estate agents. Francesca rushed to the low table and picked up the topmost newspaper, which was the New York Times: Walkout Order Goes into Effect Today. She gasped, wondering if this article was in reference to the much-anticipated strike at Union Pacific in Omaha. She glanced at the date on the paper. Monday, June 30. “It is today’s paper.”
Hart’s brows lifted.
She looked at the two other papers. They were both from Sunday. Hart said mildly, “Bill is the only one capable of trying to sell this house. But anyone could have been here today—an agent, a buyer, anyone.”
“Yes—and Bill might have been here today,” she exclaimed. She hurried into the kitchen and he followed her. She could feel his mood softening. But now, she hesitated—this was where she had encountered Bill after escaping, and where she had knocked him out with a cast-iron pan. She turned and saw a plate with some bread crumbs on it on the small kitchen table. A knife and fork were on the plate. She went forward and touched a crumb—it had been left recently, she was certain. Then she went to the sink and saw several dirty dishes. “No agent would leave such a mess behind.”
Before Hart could respond, Joel ran into the kitchen. “Some one’s sleeping in the bed upstairs in the man’s bedroom!”
Francesca turned to Hart. His eyes were dark with anticipation. She was fairly certain that Bill Randall was staying in the family home. As much as she wanted to apprehend him, she truly hoped he would not walk in the door. She did not trust Hart just then.
“An’ someone’s staying in the other bedroom, too,” Joel added, his eyes alight with excitement.
Francesca started. “Are you certain?”
“Follow me!” He grinned.
They trooped up the narrow staircase and Joel led them to Mary’s small, spartan bedroom. It was unchanged from when Francesca had been imprisoned in it. But the bed was not made, the blankets were tossed back, the pillow was dented as if recently slept in. And the room’s single window was open.
She glanced at Hart. He murmured, “Someone is most definitely using this room.”
She was uneasy. “Joel, where is the man’s bedroom?”
He led them across the hall. The bed was made, but toiletries were on the adjacent table, as was a two-week-old issue of Harper’s. As she approached the bed, she smelled a man’s cologne. Her stomach churned—she thought she recognized the scent. In any case, it reminded her of Randall.
“I have no doubt that Bill is in residence, with an accomplice,” Hart said, staring at her. “It’s getting late. Let’s take Joel home and then I am taking you home. You have been up since dawn.”
He cared enough to want her to get home and rest? Hiding a smile, she said, “Bragg needs to have this house under surveillance.”
“I’ll call him when we get home.”
She wondered if his words were a slip of the tongue. “Maybe we should make a brief detour to Bellevue and speak with Mary. If Bill has a habit of visiting his mother, I would wager he calls on his sister, as well.”
“I’d rather not,” Hart said flatly.
As they returned downstairs, Francesca realized she was exhausted. The last person she wished to spar with was Mary Randall. She had never met an angrier or more bitter woman. “It has been a very long day,” she said, angling for some sympathy.
She gave him a sidelong look, which he pretended not to see. They locked the front door and left the house through the parlor. When Hart didn’t comment, she added, “Not only was I up at dawn, I barely slept at all last night.”
Had Hart’s mouth quirked? He looked at her, taking her elbow and guiding her from the small yard to Fifty-seventh Street, Joel following behind them. “What is it you want, Francesca?”
She smiled at him. “I would love nothing more than a good stiff drink.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Monday, June 30, 1902
6:00 p.m.
SHE STARED AT the clothing scattered across her bed. She had dresses for every occasion—for teas and luncheons, for a stroll down the Ladies’ Mile, for shopping at B. Altman’s or the Lord & Taylor store, for charity lunches and supper balls. Leigh Anne stared helplessly at the pile of gowns, Katie hovering anxiously by her right side. The new maid, Nanette, waited expectantly.
Why couldn’t she choose which dresses to pack for their holiday weekend? She co
uldn’t imagine the upcoming weekend with Rick and the girls in that little cottage on the beach, much less summon up a decision about her clothing. Her brain felt befuddled and fogged. She couldn’t even decide whether or not to take the girls out for a stroll.
“You should take the pale blue, the dark pink and the one with green stripes,” Katie whispered.
Leigh Anne glanced at the child, whose mouth was curved down, her dark eyes filled with anxiety. She somehow reached for and found her hand. “What a lovely choice,” she said, smiling as brightly as she could. But the anguish was burying her alive.
She needed new clothes, she thought dully. She needed gray and beige dresses, or even black—sober colors more suited to a crippled matron in a wheelchair. Her right leg ached. Where was her tea? It was laced very liberally with brandy.
“I will pack these pretty dresses right up,” Nanette said cheerfully. “Is there anything else you wish to bring for your holiday? It might be cool on the beach, Mrs. Bragg.”
The Frenchwoman was always smiling. Why was she always so happy? Didn’t she know that tragedy could strike in a single heartbeat, forever changing one’s life?
Katie suddenly brought her teacup. As she handed it to her, Leigh Anne flushed, afraid to look the child in the eyes. “Thank you,” she said softly. Katie had seen her pouring brandy in her tea.
Leigh Anne knew she had become a terrible mother. How had that happened, when she so loved the girls? Of course, they had Rick, whom they could always depend upon. Except, he was never home now.
He claimed he was working late hours in order to be ready to leave the city for their holiday on Thursday. She had reassured him that she understood his preoccupation, his schedule and the rigorous demands of his job. But she also knew he was spending a great deal of time with Francesca, investigating. She didn’t care—did she?
“Can we go downstairs?” Katie whispered.
Leigh Anne focused. “We certainly can.” She managed to smile as Peter was called. She hated being carried downstairs, more so now than ever. This day was worse than most—some days were so dark, there simply was no hope.
