by Brenda Joyce
“You came! Thank God, Miss Cahill—who’s that?” Her tone changed, becoming one of abject suspicion as she stared down at Joel.
“I’m her assistant,” Joel announced, slipping beneath the woman’s arm as she held open the door and ducking into the entry.
Francesca made another mental note—Joel should know to let her do all the speaking. “Miss de Labouche?”
“Yes, yes, do come in!” the woman cried, indicating that she had indeed been the one to hand Francesca the note, but she faced Joel. “Stop right there, young man,” she said sternly.
Joel slid his rag-clad hands into the pockets of his big wool coat and he shrugged. Georgette de Labouche shut the door behind Francesca. “Thank God you have come, but you should have come alone!”
The woman was in a panic. There was no mistaking the signs—panic was in her eyes and in her tone and written all over her face as well.
“Perhaps we should start from the beginning,” Francesca said kindly.
“There is no time!”
Francesca began unbuttoning her fur-lined cloak. “Very well. Shall we sit down somewhere and begin?”
Georgette hesitated, glancing at Joel. Then, “We can go in there.” She pointed at the closed door at the end of the hall, where light glared out from beneath it. Clearly the room beyond was brilliantly lit. “But the boy stays right here.” She glared at Joel. “You don’t move, buster. You got that?”
Joel made a funny face. “I got one boss and that’s Miss Cahill.”
“Don’t talk back to me!” Georgette cried.
Francesca put a hand on her arm and smiled reassuringly. “I can see you are upset. We shall speak privately, have no fear.” She looked at Joel. “Joel, your job is to assist me— when I need assistance. Right now, please stay here in the entry and wait for me until I ask you to do otherwise.”
His gaze was searching. Francesca realized he was trying to decide what her words really meant—as if she were speaking in code.
“Stay right here,” Francesca reiterated. She smiled at Georgette, who was wringing her bejeweled hands. The redhead looked close to tears. “He’ll be fine,” Francesca said, hoping she spoke the truth. While originally the idea of Joel as an assistant had seemed wonderful, Francesca wasn’t quite sure she could trust him to do as she asked. Which made him a loose cannon indeed. She did not want to mismanage her first case because of the little boy.
Georgette led the way briskly down the hall.
Francesca asked, speaking to her rigid but small shoulders, “How did you know to contact me, Miss de Labouche?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her hand on the knob of the closed door. “You gave me one of your cards outside of Tiffany’s yesterday. It was an unusual card. I tucked it away.
But I never thought I’d have need of it, and certainly not a day later!”
Francesca met her dark brown eyes. The woman was crying. “It will be all right,” she said softly.
Georgette turned and thrust the door somewhat open, stepping inside. Instinct caused unease to assail Francesca, and she hesitated for a moment before slipping past Georgette, who instantly slammed the door closed behind her—locking it But Francesca only flinched at the sound of the lock clicking, because directly in the middle of the room was a man. A gentleman, by the looks of him. He was lying on his abdomen, on the highly polished wood floor, his face turned to one side, in a pool of dark red blood.
Francesca muffled her very own gasp. “Is he... ?”
“He’s dead,” Georgette said flatly. “And I need you to help me get rid of the body.”
THREE
Friday, January 31, 1902—Midnight
Francesca gasped. Surely she had misheard Georgette de Labouche. “What?”
“We must get rid of the body. You have to help me! And the first thing we must do is send the boy away!” Georgette cried, as if Francesca were a dolt.
Francesca could hardly believe her ears. This was her very first official case. And it was not just any case; it was a homicide, the gravest of crimes. A murder had been committed, and Francesca intended to get to the bottom of it. But this woman was asking her not to solve the crime, but help hide it. The situation might have been comical had a man not been murdered and lying there dead at their feet.
“Didn’t you hear a word I said? If the police find him, they will throw me in the cooler for sure!” Georgette stabbed at the air, near hysteria.
Francesca took a deep, calming breath. She glanced once more at the dead man at their feet. Her stomach heaved. She had seen corpses before, of course, but they had been in their Sunday best and carefully arranged on the satin bed of a beautiful coffin. “Miss de Labouche? Who is this man? And... did you kill him?”
“See! Even you think I did it!” Georgette whirled, pacing, her bosom heaving.
Francesca tried to peer more closely at the dead man. “Is that a hole I see in the back of his head?” She wondered if she might retch. She must control the urge. “Was he shot? Or beaten with a stick?”
Georgette whirled. “I would never hurt Paul. He was a dear, dear friend.”
Francesca was relieved as she faced Georgette, no longer studying the man. But she had seen right away that he was well dressed, right down to the tips of his shiny new Oxford shoes. She had noticed a gold watch fob in a gray vest where his dark wool jacket was open. The suit, the watch, and the shoes were all of a very fine quality indeed. “A dear, dear friend,” Francesca repeated. “You are his mistress?”
Georgette did not flush. “Obviously,” she snapped. “Will you or will you not help me dispose of the body?”
“So now you wish to dispose of the body?” Francesca gaped. “Miss de Labouche, this man is not a mouse in a trap. He is a human being and the victim of a terrible crime. We must inform the police. A man has been murdered. In cold blood, I might add—from the look of things.”
“Of course it was in cold blood!” Georgette cried, and she sank down on a red velvet chair, moaning and holding her face with her hands.
Francesca took another glance at the body. He had removed his overcoat and top hat; both items lay on another chair with a silver-tipped cane. She estimated his age as early fifties. Then she walked over to Georgette and laid her palm reassuringly on her plump but narrow shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said softly.
Georgette did not speak. She moaned again and said, “I am going straight to the Tombs; I can see it now!”
“No one has accused you of any crime, Miss de Labouche. What happened?” Francesca knew she did not have a lot of time in which to ask questions. In fact, if she was a truly honorable citizen, she would rush off to call the police in that instant. But she preferred to ask some questions first—before the police began their investigation.
An image of Bragg flashed through her mind. They had worked quite closely together to solve the abduction of Jonny Burton. Something stirred in her heart. He had even admitted, once, reluctantly, how helpful she had been. She wondered if they would work together again, to solve this newer and even more dastardly crime.
Georgette looked up. “I was in my bath,” she finally said. “Paul comes every Tuesday and Friday evening. His full name is Paul Randall,” she added. “I heard him come in, or I thought I did. I expected him to come upstairs. I had a surprise waiting for him.” Tears filled her eyes.
“A surprise?” Francesca asked, wishing she had a notepad. First thing tomorrow she would begin acquiring the tools of her new trade.
“I was in the bath, Miss Cahill. With champagne and other ... things.”
Francesca stiffened. “Oh.” Things? Did she dare ask what those things were? She was dying of curiosity, and then she reminded herself that as a now-professional sleuth, of course she must ask. “What kind of things?”
Georgette blinked. “Toys. Devices. You know.”
Francesca thought her heart had slowed. “Toys? You mean like rubber ducks?”
Georgette sighed in exasperati
on and shook her head, standing. “You gentlewomen are all the same! No wonder men like Paul come to women like me! Not rubber ducks, my dear. Toys. Sex toys. You know. Objects that bring extra pleasure. If you’d like, I can show them to you?” She stared rather coyly.
Francesca tried not to gasp as her cheeks flamed. She was stunned. She hadn’t known that such objects existed, and in any case, what could they be and how were they used? She fought to get a grip. “I see.” Her cheeks remained hot. Would Connie know anything about sex toys? Francesca doubted it, but she was the only person Francesca dared to ask. “So you were in the bath and then what happened?” She tried to sound brisk, professional.
“Many minutes passed as I lingered there, with the toys.” She briefly smiled at Francesca, some kind of insinuation hanging there. Francesca did not quite know what she meant. “Of course he would come to find me; I know him so well. But he did not, and suddenly, I was concerned. And it was just at that point when I heard a sharp, loud crack. One sound. A crack. And I knew it was a gunshot.”
Francesca had had an image of Georgette alone in the bath together with different-sized rubber ducks, the best her suddenly infertile imagination could do. She shoved that rather unwelcome image aside. “And?”
“And? I leaped up, put on a robe, and ran downstairs, calling for Paul. I was praying that the sound I had heard meant something else. When I reached the entry, the door was wide open, so I closed it.”
Francesca had a thought. “What about the staff?”
“I have no staff on Tuesday and Friday evenings, for obvious reasons, reasons of privacy.”
“Of course,” Francesca said.
“After I closed the door I turned, and the parlor door was wide open and I saw him. Oh, God! It was so horrid; you just cannot imagine how horrid it was!” She cried out, a sob-like sound, and covered her face with her hands once again.
Francesca patted the woman’s shoulder again. “I am so sorry.”
Georgette looked up at her tearfully. “Are you?”
“Yes,” Francesca said quietly, earnestly. “An innocent man is dead. This is a ghastly crime. I am terribly sorry, and I promise you, Miss de Labouche, that I will find out who perpetrated this deadly and foul deed.”
Georgette said, “I only want to hide the body. Paul is dead. Finding whoever did this will not bring him back.” Her mouth trembled again.
“We must tell the police,” Francesca reiterated firmly. “So you ran to him? Was he still alive? Did he say anything?”
Georgette shook her head and briefly closed her eyes. “He was dead. His eyes were wide open, sightless, and there was so much blood!” She moaned and sank down again, but this time on the red brocade sofa.
Francesca looked at the dead man. His eyes were closed. “Did you touch him?”
Georgette nodded and whispered, “I closed his eyes, I just had to, but that is all.”
Francesca nodded, folding her arms. She studied the dead man, Paul, for another moment, then glanced at Georgette, who remained motionless on the sofa, hunched over in apparent misery. Francesca glanced around. “The only way to enter this room is via that single door from the hall?”
Georgette nodded.
“And you are certain you did not see anyone?”
She nodded again.
Francesca glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was a quarter to midnight. Georgette had accosted her on the street outside of Madison Square Garden at half past nine, approximately. Perhaps it had even been fifteen or twenty minutes past the hour. “At what time did the murder occur? At what time did you enter your bath? How long were you in it before you heard the shot?”
“It was six-thirty when I began to prepare to bathe. I was expecting Paul at seven. He is usually prompt. He was probably murdered a few moments past seven.”
“Miss Labouche. This is very important. Did Mr. Randall have any enemies? Can you think of anyone who might want him dead?”
“Only his wife,” the redhead said, her regard sullen.
“I am in earnest,” Francesca returned. “Are you?”
Georgette de Labouche grimaced. “He had no real enemies. He was not the type of man to provoke anyone, Miss Cahill. He had retired from his position as manager of a textile company five years ago. We met shortly afterward. He was a simple man. His life revolved around his children and his wife, his golf, his club—and me.”
Francesca was the one to nod, thoughtfully. Then she sighed. “Well, I may have more questions for you, Miss de Labouche, but for the moment, that is enough. I must call the police. Do you have a telephone?”
Georgette looked at her. “They will think I am the one. A murder like this is always blamed on the mistress.”
“I do not think they will think you are the one,” Francesca said, meaning it. “We must inform the police. We must.”
“Fine,” Georgette said, appearing very unhappy. “I do not have a telephone. While you go, I shall go upstairs and try to compose myself. Perhaps I shall lie down.”
“I think that is a good idea,” Francesca said. She hesitated. Bragg’s house was only a few blocks away. Should she go out on the street and wave down a roundsman or go over to Bragg’s? Eventually he would be informed of the murder anyway.
Of course she must go directly to Bragg. Otherwise there would be pointless questions and delay as she dealt with the patrolmen who would answer her call.
Of course, he had rebuffed her earlier, and she should not be pleased about their sharing another case. And she was not pleased—this was her case. She had found it first.
“I will see you to the door,” Georgette said abruptly, standing.
There was something in the woman’s tone that made Francesca start, and suspicion filled her. Georgette had said at least three times that she wanted to hide the body. Francesca realized she should stay and guard the body while sending Joel for help. Even though it was unlikely that the woman could remove and hide the body in the half hour or so that it would take the police commissioner to arrive.
“I am sending Joel round the block to the police commissioner’s house,” Francesca announced, watching her closely. “He is a personal friend of mine,” she added.
Georgette blanched, and without a word—but looking even unhappier than before—she ran from the room.
As she did so, Joel fell into the room, clearly having had his ear pressed to the closed parlor door the entire time. “Hell!” he cried, eyes wide. “Look it that! Cold as a wagon tire, Miss Cahill, a real stiff for your first crime.” He grinned at her. “An’ a real to-do gent by the look of him.”
“Yes, he appears to be a gentleman.” Francesca was stern. “Joel, if you are to be my assistant, eavesdropping is not allowed.”
“Eavesdroppin”? Wut the hell is that?”
“It is spying,” she said, coming forward. “You spied on a private conversation between myself and Miss de Labouche.”
“I was lookin’ out for you, lady,” he said fiercely. “That’s me job.”
She looked into his almost-black eyes and melted. “You were?”
He nodded. Then, “Did you peek in his purse?”
She stiffened. “We are not stealing a dead man’s purse!”
“Why not? He’s dead. He can’t use the spondulicks!”
“Spondulicks?” Sometimes conversing with Joel was like trying to comprehend a foreign language.
“He’s dead. He can’t spend a dime.”
“We are not stealing from the corpse!” Francesca cried, meaning it. “Now listen carefully. Tomorrow we will sit down and go over some rules. Rules of your employment. But right now, I need you to go over to the police commissioner’s house and tell him what has happened. If he is not there, tell Peter, his man.” She hesitated, glancing behind her at the dead man. God, she would be alone with the corpse while Joel was gone. It was not a comforting thought.
Of course, Georgette was upstairs, so she would not really be alone.
“And you should hurry
,” Francesca added.
“Right,” Joel said, turning to go.
“Wait!” She caught the shoulder of his jacket. “Do you know where you’re going?”
Joel grinned at her. “Sure do. Madison and Twenty-fourth Street.”
She stared. “How would you know where Bragg lives?”
He shrugged. “Whole world knows. Ain’t no secret. Back in a flash.” He hurried away.
Francesca stood very still, watching him leave the house. And then she felt truly alone.
She shivered.
The house was so quiet that she could hear the clock ticking on the mantel. It almost felt as if there were eyes trained on her back—the dead man’s eyes. But of course, they were closed—and he was dead.
Fortunately, she did not believe in ghosts. Still, Francesca hurried down the dimly lit hall, wishing it were more brightly lit, relieved to leave the room with the corpse. She checked the front door. It was locked. That made her feel a bit better.
She cracked open the only other door on the hall, other than the parlor door, and glanced into a small dining room.
It was cast in shadow. She vaguely made out an oak table and four chairs, a floral arrangement, and a sideboard with knickknacks. A kitchen had to be on the other side of the alcove. Francesca hesitated.
If there was a kitchen door that led to a garden out back or the street out front, she wanted to make sure it was locked. She was very nervous now. And why not? She was guarding the corpse of a man who had been murdered less than five hours ago.
Francesca looked up at the dark stairs. “Miss de Labouche?” she called.
There was no answer.
“Georgette?” she tried again, with the same lack of success.
Francesca glanced behind her. The parlor remained so brilliantly lit, and the dead body in the pool of blood remained a grotesquely eye-catching spectacle. Francesca realized just how nervous she was.
That was it. She dashed through the small dining alcove, trying not to consider that the murderer might still be in the house—of course that made no sense—and she found herself in the kitchen. This house did not have electricity, and it was a moment before Francesca turned on one gaslight. There was a back door. It was locked.
