by Brenda Joyce
“Damn!” Anthony shouted, reaching for her.
Francesca felt his hand grazing her sleeve, but she was moving so quickly that he did not catch hold of her. She fled down the narrow hall, with Anthony just steps behind.
But the stairwell was blocked. Someone was coming up. “Move!” Francesca shouted frantically, barging into the man. Anthony would catch her now!
They collided and the man gripped her shoulders.
“Let me go!” Francesca screamed, aware of Anthony behind her on the second-floor landing, just inches away and poised to seize her as well. And then she met the man’s dark, familiar eyes.
“Francesca, it’s me!” Calder Hart was shouting.
She was stunned.
“Police!” someone shouted from below as a horde of racing footsteps sounded. A whistle blew.
“Shit!” Anthony cried, whirling.
Hart shoved Francesca to the wall as Anthony fled, a half a dozen policemen racing up the stairs. Bragg was at their head.
As he raced past Francesca he glanced at her but did not stop.
At the end of the hall was a window. Anthony wrestled it open, clearly intending to jump to the ground two floors below, even at the risk of breaking his legs—or his neck. Bragg collared him.
Instantly Anthony straightened, lifting both hands into the air. “I give up,” he said.
“That’s good,” Bragg returned, pushing him face-first into the wall. “Search him,” he said to his men. “Then cuff him and throw him in the wagon and book him on suspicion of murder.”
Francesca suddenly sank against the wall. It was only then that she realized Calder Hart had his arm securely around her waist and was holding her upright. She tore her gaze from Bragg, Anthony, and the policemen to Hart. His eyes were already on her face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. And she felt her knees give way.
Instantly his grip tightened. He lifted her, holding her upright against his side.
“How ... ?” she began, trailing off.
“I followed you.” He smiled briefly at her. “When I left your house, I was highly suspicious. As well as curious. When I saw you leave with this man, I grew even more, well, let’s leave it at curious. When you entered the hotel with him, I learned his name from the clerk.” He shook his head. “Francesca, Randall told me that he was a blackmail victim the night we met at the Republican Club, and when he did, of course I forced Anthony’s name out of him. The moment I realized who you were with, I went round the corner to the local police precinct and had Bragg telegraphed.” He smiled now. It reached his eyes. “The timing was rather fortunate, was it not?”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she said. And then she stiffened.
Bragg had come to stand behind her. Slowly Francesca turned.
His amber eyes were searching. His gaze seemed to penetrate not just her own eyes, but to the depths of her heart and soul. Her heart lurched in response and began anew a frantic beating. Francesca knew she would never hate this man.
Staring back at him, into his golden eyes, at his unique and stunning features, she knew she would be connected to him for all time.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, and she knew he referred not just to her physical state of being but to her emotional well-being as well. After all, they had not spoken since he had made his devastating declaration of the truth. She couldn’t nod.
“I am trying.... It is hard.”
He reached out, as if to take her hand, in a gesture she had come to know. But instead, he hesitated, and their gazes met and held again. And she saw his strength and will power then. She saw his resignation. He dropped his hand without touching her. “I’m going to have to speak with you, Francesca. Professionally, of course.”
Francesca nodded. Her heart was breaking all over again. How could it still hurt like this? Would the anguish ever end?
She did not think so.
She thought, perhaps, it would dull, but she would carry the ache around with her for the rest of her life. She loved him that much.
“She’s tired. She’s been through hell. Let her go home and get some rest,” Hart said grimly. “And then I would suggest that you stay as far away from her as possible.”
Francesca realized his arm was still around her in a very intimate way. She slipped free. He was also angry. How odd. “That’s all right. I can come downtown now. I prefer to help.”
Bragg’s jaw flexed. “No. My brother is correct. Hart, take her home, please, if you don’t mind?”
Hart smiled. “It will be my pleasure.”
Francesca stared at Bragg. She did not want to go. She wanted to stay there, on that small stairwell, with him. And if Hart hadn’t been present, she did not think she could have stopped herself from reaching out and touching Bragg’s cheek, his jaw. He seemed so distressed, too.
He stared back, a painful light in his eyes. “Can I stop by early in the morning?”
She nodded. “Of course, Bragg. You need not even ask.”
“Is nine all right?” His gaze slipped over her features again, this time lingering on her mouth.
She nodded again. He was thinking about the kisses they had shared and she knew it. And now he looked so grim and unhappy.
Hart made a sound. It was one of disgust. “I shall be downstairs. I cannot watch this,” he said.
She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She was feeling so drained that it was almost like being lifeless.
The police were hustling Anthony toward them. He looked unhappy and grim. Francesca got off the stairwell to let them pass. He looked right at her. “I didn’t do it,” he said.
Francesca looked away, ignoring him.
Georgette was next. One officer escorted her downstairs.
She looked at Francesca, tears in her eyes. “You have to help us,” she said. “We are innocent.”
Francesca closed her eyes tightly. When she opened them, her gaze met Bragg’s.
“You have done good work today,” he said softly. “You are a fine sleuth, Francesca.”
Her heart soared to impossible heights. “Thank you,” she whispered, desperately wanting to reach for his hand.
He seemed to want to say more. He hesitated. Then, “I shall see you tomorrow then. At nine.”
“Tomorrow,” she echoed. And Francesca felt a tear sliding down her cheek. She was aghast. She tried to turn away.
He caught her by her arms. “Please don’t cry. Your sorrow is killing me,” he whispered.
“I am not crying,” she lied. She smiled as bravely as possible up at him.
He hesitated and she thought, stunned, that he was about to kiss her.
Then footsteps sounded once, twice below them on the stairs. Hart said loudly, “I cannot leave the two of you for a second. I am putting Francesca in my coach. I am going downtown with you, Rick.”
Bragg stepped away from her. “That is a good idea,” he said.
Hart’s elegant brougham was even more luxurious inside than out. Francesca sank in the corner of a plush red leather seat, found a fur throw, and wrapped herself in it, as if the sable might become a safe cocoon in which to hide. She should be pleased, she knew, for they had found Randall’s killer; instead, she kept recalling the look in Bragg’s eyes when she had turned away and gone downstairs. He was as anguished as she was, Francesca thought glumly.
She closed her eyes and suddenly heard Anthony saying, as clear as day, I didn’t do it. Her eyes flew open.
She did not want to envision him now. Especially not while making that statement—his gaze had been hard but direct. He had been blackmailing Paul Randall, with or without Georgette’s prior knowledge and help.
Another image and recollection assailed her strongly. “We are innocent,” Georgette had said, looking at Fran as directly.
Francesca sat up grimly. In spite of her grief, it was impossible now not to think about the two of them more fully. And what about the fact that Bill Randall had bee
n to Georgette’s house after the murder? Francesca did not think she was mistaken about having seen him there. If only Joel had been present, if only he had seen Bill as well! But she felt certain Bill had been to the house and that he had known his father was dead. Which meant he knew the killer, or was protecting the killer. Francesca could not imagine him and Anthony as partners. That was inconceivable.
And committing blackmail did not necessarily mean that one could commit cold-blooded murder.
Something wasn’t right.
I am the other woman, the cheap woman, the immoral one—the whore! Whom shall they blame?... I think she did it...
Francesca stiffened. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to Georgette when she had been accusing Henrietta of killing her husband? Perhaps because it had been so clichéd and the widow was the obvious choice for the mistress to point the finger at. But there hadn’t been any hatred in Georgette’s words. She had been frightened, yes, but she had been impassioned as well. What else had she claimed?
They’ve hated each other for years!
Dear God, Henrietta had been faking her tears at the funeral. Not only did Francesca know that from watching her, but she had picked up the handkerchief Henrietta had dropped and it had been as dry as a bone. Her swoon had been a matter of theatrics as well.
Francesca’s pulse raced with excitement. Oh, my. It looked as if they had apprehended the wrong person. But this would make so much sense and it would explain Bill’s actions. For who had more motivation than the long-suffering widow?
She rapped on the partition and when it was opened by the driver, she said, “Number Eighty-nine East Fifty-seventh Street, please. I must make a stop and I won’t be long.”
“As you wish, miss,” the coachman replied.
It was only half past eight, but Francesca was told that the Randalls were not receiving callers at this hour. She was also told that Mr. Randall would receive her tomorrow at noon. Francesca barely heard the maid, because from where she stood in the foyer, she could look right down the hall, and at its end the parlor door was ajar. Light spilled from that room. She could also hear voices coming from within, and even though she could not see anyone, one of the voices was Mary’s.
Francesca smiled at the maid. “I shall return on the morrow, then,” she said, and the door was closed before her. Francesca did not move.
She heard no lock turning, but it was early yet, too early to lock the doors.
Francesca counted to a thousand, slowly. Then, shoving aside any twinges of guilt, she tested the doorknob. As she had thought, the door had not been locked yet.
She was becoming rather adept at trespassing, she thought, slipping into the empty foyer. Just a week or so ago, she had entered the Burton household in the exact same—and illegal—manner. The second time was much easier than the first. There was almost no guilt, but there was fear. If Henrietta was a killer, Francesca might well be in trouble if caught.
The parlor door remained ajar. Now she could hear Bill’s voice, but not what he was saying. Francesca debated eavesdropping, and her need to know more won. Her fear increased as she moved cautiously down the hallway and tried to blend into the wall at its end. But she could hear them clearly now.
“Don’t you think you have had one glass too many of sherry?” Bill asked calmly.
“Not really. It has been a gruesome day,” Mary returned sharply. “They are all gruesome days, now.”
“Far more gruesome for me than you,” Bill said darkly. “I do look forward to returning to the university—that is, if I can afford the tuition.”
A silence fell. It was brooding.
Francesca could hear her own breathing. It was tense and labored and she sought to relax.
Then, “At least we do not have to live with his hypocrisy anymore,” Mary said bitterly.
“But the question is, how shall we live? He has left us nothing. He has left me nothing. I am his heir and I am penniless.” Bill was angry. “At least you will marry—if you can bring yourself to do it.”
“I am never marrying,” Mary said vehemently. “You know how I feel about that. More so now than ever. How could Papa have done this to us? How?”
“I don’t know why you never saw the truth. After all, Calder Hart has been in our midst for ten years.”
“But that was before he met Mama! He explained to me so carefully and I understood completely. But then”—she paused—”I was only eight years old when I met that bastard brother of ours. Papa could have told me he had come to us from the moon and I would have believed him.” She sounded tearful. “But you should have told me about her! I should have known about the whore! I am always the last to know everything in this house.”
“Poor Mary.”
They were silent now, but Francesca stiffened. Was that footsteps she was hearing? She felt herself tremble. Someone was coming downstairs!
She froze. Unfortunately, there was no place to hide and no way to make herself invisible. Was Henrietta approaching, or a servant? The hall was dimly lit, but if the person on the stairs intended to visit the parlor, she would be caught like a mouse in a trap. Sweat trickled down her temples and inside of her bodice. Damn it. Perhaps this was not a good idea.
“I am going to take Miss de Labouche to court. I intend to wrest that house from her,” Bill suddenly said. “I could kill father for leaving it to her!”
Francesca had stopped breathing. The intruder had reached the ground floor. She held her breath and heard the person moving away from where she stood, toward the front door. A moment later the person opened a side door and disappeared into another room.
Francesca started to sigh and heard, “Good. And meanwhile, they will hang Hart.” Mary was vicious. She laughed, but the sound turned into a sob. “He has no alibi, he despised Father, and he will be the first to admit it. God, if only he had really killed Father!” She started to cry.
Francesca started. What was this? Elation filled her. So the Randalls knew Hart was innocent... which seemed to mean that they knew the identity of the killer.
“Mary... enough. I am going to bed,” Bill said abruptly.
Breathless now, Francesca realized that she must either leave the house or do what she intended in the first place, which was interview Henrietta. And there was no time to procrastinate. She started to inch down the wall, away from the parlor, afraid of making a sound and being caught with her hand in the safe, so to speak.
Then she gave it up. Her strides increased; she reached the stairs. Her pulse was rioting and sweat was gathering beneath her chemise, between her breasts. She did not dare breathe easier as she bounded swiftly up the stairs.
Only a single light was shining on the second floor. But the door to Henrietta’s sitting room was wide open, and she could be seen sitting at her desk, a pen in hand. She was writing a letter or a note and Francesca watched her breathlessly. She was an innocuous-looking woman. Plump, well-dressed, quiet of manner. She did not seem at all like a murderess.
Francesca stepped into the room.
“Mary?” Henrietta turned, but she was not smiling. And her eyes went wide in shock.
Francesca closed the door behind her. “I am so sorry to intrude, Mrs. Randall, but I must have a word with you.”
It was a moment before Henrietta spoke. “How did you get up here? Who allowed you in?” She did not stand.
“I do apologize for letting myself in,” Francesca said, watching her closely. She was dry-eyed. She did not appear grief-stricken. “Your son gave a wonderful eulogy today.”
“I think you should leave.” Henrietta calmly clasped her hands in her lap.
“An innocent man has been arrested for your husband’s murder, Mrs. Randall.”
Henrietta did not even lift a brow. “And that affects me how?”
“Do you not care?”
She opened her mouth and closed it. “Of course I care.”
Francesca waited.
“I mean, I want to see my husband’s murderer br
ought to justice. I certainly do.”
Francesca sighed. Clearly there had been no love in this marriage. “I am sorry, Henrietta, so sorry, that you have shared most of your life with a man you did not care for.”
Henrietta stared. “I loved Paul.”
“Did you?”
“Of course.”
“But he has been keeping Georgette, a beautiful, younger woman, for years. He has been visiting her like clockwork, every Tuesday and Friday night. He has bought her jewels and furs,” Francesca said, not wanting to be mean, but trying to provoke a reaction. “And you have known about it.”
Henrietta stared, her expression rather strained. “I am no fool,” she said. “Of course I knew.”
“How long have you known?”
Henrietta stared. “Forever. Paul has never been faithful to me for a day in his life. Miss de Labouche was not the first, and had he lived, she would not be the last.” She remained calm, although tense. “Why are you here, Miss Cahill?”
Francesca was grim. She wet her lips. “Did you follow your husband to his mistress’s house on Friday evening and shoot him in the back of the head?” Francesca asked.
Henrietta stared.
“Do not answer her, Mother!” Bill exclaimed from behind Francesca.
Francesca whirled, her heart sinking with stunning force, to find Bill and Mary standing there, having come into the room undetected. Bill was angry, and justifiably so, while Mary’s face was starkly white and pinched with fear.
Mary’s face was pinched with fear.
Henrietta was also staring at her children, now on her feet. “Yes,” she said, ashen. “I have disliked my husband for years. I grew tired of it all. We argued that morning, over money, of course, and I followed him and shot him in the back of the head.”
“Mother!” Bill shouted.
Mary remained tight-lipped, white, and silent.
Francesca looked at Henrietta, who was lying. Oh, dear. What did she do now?
“I am very sorry, Miss Cahill, but you have gone too far,” Bill said from behind her.
Francesca turned and met his cold gray eyes. And too late, she saw the gun he held in his hand. He was going to shoot her.
