“Well spoken.” Bartolla grinned. “And I am off. Good luck then.”
Before joining the company, Francesca watched her leave. She was grim. Worse, she was afraid again, the way she had been a month ago when she had run away from Hart. How could she even think of marrying him? She was simply too fond of him!
“Francesca? Are you joining us? Oh, dear, what is wrong?” Leigh Anne asked, a silver tray containing pastries in her hands.
Francesca blinked. “I am fine,” she managed.
Leigh Anne stared. “Whatever Bartolla said to you, I would not think too much about it.”
Francesca felt herself send Leigh Anne another sickly smile. “Really.”
“Bartolla adores causing conflict.”
Francesca looked away. She wasn’t about to tell Leigh Anne that in this instance the conflict already existed and Bartolla had merely been confirming Francesca’s worst fears.
“She is the one who wrote to me in Boston, urging me to come back immediately—she is the one who told me that my husband was in love with you,” Leigh Anne said.
Francesca gasped. “It was Bartolla?”
Leigh Anne nodded gravely.
Before Francesca could assimilate the extent of such treachery, the front door opened and Bragg walked in. He halted upon seeing both women.
“Rick?” Leigh Anne gasped in surprise. She gave Francesca an odd look and hurried to him, still holding the dessert tray. “What brings you home in the middle of the day? I am hosting that luncheon I told you about.”
“I know.” He looked at his wife for one more moment and then looked past her at Francesca. “I came to speak with Francesca.”
Francesca already assumed this. Tension overcame her.
“To speak with Francesca?” Leigh Anne set the tray down on the small entry table, beneath a wall mirror, looking from her husband to Francesca and back again. “But how did you know she would be here?”
“We are working on a case,” he said, not looking at Leigh Anne now.
Francesca came forward. “What has happened?”
“I sent my men to arrest Tom Smith. He is dead, Francesca.”
CHAPTER
SIX
FRIDAY, MARCH 28, 1902—3:30 P.M.
FRANCESCA GRABBED BRAGG’S COAT sleeve. “What? He is dead? Do you mean murdered?”
“He was found by a resident of the area in an alley that cuts between Tenth and Eleventh Streets. His throat was slit.”
Francesca knew she gaped. Her mind raced.
Leigh Anne said, “Would you both like to retire to the dining room? You can have some privacy there.”
Bragg never took his eyes off Francesca as he nodded. She somehow followed him into the dining room, where Leigh Anne closed the single oak door solidly behind them. Francesca said, “There is simply no reason to think that his murder has anything to do with the disappearance of his daughter, or of Emily. We do not even know that Emily’s and Deborah’s disappearances are linked.”
“I agree. The Daimler is outside and still running. Unless you truly must attend this luncheon, I suggest you get your coat.”
Francesca smiled grimly. “The school?”
“I think so,” he said, finally smiling in return.
Francesca rushed into the hall. “Peter! May I have my coat, please—the one covered in mud?”
He nodded and went to the closet.
Leigh Anne stepped out of the salon, coming slowly down the hall, looking from Francesca to Bragg. There was the barest hint of anxiety in her eyes. “I take it this is an emergency?” she asked Bragg.
He finally looked at her. His eyes narrowed as he did so. “Murder is usually an emergency,” he said.
“I am only asking. We are supposed to dine at Ron Harris’s tonight.” Harris was the city’s treasurer. “Mayor Low will be there. And so will Robert Fulton Cutting.”
Bragg nodded grimly. “What time?”
“Seven.”
“I’ll meet you there,” he said.
“Will you be late?”
“I’ll try not to be.”
Francesca had put on her coat, and watching them, she felt terribly sorry for them both. She also felt like kicking Bragg in the shins. His wife was being proper and polite, not to mention very generous about the investigation he was on—and who he was on it with. But Bragg was being a real boor. She came forward, unfortunately aware of how disastrous her appearance was compared to Leigh Anne’s. “I will make certain he arrives at seven precisely,” she said, meaning it.
Leigh Anne turned to her and smiled in relief. “It is a very important dinner, Francesca. It’s an honor that Rick was invited.”
Francesca had no doubt that some serious political bargaining would take place after supper tonight. “He will be there, on time and fully dressed.” She gave Bragg a look, because he could not attend such an affair in his current clothing. He would have to go home to change.
But he smiled at her, understanding. “I have a set of dress clothes in the office. I’ll have an officer bring them to me when the time is right.”
“Then let’s go,” Francesca said lightly, excitement now joining her determination. Because no matter what she had said, she suspected that Tom Smith’s murder had something to do with his missing daughter. After all, he had lied about sending his daughter to her aunt’s, and he had been murdered immediately after speaking to the police.
The public school was just a few minutes south of Madison Square, and as they were traveling downtown, with most of the city traveling uptown to home and hearth, they arrived within fifteen minutes. School, of course, had been let out. As they approached the limestone building, which badly needed a wash, Francesca realized it was an elementary school, from first to sixth grade. Deborah Smith had obviously been in the graduating class.
They entered the building, where some faculty were in the halls, along with a janitor who was mopping the granite floors. Bragg stopped a plump middle-aged woman who was clearly on her way home. “Excuse me, ma’am. Could you direct us to the principal’s office?”
“Right down the hall,” she said, giving them a curious look. “Is this about poor Deborah Smith?”
Francesca almost fell down. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“He’s a policeman by the look of it, and she was in my class. I am Mrs. Hopper,” she said, smiling briefly. Then her smile vanished. “So was Rachael Wirkler. I just don’t understand how two such beautiful girls could simply disappear.”
“Rachael Wirkler?” Francesca echoed.
“There is another missing child?” Bragg asked.
“Yes. Rachael has been missing since February. Her parents are beyond distraught.”
Francesca glanced at Bragg. She said, “How did she vanish?”
“I don’t know. She was here one day, and they say she never went home. It was February tenth. The same with Debbie, but that was only a few weeks ago. I so adored those girls, so sweet and kind they were. Two of my best students.”
Francesca stared at Bragg. He stared back. “We now have one child—a pretty girl of thirteen—who disappeared on her way to the grocer’s after work. And we have two more children, both girls of—how old was Rachael, Mrs. Hopper?”
“Rachael was fourteen. She started school two years late.”
“And we have a twelve-year-old and a fourteen-year-old girl who both left school one day, never to arrive home.”
“Were they attractive children?” Bragg asked.
“Deborah was pretty, with a laughter like tinkling bells. But Rachael was so beautiful, sir. She stopped men in their tracks.”
“What are you thinking?” Francesca asked Bragg tersely.
“Have any other children, male or female, disappeared that you know of?” Bragg asked the teacher.
“Yes, about the same time Rachael vanished, one of Linda Wellington’s students also vanished, but apparently on her way to school. Her name was Bonnie Cooper. We are having an epidemic of missing students, si
r, and I am glad that the police are finally involved.”
Bragg said, “I am very surprised the police were not called in sooner.”
“You would have to ask the parents about that—or Principal Matthews.” She was frowning now and clearly disapproving.
“Has anyone seen anything? Perhaps one of the students knows what happened to either Rachael, Deborah, or Bonnie?” Francesca asked.
“We did make a general announcement asking any student with information to come forward, but no one did. I also spoke at length with my own class, hoping one of my children knew something, but no one did.”
“How many children are in your class, Mrs. Hopper?” Bragg asked.
“Forty-two—it was forty-four.”
Francesca winced. How large and unwieldy the class was. “And there is one other sixth grade?”
“Yes, Linda Wellington’s. She has about forty-five students, I believe.”
Francesca glanced at Bragg. “Leigh Anne should have more luncheons,” she said.
He ignored that. “I may need to ask you more questions, Mrs. Hopper. If so, I will have one of my men bring you downtown to police headquarters.”
Mrs. Hopper’s eyes widened. “Police headquarters?”
“I am the police commissioner,” Bragg said. “And this is Miss Cahill, a sleuth. She is working for another family who have a missing daughter.”
Francesca handed Mrs. Hopper her card. “If you remember any detail that you think may be significant, please get in touch with either me, Commissioner Bragg, or Inspector Newman.”
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.”
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