Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02]

by Deadly Pleasure

  She blinked at Joel, realizing he was bigoted—like so many in the city. She was about to reprimand him—and give him a lecture on equal rights, using the Declaration of Independence as an example of what God intended—when the baby in the back began crying. Francesca smiled at the cobbler and handed him five dollars. “I do not need my shoes fixed,” she said. “But buy your family something healthy to eat”

  “Shoes fix,” he said, smiling.

  A thin woman with plump cheeks came out from the room behind the store, holding her baby, who was nursing now. “Two doors down,” she said, her English that of a native New Yorker.

  “You know the sisters?” Francesca asked.

  The woman—who was probably Francesca’s age but looked twenty years older—nodded. “But you don’t want to go up there, ma’am.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a bordello,” she said, weariness in her eyes.

  “Oh,” Francesca said, flushing. She should not be surprised. It had been dear why Hart bad been with whichever sister he had been calling on. Still, having a mistress and visiting a bordello seemed vastly different to Francesca, the latter somehow depraved. Was she going to step inside a house of ill repute?

  Of course she was! She was dying to know what it was like.

  Francesca thanked her and left, going two doors down as she had been instructed to do. She knocked on the door. A big black man opened it, saw her, and shut it, and for the second time that day Francesca had a door slammed in her face.

  “They’ll never let you in,” Joel said. “Not unless you pay ’em big, lady. An’ I mean big.”

  “Why not?” She knocked again.

  “ ’Cause I know this house. They’re busy and lots of gents come here. Gents from your side o’ town.” He was sly.

  She felt herself flush. “Then I’ll pay.”

  This time a woman cracked the door, leaving several chains on. Their eyes met.

  “What do you want?” the woman said. She was older, in her forties, her hair dyed almost black. Francesca saw that she had blue eyes and nice skin, in spite of the heavy makeup she wore.

  “I need to speak with Daisy and Rose Jones,” Francesca said, smiling in a friendly manner.

  “I’ve never heard of them.” The door slammed closed.

  But Francesca had heard girlish laughter, the tinkling of crystal glasses, and lower, deeper masculine voices. She knocked again.

  The door was opened so quickly that it was clear to Francesca that the woman had been waiting for her to knock. Quickly Francesca said, “I will pay to speak with them.” She strained to see beyond the woman but could not make out anything other than the soft peach glow of the lighting inside.

  “Then that will be fifty dollars for the two girls.”

  “What?” Francesca gasped, shocked.

  “They’re my best.” The woman’s blue eyes were sharp and hard. “Twenty each apiece, but fifty for the two at once. That’s the price. It’s printed right on the menu, but first-time customers do not get to see the menu unless I have decided they are on the up-and-up.” She stared at Francesca.

  Francesca stared back. There was a menu? The door was slammed in her face, again.

  She knocked, growing angry. The door was immediately opened.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “This is not a restaurant.”

  “Some think it is,” the woman said, and she suddenly smiled. “We’re not much different from an eatery. We’ve got prices. You want to talk, that’s your affair, and that’s not on the menu. You have to buy what’s on the menu. Daisy’s twenty, straight missionary-style sex. So is Rose. Together, they’re fifty, with the extra ten being for Gentleman’s Delight. The prices don’t change, sorry. You want to talk to them both you have to pay what the menu says. Of course, if you want something special, the price is even higher and it has to be arranged first with me.”

  Francesca gasped. And what was a Gentleman’s Delight? She should not wonder, of course, she should not even think about it, but how could she not?

  The door began to close.

  Francesca shoved her hand between it and the jamb. “I’ll give you fifty dollars, even though I simply wish to speak with the girls.”

  The woman smiled. “Come in.” She opened the door, glancing at Joel. “He can come in, too, but if he steals anything, you’ll have to pay.”

  “Joel won’t take a thing,” Francesca promised breathlessly, and the next thing she knew, she was standing in a hall with salmon-colored walls, and the door closed behind her.

  “They happen to be free,” the madam said, leading her and Joel to a stairway. The woman’s name was Mrs. Pinke. “Rose just finished a customer, and Daisy is waiting for a regular at six.”

  Francesca didn’t speak. She was straining to see down the hall and into a parlor with a decor that was mostly red. She glimpsed a very beautiful and fully dressed young woman reading on a sofa, although her dress was daring and bare.

  The male voices Francesca had heard earlier were silenced now. “Where is everyone?”

  “Upstairs.” The woman smiled over her shoulder at Francesca. “Discretion is widely requested in this house.”

  “Is that why you have not asked my name?” Francesca asked.

  “If you wished for me to know your name, you would have told me what it is,” Mrs. Pinke said firmly.

  Francesca absorbed that. “Am I the first to request an audience with Daisy and Rose?” she asked as they reached the landing. She heard a woman giggling from behind closed doors.

  “An audience. Yes, you are the first,” Mrs. Pinke said with a shake of her head and an amused smile.

  So the police had yet to question the sisters. Francesca was thrilled at the thought.

  But she also remained disappointed. Where were the half-clad girls? And she had been hoping to see some gentlemen lounging about as they waited for their paramours. Then she realized that perhaps this was for the best. For what if she ran into someone she knew—or someone who knew her? “Did you whisk away the gentlemen calling today on my account?” Francesca suddenly asked.

  “They whisked themselves away,” Mrs. Pinke said, knocking upon a door. She gave Francesca a glance. “You are a clever young lady. You will have thirty minutes. I must request that you pay in advance.”

  Francesca dug into her purse as the door was opened, and then she forgot what she was about. One of the most beautiful women she had ever seen stood there, and she was, for all intents and purposes, naked. Her peignoir was sheer and she wore nothing beneath it but hose and black garters.

  “Daisy, the young lady wishes to speak with you and Rose.” Mrs. Pinke nodded at Francesca and turned away, clutching the money she had taken from Francesca’s hand.

  Francesca suddenly realized that Joel was standing there gaping. She covered his eyes with her hands. “You wait for me downstairs,” she cried.

  “Hey, let me go,” Joel protested. “I got rights!”

  “Go downstairs right this minute, or you shall cease being my assistant,” Francesca said. And over her shoulder, “Miss … er … Jones. Please put on some clothing.”

  Daisy seemed perplexed and she yawned, turning and sauntering away, but not before Francesca had glanced into a pair of bright blue eyes—which had not the flat light of boredom or even stupidity, but the sharp bright light of curiosity and intelligence. As Joel grudgingly departed, Francesca thought, This woman plays dumb, but she is not dumb at all.

  Francesca stepped into the room and closed the door.

  Daisy had slipped on a silk robe. It was a soft ivory, which matched both her naturally platinum hair and the pallor of her skin. On other women, the effect might be draining. Upon her, it was luminous. Her pale coloring somehow accentuated her high cheekbones, her exquisite features, her brilliantly blue eyes, and the pink lushness of her full mouth.

  Instantly Francesca understood Calder Hart’s reason for coming to this woman. She was simply breathtaking, and he would be pow
erless in the face of her beauty.

  “I’ve never had a woman customer before,” Daisy said softly. She did not speak like a woman from the streets. Her voice was cultivated. “Tell me what you want me to do.” She smiled.

  Francesca stiffened. “I am not a customer. I am paying you—and Rose—to answer a few questions.”

  Daisy nodded and shrugged then, as if indifferent. But her eyes remained bright, even though she glanced down so Francesca could not look into them.

  “Where is Rose?” Francesca asked.

  “She’s coming—finishing with a customer, I suppose.” Daisy sat down in a big green chair, crossing her long legs. The bedroom was quite nice, actually, boasting a four-poster bed and a fireplace. “What kind of questions?’

  Francesca looked around briefly, having expected sex toys perhaps, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She took the Jom’s only other chair. “You are a friend of Calder Hart’s?”

  “I have never heard of him,” Daisy said in her soft voice.

  Francesca realized instantly that she had been conned. Discretion was the name of this game, and even though she had paid fifty dollars to speak with the two girls, they would never admit to knowing Calder Hart—or, worse, to his being a customer.

  Suddenly the door behind Francesca opened and another woman stepped inside. Francesca turned and blinked at another breathtaking girl, this one sultry, with waist-length black hair, the palest skin, and big green eyes. Daisy was small and petite. Rose was tall and voluptuous. Fortunately, she was already clad in a silk wrapper, although it hardly reached her thighs.

  “Perhaps you can tell me about your relationship with Calder Hart,” Francesca said.

  Rose blinked. Like Daisy, her eyes were bright and inquisitive. She said, “Who?”

  “This will not do. Hart may be in trouble. He mentioned both your names, and I need to know if he was telling the truth or not.”

  “Are you his wife?” Daisy asked, her gaze direct.

  “No.” Francesca felt herself blush at the notion. “He is not married.” She watched Rose stand behind Daisy’s chair, and there was something protective about the motion.

  Daisy shrugged. “What do you mean by ‘friend,’?”

  “Is he a customer?” Francesca asked bluntly. “When did you last see him?”

  “We don’t know him,” Rose said firmly.

  Francesca stared, noticing that Rose had slipped her palm onto Daisy’s shoulder. The gesture was intimate, and Francesca felt herself flushing. She knew these women were not sisters, and she was beginning to think that they were more than friends.

  “And what if I tell you that Hart may wind up charged with murder? Will that change your minds?” Francesca asked.

  Daisy’s face tightened and she glanced up at Rose. Rose looked down at her. They held hands.

  “Maybe we do know Hart,” Rose said slowly. “Why would our knowing him or not change his being charged with murder or not?”

  “I promise you that if he is your customer, he will not mind you corroborating the fact. He has already confessed to seeing the both of you recently, and that is all I can really say. I must know when you last saw him, exactly,” Francesca said.

  “Confessed?” Daisy asked. Her tone was mild; the question was not.

  “He has told the police,” Francesca said softly.

  They did not look at each other now, but Francesca saw Rose’s grip on Daisy’s hand tighten.

  “I have no reason to lie,” Francesca cried.

  “We do.” It was Rose who spoke, but only after Daisy had squeezed her hand. “Is that all?”

  “When did you last see him?” Francesca asked again, firmly. Then, “Please.”

  They stared at her mutely.

  “You must tell me the truth,” Francesca tried. “I am his friend.”

  Daisy looked up at Rose. “I think she is telling the truth. Her eyes are honest.”

  Rose nodded. “He is our friend,” she said. “He’s here on a regular basis.”

  This wasn’t quite Francesca’s business, but she said, “Whom does he visit?”

  Daisy smiled a little, and it was a fond smile. “Both of us.”

  Francesca stared, her cheeks heating. “Not at the same time, surely.”

  “At the same time,” Daisy said, still smiling. “But surely that has little to do with the murder you referred to.”

  Francesca swallowed. “I suppose it doesn’t…. Excuse me. How is it possible?”

  Rose suddenly smiled. “It’s very possible. Especially for a man like Calder. He is tireless.”

  “And kind,” Daisy added softly.

  Francesca started. She would have never dreamed in a thousand years that anyone would call Hart kind. “Are we speaking about the same man?”

  Rose nodded. “There are men who come here who think they are gentlemen, but they are not. A girl died last month—she was beaten so badly by her friend. And it wasn’t the first time.”

  Francesca stood, shaken by what Rose had just revealed. “Why do you do what you do? Clearly you are both genteel and educated. I can see it in your eyes and hear it in your voices.”

  Daisy glanced up at Rose. Rose said, “You would not understand. But not every woman wishes to marry a man and become a slave to his wishes and those of his household and his children.”

  Francesca stared. In that single moment, she felt as if she had more in common with Daisy and Rose than she did with most of her peers. “I do understand,” she said slowly. “But … how can you be … intimate … with strangers?”

  Daisy smiled. “It’s only hard the first few times. And when we have someone like Calder, it’s quite lovely.”

  Her intimate use of his first name spoke volumes. “Please. When was he last here?”

  They looked at each other. Daisy slipped to her feet and Rose put her arm around her. “Last night.”

  Relief flooded Francesca. This was the answer she had been praying for. “What time did he arrive? What time did he leave?”

  They shared another glance. “He arrived around seven, I think.” Daisy spoke again. “He left just before nine.” She smiled then, as if at a memory she liked. “He said he had a party to attend.”

  Francesca blushed, for she imagined what the memory was about, but she was exultant. Hart had an alibi and it was the truth. “Would you tell this to the police?” she had asked, when a sudden commotion downstairs made her pause while both girls paled and turned to each other.

  The front door sounded as if it had slammed open, and the cry went up, “Police!”

  Doors were banging. Women were crying out; men were cursing. Footsteps sounded, and it was as if an army were rushing up the stairs. And Francesca heard several men shouting, “Police! Open up! Police! This is a raid! Open up!”

  Daisy and Rose fled through a window, onto a fire escape, not grabbing a thing.

  Francesca was about to follow when she saw three policemen appear at the bottom of the outdoors ladder on the street below, grinning at the two women, waiting to arrest them. She turned, hesitating, as a banging began on the bedroom door. How could this be happening now? Francesca only knew that she must not be found in the bordello, oh no. She could imagine Bragg’s wrath.

  Having no choice, she leaped underneath the four-poster bed and crouched there, trembling and breathless. She heard the front door open and saw three pairs of black shoes entering the room, almost at once.

  “Where are they?” Bragg said.

  She cringed. This could not be happening. Bragg could not be there.

  “Room’s empty, sir. Maybe this isn’t the right room.”

  “Search it,” Bragg snapped, and he turned and strode out.

  Francesca did not breathe. There was no relief. Sweat poured down her body now, in pools and rivulets.

  Objects were tossed around. A closet door was opened. Francesca closed her eyes and prayed.

  And then she knew that she had been discovered.

  Slowly
she opened her eyes, only to find a policeman on all fours, staring at her with a grin. “I found me something, Harry,” he said.

  Francesca moaned.

  He pulled her out from under the bed.

  NINE

  “You are hurting me!” Francesca cried as the policeman hustled her downstairs. His grip on her elbow was ruthless and uncompromising.

  “Shut up,” the policeman said. His breath was sour. “Before I give you one good.” He winked lewdly at her.

  Francesca realized what he was mistakenly thinking. “You think I am a …,” she gasped, unable to finish her sentence. “I am a lady!”

  He laughed. “And I’m Santa Claus.”

  Mortified, Francesca stumbled down the last two steps.

  “Release Miss Cahill immediately.”

  The policeman detaining Francesca dropped his hand so quickly it was as if he had been shot.

  At the sound of Bragg’s sharp voice, Francesca’s gaze flew to the hall by the front door. It was wide open, and Bragg stood on the threshold, in his dark suit and overcoat, backlit by the winter sun. It did riotous things to his tawny hair. Beyond him, Francesca saw numerous ill-clad women being loaded into a police wagon, most of them shouting and protesting. Mrs. Pinke stood on the street, her arms folded across her bosom, furiously arguing with a detective in a worsted suit and a badge. Two officers stood on either side of her, looking bored.

  Francesca glared at the police officer as she reached the landing, rubbing her elbow. “You have bruised me,” she said. “And I will not tolerate such brutality from our city’s finest.”

  “Francesca,” Bragg warned.

  She cringed a little and faced him. That was when she saw Joel standing behind him, in the grasp of a detective in a shabby suit. He looked miserable. And his expression seemed to blame her for his being once again in the hands of the police.

  But he could not be as miserable as she was, just then. “Hello, Bragg,” she managed, newly breathless.

  “Are you all right?” His gaze scanned her from head to toe.

  She nodded, surprised, having expected more in the way of anger from him. “I suppose I deserved being mistaken for a trollop.” Was he concerned that she had been hurt?