Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (15 page)

“Drunk as a skunk, an’ that will be easy, if you got an eagle on you.” Joel jumped down to the frozen street, narrowly avoiding a pile of manure and other garbage.

“I do,” Francesca said, dismounting carefully from the coach. The conversation on the corner, which had been drunken and animated, abruptly ceased. Francesca knew her coach—and her person—had been seen. She tensed, preparing for lewd remarks, and when one of the men whistled—the sound insulting—she fled down the steps and into the safety of the cobbler’s shop.

A small man with a beard was pounding on a pair of leather soles on the rough wood counter where he was working. It faced the street. Behind him, a rack was filled with shoes, some mended, some needing repair. A small room was behind that, and Francesca glimpsed a woman at a stove and a baby in a bassinet.

Francesca knew that the cobbler lived behind his storefront shop with his family, and perhaps several other families as well, in terrible tenement conditions—the kind of conditions that she and others in the city wished to improve. But now was not the time to think of reform, and Francesca managed a firm smile as the cobbler set aside his leather soles, watching her rather curiously.

“Hello. I am looking for two women, Daisy and Rose Jones? I wonder if you could help me?” Francesca asked, opening her purse.

“English no good Shoes fix?” he said with a heavy Slavic accent.

“No, no, I do not need any shoes fixed. I am looking for two women, Daisy and Rose Jones?”

“Shoes fix,” he said, smiling at her. He pointed at her feet.

Francesca realized he did not understand a word that she was saying.

“He’s a Jew an’ he don’t speak English,” Joel said, making a face.

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 powerless 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?”