Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (16 page)

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.

“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?

“Yes, you do.” Bragg turned as another uniformed officer led Daisy and Rose up to him from the street. Both women were shivering violently in their thin silk robes and high-heeled slippers. “Are these the two women?”

“Suppose so. Caught ’em coming down the fire escape from the bedroom you said they was in,” the policeman said. “But they won’t say their names.”

“Find them two blankets,” Bragg ordered. Francesca watched him carefully. If Daisy’s ethereal beauty or the bare length of Rose’s shapely legs overcame him, he gave no sign. He said, “Are you Daisy and Rose?”

Daisy’s mouth was firmly pressed together. Rose said, “No. An’ who the fuck are you?”

Francesca flinched. Rose had changed her enunciation, and it was as if she had been born and raised in the trash-filled gutter just outside of where they all stood.

“I am the highest authority in this city, after the mayor,” Bragg said coldly. “I am the police commissioner.”

Rose shook off the officer and stepped forward, and as she did so, her short robe fell open, revealing not a stitch of any clothing beneath. She pressed against Bragg. “Well, why didn’t you say so? For the police commissioner, it’s free. Anything you want,” she purred.

Bragg’s expression did not change; Francesca wanted to slap the other woman silly. Instead, she felt her cheeks go on fire—and then she noticed Rose’s hand, sliding over Bragg’s thigh. It was perilously close to his groin.

Francesca was stunned. And an instant later she was furious.

Bragg stepped away from the brunette. “Take her and her friend to the Tombs. If they behave, my office, eight
A.M.”
He turned his back on Rose.

Francesca took a deep breath. She had been about to pounce on the other woman for touching Bragg in such a manner!

Rose spat.

Bragg said, not turning, “Separate them. Separate cells—and no communication.”

Rose said to his back, “Fuck you. But only in your dreams, copper!”

“Please, stop it, Rose,” Daisy whispered, tugging on her hand.

“Get them out of here,” Bragg said to another policeman. Then to a third, “Make sure the establishment is empty; then lock it up. Board up all of the windows and the front door. There will be no more business in this whorehouse.”

Francesca looked from his set face to Daisy and Rose, who were being walked across the street to the police wagon. The girls were arm-in-arm, but now it was more of an effort to shield each other from the cold than it was about intimacy or love. As if feeling eyes upon her, Daisy flung a glance over her shoulder. Her gaze locked with Francesca’s. And in her gaze there was a plea.

Francesca hesitated, then nodded at her. What she hoped to communicate was that she would try to help them if she could.

Daisy smiled in relief.

Francesca realized that Bragg had noticed the exchange. He said, “You may give me a ride to police headquarters. Dickens, escort Miss Cahill and the kid to their brougham, and have them wait for me there.”

Francesca realized she was wide-eyed. She tried to remain composed. Why did he wish to ride with her? Unfortunately, she knew his motives were not social ones. “Do you not have a vehicle, Bragg?”

He ignored her and walked out of the bordello and over to Mrs. Pinke, the only woman now left standing on the street. She had a fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders. As Francesca was led toward her coach, she strained to hear their exchange.

“Have you had a change of heart?” Bragg asked the madam.

“If you mean will I reveal the names of any of my customers, the answer is no.”

He smiled at her and it was dangerous enough to make Francesca shiver. “But protecting your customers no longer matters, as you shall never be open for business again.”

Mrs. Pinke stuttered and then said, “You will never survive in this city, Commissioner. I beg you, give me a private audience.”

“Why? To offer me several thousand dollars? I cannot be bought, Mrs. Pinke, unlike my predecessors. You have a choice. It is a simple one. You may rot in the Tombs and face charges for pimping, prostitution, fraud, blackmail, bribing a police officer, and anything else I can think of successfully prosecuting you for, or you may tell me everything I wish to know, and you will get off with a warning.”

She stared. “And my establishment?”

He smiled. “You are out of business, Mrs. Pinke, and from my point of view, it is one less nest of corruption that this city and its inhabitants have to suffer with.”

Mrs. Pinke trembled. “I have a lawyer, Bragg. A damned good one!”

Bragg turned his back on her. “Throw her in the wagon.” Then his gaze settled on Francesca, who was poised to climb up into her own coach, and narrowed with speculation and intent.

Her heart turned over hard.

And she thought,
He is all business; he is about to lay into me now. I am such a fool, because seeing him makes me happy.

Bragg strode over to her coach. He held open the door. Francesca smiled at him. He did not smile back.

Her own smile faded. She tried to think of a truly good reason for her to have beaten him at his own game, and she failed.

He followed her inside.

* * *

They traveled a few blocks in silence. Joel sat on the seat facing them, and occasionally, as the coach bounced over a rut, Bragg’s knee touched Francesca’s. She stole several sideways peeks at his profile. He seemed very preoccupied.

“Bragg? I do have good news,” she finally said, nervously.

He turned so he was partially facing her. “How did you know about Daisy and Rose? Did you speak with Calder since I last left you?”

Francesca bit her lip. Even though Joel was in the coach with them, she was acutely aware of Bragg’s proximity. He was such a masculine and powerful man that he somehow dominated the space inside of the brougham, making it seem very small indeed. “No.”

“I see. You were eavesdropping on Calder and myself.”

She hesitated. “It is because I care.”

He shook his head. “Do the ends always justify the means?” he asked.

She paled. “Of course not.”

“Then why? Of course, this is a huge part of your charm. This is what makes you unique and unlike any other woman I have ever known. But it is also frustrating. I never know when I shall open a door and Francesca Cahill will pop up—like a jack-in-the-box.” He did not smile.

But he didn’t seem terribly angry. He wasn’t shouting. In fact, his tone was fairly mild. She smiled a little. “So, I am unique?” She did like the sound of that.

“Terribly, tirelessly so.” He finally smiled.

And Francesca was elated. He was the only man, other than her father, who understood her and appreciated her for being a different kind of woman. “Thank you, Bragg,” she said.

He sighed. “I have come here to chastise you, and somehow I have wound up flattering you. Only you, Francesca.”

“I don’t mind.” She grinned and almost took his hand. Wisely, she restrained herself. Then, “Why aren’t you angrier with me?”

He seemed slightly amused. “Do you wish me to be angry?”

“You were angry last night,” she pointed out.

“I found you with a corpse!” he exclaimed. “It was the last thing I expected.”

“And you were angry this morning.”

“Yes, I was. As my preference is not to have you involved in my work. However, I have had some time to think about it. You were extremely helpful in the Burton investigation, Francesca.” His eyes narrowed.

She flushed with pleasure and reached out to touch his hand. The moment she did so, she shivered and dropped her palm. “You know I only have the best of intentions. You know that, like yourself, I am appalled by injustice.”

He smiled a little and shook his head. “Yes. I know. Which is why I have done some thinking and have decided that perhaps you might have a role in this case after all.” His gaze slowly lifted to hers.

His look was odd, but it was only later that Francesca recalled it. She was elated, ecstatic even. “You do? You wish my help? Shall we be a team, then?” she cried.

“Do you truly believe Miss de Labouche to be your client?”

Francesca hesitated. Now was not the time to dissemble. “I am certain she will agree if I offer my services for free.”

He smiled. Then, somberly, “She approached you in the first place. And she is still missing, Francesca. She is a prime suspect in this case even if you believe her to be innocent. I must question her.”

Francesca understood. She almost clapped her hands together in her excitement. “You want me to find her.”

“Immediately,” he said. “I have put a detective on it, but he already has a huge case on his hands. You have heard about the theft of Mrs. Graff’s jewels?”

“I think so,” Francesca said.

“Then I realized that this is so unorthodox, perhaps you should work on your own—reporting directly to me and me alone.”