Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (33 page)

“No.
You
want to help me. Your golden lover would love nothing more than to put me behind bars—in his jail cell.”

She gasped, about to protest, but it was Bragg who did so. “That is not true. And you know it.”

Calder’s gaze slid over his half brother like a sleek snake shedding his skin.

“Please do not make this worse than it has to be,” Francesca said softly. “Please, Calder.”

His gaze seemed to soften as he glanced at her. He then glanced at his pocket watch and nodded. “Very well.” Then, “Only a beautiful and determined woman could work such wiles on me in this particular instance.” He shook his head again, as if not quite understanding himself.

Francesca stepped back, inordinately relieved. She turned to Bragg, smiling.

He did not smile back. His look was hard and cold—and directed at her. She flinched. He was angry with her, too? But she was only trying to help him—and to smooth over the brewing conflict.

“Let’s go,” he said to Hart.

“In a moment. I wish to speak with my driver,” Hart said, already walking away as if indifferent now to the meeting he had resisted so furiously just a moment before.

Francesca trembled a little.

Bragg said to her, “Do not interfere in police business again. I mean it.” And even though he did not raise his voice, Francesca saw the anger in his eyes, and she recoiled, crushed.

He wasn’t angry—he was livid.

He walked away.

Anthony did not step out of his coach. But after Bragg had driven off with Hart, Francesca went to the hired hansom and stepped up and into it. She sat down facing him, her back to the driver, arranging her navy blue skirts as she did so.

Under other circumstances, she would be filled with curiosity as to what he wanted. Now, she felt ill. Bragg was so angry with her, and it was unfair. And she hated leaving the two brothers alone—she would die to be a fly on the wall of Bragg’s office.

Did she dare?

“Thanks, Miss Cahill, for meeting me,” Anthony said, interrupting her thoughts. He had removed his hat, which lay on the torn squab beside his thigh. His hair was that unusual shade that was neither blond nor brown but somewhere in between. A long lock fell over one eye. The carriage began to move away from the curb.

“Where are we going?” Francesca cried, startled and instantly frightened. Of course, he could not be abducting her!

“Georgette wants to speak to you. It is urgent,” he returned, his gaze unwavering.

Francesca stared. His powerful body seemed stiff with tension, yet his face appeared relaxed, and his eyes were veiled—she could not read his emotions. Then, “Where is she?”

He grimaced. “You know she thinks the coppers suspect her of murdering Randall—the man she loved. She will not come forward, and she will not reveal where she is. But she
must
talk to you,” he said with some urgency.

“And I wish nothing more than to speak with her,” Francesca said, worried. The livery had turned onto Lexington Avenue and was moving slowly downtown, crushed by an electric trolley, a horse-drawn omnibus, and several huge lorries. “This is very unorthodox.”

“Yes, it is, but murder is hardly orthodox, now is it?” He smiled a little then. When he smiled he had a dimple, and that, paired with the cleft in his chin, his green eyes, and his high cheekbones, gave him a very roguish look. Mark Anthony was short, and Francesca suspected he was exactly her height of five feet, five inches tall, but she doubted that deterred the ladies from admiring him.

She did not relax and she did not smile back. “If she will not reveal her whereabouts, how can she be certain that I will not do so?”

“Isn’t she your client?” He grinned, his eyes wide with feigned innocence.

Their gazes met. Francesca flushed. Somehow, word had gotten back to Georgette that Francesca was claiming to represent her. She could only assume the culprit to be her new assistant, Joel. “It is not quite official,” Francesca murmured. “But I have been hoping that she would allow me to sleuth on her behalf.”

“How much?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How much will you charge her?” He leaned back now in his seat. As he did so, his brown suit jacket opened, revealing a gun. Francesca stared at it. It was tucked into the waistband of his pants. Perhaps he
was
a boxer. His abdomen was absolutely flat and appeared to be as hard as his chest looked.

He followed her gaze but only said, “My gun has nothing to do with you. I always carry it; it’s for self-protection.”

“It has been my experience that only criminals and law enforcement officials carry weapons,” Francesca said tightly.

His brows lifted. “Are you calling me a crook?” He grinned. His grin was lopsided.

“I meant no such thing.” She was perspiring. She did not particularly trust this man. Worse, he carried a weapon. But she had to speak with Georgette. “My intention was to represent your sister for free,” Francesca said tersely.

He looked at her oddly, with amusement. “Really? That’s so kind of you.” He leaned forward. “Well, it’s been my experience that nobody does nothing for nothing.” He sat back up.

“I do not believe she killed anyone,” Francesca said, and even as she was speaking, she wondered if this man was the killer. He carried a gun. It was not a small gun—and the murder weapon had been found—but he looked like the kind of man who lived outside of the law, as he pleased. He was dressed like a gentleman, but that did not fool Francesca. She sensed he was not of her ilk and he never would be. In fact, in a way, he reminded her of Calder Hart. But on the other hand, Hart seemed like a perfect gentleman in comparison to Anthony.

God, was she riding about the city with a killer? And what if this was a trap?

“And I do things for free, as you put it, for others who have need of me in one way or another,” Francesca added primly. She stared at his rough-hewn face. Now she was noticing a scar by his left eye. His brows were darker than his hair and very pronounced.

“My sister has no need of charity, not from anyone,” Mark Anthony said, and he chuckled.

She could not understand the source of his amusement. “To the contrary, your sister is a prime suspect in the Randall Killing, as far as the police commissioner is concerned,” Francesca said. And the moment the words popped out, she regretted them.

“Really? Is that what that damned leatherhead thinks?” Anthony’s lips took on a vicious twist.

Francesca did not particularly care for his sudden anger. “He has several suspects,” she managed. “But in any case, to offer my services for free is not about charity, Mr. Anthony. I do not think your sister a murderess. I suspect she would not hire me, should I demand a fee, so it is the interest of serving justice that motivates me.”

He stared at her, his sea green eyes incredulous. “Only the rich,” he said with a shake of his head. His wavy hair was too long; it reached his shirt collar.

Francesca shrugged. “I have no inclination to change your worldview.”

“My what?” He stared. “Just listen carefully, Miss Cahill. Be ready at seven tonight. I’ll come round and take you to Georgette.”

She was surprised. “But that is not where we are now going?”

He also seemed surprised. “No, that is not where we are going. I only asked to speak to you. I’ll pick you up tonight.”

She stared at him. Did she dare venture out into the city with this man, whom she did not know or trust?

She could not refuse Mark Anthony. But she would bring Joel, and maybe, this time, she would tell Bragg where she was going, and why.

“All right. But I shall bring my assistant with me.”

He folded brawny arms over his broad chest. “The kid?” He laughed. “Yes.”

He continued to grin, shaking his head. “OK. But no coppers. Especially not
your friend,
Bragg.” His grin was gone. He stared coldly at her.

Chills swept over her. She bit her lip. She did not dare bring Bragg—and what had that inflection meant?

“I mean it. I see a single fly, and no Georgette.”

She nodded slowly, reluctant and filled with regret.

He rapped on the partition to gain the driver’s attention. “Pull over,” he said.

Francesca glanced out of her window—they had reached 39th Street. The neighborhood was a commercial one, and it seemed to be filled with immigrant workmen, hurrying to and fro with their equipment, bundles, and carts. Wagons and lorries predominated in the traffic; she saw neither a trolley nor a cab anywhere in sight. She did not especially wish to walk around this neighborhood alone.

But Mark Anthony was the one to leap out of the cab. He slapped on his fedora and banged on the hansom. “Take the lady anywhere she wishes to go,” he said, not looking at the driver. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Cahill. Sorry, but you’ll have to pay the fare.”

She looked into his dancing eyes and was not amused. “Don’t you need my address?”

“For the ‘Marble Palace’? I don’t think so.” He laughed again and rapped his fist on the cab to tell the driver he could go.

“One more thing,” Francesca said. “Is your name really Mark Anthony?”

He laughed. “It’s one of them.” He turned and as suddenly he faced her again. “By the way, Georgette is
not
my sister.” And laughing, he strode away.

Surprised, Francesca stared after him. What was this? Anthony was not Georgette’s brother? Who was he, then?

Francesca did not like this sudden turn of events. Surely he was not Georgette’s lover—she had been Randall’s mistress. But something was definitely amiss, and she had no intention of walking into a trap. Her every instinct was telling her that Anthony was involved in the Randall murder. But was he a killer? He would certainly have the motive if he were Georgette’s lover.

He made a much better suspect than either Georgette de Labouche or Hart.

Francesca trembled, but not with fear. She realized she was on the verge of finding a killer.

“Where to, miss?”

She swiftly gathered her thoughts. And determination overcame her. “Police headquarters,” she said.

The headquarters of the city’s police department was just beyond Mulberry Bend, an impoverished neighborhood of saloons and cribs frequented by gangs and thugs, where every possible type of criminal business was conducted. In fact, pickpockets, hoodlums, prostitutes, and crooks of all sorts were not swayed by the proximity of police headquarters and ran their affairs as if roundsmen were not standing on nearby street corners. Every time Francesca came to 300 Mulberry, she was amazed anew by the audacity of the local populace and the indifference of the police force.

Now she paid the cabbie a ridiculous fare, quite certain she was being swindled—although he insisted his fare for waiting on the street was a dollar an hour. Two roundsmen were standing in front of the brownstone that housed the police, looking bored and watching boys playing jacks out of the corner of their eye. A woman in a fur coat dyed a shocking burgundy, who was clearly a prostitute, stood just across the dirty brown street from the coppers, and she was clearly trying to attract business for herself. Two men sat on an opposite stoop, swilling beer, Francesca presumed, from pails. She doubted either one could stand upright.

Francesca stepped gingerly over a pile of manure, then avoided a pile of slushy garbage, making it safely to the curb. Bragg’s roadster stood out like a sore thumb, parked right in front of the brownstone. It had attracted a crowd of gawking men and boys and two more ladies of ill repute.

The roundsmen glanced at her as she walked past them and inside. Francesca knew from experience that ladies did not
ever
enter the premises.

As usual, the scene inside the reception room was rather frenetic: several uniformed officers were behind a long desk, one of whom she recognized. Numerous citizens sat on a wooden bench, apparently waiting their turn to speak to or complain to the police. Two civilians, one a man and the other a woman, both in the shabby and threadbare garb of underpaid and overworked laborers, were speaking with different officers, loudly and unhappily. Francesca gathered that the man had had his purse cut, but she could not overhear the woman’s complaints.

Another man stood a few feet from them in manacles. He seemed bored and sullen; clearly he was a criminal about to be arrested, and an officer was gripping his arm firmly, as if afraid he might escape. Several reporters also hovered about the front desk—in their shabby suits, bowler hats, and oversize overcoats, they stood out as journalists awaiting a scoop. One seemed to be arguing with a sergeant.

Francesca was relieved; Arthur Kurland was not in sight.

And in the background, adding to the din of arguments and conversation, typewriters were clacking and the telegraph was pinging. Somewhere, a telephone was also ringing.

Francesca approached the front desk. The burly bald officer saw her and smiled. “Hello, Miss Cahill,” he said.

She was elated and she smiled at him. “Sergeant O’Malley, how are you?”

“Fine, thank you, ma’am. The commissioner is in. Go right up,” he said, smiling at her.

Francesca was about to thank him when another officer walked over to them. He was also in his thirties, but he had a full head of dark hair. “Commissioner has asked not to be disturbed, O’Malley,” he said. “Who’s this?” He peered at her through horn-rimmed spectacles.

“Miss Cahill, a friend of the C’mish.”

Francesca smiled and extended her hand bravely. The second officer had an additional bar above his lapel; clearly he outranked O’Malley.

“Captain Shea,” he said, looking at her hand as if he did not know what it was. Finally, he took it.

“I am a good family friend,” Francesca said brightly. “And, in fact, I helped Mr. Bragg solve the Burton Abduction.”

He squinted at her. “You’re the dame—I mean the lady—who was imprisoned, right? With the boy? Yeah, that was you!”

She nodded proudly. “Yes, that was I.”

Shea absorbed that. “Bragg doesn’t want to be disturbed, but why don’t you go on up and take a seat? I’m sure he’ll see you when his business is concluded.”

Francesca beamed at him, thanked him, and made her way to the elevator. It was wonderful, being able to walk right into police headquarters and then be treated with such deference. She wondered if she should have shown O’Malley and Shea her business cards.