City of Promise (54 page)

“Not a whorehouse at all.” Eileen bent her head over her needlework and avoided looking at her niece. “A regular companion. A lady who works for him. Calls herself a widow, but who’s to say?”

“Francie Wildwood,” Mollie said. “Of course. I should have worked it out years ago.”

“Rosie makes her a gown every once in a while. Mrs. Wildwood has a clattering tongue.”

“Do you think Josh has switched all his affection to Francie Wildwood?”

This last spoken in a voice so small and frightened it brought Eileen’s head up as sharply as a shout. Perhaps this was not, after all, about Mollie having more about which to feel aggrieved. “I can’t say, but if I were to venture a guess . . . The man who was so distraught over his wife’s abduction . . . Frankly, my dear, I think it is only the baggage between his legs your husband brings to Mrs. Wildwood. But if you are honest with yourself, you must admit to having packed it for her.”

“I know,” Mollie whispered, turning her head aside so her aunt would not see her tears.

Josh thought of Mama Jack’s warning as he looked at the information Hamish Fraser had brought. He said only, “Excellent, Hamish. You’ve done well. It must have taken a long time to get all this.”

“Och, not so long as all that, Mr. Turner. It’s nay the first time I’ve been to the Registry of Deeds on your behalf.”

Josh looked up from the array of papers—each one stamped as a fair copy—Fraser had spread across his desk. The Scot was staring straight ahead, not meeting his employer’s gaze. “You devil, Hamish,” Josh said with a chuckle. “You’ve got the registry clerk on our payroll, haven’t you? C’mon, own up. You may as well, I’m considerably impressed.”

“It comes out of petty cash, Mr. Turner. I dinna hide it. Mrs. Turner has approved the transaction every week.”

“Has she now? And how much am I paying the registry clerk?”

“A dollar a week, sir. Fifty-two dollars per annum.”

“Well, it’s hardly a fortune . . .” Then, as the thought occurred, “The registry clerk’s not the only one is he?”

“I canna say he is, Mr. Turner. But I am judicious in my choices. Mrs. Turner has—”

“—approved every expenditure. Yes, I’ve no doubt.” Josh was less annoyed than amused to discover that behind his back Hamish Fraser and Mollie had been paying minor bribes in the name of the St. Nicholas Corporation. Apparently for years. But those emotions were a pinprick compared to his disappointment with the information Hamish brought him today. Because however thorough a job the Scot had done, the facts were not what he wished them to be.

He sent Hamish away, promising he could come back and visit Mollie later when she’d had more time to convalesce, and asked Tess to tell Mrs. Brannigan he wished to see her.

Eileen came at once. These last few days had aged her. There were dark circles under her eyes and her bearing was less erect than he was accustomed to seeing. “Please sit down, Aunt Eileen. I wish to show you what my clerk just brought me. This is the deed to the house where Mollie was held captive.”

Eileen looked down, then pressed a hand to her cheek. “I cannot believe it.”

“I’ve been thinking the same,” Josh admitted. “But there it is. Quite plain, and I have no reason to doubt it is the true and fair copy it attests to being. The owner of number thirty-two Bayard Street is Jeremy Duggan. Your attorney.”

“My attorney as was,” Eileen said with some feeling. “I hardly ever use him these days. Not since he deserted me in my hour of need in the Tombs. And you must admit, the owner is not Solomon Ganz. That’s what you expected, isn’t it?”

“It’s what I hoped for,” Josh admitted. “It would be straightforward. But . . .” He hesitated, remembering how agitated Eileen had been when they spoke of this before. “Aunt Eileen, as you’ve just said, this man proved himself disloyal years ago. How did it happen that when you and I formalized our arrangements concerning your part ownership of the St. Nicholas Corporation, you chose Duggan to draw up the papers?”

She had been staring at the deed, now she looked up. “Those were Mr. Ganz’s instructions,” she admitted. “I was to use the services of Mr. Jeremy Duggan and no other.”

Jeremy Duggan, Joshua suspected, was not a villain. Rather a man too weak to resist being used by villains.

“It was an ordinary transaction, Mr. Turner. The sort of thing attorneys regularly do for their clients.”

“Indeed, Mr. Duggan. I am, as you’re aware, accustomed to buying and selling property and I too use a lawyer to attend to the details. But it is my name that finishes up on the deed. In this instance City Hall says you own not just number thirty-two Bayard Street, but a considerable number of other lots and buildings in the same vicinity.”

Josh pulled a second piece of paper from his breast pocket. The first—a copy of the deed to the house where Mollie had been held captive—already lay on Duggan’s desk. What he produced now was a list of addresses. He handed them to Duggan. “The deeds of each of those properties has your name on it. The majority are in Mulberry Bend, some in what I believe is nowadays called Chinatown, and yet more in the heart of Five Points. Odd sorts of investments for a man of your sort, sir. I should think simply collecting the rents would be problematic. As in you’d be lucky not to be beaten to a pulp when the attempt was made.”

Duggan was studying the list of properties as if he’d never seen it before. “So many,” he said softly. “I did not realize . . .”

“You’ve never totted it up, have you?” Josh asked. “Never done a reckoning of all those accommodating misrepresentations of the facts you’ve entered into on your client’s behalf.” He reached out and retrieved both documents, folding them carefully and returning them to their secure place in the inside pocket resting against his heart. “Seems to me the newspapers would find this an interesting story. One more example of our city’s terrible corruption. Astonishing how today’s reporters
have no sense of propriety, no restraint. They can hound a man to despair. Don’t you agree, Mr. Duggan?”

“What do you want? I don’t have much money. As you’ve implied, I take no profit from any of those buildings.”

“I’m not after money, Duggan. I want to know who is behind all this official lying.”

The lawyer shrugged. “Don’t use that tone with me. You did not get where you are, Mr. Turner, by sweet purity and innocence. Why the hell do you care, anyway?” He stood up. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

Josh rose as well, but he did not turn to go. He leaned forward, planting both hands on the other man’s desk and putting his face close to Duggan’s. “I care because my wife was held captive in thirty-two Bayard Street for almost four days. Under the most appalling conditions. Murderous conditions. That’s a rather more serious charge than simple corruption. So if you weren’t the one who ordered her abduction, I’d suggest you tell me who did.”

Duggan drew back. “Jesus God Almighty.”

“He is not, I’m quite sure, behind any of this.”

“You’ve a quick wit, Turner. And a good deal of bravado. Especially for a man who must hobble because he cannot run. But I haven’t seen your wife since she was a girl. I certainly had no hand in imprisoning her, nor indeed any reason to wish her ill. From what you said, it sounds like you’ve retrieved her. Count your blessings and forget about it.”

Josh reached out and grabbed the other man’s shirtfront. The gesture caused a silver ink pot to be swept off the desk. It landed with a crash. The door flew open. “You need anything, Mr. Turner?” The tone was conversational, with no hint of threat, but Frankie Miller’s arm was outstretched and he held a pistol, cocked and ready.

Duggan did not struggle out of Josh’s grasp. His calmness with a gun pointed at his head indicated less distance than he’d implied from whatever he was involved in. “I guess, Turner, this proves you’re no
better than I. Back off. Both of you. You’ve no idea who you’re playing around with, or what kind of a hornet’s nest you’re stirring up.”

“Honeybees,” Josh said, “not hornets.” He let Duggan go, watching for any reaction. There was none. The lawyer shot his cuffs and brushed his lapels, seeming more concerned with his appearance than with Miller’s weapon. “I believe you’re telling the truth when you say you had nothing to do with my wife’s ordeal,” Josh said. “Give me a name and I’ll go. You’ll hear nothing further about any of this. Otherwise I take the story to the press. After that I warrant you’ll have seen your last client.”

Duggan glanced from Josh to Frankie Miller and back again. “Why not?” he said with a shrug. “Since it seems we’ve both learned the value of alliances. The name you’re after is Tony Lupo. But I don’t think that information is going to do you a whole lot of good.”

They had been sitting in the back of the carriage for close on to ten minutes, ever since they left Duggan’s office. Josh and Frankie Miller. Not saying a word. Miller had started to speak on at least three occasions; each time Josh waved him silent. Ollie sat at the front of the brougham, awaiting Josh’s instructions.

Finally, Josh leaned forward and pushed down the window separating him from the driver. “Take us to Avenue A, Ollie. Between Fifth and Sixth.”

The carriage moved into the traffic. Josh leaned against the tufted red leather of the interior bench. “Head to head with Ganz,” he murmured. “Otherwise we shall go on playing cat and mouse for God knows how long. I’ve been the mouse long enough, time to be the cat.” It was unclear whether he was speaking to himself or to Miller, but his tone did not invite conversation.

Half an hour later they were trotting south along Avenue A, leaving Tompkins Square Park on their left. A block ahead, on the west side of the street, were the three gold balls that identified Sol Ganz’s
pawnshop. Josh lowered the front window, preparing to suggest Ollie rein in where they were. Miller touched his arm. “Mr. Turner. Look to the right, sir. Just now.”

Josh turned his head. An improbable broad-brimmed hat piled high with silk roses was coming toward him.

Tess was busy putting something into the drawstring bag she carried on her arm. She did not look up and it was apparent she had spotted neither the carriage—there were half a dozen black broughams on any New York block at any given time—nor Ollie nor Frankie Miller. Certainly not her employer. Frankie made a move as if to open the door and jump out. “No!” Josh said quickly. “Stay where you are.”

The flow of traffic urged them forward. Josh turned his head so as to keep Tess in view as long as possible. She kept on walking north, concentrated on drawing her bag tight closed, and did not look back.

“That was folding money she was tucking away,” Miller said. His face was dark with anger. As if he, personally, had been betrayed.

“I know,” Josh said calmly. Then, leaning into the brougham’s open front window, “We’ve got what we came for, Ollie. Take us home.”

21

“Y
OU SHOULD HAVE
let me grab her,” Miller grumbled half under his breath.

“No,” Josh said. They were a few yards from 1060 and it was the first word he’d spoken since they reversed direction on Avenue A. He dropped the brougham’s window. “Don’t stop by the door, Ollie. Drive straight into the stable.”