Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (5 page)

“Three, plus meals, an’ a bed, too, when I need it.”

She blinked. “Three dollars a week? You are only ten years old!”

“Three dollars, an’ meals, an’ a bed, an’ you got yourself a handshake, lady,” he said.

“Very well,” Francesca sighed. Then, eagerly, “We are on our first case.” She quickly told him what had happened, producing Georgette’s card as she did so. “What do you think?”

His face screwed up as he reached for the woman’s calling card. “Something stinks. Something ain’t right.” He squinted at the calling card.

Francesca hadn’t truly wanted to have her suspicions confirmed. “Joel, you can’t read.”

He smiled at her. “Actually, me ma’s been teachin’ me for a few years now an’ I can read a little.”

Francesca was aghast. “You told me you could not read!”

“Well, I didn’t know you an’ there were foxes everywhere an’ I was mindin’ my own business!” he cried.

Francesca took back Georgette de Labouche’s card rather grimly. “You know, Joel, I am a very honest woman. And if you are working for me, you will have to get over this propensity of yours to … to … alter the truth.” He had lied to her—blatantly—and not for the first time.

He gave her a gap-toothed smile. “Wut’s propenty?”

“Propensity. It means inclination.” The hansom was halting. “Uh-oh.” Her heart lurched with undue and unnerving force. “We are here, Joel.”

He patted her hand. “Don’t worry, lady. If you want, I will go in first, make sure it’s all on the up-’n’-up.”

Francesca paid the driver. “No. This is my very first case.

We will go in together.” She smiled, hoping it looked brave. But her courage seemed to be failing her now.

The moment she used the knocker, footsteps could be heard at a rapid pace in the hall beyond the door, hurrying to them. The door was thrust open immediately.

Francesca was greeted with the sight of a buxom woman in her early thirties, her dyed and curled red hair pinned up, clad in a well-made suit, although the jacket had been designed to show off an undue amount of cleavage. The woman was wearing large aquamarine drop earrings, a huge aquamarine-and-diamond pin in the shape of a butterfly, and three rings, all gems. Her face was pretty and quite made up. Instantly, Francesca knew she was not greeting a gentlewoman.

Francesca peered past the woman almost immediately and saw a wood-floored hall beyond the small entry, stairs that led upstairs just behind the woman. The door directly at the end of the hall was closed, but light spilled out beneath it. The hall itself was dimly lit.

“You came! Thank God, Miss Cahill—who’s that?” Her tone changed, becoming one of abject suspicion as she stared down at Joel.

“I’m her assistant,” Joel announced, slipping beneath the woman’s arm as she held open the door and ducking into the entry.

Francesca made another mental note—Joel should know to let her do all the speaking. “Miss de Labouche?”

“Yes, yes, do come in!” the woman cried, indicating that she had indeed been the one to hand Francesca the note, but she faced Joel. “Stop right there, young man,” she said sternly.

Joel slid his rag-clad hands into the pockets of his big wool coat and he shrugged. Georgette de Labouche shut the door behind Francesca. “Thank God you have come, but you should have come alone!”

The woman was in a panic. There was no mistaking the signs—panic was in her eyes and in her tone and written all over her face as well.

“Perhaps we should start from the beginning,” Francesca said kindly.

“There is no time!”

Francesca began unbuttoning her fur-lined cloak. “Very well. Shall we sit down somewhere and begin?”

Georgette hesitated, glancing at Joel. Then, “We can go in there.” She pointed at the closed door at the end of the hall, where light glared out from beneath it. Clearly the room beyond was brilliantly lit. “But the boy stays right here.” She glared at Joel. “You don’t move, buster. You got that?”

Joel made a funny face. “I got one boss and that’s Miss Cahill.”

“Don’t talk back to me!” Georgette cried.

Francesca put a hand on her arm and smiled reassuringly. “I can see you are upset. We shall speak privately, have no fear.” She looked at Joel. “Joel, your job is to assist me—when I need assistance. Right now, please stay here in the entry and wait for me until I ask you to do otherwise.”

His gaze was searching. Francesca realized he was trying to decide what her words really meant—as if she were speaking in code.

“Stay right here,” Francesca reiterated. She smiled at Georgette, who was wringing her bejeweled hands. The redhead looked close to tears. “He’ll be fine,” Francesca said, hoping she spoke the truth. While originally the idea of Joel as an assistant had seemed wonderful, Francesca wasn’t quite sure she could trust him to do as she asked. Which made him a loose cannon indeed. She did not want to mismanage her first case because of the little boy.

Georgette led the way briskly down the hall.

Francesca asked, speaking to her rigid but small shoulders, “How did you know to contact me, Miss de Labouche?”

She glanced over her shoulder, her hand on the knob of the closed door. “You gave me one of your cards outside of Tiffany’s yesterday. It was an unusual card. I tucked it away.

But I never thought I’d have need of it, and certainly not a day later!”

Francesca met her dark brown eyes. The woman was crying. “It will be all right,” she said softly.

Georgette turned and thrust the door somewhat open, stepping inside. Instinct caused unease to assail Francesca, and she hesitated for a moment before slipping past Georgette, who instantly slammed the door closed behind her—locking it.

But Francesca only flinched at the sound of the lock clicking, because directly in the middle of the room was a man. A gentleman, by the looks of him. He was lying on his abdomen, on the highly polished wood floor, his face turned to one side, in a pool of dark red blood.

Francesca muffled her very own gasp. “Is he …?”

“He’s dead,” Georgette said flatly. “And I need you to help me get rid of the body.”

F
RIDAY,
J
ANUARY 31, 1902—
M
IDNIGHT

Francesca gasped. Surely she had misheard Georgette de Labouche. “What?”

“We must get rid of the body. You have to help me! And the first thing we must do is send the boy away!” Georgette cried, as if Francesca were a dolt.

Francesca could hardly believe her ears. This was her very first official case. And it was not just any case; it was a homicide, the gravest of crimes. A murder had been committed, and Francesca intended to get to the bottom of it. But this woman was asking her not to solve the crime, but help hide it. The situation might have been comical had a man not been murdered and lying there dead at their feet.

“Didn’t you hear a word I said? If the police find him, they will throw me in the cooler for sure!” Georgette stabbed at the air, near hysteria.

Francesca took a deep, calming breath. She glanced once more at the dead man at their feet. Her stomach heaved. She had seen corpses before, of course, but they had been in their Sunday best and carefully arranged on the satin bed of a beautiful coffin. “Miss de Labouche? Who is this man? And … did you kill him?”

“See! Even you think I did it!” Georgette whirled, pacing, her bosom heaving.

Francesca tried to peer more closely at the dead man. “Is that a hole I see in the back of his head?” She wondered if she might retch. She must control the urge. “Was he shot? Or beaten with a stick?”

Georgette whirled. “I would never hurt Paul. He was a dear, dear friend.”

Francesca was relieved as she faced Georgette, no longer studying the man. But she had seen right away that he was well dressed, right down to the tips of his shiny new Oxford shoes. She had noticed a gold watch fob in a gray vest where his dark wool jacket was open. The suit, the watch, and the shoes were all of a very fine quality indeed. “A dear, dear friend,” Francesca repeated. “You are his mistress?”

Georgette did not flush. “Obviously,” she snapped. “Will you or will you not help me dispose of the body?”

“So now you wish to
dispose
of the body?” Francesca gaped. “Miss de Labouche, this man is not a mouse in a trap. He is a human being and the victim of a terrible crime. We must inform the police. A man has been murdered. In cold blood, I might add—from the look of things.”

“Of course it was in cold blood!” Georgette cried, and she sank down on a red velvet chair, moaning and holding her face with her hands.

Francesca took another glance at the body. He had removed his overcoat and top hat; both items lay on another chair with a silver-tipped cane. She estimated his age as early fifties. Then she walked over to Georgette and laid her palm reassuringly on her plump but narrow shoulder. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said softly.

Georgette did not speak. She moaned again and said, “I am going straight to the Tombs; I can see it now!”

“No one has accused you of any crime, Miss de Labouche. What happened?” Francesca knew she did not have a lot of time in which to ask questions. In fact, if she was a truly honorable citizen, she would rush off to call the police in that instant. But she preferred to ask some questions first—before the police began their investigation.

An image of Bragg flashed through her mind. They had worked quite closely together to solve the abduction of Jonny Burton. Something stirred in her heart. He had even admitted, once, reluctantly, how helpful she had been. She wondered if they would work together again, to solve this newer and even more dastardly crime.

Georgette looked up. “I was in my bath,” she finally said. “Paul comes every Tuesday and Friday evening. His full name is Paul Randall,” she added. “I heard him come in, or I thought I did. I expected him to come upstairs. I had a surprise waiting for him.” Tears filled her eyes.

“A surprise?” Francesca asked, wishing she had a notepad. First thing tomorrow she would begin acquiring the tools of her new trade.

“I was in the bath, Miss Cahill. With champagne and other … things.”

Francesca stiffened. “Oh.” Things? Did she dare ask what those things were? She was dying of curiosity, and then she reminded herself that as a now-professional sleuth, of course she must ask. “What kind of things?”

Georgette blinked. “Toys. Devices. You know.”

Francesca thought her heart had slowed. “Toys? You mean like rubber ducks?”

Georgette sighed in exasperation and shook her head, standing. “You gentlewomen are all the same! No wonder men like Paul come to women like me! Not rubber ducks, my dear. Toys.
Sex
toys. You know. Objects that bring extra pleasure. If you’d like, I can show them to you?” She stared rather coyly.

Francesca tried not to gasp as her cheeks flamed. She was stunned. She hadn’t known that such objects existed, and in any case, what could they be and how were they used? She fought to get a grip. “I see.” Her cheeks remained hot. Would Connie know anything about sex toys? Francesca doubted it, but she was the only person Francesca dared to ask. “So you were in the bath and then what happened?” She tried to sound brisk, professional.

“Many minutes passed as I lingered there, with the toys.” She briefly smiled at Francesca, some kind of insinuation hanging there. Francesca did not quite know what she meant. “Of course he would come to find me; I know him so well. But he did not, and suddenly, I was concerned. And it was just at that point when I heard a sharp, loud crack. One sound. A crack. And I knew it was a gunshot.”

Francesca had had an image of Georgette alone in the bath together with different-sized rubber ducks, the best her suddenly infertile imagination could do. She shoved that rather unwelcome image aside. “And?”

“And? I leaped up, put on a robe, and ran downstairs, calling for Paul. I was praying that the sound I had heard meant something else. When I reached the entry, the door was wide open, so I closed it.”

Francesca had a thought. “What about the staff?”

“I have no staff on Tuesday and Friday evenings, for obvious reasons, reasons of privacy.”

“Of course,” Francesca said.

“After I closed the door I turned, and the parlor door was wide open and I saw him. Oh, God! It was so horrid; you just cannot imagine how horrid it was!” She cried out, a soblike sound, and covered her face with her hands once again.

Francesca patted the woman’s shoulder again. “I am so sorry.”

Georgette looked up at her tearfully. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Francesca said quietly, earnestly. “An innocent man is dead. This is a ghastly crime. I am terribly sorry, and I promise you, Miss de Labouche, that I will find out who perpetrated this deadly and foul deed.”

Georgette said, “I only want to hide the body. Paul is dead. Finding whoever did this will not bring him back.” Her mouth trembled again.

“We
must
tell the police,” Francesca reiterated firmly. “So you ran to him? Was he still alive? Did he say anything?”

Georgette shook her head and briefly closed her eyes. “He was dead. His eyes were wide open, sightless, and there was so much blood!” She moaned and sank down again, but this time on the red brocade sofa.

Francesca looked at the dead man. His eyes were closed. “Did you touch him?”

Georgette nodded and whispered, “I closed his eyes, I just had to, but that is all.”

Francesca nodded, folding her arms. She studied the dead man, Paul, for another moment, then glanced at Georgette, who remained motionless on the sofa, hunched over in apparent misery. Francesca glanced around. “The only way to enter this room is via that single door from the hall?”

Georgette nodded.

“And you are certain you did not see anyone?”

She nodded again.

Francesca glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was a quarter to midnight. Georgette had accosted her on the street outside of Madison Square Garden at half past nine, approximately. Perhaps it had even been fifteen or twenty minutes past the hour. “At what time did the murder occur? At what time did you enter your bath? How long were you in it before you heard the shot?”