Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahil 02] (6 page)

“It was six-thirty when I began to prepare to bathe. I was expecting Paul at seven. He is usually prompt. He was probably murdered a few moments past seven.”

“Miss Labouche. This is very important. Did Mr. Randall have any enemies? Can you think of anyone who might want him dead?”

“Only his wife,” the redhead said, her regard sullen.

“I am in earnest,” Francesca returned. “Are you?”

Georgette de Labouche grimaced. “He had no real enemies. He was not the type of man to provoke anyone, Miss Cahill. He had retired from his position as manager of a textile company five years ago. We met shortly afterward. He was a simple man. His life revolved around his children and his wife, his golf, his club—and me.”

Francesca was the one to nod, thoughtfully. Then she sighed. “Well, I may have more questions for you, Miss de Labouche, but for the moment, that is enough. I must call the police. Do you have a telephone?”

Georgette looked at her. “They will think I am the one. A murder like this is always blamed on the mistress.”

“I do not think they will think you are the one,” Francesca said, meaning it. “We must inform the police. We
must.”

“Fine,” Georgette said, appearing very unhappy. “I do not have a telephone. While you go, I shall go upstairs and try to compose myself. Perhaps I shall lie down.”

“I think that is a good idea,” Francesca said. She hesitated. Bragg’s house was only a few blocks away. Should she go out on the street and wave down a roundsman or go over to Bragg’s? Eventually he would be informed of the murder anyway.

Of course she must go directly to Bragg. Otherwise there would be pointless questions and delay as she dealt with the patrolmen who would answer her call.

Of course, he had rebuffed her earlier, and she should not be pleased about their sharing another case. And she was not pleased—this was
her
case. She had found it first.

“I will see you to the door,” Georgette said abruptly, standing.

There was something in the woman’s tone that made Francesca start, and suspicion filled her. Georgette had said at least three times that she wanted to hide the body. Francesca realized she should stay and
guard
the body while sending Joel for help. Even though it was unlikely that the woman could remove and hide the body in the half hour or so that it would take the police commissioner to arrive.

“I am sending Joel round the block to the police commissioner’s house,” Francesca announced, watching her closely. “He is a personal friend of mine,” she added.

Georgette blanched, and without a word—but looking even unhappier than before—she ran from the room.

As she did so, Joel fell into the room, clearly having had his ear pressed to the closed parlor door the entire time. “Hell!” he cried, eyes wide. “Look it that! Cold as a wagon tire, Miss Cahill, a real stiff for your first crime.” He grinned at her. “An’ a real to-do gent by the look of him.”

“Yes, he appears to be a gentleman.” Francesca was stern. “Joel, if you are to be my assistant, eavesdropping is not allowed.”

“Eavesdroppin’? Wut the hell is that?”

“It is spying,” she said, coming forward. “You spied on a private conversation between myself and Miss de Labouche.”

“I was lookin’ out for you, lady,” he said fiercely. “That’s me job.”

She looked into his almost-black eyes and melted. “You were?”

He nodded. Then, “Did you peek in his purse?”

She stiffened. “We are not stealing a dead man’s purse!”

“Why not? He’s dead. He can’t use the spondulicks!”

“Spondulicks?” Sometimes conversing with Joel was like trying to comprehend a foreign language.

“He’s dead. He can’t spend a dime.”

“We are not stealing from the corpse!” Francesca cried, meaning it. “Now listen carefully. Tomorrow we will sit down and go over some rules. Rules of your employment. But right now, I need you to go over to the police commissioner’s house and tell him what has happened. If he is not there, tell Peter, his man.” She hesitated, glancing behind her at the dead man. God, she would be alone with the corpse while Joel was gone. It was not a comforting thought.

Of course, Georgette was upstairs, so she would not really be alone.

“And you should hurry,” Francesca added.

“Right,” Joel said, turning to go.

“Wait!” She caught the shoulder of his jacket. “Do you know where you’re going?”

Joel grinned at her. “Sure do. Madison and Twenty-fourth Street.”

She stared. “How would you know where Bragg lives?”

He shrugged. “Whole world knows. Ain’t no secret. Back in a flash.” He hurried away.

Francesca stood very still, watching him leave the house. And then she felt truly alone.

She shivered.

The house was so quiet that she could hear the clock ticking on the mantel. It almost felt as if there were eyes trained on her back—the dead man’s eyes. But of course, they were closed—and he was dead.

Fortunately, she did not believe in ghosts. Still, Francesca hurried down the dimly lit hall, wishing it were more brightly lit, relieved to leave the room with the corpse. She checked the front door. It was locked. That made her feel a bit better.

She cracked open the only other door on the hall, other than the parlor door, and glanced into a small dining room.

It was cast in shadow. She vaguely made out an oak table and four chairs, a floral arrangement, and a sideboard with knickknacks. A kitchen had to be on the other side of the alcove. Francesca hesitated.

If there was a kitchen door that led to a garden out back or the street out front, she wanted to make sure it was locked. She was very nervous now. And why not? She was guarding the corpse of a man who had been murdered less than five hours ago.

Francesca looked up at the dark stairs. “Miss de Labouche?” she called.

There was no answer.

“Georgette?” she tried again, with the same lack of success.

Francesca glanced behind her. The parlor remained so brilliantly lit, and the dead body in the pool of blood remained a grotesquely eye-catching spectacle. Francesca realized just how nervous she was.

That was it. She dashed through the small dining alcove, trying not to consider that the murderer might still be in the house—of course that made no sense—and she found herself in the kitchen. This house did not have electricity, and it was a moment before Francesca turned on one gaslight. There was a back door. It was locked.

She sighed in abject relief.

When she heard something.

Instinct caused Francesca to turn off the light and crouch down beside the doorway to the dining alcove. She had not closed the dining room door, and she could just glimpse the hall beyond.

She heard something again. God damn it, but it was the front door, she was certain of it, being carefully closed.

Francesca ducked completely behind the kitchen doorway, now perspiring madly. Joel had left about five minutes ago. Maybe, maybe, he could run from here to Bragg’s in five minutes. But there was just no way that he was already returning, alone or with Bragg, and anyway, they would have to knock.

She trembled and heard a floorboard creak.

Someone had entered the house. Someone was in the hall. Someone who was not announcing himself—someone who had a key.

She heard more soft footsteps.

Francesca went blank. But she had to know who the intruder was. She thought he had walked past the dining room doorway, but she wasn’t sure. Keeping on all fours now, she peered around the kitchen doorway and into the dining room.

Just in time to glimpse a man’s silhouette as he walked past while in the hall.

Francesca ducked back. She heard the man halt. And there was a very soft, barely audible expletive, followed by absolute silence.

She imagined he had seen the body and that was what had stopped him in his tracks and caused him to curse. Was he staring at it now?

Suddenly she heard brisk footsteps returning. Francesca did not dare peer around the corner again, as much as she wanted to. She held her breath, afraid he might feel her presence, afraid he might change course and discover her hiding in the other room.

The front door opened and closed.

Francesca jumped up and ran into the dining room and shoved aside the draperies to peer onto the street, her pulse racing wildly. A very nice gig was pulling away from the curb, a single man its occupant—the driver. He was too far away for her to make out any features.

Francesca stared. Who in blazes had just walked into Georgette de Labouche’s house in order to stare at her dead lover? Who would do such a thing, then turn around without a word and leave?

What in tarnation was going on?

Francesca quickly returned to the scene, less shaken now and very perplexed. Why hadn’t the intruder cried out for help? Why hadn’t he called for Georgette? Had he expected to see Paul dead upon the floor? Or was he just very good at hiding his surprise?

She glanced first at the dead man, then at the clock on the mantel. It was fifteen minutes past the hour; if Bragg had been at home, he should arrive here at any moment. Francesca inhaled hard.

She stared at the corpse. Of course, she should not touch anything, but now that the moment of danger had passed, her senses were returning to her. She hadn’t asked Georgette where he lived. Had his whole life really been his wife, his children, his game of golf, and his club, and his mistress? Clearly he had had enemies. These were all very important, if not crucial, questions.

Francesca knew she should leave the body undisturbed. She slowly approached it.

Well, what the hell. This was her first case and she was determined to solve it—alone. She gingerly reached out and flipped the man’s jacket farther open. There was a bulge in his trouser pocket. A billfold. That would tell her something.

She reached for it, but unless she stepped into the drying blood on the floor, she could not quite reach. Bragg was very sharp, and he did not miss a thing—she did not want him to remark blood on her patent boots. She strained to reach the man’s pocket. It was no easy task to maintain her balance and keep the toes of her ankle boots out of the blood. Francesca tugged on the material of the trousers and finally slipped two fingers inside them. She was sweating, and her body felt as stiff as a board. She felt the hard leather edge of his billfold beneath two of her fingertips.

She felt triumphant, and she strained to get a better grip, tugging the billfold out of the trousers. The moment it slid free, she smiled, only to watch it fall from her two fingers into the blood.

“Damn it.”

Francesca stiffened, surprised at how loud her own words sounded in the presence of the dead man. She swallowed hard and took the wallet, stood, looked around, saw nothing with which to wipe off the blood, and sighed. She opened it.

He was carrying quite a bit of cash, which she ignored. There were several calling cards in the wallet. The first one read:

Francesca wanted to take the card, but she filed the information away instead. And then she looked past all of his personal cards and she gasped. The last card read:

And scrawled in pen on the card was another address, which Francesca could not quite make out. It was either 973 or 978 Fifth Avenue.

Francesca stared at Calder Hart’s card, as if that might bring meaning to the fact that she had found it in the dead man’s wallet. Of course, this meant nothing, other than that Paul Randall had met Calder Hart at least once.

Did they have business dealings? Were they friends?

Francesca heard the front door open and slam and she heard multiple pairs of footsteps coming down the hall.

Without debate, she tucked Calder Hart’s card into her bodice beneath her suit jacket and then she quickly redeposited Paul Randall’s wallet in the pocket of his trousers where she had found it, all the while praying that she was not obstructing a criminal investigation. Bragg had once threatened her with such charges. Then she stepped away from the body, breathlessly, and when she faced the door Bragg was barreling through it.

He saw her, he saw the body, and he stopped in his tracks. His face was a comical arrangement of anger and resignation.

Actually, it wasn’t comical at all, Francesca decided nervously.

“There’s the bloke,” Joel said cheerfully, ducking past Bragg and coming to stand between Francesca and the dead man. He pointed at the corpse. “Colder than friggin’ ice.” He grinned.

Peter, Bragg’s huge, towering personal servant, stood behind him, looking more like a bodyguard than a valet. He was six-foot-six and had to be 240 pounds, all of it muscle. But then, Francesca had come to the conclusion that he was quite the jack-of-all-trades.

Their gazes locked.

“I can explain,” Francesca said quickly.

Bragg’s jaw tightened. His face was hard now, dangerously so. “This shall be good,” he finally said. “Of that I have no doubt.”

She could not seem to tear her gaze away from his.

“I am waiting, Francesca,” he said softly, and somehow his tone with its bare drawl was dangerous. “I am waiting for a plausible explanation. How did you happen to be here, in this house, with this corpse?” His brilliant gaze finally left her and moved over Paul Randall. “A newly murdered corpse, from the look of it.”

“It is all rather simple, and very plausible, too!” she cried, aware of the parlor being impossibly warm. She wished to fan herself. His calm demeanor felt threatening.

As if he had not heard her, he turned. “Find me a roundsman, call headquarters, and I would like at least one detective on the scene—now. And Kennedy can wait in the hall,” he spoke to Peter in a slightly sharper tone, and the big man nodded and left, with a reluctant Joel in tow.