Zeke’s grim smile alarmed Rory. She knew full
well how volatile his temper could be. She feared to see him
cleared of one murder count only to end up arrested on another.
"Then I'm going with you," she insisted.
"No, you're not. That meeting will hardly be
any place for you. I'm not planning to take tea with the man."
"I know exactly what you have in mind, and
you're only going to get yourself into more trouble."
"You misunderstand me entirely, my dear. I
intend to be quite civilized, just a little gentle persuasion until
Decker confesses what he had done to Addison."
"It will never work, Zeke. If Decker is the
coward you say, he'll shriek for help at the sight of you. With a
houseful of servants at his command, you'll be overpowered before
you get near him.”
"Then what do you suggest I do? I don't have
any way to prove Decker is behind all this, just a gut feeling.
That doesn't hold too well in a court of law."
"Then we must gather some evidence that
will."
"And how do we begin to do that?" Zeke asked.
"I'm no copper. Neither are you."
"I don't know." Rory sat up, dragging her
hands through her hair in frustration. But the glimmering of an
idea came to her. "Zeke, the police aren't the only ones who do
investigating. What about that reporter, the one who wrote the
story about you for the World?"
"Duffy?" He's nothing but an infernal
pest."
"Yes, but we both agreed it was odd that
story should have been published so fast. If we could find out
where Duffy got his information, we might get a link to Decker that
way."
"Maybe," Zeke said. Although she got him to
agree that her plan had some merits, Rory could sense that Zeke was
still more set on pursuing the confrontation with Decker.
As he pulled her back down into his arms,
Rory sighed. She could only hope she would better be able to
persuade Zeke in the morning. Anchor Annie said there were tricks
to managing men. Rory wished she had a few of them at her
disposal.
She wanted to beg Zeke to be sensible, to
stay away from Charles Decker, but it was difficult to say anything
with Zeke's lips melding to hers again. His arms closed about her,
deepening the kiss, until she was unable to think, to remember that
anything else mattered except the heated emotion Zeke aroused in
her. The flames of desire stirred all over again, until both
Charles Decker and New York seemed very far away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Charles Decker had never thought his house on
the avenue large or grand enough. Located a few blocks down from
Central Park, it compared unfavorably with both the Vanderbilt and
the Astor mansions.
But tonight, the hall, with its cold marble
floors and tall pillars, appeared too looming. A dozen doors led
off of the foyer, chambers with exquisite furnishings, tapestries,
shelves crammed with ancient vases and Grecian urns. But the glass
cases housing the antiquities he collected with such a passion were
nothing more at this moment than places for an intruder to
hide.
Clad in a satin smoking jacket shrugged over
his shirt and trousers, his bare feet encased in leather mules,
Decker crept through his own house, expecting Zeke Morrison to melt
out of the shadows, his large hands lunging for Decker's
throat.
Decker gulped, longing to turn up all the gas
jets, set the house ablaze with light, but he was too ashamed to
admit to his own fears, so he took refuge in anger instead.
Damn that fool O'Connell to hell. Decker had
conceived a brilliant scheme that would have rid him of two
political enemies at one stroke, and that stupid Irish policeman
had bungled it, allowing Morrison to escape. Ever since the
sergeant had disrupted Decker's dinner to break the news to him,
Decker had been bathed in a cold sweat that rendered his palms
clammy with perspiration.
"Morrison got clean away, sir," O'Connell had
said. "We had the warehouse surrounded, but he escaped."
"What did he do?" Decker had shouted. "Sprout
wings and fly away?"
"No, saving your pardon, sir. He fled in a
balloon."
A balloon? A balloon for Christ’s sake! Even
now, alone in the vast silence of his house, Decker had an urge to
break into hysterical laughter. Morrison had always been known as
the mysterious millionaire of Fifth Avenue. This would surely only
enhance his reputation. How or why he had been able to arrange such
a fantastic escape, Decker couldn't imagine. He only hoped the
damned thing would crash and that Morrison would break his
neck.
Failing that, he wished the balloon would
transport Morrison to the ends of the earth. But Decker feared that
even if Morrison touched down in China, he would make his way back
to New York with all speed and come looking for him.
As Decker made his way toward the rear of his
house, the region of the servants' quarters, he tried to shake off
the notion. Such constant fear of Morrison's return was irrational.
There was nothing to connect Charles Decker, Esq., to the sordid
murder of Stanley Addison or the assault on Morrison by two street
ruffians. But Decker feared that Morrison would know. He would
recall the threats Decker had made in his office that day. At the
very least, Morrison's suspicions would be aroused.
Pausing outside the narrow hall that led to
the kitchen, Decker rubbed his neck and swallowed. It was as though
he could already feel the brutal grasp of Morrison's fingers
closing on his windpipe. Morrison was the sort that would choke
first, ask questions later. Not that it would matter much, for
Decker had run out of plausible answers.
When a rapping came at the kitchen door, he
nearly started out of his skin, although he had been expecting this
late-night visitor. All the same, the thought of unlocking any of
his doors when he was alone in the house and unprotected, unnerved
him. He could shout his head off for help and no one would hear him
through these thick walls, not with all the clatter of traffic out
on the avenue. He had always despised guns, so noisy and dirty, but
he wished now that he owned some sort of firearm. As he tiptoed
through the kitchen, the domain of his superior French chef, he
cast his eye over a costly array of culinary weapons, the blades of
knives kept razor sharp, gleaming in the glow of the single lamp
left burning.
He lingered long enough to possess himself of
one just in case. As the rapping came again, a little more
impatient this time, Decker moved toward the door. He nudged the
curtain aside to peer through the latticed window, but the figure
lurking upon the stoop was lost in shadow.
Shooting back the bolt, he inched the door
open, his sweat-slickened fingers tensing about the handle of the
knife. The night breeze swept in, bringing with it the scent of
perfume and the rustle of silk.
Decker exhaled, some of his tension relaxing
as he eased the door wider, permitting his visitor to enter. The
willowy form was definitely that of a woman. Her clothing hidden by
the folds of a black cape, her face by a dark veil, she seemed to
have chosen her garb with a view to blending with the night, a most
successful ploy. But nothing could disguise that regal carriage as
she stalked across his threshold.
Decker permitted himself a thin smile. He
would wager this was the first time in her life that Cynthia Van
Hallsburg had condescended to enter anyone's home through the
kitchen door, but it had been her idea, not his.
He did not greet her until the door was shut
and securely bolted again. "Good evening, Cynthia." He moved to
kiss her fingertips as always, but her hands were encased in a pair
of black gloves she showed no intention of removing.
"Aren't you quite the figure of romance,” he
said. "Asking for a midnight rendezvous, insisting I give my
servants the night off. Our dealings in the past have never
required this degree of secrecy." He leered at her. "Can it be you
have business of a more intimate nature in mind?"
"Don't be any more stupid than you can help,
Charles." Her voice came from the depths behind the veil, chilling
him.
He flushed at her snub, but told himself it
didn't matter, Cynthia had never been his kind of woman. He
preferred them younger, warmer, more easy to awe and
intimidate.
Yet when she removed her veil, revealing the
aristocratic perfection of her features, the sculpted masses of
ice-blond hair, he stared at her with grudging admiration.
Nighttime was kind to Cynthia, the shadows soothing away those fine
lines that revealed too much by the bright light of day. At this
moment, she appeared little older than the youthful beauty who had
stunned society at her coming-out ball some thirty years ago. Maybe
he didn't desire her, but she possessed a mesmerizing attraction
for him all the same.
Her cool blue eyes swept over him, and she
arched one brow in mocking fashion. "Taking over for your chef,
Charles?"
He didn't gather her meaning until he
realized he was still clutching the butcher knife. "Why, no, I
found this on the floor. Marceau is so careless." He returned the
knife to the counter, all the while feeling uncomfortable, as
though she could see right through him, as though she knew all the
nervous tension he had been prey to these past few hours.
He attempted to help her remove her cape, but
she refused, saying, "Is it your intent to keep me standing in the
kitchen all night?"
"No, of course not."
He tried to lead her toward his front parlor,
but she frowned. "I prefer your study. The windows there open onto
the back of the house."
"I suppose they do," he said irritably. "But
I don't understand this great need for secrecy. So what if someone
should happen to see you calling upon me? Everyone knows we are old
friends, aren't we?"
She didn't answer him, and he thought he had
seen more liking on the faces of some of his enemies. But he gave
over arguing, deciding to humor her.
Preceding her into the study, he lit the desk
lamp, while she made sure the brocade draperies were drawn tight.
The room was a little close, still smelling of his last cigar, but
the surroundings were comfortable to him. The shelves were well
lined with books, not as many as that oaf, Morrison owned, but at
least his were read occasionally.
Strolling over to a small sideboard, he
offered Cynthia a drink, but she didn't want it, so he poured
himself a tall brandy. He offered her a chair, but she didn't want
that either. His nerves near to the snapping point from her cold
silence, he plunked down behind his desk, no longer troubling
himself to play the host or the gentleman.
“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of your
company this evening? That request you sent round sounded most
urgent."
Request? It had been like a damned command,
and he was more than a little annoyed with how slavishly he had
complied.
Instead of answering his question, she
reached beneath the folds of her cape and produced a newspaper. She
laid it face up on the desk before him, the late edition of the New
York World. She tapped one gloved finger on the headline, an
unnecessary gesture for his eyes were already riveted upon it:
Addison Murdered: Killer still at large.
The story that followed was brief, providing
more lurid details of Addison's demise and Morrison's sensational
escape from the police. Decker noted that the article mentioned
nothing about balloons. Obviously O'Connell had somehow suppressed
that detail, finding it either too incredible to be believed or too
humiliating.
As Decker perused the newsprint, he was aware
of Cynthia's eyes upon his face, fixing him like points of ice. He
moistened his lips. "I didn't know you subscribed to the World,
Cynthia. It's a working man's paper. I would have thought the Post
more up to your style."
"I didn't come here to discuss my taste in
reading material." She sounded calm, but Decker retained the
impression that she was very angry. Yet with Cynthia, who ever
could tell?
"Perhaps when you have done with your
pleasantries, you will get around to telling me what all this
means."
He felt a wild urge to deny all knowledge of
any of it. But he brought himself up short. There was no reason he
should lie, not to her. Damnation, sometimes he acted like he was
half-afraid of the woman.
Taking a large gulp of his brandy, he hunched
his shoulders in a posture of assumed carelessness. "I took a
gamble that I could deal with our little problem regarding Mr.
Addison. I almost pulled it off, but my plans went slightly
awry."
Her finely chiseled nostrils flared. "Your
plans? What business had you to be making any plans?"
"Well, damn it. Something had to be done and
you seemed to be doing precious little. I warned you how close
Addison was getting. He called a press conference the other day. He
had evidence pointing to 'that respected member' of society who
owned a chain of brothels and sweatshops in the East End, who had
been paying off the police, skimming from the city treasury to keep
the operations running. That all points to me, Cynthia."
"So it does, my dear Charles."
"You needn't think you would have stayed in
the clear for long either, partner. I tell you Addison was getting
close to uncovering everything."
"So you had Addison murdered. Brilliant,
Charles. What a perfect way to turn an insignificant reformer into
a martyr, to lend credence to what otherwise could have been
dismissed as wild accusations."
Decker flinched under her biting tone,
wishing she would sit down, stop hovering above him that way,
making him feel like an errant schoolboy called to account before
the stern headmistress.
"You fool!" she said. "Didn't you stop to
think that the investigation into Addison's death will only raise
more questions, make everything twice as bad?"