Deadly - Deadly Illusions Part 7

Hart stared at her, and his cheekbones seemed to have a flush.

Rourke murmured, "It must be love."

And Francesca thought, you are n.o.ble and good, Calder, and I have not one doubt.

"She has a heart of gold. One must be a cold-blooded killer for Francesca to think ill of him."

Hart turned away, fiddling with his drink.

"As I said, it must be love," Rourke said, glancing at his half brother and clearly meaning now that Hart was the one stricken by Cupid's arrow.

Hart shrugged.

Alfred appeared but no servants and no supper cart were with him. "Sir? There is an urgent telephone call."

Hart started for the door.

"Sir? It is for Miss Cahill," the balding butler said.

Hart turned to her as Francesca came forward, puzzled. "But I sent Mama a note telling her I was dining here. Who else would call?" And even as she spoke, she knew.

It was the case; something had happened; it was Bragg.

"It's Police Commissioner Bragg, sir."

Francesca bit her lip and looked at Hart. If he was dismayed-or anything else-she could not tell. For one more moment, she made no move to go to the telephone, awaiting his real reaction.

"Alfred, please show Francesca to the telephone. And I do believe supper has been postponed," Hart said.

Francesca started eagerly forward when Hart took her arm and said, "Darling, your shoes."

Chapter 13.

Thursday, April 24, 1902.

9:00 p.m.

The door to the flat was wide open and inside, Francesca saw Bragg and Newman in discussion, standing in the center of the single room. A roundsman in his blue serge uniform and leather helmet stood in the hall. Francesca nodded at him as she entered, Hart at her side.

Bragg looked up. His gaze widened when he saw his half brother, but only for an instant.

Francesca stared beyond him at the bed, where Kate Sullivan lay, very much dead.

She hugged herself, hard.

Hart touched her elbow as if to steady her.

"She was so afraid when I last saw her. That was only this morning!" she said in dismay. And Francesca was shaken. Today was Thursday. They had been wrong, incredibly wrong, to believe the killer would wait until Monday to strike yet again.

Bragg walked up to them. He appeared disheveled and grim, his tie askew, some golden hair falling across his forehead. Looking at Francesca, he said, "I'm sorry to interrupt your evening."

She shook her head, briefly incapable of speech, her gaze on the young blond woman who lay fully dressed on the bed, arms flung wide, head turned so grotesquely to the side that her neck must have been broken. Her hair was down, cascading about her shoulders, her chest, her neck. It was tangled and crusted with blood.

Hart responded in her stead. "We don't mind." He stared at his half brother.

Bragg stared back. "Are you on this case now, as well?" There was tension in his tone.

Francesca tore her gaze from Kate, wis.h.i.+ng she could have somehow prevented this terrible murder. She glanced at Bragg and then at Hart and almost stepped between them.

As usual, a battle line had somehow been drawn. Hart's smile was clearly mocking. "Heoffered me a lift," she lied quickly, before Hart could speak. Bragg shrugged as if he did not care. Francesca turned back to Kate. She didn't have to walk over to the bed to see that the bodydid not lie in a pool of blood. Instead, some splotches of blood were on the side of the bedand then a b.l.o.o.d.y trail led to the center of the room. Clearly she had been dragged from thatspot, just beyond where they now stood, to the bed. "He cut her here," Hart murmured, noting what she had just deciphered. "But was she stillalive when he deposited her in the bed? Is her neck broken?" "It appears so," Bragg said. "I am guessing she did not die from the knife wound but from thebroken neck." Francesca s.h.i.+vered and was ill. "You think he broke her neck and cut her afterward, andthen dragged her onto the bed," she said, low. Both men looked at her. "We cannot know," she said. "You're right," Bragg agreed. "We can't know. We can only know for certain that she was firstcut while she stood in the center of the room and that he then dragged or carried her to thebed, where he laid her down. We also know that it is Thursday, not Monday. Most serialkillers do not deviate from the pattern they set." "You think we have a copycat on our hands?" Francesca asked, referring to slang recentlycoined by the press to denote a murderer who imitates the crimes of a previous killer. "It's too soon to say. The coroner needs to examine the body." "Even though it is Thursday, even though her neck is broken, the culprit could still be theSlasher," Hart commented. "I imagine that the victim fought the killer this time. That wouldexplain her broken neck." Bragg eyed him coolly. Then he said, "Francesca, tomorrow we have a meeting with Dr.Lillington at Bellevue. He has the police reports up until the events of this evening and he hasagreed to advise us on the case." Francesca had walked over to the bed, to Kate. She wanted to retch. She reached down forher hand; it was warm. She blinked back a tear. "She was killed very recently, in the last houror two, I think." "Yes," Bragg said, coming to stand beside her. Francesca reached for the woman's b.l.o.o.d.y hair and moved it from her neck. The woundwas raw and gaping and she briefly closed her eyes. Then, turning away from Kate's body,she said, "They could have struggled there in the center of the flat. He cut her-fatally. But ashe dragged her to the bed she did not give up. She continued to fight even as her life wa.s.seeping away. He then snapped her neck. Accidentally." "You are determined to believe this is the Slasher." She looked at Bragg. "I know it is the Slasher. I can feel it." They stared grimly at one another, gazes locked. He smiled finally, slightly, at her. "You have the best instincts of anyone I know." "Thank you." She smiled as slightly back. "He is upping the ante," Hart said, interrupting them. "He dragged her to the bed, cut or not,neck broken or not, and took her hair down." Francesca blinked at him. Her mind raced. "He certainly did not have to drag her to thebed," she said slowly. "Had everything happened over there in the center of the room, hecould have left her there, on the floor. Margaret Cooper was found in her bed, and she wasclearly killed there. But Kate was killed while she stood over there. Why drag her to the bed?And why do you think he is the one who took her hair down?" "Darling, she is fully dressed. What woman do you know takes her hair down beforeundressing? The hair is the last to go." Francesca thought about it and had to agree. Every woman she knew left her hair intact foras long as possible. "Why?"

Hart shrugged. "I fear his intent has changed." She inhaled, glancing at Bragg. "Yes, murder is clearly the name of the game now. MargaretCooper began a new pattern, I think." "There is more." Bragg glanced at them both. "The door was left wide open." Francesca gasped. "He must have wanted someone to find the body right away!" "I agree." "He wanted the police to find the body right away," Hart said sharply. "He is toying with youboth." Francesca stared at him, as did Bragg. "So now you are an investigator?" Bragg said. She seized his hand. "I agree with Hart. This man is clever and capable and efficient. Hewould only leave the door wide open to alert us as quickly as possible to his foul deed. I trulysense a new game here." "I don't like it," Hart said quietly, walking over to her. And his words were meant for her andher alone. She met his gaze and understood. If the killer felt superior now-to the police, to her,even-then what would happen next? "Will he strike again on Monday?" "He could strike again tomorrow," Bragg said. She glanced his way. "But why go back and kill Kate now? When he let her live last week?"Francesca asked. "What changed to make the killer return and finish what he begun?" "The killer is a madman. G.o.d only knows what he is thinking and why," Bragg said. That, of course, was true. "What has changed is that you and I have become very active onthis case," she said thoughtfully. "Hart is right-he must be toying with us now." Hart murmured, "Do I not recall you mentioning that she was separated?" He had an amazing memory, she thought. She nodded. "She left her husband some timeago. I believe it was over a year and a half ago." But she understood where Hart wasleading. She turned to Bragg. "Can we locate her husband?" "I've already put Newman on it. His name is John Sullivan and you are right, Kate left him ayear and a half ago. When she was interviewed after the first a.s.sault, she said he was adrunk and that she hadn't seen him in a good year. She did not know where he was living.Hopefully he remains in the city and we can locate him before too long." Francesca rubbed her temples. Instantly Hart took her elbow. "Are you tired, darling?" heasked quietly. She smiled a little at him. "I am worried," she returned. "You cannot save the world." "I can try," she said, meaning it His gaze searched hers. She looked at him sadly. "PoorKate." He released her and turned to Rick. "Will you give Francis O'Leary police protection?" "Obviously," Bragg said. "What about Sam Wilson?" Francesca asked, worried now about Francis. "Do we knowwhere he has been these past few hours?" "I already sent two officers to pick up Wilson and bring him to headquarters for questioning."He stared at the bed and the body for a moment and then said, "I inspected the lock. I sawno sign of forced entry. I am beginning to believe that the killer has somehow followed thevictim inside." "Who found the body?" Hart asked. Bragg turned and looked directly at Francesca. "Maggie." Francesca cried out.

When she and Hart stepped out onto the street, she saw that a crowd had gathered. She faltered and Hart took her arm. Perhaps two dozen men and women stood in front of Kate's building, the men huddled in their ill-fitting jackets, some in flannel s.h.i.+rts, the women wrapped in scarves and shawls. Francesca saw nothing but worry and fear in the expressions facing her, and she also saw hopelessness.

"That's Miz Cahill," Joel Kennedy cried with pride. "She's a famous sleuth!" He appeared inthe front of the crowd, grinning at her. But before she could smile back, a very worn and faded woman stepped forward, her darkeyes filled with fear. "Who did it, Miz Cahill? Who is murdering these good women? Who?" Francesca bit her lip. "We don't know," she began. An angry murmur rippled through the crowd. Hart's grip on her arm tightened. "Let's pa.s.s," he said very quietly. But Francesca balked, refusing to move. "I will find the killer," she told the woman. "There willbe justice, I promise you." Tears filled the woman's eyes. "Justice? For Kate and Margaret? For all of us? There is nosuch thing for an honest, hardworking woman." "Let's go," Hart said firmly as someone male agreed too emphatically with the woman'sstatement. Francesca stiffened, not allowing Hart to drag her past the woman. "What is your name?"she asked kindly. "Were you friends with Kate and Margaret?" "Francesca," Hart said grimly, a harsh whisper in her ear. "This is not the time." Before the woman could respond and before she could jab Hart with her elbow telling him tohave some patience, a heavyset man in a plaid s.h.i.+rt and corduroy jacket pushed his way tostand before her. "You're gonna find the Slasher? A rich fancy lady?" He sneered. "Like youcare about us! What's in it for you?" he demanded, his eyes burning with anger and hatred. "d.a.m.n it," Hart said with no inflection. He stepped in front of Francesca before she couldinsist that she wanted nothing but the truth and justice. "Move aside and let the lady pa.s.s." "Fancy sn.o.bbish highbrows," the man shouted. Some men in the crowd agreed, cheering and booing at once. "Tell 'em to go home! Backwhere they come from!" a young man shouted. "Yeah, send 'em home. It's their kind that's killin' us, not the Slasher!" a woman screamed. Francesca realized a riot was in the making. Just as she had that terrible comprehension,Joel darted to stand beside Hart, his face red, shouting, "Miz Cahill will solve this crime! Sheknows her stuff, she does, an' I can prove it!" But no one heard him because Hart very calmly put his fist in the nose of the man incorduroy. "That is for not stepping aside when politely directed to do so," he said. The man held his bleeding nose, looking ready to a.s.sault Hart but clearly debating themerits of doing so. And just as a few men stepped forward, looking ready to commit murder, a short, brawnyman with curly black hair appeared at Hart's side. He was wearing a dark suit and he held abig black revolver that he aimed at the crowd. He did not speak. "Thank you, Raoul," Hart said. He turned and seized Francesca. "Now may we go?" "Yes, that is a good idea," she said somewhat meekly. And with Raoul covering them frombehind and Joel in tow, they dashed down the block and around the corner to the buildingwhere the Kennedys lived.

Gwen put the teakettle to boil with shaking hands. She was so upset she could not breathe, much less think. But she was acutely aware of the gentleman who sat at her kitchen table.

"Gwen," Harry de Warenne said tersely. He cleared his throat and said, "Mrs. O'Neil.

Please." He stood up.

She didn't turn, fighting tears, remaining stunned. He was here, here in America, in the city, in her flat. But why?

"Gwen." His tone was rough now. "I mean, Mrs. O'Neil. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I suppose I should have sent you a note."

She must compose herself, she thought wildly. He must never know how deeply she had fallen in love with him-how intensely and how foolishly. She inhaled hard and slowly turned to face him. Bridget stood near the sink, her eyes huge in her utterly white face.

Harry-no, Lord Randolph-was staring at her with the blue eyes his family was famous for,

a very grim expression on his masculine face. "There is a killer lurking in the neighborhood," Gwen managed to say. "My neighbor wasmurdered on Monday. You frightened me very much." "I know," he said. "I read about it in the papers." He hesitated and added, "How can you livehere?" She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin with all the pride she had left. "This is ourhome now." He never looked away from her face. No, that was not right, he never looked away from hereyes, and she was drowning in his, drowning in a pool of blue n.o.bility. "Do you like ithere...in America?" "Yes," she lied, her smile brittle. She hadn't seen him in five months, but he had changed somuch. Oh, his face was the same, impossibly handsome, all high cheekbones, strong jawand equally strong nose, but she remembered warm glances, soft, seductive smiles andmore kindness than anybody had a right to bear. But all men were kind, she thought bitterly,when what they wanted was a woman's body. He hesitated and said, "I'm happy for you, then." She wrapped her arms around herself as the kettle began to boil, singing. Why had hecome? How had it come down to this? He hadn't smiled once. There had been no gestureof kindness or concern-not that she expected concern or warmth or anything, of course shedidn't, but once, there had been affection and laughter. Now, the room was so dreadfullycold. He started toward her, his expression far more grim than before. Gwen froze. But he did not touch her. He lifted the kettle from the fire and set it aside. She turned away, trembling. For one moment, she had been waiting for him to take her intohis arms. She remained the most foolish of women-worse, she had shamelessly yearnedfor him to do so. "We don't want you here!" Bridget suddenly cried. "Why did you come? You heard Mama,we're happy here. We like it here, we do!" He looked at the child. "I'm sorry, Bridget, I am sorry if I am intruding, but I had business inthe city and I merely wished to inquire after you and your mother." So he had come on business, she thought, staring at his cla.s.sic profile. The mouth sheremembered had been so mobile; this one never moved, remaining compressed in a firm,tight line, impossibly, even when he spoke. He turned to her and she felt trapped, her backside against the counter, a sink just inches toher right, the stove to her left. "I feel responsible for all that has transpired," he said, with noemotional inflection whatsoever. He removed his wallet and from that, a cheque. "Pleasetake this, Gw-Mrs. O'Neil," he said, and he coughed. "I am sure it is the least I can do, but itwill find you better accommodations, far from this neighborhood, and it will help you feedyour daughter." The anger began. "I don't want that," she heard herself say. His smile was odd, all twisted and half-formed. "Please. Please accept this small gesture onmy behalf. I know it hardly makes up for what I have done and-" "You have done nothing," she cried, clenching her hands so tightly into fists that she knewher nails were drawing her own blood. He started, eyes wide, and for the first time she saw a man she recognized, revealed by thedisbelief in his eyes. "I have destroyed your marriage-your life, actually," he said. "I had no marriage with David," she said, holding her chin high. "You destroyed nothing. Itwas time for me and my girl to move on." She forced a smile. "Maybe so. Still, for my part in what happened, please accept my offer." "I don't want anything from you," she cried. He stared at her for an interminable time. And behind them both, Bridget breathed hard.

He nodded and walked to the table, two steps from where he stood, and laid the bank cheque there. Then he walked to the door, where he paused, shoulders rigid, and he glanced at her.

She realized she was crying but she could not look away.

His mouth tightened. "I am sorry, Gwen," he said. He touched the brim of his felt hat and he left.

"Come in," Maggie breathed, her eyes wide, her complexion ashen. She opened the doorwider to let Francesca, Hart, Raoul and Joel inside. "Are you all right?" Francesca asked the moment she had bolted the door behind them. Maggie looked at her, nodding, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with tears. "Oh dear," Francesca whispered, and she embraced the other woman who, briefly, clung inreturn. Then Maggie stepped back, managing a smile. "I am sorry I am being so foolish. But Idecided to call on Kate, as she lives just around the block from me. And now she is dead!The Slasher has struck again," she cried, keeping her voice down. Clearly, her threeyounger children were all asleep in the flat's single bedroom. Francesca put her arm around her as they walked toward the small sofa that defined theroom's parlor. "It may or may not be the Slasher. We will not know until a clinical examinationof the body has occurred." Maggie confronted her. "What do you mean, it may not be the Slasher? If he didn't kill Kate,then who did?" "We simply don't know yet," Francesca said. Maggie clasped her hands together. "I have forgotten my manners," she whispered."Francesca, Mr. Hart, do sit down, please," she said. "We are fine," Hart said firmly. He had walked over to her window to look down on TenthAvenue. "Kate's apartment is but a minute's walk from here," he remarked. That was very true. One had to walk only to the corner of Tenth and Avenue A, turn right, andgo up Tenth Street a few doors to her building. Guessing his unspoken question, Francescasaid, "Francis is on Eleventh Street and Avenue B." Hart turned to her very seriously. "Do not tell me that every victim lived on this squareblock?" "No! She is on the northwest side of Eleventh and Avenue B. Still," she said, their gazeslocked, "the proximity is amazing." "Maybe we had better go to my brother-in-law's," Maggie said softly. Francesca faced her. "I would feel much better if you did move temporarily, just until the killeris caught. Maggie, my mother has no objection if you wish to stay with us." Maggie smiled weakly. "I can't think clearly right now, not with poor Kate dead. But I have todo what is best for the children." "Yes, you do, and that means you must move out of this flat until the killer is caught." "My brother-in-law only has a one-bedroom flat. He has two children of his own. It would beso cramped." Maggie shook her head. "I am hysterical, I apologize. How could Kate bedead?" Francesca had a sudden idea. She grasped Maggie's shoulder, smiling at her. "I have aperfect solution, one that does not involve your staying with us again." Maggie gazed at her hopefully. "You do?" She glanced at Hart briefly and faced Maggie. "Calder has more room than anyone. Comeand stay with us-I mean, him!" Maggie faltered, darting her eyes at Hart. "I couldn't!" "Of course you can. Calder doesn't mind, do you?" Francesca said eagerly. "I have dozens of empty bedrooms, even with my family in residence. And no, I don't mind,"he said, looking now at Francesca with a wry smile. "Maggie, this is the perfect solution!" Francesca cried. "I know you thought that staying with my family again would be an imposition. Well, it is no imposition with Calder, as he is my fiance."

Maggie seemed to waver.

"And we shall soon rename my home l'Hotel des Etrangers," Hart said with a shrug, "if Francesca has her way." He walked over to the flat's single window.

"That means the hotel of strangers," Francesca said, sitting down beside Maggie and taking her hands in hers. "Calder is joking. I'll send a driver for you first thing tomorrow."

Maggie bit her lip. "Six in the evening, then. I have to work," she reminded Francesca.

Francesca was pleased, but it was time to move on to business. Briskly, she said, "Why did you decide to go visit Kate?"

"I had the strongest urge to see her." Maggie shrugged. "I saw her at church last Sunday, of course, and I so wanted to ask her how she was, but we really did not speak. She seemed upset, distraught, and I did not want to intrude. Last night, I decided I would call on her. I wanted to ask her how she was and if I could do anything for her." Tears filled her eyes. "If only I had gone earlier, maybe the killer would have seen us together and gone away."

Francesca clasped her shoulder. What if Maggie has seen something? What if she had glimpsed the killer? "What time did you go over to visit?"

"It was half past seven, maybe eight," she said. "I fed the children and tucked Lizzie and Paddy into bed. Then I walked over, leaving Joel here to watch the children."

"It would be best if you didn't wander the streets after dark," Francesca said.

Maggie nodded. "Kate's door was wide open. Completely open, so much so that the moment I paused on the threshold, I saw her in the bed. The second thing I saw was the blood. I screamed." She had blanched again.

Francesca patted her hand. "I a.s.sume you left?"

Maggie nodded. "I ran out faster than I have ever run before. I ran out screaming for help, for the police. There wasn't a roundsman in sight!" She was angry then. "But Joel found one on Avenue B a few blocks up."

"So you went from Kate's back to your own flat to ask Joel to find a police officer,"

Francesca said. Maggie nodded and she took her hand, continuing, "Did you see anyone?

Anyone at all? Either on your way to her flat or on your way home?"

Maggie just looked at her.

Francesca could not decipher the look. "Maggie?"

"The streets were absolutely deserted, both times, not a soul in sight...except for one man."

Francesca straightened.

"As I was going over to visit Kate, I b.u.mped right into a man when I turned the corner."

"The corner of Avenue A and Tenth Street?" Francesca tried to restrain herself now, but she had tensed with antic.i.p.ation.

Maggie nodded. "I b.u.mped into him so hard he grabbed me and steadied me. He was a perfect gentleman-it was my fault but he apologized."

She had b.u.mped into a man on her way to visit Kate-a man who was a perfect gentleman.

What if he had been the killer? "Was he really a gentleman?" she pressed. "Did you get a look at him? Did he speak? Did you?"

Maggie inhaled and said, "He was a gentleman, a fine gentleman, with the most brilliant, remarkable eyes. Even at night, I could see how blue they were."

"Did he wear a ring?" she cried, on her feet. "Was he tall?"

"I don't know if he had jewelry on, but he was quite tall, as tall as Mr. Hart. Francesca, there's more. He was Irish."

"Are you certain?"

"He spoke briefly, and it was but a murmur, but yes, I recognized his accent."

Francesca trembled with excitement. If this man was the Slasher, they had just learned that he was an Irishman.

Hart came over. "We don't know that this gentleman is the killer," he warned. She ignored him. Her every sense told her that Maggie had b.u.mped into the killer as he was leaving Kate's flat after perpetrating the deadly deed. "Maggie, if you saw him again, would you recognize him?" "Yes," Maggie said, very firm now. "Oh yes, I couldn't possibly forget a man like that."

Chapter 14.

Friday, April 25, 1902.

8:00 a.m.

Francesca paused on the threshold of the breakfast room, a cheerful salon papered in a bright, sunny gold with windows overlooking the Cahill back lawns. They were verdantly green and freshly cut and the imported Belgium tulips were already blooming. Francesca barely noticed any of that Andrew Cahill sat at the head of the table, a copy of the New York Times in his hands, the Sun and the Tribune set aside, just beyond his plate. He laid down the Times and looked up. "Good morning, Francesca. Do not tell me that you are joining me for breakfast today?" he said with bemus.e.m.e.nt. Francesca adored her father. He was a rotund man of medium height with an equally round face and a perpetually benign complexion. He had an even and pleasant disposition, which both her sister Connie and Evan had inherited. Rare was the day that he lost his temper. He was as pa.s.sionately dedicated to reform as she was, and she had learned everything she knew about reform, politics and the world from him. She smiled as she entered the room. "We always share breakfast, Papa." "Yesterday you fled this house before I even sat down," he said, his tone not quite as fond as usual. She almost cringed as she went to the head of the table to hug him. "Yes, I did depart rather early." His expression was partly stern and partly resigned. "Your mother is in despair! She tells me you are chasing another killer, this one the Slasher, dear G.o.d." Francesca did not know what to say. She pulled out a chair and sat down. "Papa, you know how important justice is to me. Two women have been cruelly murdered, and we are very afraid more murders will follow." "I do know how important justice is to you, Francesca, no one knows it better than I-and no one is prouder of you than I am. I also realize that you have found your true pa.s.sion in this life. Unlike your mother, I know better than to try to insist you cease sleuthing. But, like your mother, I worry terribly about the jeopardy you put yourself in during these investigations." She hugged him, hard. "Thank you, Papa! I knew I could count on you." "I am not exactly approving of this new pursuit of yours. But as you have thus far saved half a dozen lives and brought as many criminals to justice, I am not disapproving, either." She beamed at him and then smiled at the servant who filled her cup with coffee. "Thank you," she said. "Do you want to hear about the case?" He studied her. "Yes, I think that I do. But first, is it true that you are working with Rick Bragg again?" he asked quietly. She hesitated. Then, "He is your friend. And you admire him as much as I do. You believe in him the way that I do. Surely you cannot be opposed to our working together?" He was grim. "I am not opposed to your working with him, if that is what it is. But you are engaged to another man. Need I remind you of that?" She grinned. "I am happily engaged to another man. Does this mean you are coming round to the fact of my marriage to Calder?" "I have made myself clear. Hart needs to prove himself worthy of you. My opinion is hardly set. He doesn't object to your working with Rick?" Francesca hesitated. "He has his jealous moments. But, Papa, those feelings I had for Rick, they are in the past. I really want to marry Calder," she said, unable to help adding, "and a year is far too long to wait!"

He merely raised an eyebrow. "I think your life is much more complicated then you realize,"he said. "Will we see you tonight at your sister's? You do recall she is having a lavish affair." Francesca winced. She had entirely forgotten the buffet supper party her sister was holdingfor some hundred guests. It was a charity event. The supper was costing a hundred dollars aplate and the funds were going to an organization that supported the city's homelesschildren. "Yes, of course," she said. The Cahill butler appeared at the breakfast-room door. "Miss Cahill? Mr. Hart is here. Hewishes to speak with you." Francesca leaped to her feet in surprise, wondering what Hart was doing at her home at thisunsocial hour. Not that she minded! She was fully dressed for a busy day ahead of her. Andshe remembered with lightning clarity the events of last night They had left Maggie's andgone the few blocks uptown to Mulberry Street to meet Bragg, hoping to be present duringthe questioning of Sam Wilson. But the police had not brought Wilson in, because he hadbeen nowhere to be found. By the time Hart had finally dropped her at home, it had beenwell past midnight. This morning she had awoken recalling being in his arms and hisangering good-night kiss. "Papa, I will be right back," she said, and before Andrew could react, she was das.h.i.+ng fromthe room. Hart was waiting in the hall, clad in a nearly black suit, looking well rested and impossiblyattractive. His eyes brightened when he saw her and he smiled warmly. She went right into his arms. "What is this?" she queried. "I've rearranged my morning schedule. In fact, I postponed two clients," he said, sliding hisarms around her and giving her a brief kiss. Then he stepped back. "I think we should call onWilson." Delight began to grow. "Wait a moment. You have canceled your business affairs so youcan sleuth with me?" She was absolutely thrilled. He grinned and the cleft in his chin deepened, his slight left dimple winked. "I am postponingtwo clients, importers who need me far more than I need them. I have an extremely urgentmeeting this afternoon with the amba.s.sador to Hong Kong that I must attend. It is in regardto my s.h.i.+pping interests," he said. Suddenly she had an inkling. "Is this sudden interest in sleuthing about the danger thatWilson might pose, or my working this case with Bragg?" "I plead guilty," he drawled, "to all of the above. I think we should hurry," he added. "UnlessWilson has fled the city, he will be at home, getting ready to open up his shop." She agreed. "If we arrive early enough, we can interview him before the police do." He lifted one eyebrow. "I know you are not thinking to undercut my brother." "Never. But I want to speak to Wilson alone, without any police officers present. I feel certain,Calder, that sugar will get far more than vinegar this time." He smiled at her and gestured for her to precede him out.

As they paused at the door of Wilson's shop, Francesca suddenly recalled Gwen O'Neil's plight. She faced Hart quickly. "I forgot to mention something to you," she said quickly.

His dark eyebrows lifted. "I will not even try to guess."

"Would you mind giving Gwen O'Neil employment? She worked as a ladies' maid in Ireland.

She has no references, though, as her employer there-one Lord Randolph-happened to seduce her and cause her no end of trouble."

He seemed mildly amused. "I have no idea if we need another maid."

"Hart!" she protested, exasperated.