Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (21 page)

“Okay, I’ll try, see what I can learn,” Joel said, turning, his hands now in the pockets of his wool coat. He glanced toward his building, but the mother and daughter were gone.

Francesca patted his back again and turned and pushed open the door to the grocery. The bell tinkled as she did so. Schmitt was at the counter, ringing up a sale for an elderly woman and her daughter, the latter being about Francesca’s age. His daughter was stocking items on a shelf in another corner of the store. Beth glanced her way and froze upon her stepping stool, her cheeks turning red. Then she turned quickly back to the task at hand.

Francesca knew a suspicious reaction when she saw one. She approached the counter, Schmitt not having looked up. He finally said, “That’s two dollars and twenty-three cents, Mrs. Polaski.” Then he saw Francesca.

Displeasure covered his features.

But Francesca had heard, and she hurried forward as the younger woman counted out the sum for Schmitt. “Mrs. Polaski?”

The elderly woman turned, leaning heavily on her cane. “Yes? Do I know you?” She blinked at Francesca through the thick lenses of her spectacles.

“I am Francesca Cahill, a sleuth,” she said, handing the woman her calling card. Upon returning home from Hart’s, she had retrieved her purse last night, outside where she had been assaulted. It had been intact. Her small gun was now fully loaded—in case her assailant decided to strike again.

“A sleuth?” The woman cackled. “Since when do uptown ladies sleuth downtown?”

Francesca smiled firmly. “I was wondering if you might help me on a case,” she said.

The old woman brightened. “You want my help? I would love to help!”

Francesca glanced at Schmitt. He seemed angry. He turned his back to her, saying, “Beth, please check that shipment out back that just came in.”

Alarm bells went off. Francesca recalled very clearly that the last time she had been in the store, he had sent his flustered daughter away as well. “Mr. Schmitt says you are in the store every Monday afternoon.”

Mrs. Polaski nodded. “And every Friday, too.”

“Did you know Emily O’Hare? A small, pretty child of thirteen with fair skin and extremely dark hair?”

“Emily O’Hare. Of course I know her—I see her on the block all the time. Sweet girl. Sweet mother. Don’t like the father, though, a mean drunken lout.”

Schmitt turned abruptly. “This is a place of business, Miss Cahill, not a gossip parlor.”

She lost her temper. “And just what are you hiding, Mr. Schmitt? Did you know that withholding information from the authorities is a federal crime?”

He stared. “I’m not withholding anything.” He walked into the back.

“William is angry,” Mrs. Polaski remarked. “Isn’t he, Olga?”

The younger woman nodded. “I am Olga Rubicoff, Mrs. Polaski’s daughter-in-law,” she said with a smile.

“Why is William angry? And why are you asking me about little Emily?” Mrs. Polaski demanded.

“Emily disappeared on her way to this grocery last Monday between four and four-thirty in the afternoon. I was wondering if you had seen her that day or, more precisely, if you had seen what happened to her.”

“Emily has disappeared?” Olga gasped.

Mrs. Polaski was equally shocked. “That’s terrible! How does a child disappear?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

“I haven’t seen her in a while,” Mrs. Polaski said. “Have I, Olga?”

“I was with my mother-in-law on Monday. I usually help her with the shopping. We didn’t see Emily, Miss Cahill. I am so sorry,” she said.

“Well, thank you anyway,” Francesca said, dismayed.
As the women gathered up their bags, Francesca dared to unlatch the counter door and step behind it. A curtain separated the front of the store from the room in back, and she stepped through.

Instantly she saw Schmitt and his daughter in a tête-à-tête and Beth was crying. The room was small and filled with boxes and sacks of merchandise. Schmitt saw Francesca and stiffened. “No customer is allowed back here!”

Francesca was as rigid. “Beth, it is a crime to withhold information from the police—and this is an official police investigation. If you know something, you must come forward,” Francesca said earnestly.

“Get out.” Schmitt started toward her, looking angry enough to strike.

Francesca felt her gun slip into her hand before she even thought about what she was doing. She blinked at the tiny pistol—but it stopped Schmitt in his tracks. “I am very nervous today,” she said, meeting Schmitt’s wide, watchful gaze as she trained the gun vaguely in his direction. “Because last night someone assaulted me with a knife. He held the knife to my throat. He warned me to forget this investigation. Something criminal is going on. And I will find out what. Beth? If we learn that you have been hiding information from us, charges will be pressed. The charge will be obstruction of justice and it carries a prison sentence. You will go to jail,” Francesca said.

Of course, the threat was only that, as she had no intention of ever sending Beth to jail. But it worked, because Beth turned white and cried, “I saw two men grab her right outside of the store. Two thugs, from the look of it, one short and fat, the other big and bald! Emily struggled but didn’t have a chance. They threw a sack over her head and tossed her in the back of a wagon and took off.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police?” Francesca cried.

Beth hugged herself. “Because they saw me watching, and before they took off, the fat one grabbed my hand and almost broke it. He said if I told anyone what happened, I’d be next!”

Schmitt made a despairing sound and sank down onto a box, his body slumped, his shoulders hunched.

Francesca put the gun away and went over to Beth, putting her arm around her. “You have done the right thing, telling me what you saw. The police will protect you,” she added.

Beth nodded, in tears.

“Like hell they will!” Schmitt cried.

“I will protect you,” Francesca said firmly, then. “But first, we are going to have to go to headquarters.”

“Headquarters?” Beth trembled.

“Police headquarters. They have a book of photographs and sketches of known criminals and crooks, Beth. Perhaps you will be able to identify the two men who abducted Emily.”

Beth wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. “I want to help. I’ve always wanted to help. Father refused to let me.” She looked terrified now.

“I don’t want you hurt,” Schmitt said, heaving himself to his feet. “You’re my only child,” he added passionately.

Francesca knew the importance of an eyewitness. She made a decision. “Beth can stay with me until the case is solved,” she said. “She will be safe in my home, Mr. Schmitt.”

He blinked. “Your home?”

Beth also blinked. “I am going to your home?”

“Yes. We have plenty of guest rooms. First we will go to police headquarters, and then you can stop back here to pick up a few things.” She smiled at them both. “She will be safe uptown, Mr. Schmitt.”

He seemed truly confused. “Why are you doing this? What do you care about my daughter—or even Emily?” he demanded.

“I do care,” Francesca said firmly. “I care very much, in fact.” She took Beth’s elbow and guided her from the back room and out of the store.

“Don’t blame Father,” Beth said. “He is afraid. He was only trying to protect me.”

“I understand that,” Francesca said. “But he was going about it the wrong way.” She halted abruptly, as a police officer on a bay horse was coming down the street. A mounted officer in this vicinity was an unusual sight. He suddenly veered toward her.

Francesca quickly assumed that he was looking for her. Did Bragg wish to speak with her? She hadn’t told him about last night yet, so maybe there was another development on the case. And as the mounted officer trotted swiftly her way, she glimpsed a familiar figure on the opposite sidewalk—Eliza Smith, Deborah Smith’s mother and Tom Smith’s widow.

“Miss Cahill,” the officer said.

Francesca vaguely recognized him as he dismounted. “Yes?”

“You are needed at headquarters. I’ve been told to find you and instruct you to go directly there,” he said.

Curiosity reared. She prayed there was a good, hard lead. “We were on our way there, actually,” she said. “I have a coach. We’ll take that.” She was using the family brougham that day, and her driver, Jennings, was waiting patiently down the block.

“Very well, miss,” he said, saluting her politely before turning his gelding and loping off.

Francesca smiled at Beth and said, “I must speak with Eliza Smith. Wait here. Don’t move.”

Beth nodded and Francesca dashed across the avenue, weaving past various drays and carts. “Mrs. Smith! Mrs. Smith?”

Eliza had seen her and had halted, waiting for Francesca on the corner, her face pale and pinched. “Is there any news?” she whispered. Her eyes and nose were red—she had been weeping. Had she been weeping for her murdered husband? Francesca wondered.

Francesca took her hand. “I will find Deborah. I have a witness to her abduction. We will find the thugs who did this.”

Eliza nodded, clearly unable to speak, clearly about to weep.

“I am sorry about your husband,” Francesca added.

“I’m not!” Eliza cried. Then she gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “God forgive me, I’m not mourning, Miss Cahill. Not at all.”

“I understand,” Francesca whispered. “Do you have any idea why he was murdered? Do you have any idea who killed him?”

She wet her lips. “He lied about Deborah. I knew it was a lie right from the start—I knew he’d never send her to Charlotte. He hated Charlotte!”

Francesca took her hand. “Do you know who killed him?”

Eliza shook her head.

Francesca sighed. Then, “Do you know the Wirklers? Or the Coopers?”

Eliza hesitated. “Do you mean John Cooper’s family?”

Francesca gripped her hand. “Yes.”

“John used to drink with Tom. They were friends. I didn’t know them well. I seem to recall they had a lovely daughter, a bit younger than Deborah.”

Francesca sensed the connection now. “Where do they live?”

“Around the corner. But I haven’t seen them in some time.” She added, “So maybe they moved.”

“Which building?” Francesca asked with excitement.

“The tan one with the blue shutters,” Eliza said. “Why? Why are you asking me about the Coopers?”

“Because their daughter is missing, too.”

The precinct was very busy that morning. The moment she and Beth entered, Francesca saw a number of civilians gathered at the reception desk, with a very harassed and red-faced Sergeant O’Malley. The holding pen was also full—a half a dozen scruffy men were in it, two sleeping curled up
on the floor. It was also louder than usual, and not just because of the chorus of raised voices coming from the half-dozen complaining gentlemen at the desk. The telegraph was pinging constantly, and several phones were ringing as well.

Francesca saw that Captain Shea was also busy. He was at a desk behind the reception counter, with two officers and an inspector, and they were going over some paperwork. She decided to forgo any formalities. She knew Bragg had sent for her, anyway.

“I’ll put you in the conference room upstairs,” she told Beth, who continued to tremble and was wide-eyed now. “You can go over the mug book at your leisure then.”

Beth seemed speechless; she nodded.

They were about to hurry to the stairs when Francesca saw a familiar form detach itself from all of the gentlemen gathered at the front desk. He was slim and dapper with a small mustache, dark-haired and in his thirties. She halted. He smiled at her, approaching.

“Kurland,” she said. “You are just the man I have been looking for!” She was brisk, as she so disliked this newsman.

“Really? And how are you, Miss Cahill?” His gaze slid to the high collar of her shirtwaist, as if he knew she’d had a knife to her throat the other night.

But that was impossible. Francesca fingered her collar. “I am fine. I am on a new case.”

“And you are eager to spill the beans?” His eyes laughed at her.

“More than eager, Kurland. For once, I do think we can help one another.”

Kurland eyed Beth. “Really.”

“My case is headline news,” she said with a smile.

His brows lifted and he did not seem impressed. “Do go on.”

Francesca felt her temper flare. “Four children are missing, Kurland, all very pretty girls between the ages of
twelve and fourteen. We fear a white slaver—we fear the girls are being forced into prostitution.”

“We?”

“Bragg and myself,” she said with impatience.

His brows lifted again. “Really, I thought ‘we’ might refer to you and Calder Hart—now that you are engaged. Oh, by the way, congratulations.”

She stiffened. “Thank you.”

“Odd, how a short time ago you were such a frequent guest at the commissioner’s home. Oh, but I forgot, his wife was not in residence then, was she?”

Francesca was furious. “Kurland, Bragg and I are friends. We will always be friends, and you know we also work closely together! I am giving you a scoop. Are you interested or not?”

“I am interested in everything about you, Miss Cahill, seeing as you are such an unusual woman.” He smiled.

“Their names are Bonnie Cooper, Rachael Wirkler, Deborah Smith, and Emily O’Hare. The first three girls all went to school on Fourteenth Street between Second and Third Avenue. Emily worked at Moe Levy’s with her mother. She was the last to disappear, just this last Monday. I’ve yet to speak with the Wirklers or Coopers, and for some odd reason, the principal of that school did not go to the police. All school records pertaining to the girls are missing. Oh. I forgot. Deborah Smith’s father, Tom Smith, was murdered yesterday.” She glared. “Let’s go, Beth.”

“Thank you, Miss Cahill, for the scoop. Oh, by the way, when is the wedding?”

But Francesca had taken Beth’s hand and was already hurrying up the stairs. How that newsman infuriated her. And he knew the truth. He knew she had been carrying on with Bragg before his wife had come to town. What he did not know was that their affair had never been consummated, that it had come to nothing. Francesca felt ill. She felt as if a time bomb were ticking and Kurland was the one who would light the fuse.