Escapade (9781301744510) Read online

  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?"

  Decker took another pull at his drink. "That was the cleverness of my plan. There wasn't to have been any investigation because his killer was supposed to have been caught on the scene. That's why I had Morrison kidnapped as well. If Addison were killed in some sordid brothel fight by Morrison, that would discredit both of them."

  "And you expected John Morrison to oblige you by confessing to this crime?"

  "No, I expected him to be shot, escaping from the police."

  She received his words with a frozen stillness, her facial muscles pulled taut. Nothing moved but her eyes, which glinted strangely.

  "I believe," she said quietly, "that I had intimated to you that I had plans of my own for Mr. Morrison."

  Decker squirmed, but he mustered enough belligerence to say, "So you did. But you never chose to confide in me what those plans were. I never have been able to fathom your interest in that underbred ruffian, all muscle and flashing teeth, his only intelligence in his fists."

  "You shouldn't underestimate John Morrison, Charles. That mistake already appears likely to cost you."

  "Humph, the way you talk about him, sometimes I've wondered if you haven't been planning to marry the fellow."

  When she made no effort to deny his charge, he continued to goad her. "Is that it, Cynthia? You ever were a greedy wench. Attracted by the prospect of marrying all those millions? Well, you should take more interest in safeguarding the investments you've already got."

  She paced across the room, thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her cloak. "I didn't think my investments were in jeopardy until you made this stupid blunder. I told you that I would take care of Mr. Addison, and manage Mr. Morrison as well. You should have waited, Charles."

  "Ha!" Fortified by the brandy coursing through his veins, Decker grew reckless. "You've never been much good at managing the men in your life. It's well known that old Van Hallsburg had more chambermaids in his bed than he had making it. And as for your brother, Stephen, his peccadilloes are legend."

  She whipped back to face him. "Take care what you say about my brother, Charles."

  He should have held his tongue, but he took a certain satisfaction at chipping away some of her icy facade. It soothed the wounds she had dealt to his self-esteem.

  "Not the cleverest boy, your brother, Stephen," he said. "Always fancying himself in love with some opera girl. I've heard tell half the orphanages in New York are populated with his bastards."

  "You are changing the subject, Charles. This has nothing to do with your present folly. Your current state of panic has rendered you very undependable, in fact quite a liability to me."

  A liability to her? That was rich, considering it had been he who had included her in the scheme of buying up property cheap on the East Side, forming a lucrative chain of brothels and gaming salons, using his political influence to protect the operations. She would have been nowhere without him. He knew full well how her brother Stephen had squandered all the family money, how old Van Hallsburg had never been as wealthy as everyone supposed.

  "What are you trying to tell me, Cynthia?" he demanded. "That you want to dissolve our partnership?"

  "Yes, that is exactly what I wish."

  "That's fine with me. I'll buy you out, write you a check this very night." Yanking open the desk drawer, he drew forth his checkbook. His hands were shaking so badly with suppressed fury, he nearly dumped over the inkstand as he dipped his pen into it.

  "But it's going to be at a price I name," he warned. As he started to write the check, he hesitated. He was acting out of anger and wounded pride. The partnership they had shared was one of such long duration and so lucrative, he couldn't believe she would let it end this way.

  When she glided up behind him, he thought she meant to reach down to his hand guiding the pen over the check and stop him.

  But she only murmured, "No, Charles. I fear it is I who must decide the price."

  He started to look up and felt something cold and hard, pressed against his temple. Before he could move or cry out, a loud report echoed through the room.

  Decker's head jerked back. He sagged in his chair, a
trickle of crimson spilling down his cheek, his eyes frozen in an expression of surprise.

  Cynthia Van Hallsburg didn't spare him a glance. She stared down at the smoking derringer in her hand and her lips thinned with annoyance.

  She had gotten blood on her gloves.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows of Grand Central Station made little impression on the throng of people bent on embarking on the passenger trains. Locomotives whistling, brakes hissing, the clatter of voices and rushing feet all combined to make an overpowering din. In such an atmosphere of confusion, Zeke and Rory attracted little attention as they descended off the morning train from Jersey.

  Her hair bound up in a kerchief, Rory wore a faded cotton dress, one of Annie's that had shrunk but still fit Rory like sackcloth. In appearance, Rory knew that she was unremarkable, just another weary traveler from coach class. Zeke too was dressed with simplicity—a plain white shirt, denim trousers, his face shielded by a much-battered felt hat that Annie had once fished from the sea.

  Why then did Rory feel as if everyone were staring at them? Nervously, she ducked her head when a policeman strolled toward them. The blue-coated officer veered aside at the last moment, lingering to trade some joke with one of the clerks at the ticket window. Rory exhaled her breath in a tremulous sigh

  "Stop looking so guilty." Zeke's voice rumbled close to her ear. "It's me the coppers are after, not you."

  Linking his arm through hers, he guided her away from the platform, laughing aloud at the furtive way she made her way through the crowded station. Rory tossed him a glance simmering with resentment. How could he be so nonchalant about all this? Her tension had been mounting ever since they left the security of Annie's cottage, growing stronger as they drew closer and closer to New York.

  In Zeke's broad grin, she could see the traces of the street urchin he had once been, enjoying playing cat and mouse games with the police. But she was on tenterhooks, afraid that Zeke risked being shot on sight if they encountered any more policemen of O'Connell's ilk. When she and Zeke emerged from the station onto the busy street, her heart gave an anxious thud. But it was the same as on the train platform. Pedestrians shoved past them, more concerned with tending to their own affairs than looking too close into the face of any stranger.

  The day was warm, and Rory felt circles of perspiration forming beneath her arms. Her throat felt dry, and when a drugstore across the street caught her eye, she thought wistfully of a cherry phosphate.

  "I don't suppose you have any money left of what Anchor Annie loaned us?" she asked Zeke.

  "Just enough for fare for the horsecar. And what do you mean 'loaned'? While you lay abed this morning, my lady, I was up earning that money, cleaning fish for that old sea hag. I'll never be able to face a plate of mackerel again."

  Rory laughed in spite of herself and felt better for it, some of her tension easing.

  "I'm glad you think it's so funny. I probably even smell like fish."

  Zeke raised his arm, taking a cautious sniff at his sleeve. But he smelled just fine, Rory thought, redolent with the clean tang of Annie's soap and his own more elusive musky, masculine scent. He looked just fine too. That weathered hat didn't quite shadow his clean-shaven jaw, or the dark eyes, which sparkled bright and alert. The denims, a fraction too small, hugged the taut lines of his muscular thighs. The warmth of the day had caused him to open his shirt at the neck, revealing a healthy expanse of tanned flesh. He seemed to possess amazing powers of recuperation. If he still felt any discomfort from his wound or the beating he'd taken, he didn't show it. His shoulders squared in that familiar pugnacious manner, he appeared ready to take on the world.

  She wished she felt the same, but she was weary from that long trip on the train. She had spent most of the journey arguing with Zeke about their plan of action. He had finally agreed to abandon his notion of confronting Charles Decker, at least long enough to see what information could be obtained from the reporter, Bill Duffy.

  Zeke must have noticed the droop to her shoulders, for he chucked her under the chin with a tender smile. "Maybe you should just go home, get some rest and wait until you hear from me."

  "No, you're not getting rid of me that easily," Rory said. Despite all his assurances, she was not sure how far she trusted Zeke to behave with due caution.

  She had an awful image of him bursting into some newspaper office and causing a dreadful uproar. At the very least, he ran the risk of being recognized in a place that published his photograph so often.

  "Maybe it would be better if you let me find this Duffy and talk to him," she said.

  Zeke's scowl told her what he thought of that proposal, but she continued to insist, putting forth all her arguments. In the end, they reached a compromise. Rory would go into the building, find Duffy and bring him to Zeke. If the exchange became heated, if Duffy were to whistle for the police, Zeke would have a far better chance escaping if they were outside.

  They had to run to catch the horse drawn trolley that would take them toward Newspaper Row, and they mounted the steps at the last possible second. As Zeke paid the conductor the fare, Rory collapsed on the first seat. Usually as many as twenty people crammed into the cars during peak hours. But at this time of day, they were relatively empty. There was no need to crowd close to the potbellied stove in the center as she did on chillier days, so Rory remained where she was, Zeke edging beside her.

  They got down again at Chambers Street and cut across City Hall Park, heading toward Newspaper Row. The park provided a peaceful oasis in the midst of the bustling city, the grass sprouting tender shoots of a spring green, the elms and poplars just starting to bud.

  "You can wait on one of the benches," she told Zeke, "and try to look inconspicuous."

  "All right," he said grudgingly. “I'll give you half an hour to get that jackanapes of a reporter back here."

  She nodded, preparing to rush off before Zeke could change his mind. But he seized her by the wrist.

  "Wait. I forgot one thing."

  The devil's glint in his eye should have warned her. Before she could protest, he yanked her hard into his arms.

  "For luck," he grinned and then proceeded to kiss her, so thoroughly her kerchief became dislodged, her hair tumbling about her shoulders.

  She swayed against him, her senses reeling. By the time he had done, she was glad of the support of his strong arms keeping her upright. Her face flushed, her breath coming hard.

  A nursemaid wheeling a perambulator past on the walkway cast them a shocked glance.

  Rory wriggled out of Zeke's embrace. "This is not exactly what I call being inconspicuous, Mr. Morrison."

  "No, but it's a helluva lot more fun." His eyes were warm with the memories of all they had shared the previous night. They had spoken little of it this morning, but always it seemed to be there between them, the remembrance of those passionate hours before dawn when she had been lost in his loving, Zeke's request that she marry him.

  She could tell that he was thinking of that too. He traced the curve of her lips with his finger, murmuring, "Mrs. Morrison- the sound of that is beginning to appeal to me more and more."

  The trouble was it appealed to her too, and she had yet to rid herself of the doubts plaguing her. She couldn't give him an answer last night and she wasn't ready to do so now. She took a step back, putting more distance between herself and the seductive circle of those strong arms.

  "I better be going. You stay put and behave yourself until I return."

  Whirling on her heel, she turned and fled, sensing the heat of his gaze following her. She should have been relieved to discover he had something on his mind besides vengeance, but it didn't help to have him befuddling her when she needed her wits clear for the meeting with the reporter.

  Coming out of the park, she crossed Park Row, narrowly missing being run down by a smart tilbury, the footman perched on the back so far forgetting his dignity as to shake his fist a
t her.

  But she didn't check her pace. The World was not conveniently located on the same block as the other dailies. Rory was obliged to traverse several blocks, heading back toward the approach to the Brooklyn Bridge. The building that housed Mr. Pulitzer's prized newspaper, some twenty-seven stories of it, loomed above Rory in majestic splendor, crowned with the famous gilded cupola at the top.

  Slipping inside, Rory found the place every bit as busy as Grand Central Station, reporters and copyboys rushing past, editors bellowing. From the basement below she could hear the thunder of the printing presses, so loud they seemed to make the floor vibrate beneath her feet.

  It was hard to get anyone to stand still long enough to listen to her query after the whereabouts of one William Duffy, let alone give her an answer. Finally a cigar-chomping individual barking into the speaking piece of a telephone paused long enough to snap that she should go to the fifth floor.

  Daunted at the prospect of climbing so many flights, Rory was relieved to discover the World equipped with an elevator. The youthful operator whisked her upward at a speed that caused a fluttering in her stomach.

  Stepping out, she peered through an open door into an office full of desks and men in their shirtsleeves. Most of them were crowded round some fast-talking salesman demonstrating the latest in typewriter machines. She eyed the cluster of male faces dubiously, wondering which one it was she sought. But when she mentioned Duffy's name, she was directed to a desk in the far corner.

  Behind it sat a young man sporting a startling shock of red hair and a blot of ink on his nose. Oblivious to the salesman's chatter, he scribbled away with an intense concentration. William Duffy's desk was a disaster of scattered papers and partially clipped newsprint. If he did have any evidence useful to Zeke, Rory wondered how they would ever unearth it from the chaos.

  She hovered, waiting for Duffy to look up, but it occurred to her that she might drop dead on the floor beside him without his noticing.