Escapade (9781301744510) (30 page)

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 at 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.