Watching Eagles Soar (23 page)

But Louise Hill was alone, surrounded by overstuffed sofas and chairs and tables draped with velvet cloths with fringe six inches deep and the pale light of an overcast day seeping through the wall of glass doors that led to the veranda outdoors. “What is the meaning of this?” she said, rising from a deep-cushioned chair, hands clasped over her stomach in the pose of an empress. She wore a yellow dress with puffed sleeves and a pleated skirt. Dangling from the golden chain at her throat was the large piece of black glass.

“Oh, we are too late,” Molly said.

“I never receive in the mornings.”

“We came to purchase the black diamond,” J.J. said. Molly felt a wave of warmth and gratitude washing over her at J.J.'s ingenious plan. Louise Hill would never know she had been bilked by a pair of scoundrels—scoundrels introduced by the Browns.

“Purchase Cleopatra's diamond?” Louise lifted her hand and wrapped her fingers around the glass. “Surely you had the chance to purchase it from the prince, but I trumped your plans, did I not? You missed your opportunity and now you actually believe . . .”

“Twenty-six thousand,” J.J. said, pulling from the inside pocket of his coat the leather wallet that contained a stack of empty bank drafts. “I believe you paid twenty-five thousand. A very nice profit, I say.”

Louise turned toward Molly, the muscles in her jaw working silently for a moment before she said, “Really, Mrs. Brown! You and your husband go too far!”

“Thirty thousand,” J.J. said. “There's no time to dicker.”

“No time to dicker!” Louise stepped back as if she had been struck. Saliva bubbled at the corners of her mouth. “Who are you?” she said, spitting little specks of moisture. “Nothing but a common Leadville miner who got lucky and struck gold. And you . . .” She turned to Molly. “The worst kind of parvenu. You really thought you could use a charming prince and princess, who obviously know nothing of your background, to pave your way into the society of cultured people? Let me inform you of a sacred fact—certain things cannot be purchased with all of your gold.”

“We must go,” J.J. said. Molly felt his hand pressed on her arm, turning her toward the door. J.J. slid the door open, and the maid jumped backward, emitting a little giggle. She scurried across the entry to the entrance and opened the door.

Molly was about to step outside when she yanked herself free, walked back across the marble floor, and leaned past the sliding door that still stood open. Louise Hill looked frozen in place, a red flush moving up her neck and into her cheeks, eyes widened with insult and rage.

“You must have the black diamond appraised by a good gemologist,” Molly said. “I'm sure you know one.”

* * *

L
ong lines of carriages and wagons were drawn up in front of the Denver Union Station, an imposing block of gray granite, arched paned windows, and black tiled roof. People hurried between the carriages and the station, banging through the tall black doors, a kaleidoscope of Denver society, Molly thought. Men in fine black top coats and silk hats escorting women in fur coats and long dresses that swept over the little piles of snow. Other men in frayed plaid jackets and women in thin, patched coats with scarves around their necks, struggling with piles of suitcases and toddlers running about. The whistle of a train cut through the shouting voices and the whine of horses and the thud of wagons heaped with baggage. Great clouds of steam rose into the air from the tracks on the other side of the station.

“Stop here,” J.J. instructed, and Stanton reined in the horses in the middle of the street alongside the line of carriages and wagons. “We must hurry,” J.J. said, as Molly took his hand and jumped from the buggy. She sprinted after him, darting between the back of a carriage and the horses harnessed to a wagon, in and out of the groups of people and through the black double doors into the vast marbled expanse of Union Station, with rows of oak benches lined in front of black-grilled windows where men in green shade caps dispensed tickets. Crowds of people stood about or claimed spaces on the benches, suitcases piled beside them.

Molly hurried alongside J.J. to the large black-and-white notice board under the sign that read Departures. She scanned the list of cities and times: Fort Worth, 11:15, track 3. Chicago, l1:05, track 2. San Francisco, 10:52, track 1.

“It's leaving early!” Molly heard herself shout over the deep voice on the public address system: “All aboard for San Francisco.”

J.J. swung about and started running and Molly ran after him, ignoring the hard knot in her chest, the hot bursts of her own breath. She slipped on the marble floor, flung out both hands to right herself against a stack of suitcases, and ran on toward the entrance to the tunnel that led under the station to the tracks in back. Above the entrance was the sign that said Tracks 1, 2, and 3.

She could see J.J. sprinting ahead through the crowds moving along the tunnel. She flung back her head and ran all out after him, bumping against the passengers, sending a woman in a feathered hat reeling against the stone wall. Molly was right behind J.J. as they ran out of the tunnel and into the pale light of the platform. A few passengers were still boarding the train, the conductor stationed next to the steps, but most of the passengers were on board, judging by the faces pressed against the windows and the white handkerchiefs fluttering good-bye.

“All aboard,” the conductor shouted. The locomotive let out a long whistle, and steam rolled back along the train and bunched like fog around the wheels. It was then that the man with the silver hair and silver goatee and the black-haired woman darted out of the tunnel and hurtled toward the conductor, bumping suitcases across the platform.

“There they are!” Molly ran toward the couple. “Stop! Stop!” she shouted.

J.J. darted past and grabbed the prince's arm hard, Molly guessed, by the grimace of pain that flashed above the silver goatee. “Do as she says,” J.J. said.

“We'll miss our train.” The black-haired woman let go of the suitcase she was hauling and started to dodge past as Molly reached for her arm.

“You aren't going anywhere,” Molly said, spinning her around. “Not with Mrs. Hill's money.”

“This is outrageous!” the woman said, her cheeks reddened in rage. “We made a legitimate business arrangement.”

“With an illegitimate stone,” J.J. said, “worth no more than a few pennies.”

“All aboard,” the conductor called again.

“Give us the money,” Molly said, holding on tight as the woman struggled to tug free.

“Conductor!” The silver-haired man yanked himself sideways and lifted one arm in the direction of the train. “We are being detained against our will,” he shouted.

J.J. kept hold of the man's other arm. “Summon the police,” he shouted.

“The police?” the woman said. “For god sakes, Alex, I can't go back to jail. Give them the bloody envelope.”

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Molly realized the conductor had materialized beside them, a blur of navy blue uniform and gold buttons.

“No problem,” said the man. “We'll be boarding soon.”

“We've boarded all the other passengers, sir,” the conductor said. “Do come along.”

“Try to understand,” the man said, turning toward J.J. “Everything I told you is true. I must reclaim my estate.”

“Oh, please, Alex,” the woman said. “The game is up. The blasted train's gonna leave without us.” She leaned over, opened the lid on a small valise, and lifted out a brown envelope. She shoved it at Molly.

“Hold on,” J.J. said, still gripping the man's arm. “Make sure it's all there.” Molly had to pry the envelope open with one hand. She heard herself gasp. Inside was a stack of greenbacks in one-thousand-dollar denominations. She hadn't seen so many greenbacks since the day in Leadville when J.J. had come home with a grip stuffed with greenbacks. They had danced around the little house, tossing money in the air, laughing at the way it fluttered over the furniture like snowflakes.

“You have the money,” the man said. “Now unhand us, sir.”

“Police!” J.J. shouted.

“We will not abide this!” The black-haired woman started twisting about, an arm flailing toward Molly, who tightened her grip on the woman's other arm. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the trio of policemen running down the platform. She managed to secure the brown envelope in the waistband of her dress and close her cloak before the policemen slid to a stop, brandishing black nightsticks.

“What's the trouble?” The officer with captain's bars on his jacket faced J.J.

“Arrest this man and woman.” J.J. hadn't relinquished his grip on the man's arm, and Molly found herself stumbling across the platform as the woman pitched herself in the direction of the train that was bucking and screeching forward. Still she held on and managed to drag the woman back.

“They accosted you, sir?”

“They murdered the actor in the alley behind the Oxford Hotel,” J.J. said.

“A serious charge,” the policeman said, but the other policemen moved in closer, blocking any chance for the couple to escape.

“If you check their suitcases, you will no doubt find the murder weapon,” J.J. said. “I'm J. J. Brown, and what I have told you is fact.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Brown. I recognize your name.” For a moment, Molly thought the policeman might bow before them. “Arrest this couple,” he said, turning to the other officers. The woman let out the high shriek of a trapped mountain lion and flailed about until the policeman gripped both of her arms behind her back and clamped handcuffs about her wrists. But the man stood like a statue, or a prince, Molly thought, faced with the inevitable, scarcely moving, except to extend both hands for the handcuffs that might have been snapped onto someone else. His gaze followed the train moving out of the station, whistle blowing and steam and smoke rolling back along the empty track.

“May I ask your connection to this pair,” the officer said as the other policemen picked up the suitcases and nudged the couple toward the tunnel.

J.J. took a moment, reaching inside his coat pocket, then extended his hand to the officer, who grasped it as if they were the oldest of friends. “All the evidence you need will be in the suitcases,” J.J. said. “My wife and I do not wish to be publicly associated with this affair. I'm sure you understand.”

“Certainly, sir. Certainly.” The officer started backing away, fumbling at the flap on his jacket pocket and slipping something inside. He spun about and hurried after the other policemen and their prisoners.

Molly wrapped her arm around J.J.'s and leaned against him. The bulk of the envelope pressed against her stomach. “How much did you give him?” she said.

“Enough to keep us out of the police record,” J.J. said. “And the newspapers.”

* * *

A
nother policeman must have directed the buggy to move on because it was stopped a half block down from the entrance to Union Station. Molly gripped J.J.'s arm as they skirted the snow and ice on the pavement, darted past the line of buggies and wagons, and crawled onto the cold leather seats. “Mrs. Hill's home,” J.J. said.

The same round-faced maid with arrogance etched into the set of her mouth opened the mansion's door. “I have been instructed to tell you that Mrs. Hill will not receive you,” she said. “Now or ever.”

J.J. pushed the door open, giving the girl no choice except to back into the vestibule as they stepped inside. Molly held up the brown envelope. “Tell Mrs. Hill we are returning her property.”

The maid hesitated a moment, throwing several glances toward the closed wood doors, eyes wide with a mixture of indecision and fright. Finally she seemed to brace herself, pulling herself up to her full height of five and one-half feet, her black-laced shoes tapping out a deliberate rhythm on the marble floor as she approached the door. She pushed it open, stepped inside, and slid the door shut. A second passed, followed by the angry sounds of scolding and belittling over the muffled sounds of sobbing. Finally the door slid open and the girl emerged, face reddened and eyes glistening. “She'll see you,” she sobbed, then ran toward the back of the house.

Molly flung her cloak back on her shoulders and walked into the drawing room, J.J.'s footsteps clacking behind her. Louise stood ramrod straight, framed in the light from the windows overlooking the veranda, the rolls of her hair slightly askew, arms hanging at her sides.

“I demand to know the meaning of this further intrusion,” she said.

Molly took a direct route across the Oriental carpet between a pair of leather sofas. She held out the envelope. “This belongs to you,” she said, certain that Louise Hill recognized the envelope by the way she had fastened her gaze on it.

“I don't understand,” Louise said.

“It's yours.” Molly thrust the envelope toward the other woman, who finally reached out and took it. “We saw the prince and princess at Union Station. He wasn't able to keep the money, so he gave it to us. We are returning it.”

“We have an agreement . . .” Louise began. She was sputtering, the gray eyes flitting back and forth, as if she could pluck the words off the velvet cloths that draped the tables or the smooth cushions of the leather sofas. “How dare you make your own arrangement with the prince! I have purchased Cleopatra's diamond. He has no right to sell it to you. He may return my money, but that does not cancel our agreement. What you have done is the lowest, most dishonorable . . .”

“Cleopatra's diamond is yours,” Molly said. “He wanted you to have it.” She spun around and went back to the door where J.J. was standing with such a supercilious grin on his face that she had to bite her lips to keep from laughing out loud. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Louise Hill as she and J.J. headed across the black-and-white marble floor of the vestibule. Had she imagined it, or was Louise Hill about to burst into tears of relief?