Deadly Vows (12 page)

“Yes, I am. Except—I did not lock myself in—someone
locked me in, Mr. Moore. You knew nothing about it?” Francesca asked with a smile.

“Of course not! I do not know the artist, I have no works of hers and we are closed on the weekends. We keep summer hours.”

She glanced at Hart, who nodded at her. Moore was extremely distressed. She said softly, “I am so sorry. I can see how distraught you are. But there was a work of Sarah's in your gallery when I arrived. You haven't seen the portrait?”

He stared at her, scowling. “I don't know anything about it.”

Francesca believed he knew nothing of her portrait, but he was hiding something, oh, yes.

“Someone was responsible for locking Miss Cahill in your gallery yesterday,” Hart said flatly. “Abduction is a crime—a felony, I believe.” Moore blanched impossibly. “And even the slightest involvement is enough to warrant conspiracy charges.”

“I know nothing about any invitation, a portrait or her being locked up!” Moore gasped.

“We are not accusing you of any crime, Mr. Moore. We are merely trying to apprehend whoever stole the portrait, which belongs to Mr. Hart. And of course, whoever locked me up must pay the price for such a dastardly deed. The police have already gone through the office at the gallery,” Francesca said pleasantly. “Do you have a study here?”

He was whiter now than before. “The police are at my gallery? I will go out of business! I am struggling as it is. I do not have a study in this flat.”

“May we look?” Hart asked.

Moore gaped. “No, you may not wander about my home! In fact, I must get to my gallery, and see what is happening there.” He turned and ran to a door across the
hall. As he rushed inside, Francesca glimpsed a dark bedroom wallpapered in a flocked red floral print.

She said to Marsha, “I am so sorry we are delivering such upsetting news.”

Marsha nodded, clearly near tears.

Moore returned, shrugging on his jacket. Hart said, “I can give you a ride. My coach is parked outside.”

Moore started, then nodded. “Thank you.” The look he gave Francesca was distinctly guilty. He dashed out into the hall, Hart following more slowly. Their gazes met.

She understood that she was to linger with Marsha Moore.

As Hart left, she opened her purse, taking her time. Then she handed the other woman another card. “I missed my own wedding yesterday on account of that strange invitation.”

Marsha whispered, “I am sorry.”

Marsha meant it, she thought. “So am I. My fiancé is very angry with me, and I love him dearly. I must apprehend the culprit and win my fiancé back.”

“I hope you do both,” Marsha said.

Francesca made no move to leave. “Are you sure you don't know something that will help me find the villain who locked me inside your husband's gallery?”

She bit her lip, shaking her head no.

Francesca sighed. She would come back another time, because Marsha definitely knew something. “Take care, Mrs. Moore. Good day.” She started for the front door.

To her surprise, Marsha rushed after her. “Wait!”

Francesca slowly turned.

Tears fell. “Something bad is happening, Miss Cahill. There is a man…I've seen him loitering outside this building and the gallery, waiting for my husband.”

Francesca cried, “How do you know he was waiting for your husband?”

“I know he wished a word because I saw them speaking once. Dan wouldn't tell me who he was or what he wanted.”

Francesca took her hand. “When was this?”

“A few days ago, outside the gallery, and last night, here on Broadway.”

Would the thief have come here last night after locking her in the gallery? That would be so odd. Could Marsha identify the man? “Please, can you describe him?”

She inhaled. “It was dark, but he was a big man, Miss Cahill, a dangerous man. That's all I can say.”

Sunday, June 29, 1902
2:00 p.m.

T
HE POLICE BARRICADES
remained outside Moore's gallery. Francesca watched Daniel closely as she, Hart and the gallery owner all alighted from his coach. Moore's tense expression never changed, and she felt certain that he was not surprised by the barricades. She wondered if he had already been to the gallery.

An officer standing by a wooden sawhorse started toward them, his hand moving threateningly to his billy stick. “No one is allowed inside, sir,” he said to Hart, who was leading the way.

Moore stepped forward, his face pale. “I am Daniel Moore and I own this gallery,” he said. “I have just learned what happened here yesterday. I must go in.”

“No one can go inside,” the officer insisted. He was blond and blue-eyed, no more than twenty years old or so, and he seemed nervous. Before he'd finished speaking, however, Hart handed him a bill. The officer flushed, stuffed it in his pocket and turned his back on the gallery's entrance.

Francesca looked at Hart. “Did you have to do that?”

“Would you rather wait for word from Bragg?”

Moore was already hurrying to the front door. “We had better stay close to him,” she murmured.

“Great minds think alike,” Hart agreed, taking her elbow.

“We will discuss your strategy of bribing the police later,” she said tartly.

He smiled at her.

Her heart leaped and she smiled back. Hart released her with a scowl—clearly having forgotten that they were estranged. She walked past him, her mood brightening. Winning Hart back might not be as difficult as she had thought.

Moore was staring at the central wall, where the bar of plywood remained. “What did they do to my wall? I had a painting hanging here—a wonderful rendering of a circus clown.”

“Last night, a portrait was hanging on that wall,” Francesca said briskly, turning all her attention to Moore.

Not looking at her, he ran around the gallery, checking the art there. Francesca and Hart followed. Hart said, “Do you not keep the gallery locked, Moore?”

“Of course I lock the gallery. Nothing is missing,” Moore said tersely, “except for the oil of the clown.”

“How many sets of keys do you have?” Francesca asked.

He stared wide-eyed at her. A long moment passed before he said, “I keep one set of keys with me at all times. The other set, I keep in the office in the back.”

Hart gestured, his meaning clear. Moore quickly led the way into the back office. The moment they entered, he cried out. Francesca hadn't paid any attention to the clutter in his office when she had been trying to escape through the window. Now she saw the painting of the clown, leaning against a wall not far from the door, and her suspicion grew.

“How polite and thoughtful our thief is,” she said. Sometimes, the smallest clues were the best ones.

Moore turned to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Our art thief not only removed the painting to make room for the stolen portrait, he or she also lugged it to your back office and propped it up on the wall.” She smiled pleasantly. “It is a somewhat large painting. I would have simply left it lying on the floor, exactly where I had taken it down, but then, I am a woman, and my arms are not that long.”

“Perhaps our thief is obsessed with being tidy,” Hart murmured. “Or, perhaps not.”

Moore was glancing back and forth rapidly between them. Francesca was fairly certain that Moore was in some kind of cahoots with the thief and that he had either removed the painting himself, or had told the thief to do so. “This is nonsense. Who cares if the thief removed the painting to my office?”

Hart gestured at the desk. “The spare keys, Moore.”

Moore went to his desk, flushing, and opened a drawer. He froze, as if very surprised, then began rummaging in it quite busily. He cursed softly and went through the two other drawers at great length, with growing frustration. Francesca glanced at Hart. His gaze told her that he was in agreement with her; this was quite a show.

“I take it the keys have been stolen,” Hart said quietly.

“I cannot believe this!” Moore exclaimed. “But now I am beginning to wonder… I had a busy day on Thursday. Two ladies spent quite some time here, and one asked me a few questions about the seascape in the front. She priced it, as well.”

“Are you suggesting that her friend stole the set of spare keys while you were preoccupied with the potential buyer?” Francesca asked. She couldn't help imagining Solange Marceaux in the gallery, feigning interest in the ugly seascape in the front of the gallery.

“No, I am not,” he snapped defensively. “However, a man came in at the same time, wandering about while I was busy with the ladies.”

Moore hadn't told her or Marsha about the big man on the street. Would he mention that man now? “Can you describe him?”

“All I can recall is that he was in a suit.” Abruptly Moore sat down at his desk. He laid his face on his arms. Francesca saw that his hands were trembling. “I am afraid I have to ask, Mr. Moore. Where were you Saturday afternoon and evening?”

He paled. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Answer her, if you please.” Hart smiled pleasantly.

Moore cried, “I believe we took a walk in the afternoon, and I spent the evening at home with Mrs. Moore, as I always do.”

Francesca and Hart shared a glance. He was very upset, she thought.

Hart suddenly clasped her shoulder. “Let's go.”

She nodded. “Mr. Moore? If there is anything else you wish to add, or anything you happen to recall that might help us find the thief and the person who locked me in here, I would be terribly appreciative.” An idea struck her—and it seemed terribly obvious and long overdue. “Mr. Hart is offering a large reward for the return of his painting.”

Moore straightened, turning to them.

Hart cocked a brow at her.

Francesca felt Moore's financial desperation then. She made a mental note that they must look at his bank statements, after speaking to the owner of this building and No. 529 Broadway. “He is offering ten thousand dollars for its return.”

Moore paled. “If I remember anything, I will send word.”

Francesca thanked him and she and Hart left. Outside, she faced Hart in the bright, June sunlight. “No one would keep their spare gallery keys in the gallery. He would keep them in his flat. I think I should try to find them there, or perhaps let Joel do what he does so well.”

“Sending Joel in is a clever idea. And by the way, I have already told the owner and agents of every single gallery in the city that I will pay fifty thousand dollars for the painting's return.”

Francesca blinked. “That is a huge sum!”

“Frankly, it pales in comparison to the damage that portrait will do to you.”

She trembled. “You care far more than you are letting on.”

He gave her a dark look. “What did Mrs. Moore have to say? I could tell from the glimmer in your eyes when you joined us in the coach that she most certainly revealed some clue.”

Francesca looked at him. “Calder, she said that a man had been trying to have a word with her husband, and that she had seen him earlier in the week outside the gallery—and last night on the street outside their Broadway flat. Marsha could only describe him as big and dangerous looking.”

Hart stared. “That is a poor description.”

“Hart, there is more I need to tell you about the case. Chief Farr went to Sarah's three times in the week after the portrait vanished, asking questions. She told him that I was the subject of the portrait—and that it was very compromising.”

Hart darkened. “Goddamn it,” he said softly, his expression explosive.

This was the Hart of old, she thought, taking his hand.

“We intended to keep the police out of this affair,”
Hart said harshly, pulling away from her. “How did Farr know the portrait was stolen in the first place?”

“We haven't learned that yet. But I imagine a servant overheard the upset the day the portrait was taken. You already mentioned that the commission was not a secret. Servants can be bribed.… And there is more.”

He faced her, his eyes hard and intent. “I am afraid to ask.”

“When Bragg and I arrived at the gallery last night, Farr was already here. He does not miss a thing that goes on at HQ. Bragg requested a police detail and Farr was apparently the officer on duty. Farr told us that the gallery was open and the portrait gone when he and his men arrived, but when I saw him, I was terrified. My very first thought was that he had seen it when he arrived.”

“Are you thinking that Farr did see the painting last night—that he stole it?” Hart was incredulous. “How would he do that in front of a handful of policemen?”

“No. He would have had to come to the gallery before his men. Bragg already checked. Someone in the neighborhood would have seen him remove it—the police have been speaking to everyone. I believe he was telling the truth, that he arrived here to find the portrait stolen. But there is one fact that is very odd. When I left here yesterday to go to the church, I was with a police officer and a neighbor, who had jimmied the lock. But when the police arrived here last night, according to Farr, the door was open and the glass was broken—which I saw myself. It was as if someone had locked the door again and then had to break the glass to reach inside to unlock it.”

“Perhaps Moore is lying and he returned and locked the gallery, Francesca,” Hart said calmly. “That is a reasonable explanation—even if he is not involved.”

“That makes sense,” Francesca mused. “Moore
would certainly deny returning, out of fear of being implicated.”

He stared back thoughtfully, and said, “We both know Moore is hiding something.”

“Yes, we do.” She smiled briefly, then sobered. “Well, I have come to one solid conclusion. The chief is not our thief—if he were, he would not have gone to Sarah's three times, unofficially, to investigate.”

Hart's expression tightened. “You know, it really doesn't matter how Farr learned about your portrait.”

She stared at him. “You are right. We both know that he dislikes me—and that is why he went to Sarah's to question her three times. He intends to find my portrait first! He knows it is somehow compromising and he is going to use this against me.”

“No, he won't. I will kill him first.”

Francesca inhaled. “Don't even speak that way.”

He gave her a dark look. “You know what I am capable of in order to protect those I care about.”

She bit her lip. Several months ago, his foster sister, Lucy, had been blackmailed by a felon. He had said then that he would commit murder—to protect those whom he loved.

“Francesca.” Hart's harsh tone interrupted her thoughts. “I know what you are thinking—that Farr was the big, dangerous man Marsha saw speaking to Moore last night on Broadway.”

“Yes, that is what I am thinking.” She trembled. “Farr wants to solve this case, Hart, and we must not let him do so.”

His gaze wandered over her features. “Chief Farr is not going to destroy you, Francesca. You may be certain of that. But clearly, we are in a race, and we are going to win.”

 

F
RANCESCA'S SPIRITS WERE
high as she paused before the dark building just off Sixth Avenue, where Rose apparently lived. Hart would do anything to protect her. She was thrilled. It was so obviously not over between them.

She reined in her delight. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since she had come face-to-face with her portrait in the gallery. It was floating about the city somewhere. She thought about Daniel Moore's statement that two ladies had visited his gallery on Thursday. Could one of the women have been Solange Marceaux?

Couldn't Chief Farr have tracked down Moore on Saturday night, after she had escaped the gallery? He was clever, and it wouldn't have been all that hard to learn where Moore lived. But if that were the case, then who had Marsha seen lingering outside the gallery on an earlier weekday night? Farr wouldn't have even known of the gallery's existence until yesterday. The obvious conclusion was that the big, dangerous man hadn't been Farr after all.

Francesca got out of Hart's coach just as the tracks from the Sixth Avenue El overhead began to rumble and groan. Beneath the elevated railway, it was dark and dismal. Aware that a train was approaching, she tensed. A moment later she heard the roar of the locomotive, and the screaming of its iron wheels. She clapped her hand over her ears as Raoul held the lead carriage horses, until the last cars had passed.

She lowered her hands, coughing from the smoke. Hart had insisted she use his coach for the remainder of the day. He had taken a cab uptown; he had told her he needed to bathe and change his clothes, as he remained in the same garments he'd worn last night. She had so wanted to ask him what he had done last night, and with whom, but she hadn't dared.

The brownstone she now faced was nondescript. It was an unusual location for a bordello, she thought, as the neighborhood was mostly factories, sweatshops and warehouses. The few pedestrians crossing Fourteenth Street under the El were clearly factory workers, the women plainly dressed in simple gingham, the men in dark breeches and cotton shirts. All of the traffic was comprised of wagons and drays, loaded with boxes and barrels. Francesca wondered at the brothel's clientele. She could not imagine Rose entertaining a common laborer.

Hoping that was not the case, Francesca started up the steps and rapped the door knocker loudly several times. Eventually a peephole was revealed, and she met a pair of red-rimmed brown eyes. “We're closed,” a woman said, slamming the peephole shut.

Francesca knocked again. “I must speak with Rose Cooper. If you do not let me in, I will return with the police.”

The lock clicked a moment later and the door opened. Francesca saw a very tired, plump woman of forty or so, clad in a dressing gown, her hair dyed garishly red. She found herself in a small, barren hallway, a staircase to her left. At the far end of the hall, she glimpsed a dark red parlor.