City Of Promise Part 30

"It might," he admitted.

"I can't believe it. Not Tess." The boy's voice was choked with tears.

"I think we should be careful about jumping to conclusions." Josh had wrestled with that same incredulity all during the drive home. "But our first priority is protecting Mrs. Turner. You do see that, don't you Ollie?"

"Sure I do. But Tess . . . I can't believe . . ." The boy turned his face to the garden, visible in all its early summer glory beyond the open stable door.

Josh put a hand on his shoulder. "As natural as you can be with Tess, Ollie. Try really hard. Mrs. Turner's continued safety depends on it."

"Tell me again," Mollie said, "what my ransom was to be."

Josh was reclining in a thickly upholstered chair covered in flowered chintz, resting both his peg and his good leg on the large ottoman in front of it. As far as he could recall this was the first time since the day they moved to 1060 that he and Mollie had actually spent time together in what McKim had designated the family living room on the second floor. "Everything I own on upper Fourth Avenue," he said. "If the town's development goes as I expect, that's a queen's ransom. You might even consider it flattering."

Mollie grimaced.

How would she look if he were ever forced to tell her of Tess's involvement? Considerably worse, he reckoned. Simon had advised that she not be allowed to dwell on what happened. Such thoughts, he'd warned, would pull her spirits down.

Now, five days after the event, there didn't appear to be anything wrong with Mollie's spirits. She was sitting across from him on a smaller chair with a straight back and wooden arms. Josh remembered someone referring to it as a lady's sewing chair. "You never sew anymore," he said. "Not since-" He broke off, appalled that he'd brought up such a painful subject. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right. That's part of the difficulty, isn't it? That we pretend it never happened."

"I suppose it is." He remembered trying to talk to her about their loss, but he didn't remind her of that now.

"I was making a layette," she said, her voice low but calm. "For our child. When that ended as it did, I could see no reason to again take up a needle. Then, when we moved here, the garden gave me something else to think about, to . . . I think the word is to nurture."

He nodded. "I understand. I always have. That's why I was trying so hard to get you back without giving him what he asked."

"Him, I take it, is Mr. Ganz."

"I think so. There's every evidence."

"But no proof."

"None," he admitted.

"Josh, does it matter? Now that I'm home and we have Mr. Miller's men guarding us again, can we just forget the whole wretched incident?"

"I wish I thought that wise, Mollie, but I know it's not. Men such as Ganz and his cohorts-there's a gang leader called Tony Lupo involved, and I'm convinced Trenton Clifford's part of it as well-such men are not likely to give up simply because they've been thwarted. And they have shown themselves capable of pretty much anything."

"Yes, I've been thinking the same," she admitted. "When I'm not indulging in wishful fantasies that the whole affair will simply disappear into the past." Then, after a few seconds' pause when the realities of the dilemma hung heavy between them, "Auntie Eileen tells me Rachel has produced a little girl this time."

"Yes. Simon is quite enchanted to add a daughter to his brood, and-Mollie, you mustn't worry about them. I can see what you're thinking, but I've got Miller's men watching the houses of everyone in the family."

"That can't go on indefinitely. I know it cannot, Josh. Don't forget, I have continued all these years to oversee the bookkeeping of the St. Nicholas Corporation." She ticked off the various households on her fingers. "Simon and Rachel, Zac, Auntie Eileen . . . it's a huge drain on your resources. It cannot continue."

"We're working on getting some proof," Josh said. He did not add that Miller kept reporting no progress.

"But you are not," she said, "using your best resource."

"What's that?"

"Me."

"You? I don't understand." Then, as the thought occurred, "Do you mean you as some sort of bait? Like in one of those stories Simon reads? I will never agree to-"

"Not bait, no. I'm afraid I am not that courageous." She got out of her chair and came to kneel beside his, putting her hand on his leg-the good one-in a gesture that seemed without premeditation. "I saw things, Josh. On Bayard Street in those few minutes after I ran out the door and before the cab drove me away. I heard the street sounds as well, for three days and four nights. Take me downtown again. Let me walk around and look and listen. As long as you and Mr. Miller are at my side every instant I will feel perfectly safe. I may see something, Josh. Or perhaps remember something useful."

Her face was turned up to his, glowing with earnestness in the lamplight. He was conscious of her hand resting on his thigh and he reached down and put his own over it. "You are a brave and wonderful woman, but I will never permit you to be in danger again."

"That's just it, isn't it Josh? Exactly as you said earlier. As long as the men who seek your downfall are free no one who cares for you-for whom you care-can possibly be entirely safe. Bodyguards are useful, but one need only read the New York newspapers to know they are not infallible."

She was, he knew, entirely correct.

"You and Mr. Turner," Miller said. "You walk along arm in arm. And don't worry about nothing, Mrs. Turner. I'm right behind you." It was after four and the sun was dropping, but the July day remained oppressively hot and sticky. Miller, nonetheless, had both hands tucked in his pockets. As if, Mollie thought, he were fighting a chill.

Josh craned his head, scanning the roof lines to his right and left, then realized he could be drawing attention to the presence of Miller's men. Besides, he couldn't see anything. That was their great strength, how well hidden they always were. He focused on the block in front of them, Bayard Street between Mott and Mulberry. Number thirty-two was a few doors up on the left. "Here we go," he murmured. "A genteel couple come to see the sights."

Mollie managed a tight little smile. She was the one who had convinced everyone that was the only excuse they needed. "It's common enough," she'd insisted. "All the ladies' magazines speak of it. Educating oneself by going to actually see the slums. It's supposed to make one more aware of one's blessings." Stupid and ill-advised she thought, but no time for that now. Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, on adjusting her gate to Josh's. After all, she'd been adept at doing that since the very first time she saw him, when she ushered him through Mr. Macy's display of ladies' crinolines. The memory eased her.

Mollie twisted her head this way and that. Since she was pretending to be a gawker, she might as well gawk. Much was as she'd seen it ten days previously. Now, as then, pushcarts lined both sides of the road, leaving only a narrow lane for horse-drawn traffic. No incongruous hansom cabs today, only wagons pulled by swaybacked nags. Pedestrians-frequently small children-darted in and out among them.

Josh and Mollie, with Frankie Miller close behind, drew level with number thirty-two. Mollie took a long breath, held it, and deliberately turned her face to the house. It was exactly as she remembered. Curtains drawn shut, no laundry hanging from any window. It was a closed place, rejecting the surrounding bustle, hiding secrets she knew to be cruel and ugly. She concentrated on the s.p.a.ce between the front door and the street, the spot where she'd seen Solomon Ganz staring after her. There was no sign of him today, but closer to the curb the display of tomatoes on top of two overturned ash cans was as it had been. Presumably the same vendor was standing beside them hawking his wares, but Mollie hadn't paid enough attention to be sure.

Like most of the peddlers the tomato seller wore no jacket, only a shirt with the sleeves rolled above his elbows, and a cap rather than a hat. The shoppers were mostly women in long, full-skirted dresses of brightly printed fabrics, sometimes with a shawl, frequently covered by an ap.r.o.n, never a hat. Mollie was acutely aware of her dove-gray summer suit-tight-waisted, carefully bustled-her white kid gloves, and her small black hat trimmed with gray and white ribbons.

No one, it seemed, paid them any mind.

They continued up the road. She spotted the bakery Mr. Miller's brother had mentioned. And next to it- A bee was buzzing around Mollie's head.

She looked up. There was nothing to see, certainly no swarm of bees.

"What is it?" Josh drew her arm closer to his side, holding her tighter to him.

"I don't know. I . . . There's a bee."

"Where?"

"It's gone. I wasn't sure if-Oh."

"What? Mollie, tell me."

She nodded to a crush of people around a wagon where a man was hauling small whole fish out of barrels and throwing them into the crowd. As soon as one was caught another man approached to collect payment. The excitement seemed to be as much about catching the slippery and squirming fish as anything else. Josh watched for a few seconds. Mollie was rigid beside him. "What?" he asked again, conscious that Miller had moved in closer.

She pointed to the ground. "That black skirt," she whispered, "and the boots. It's her."

The woman's upper half was hidden by the throng, but Josh could see the swathe of solid black among the vivid colors and patterns of the women's frocks. "The one you called your jailer?" he asked. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I-"

A fish flew through the air and half a dozen hands shot up to catch it. They all missed. The crowd fell back so as not to trample the prospective dinner, then a number of the women went to their knees, squabbling over whose fish it was to be. The woman in black did not take part in the scramble. Instead she withdrew and turned to the street.

Mollie stared at her from a distance of perhaps six feet. The woman stared back. Her face was red and puffy and one eye was still swollen shut. "You," the woman said. "I kill you." She lunged for Mollie and two of Frankie Miller's men materialized as if from nowhere and flanked her. Mollie saw Miller's hands emerge from his pockets. There was a pistol in each fist.

"There was no one anywhere in the house," Miller said. "And no bees on the roof, but there was ten jars of honey in the kitchen."

"That's a considerable amount of honey," Josh said.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too. And the whole tenement's fixed up like one house. Those places, usually they're jammed full of people. You know how it is. But not number thirty-two," Miller shook his head, "no sir. Only two people live in thirty-two. The woman and her son. He's the one keeps the bees. Looked like he'd cleared out recently."

"Where to?" Josh asked.

"I couldn't get her to say. You and Mrs. Turner, no rough stuff you said."

"And the money wasn't effective?" He'd given Miller two hundred dollars. Said he was to buy the information they needed.

"It worked for everything except where her son was. Guy driving the wagon was Tony Lupo, just like we thought. We even found the DeAngelo Brothers sign down in the cellar. Just a board with the words painted on. Two hooks, so you could hang it anywhere you wanted. Story is, Lupo uses the house for when he wants to have meetings and such like. The woman cooks for him when he's there. So maybe it's Lupo as likes honey."

"The voices my wife heard the day she escaped-"

"According to the woman, Lupo was in that room off the hall, like we thought. And the man with him sounds like it has to have been Sol Ganz the p.a.w.nbroker. She described him real exact. Ganz for sure. Thing is, Mr. Turner, the woman says she only ever seen Ganz that one time. Says she went in to bring 'em coffee-that black, bitter stuff the Eye-ties drink-and there was a big pile of money on the table. Stacks of greenbacks. She ain't got no idea how many. Says there was an empty satchel as well. Said it seemed to her like the man, Ganz like I say, he brung the money to buy something."

Close to sunset by the time Josh got to Avenue A. He'd been thinking of what he'd do if the p.a.w.nshop was closed, but the door opened as soon as he pushed it, and the customary bell tinkled over his head.

"So, Mr. Turner, I have been expecting you."

"According to Mrs. Brannigan," Josh said, "that's what you said to her when she showed up here soon after my wife was abducted."

Solomon Ganz shrugged. "That is probably correct. I don't recall exactly, but certainly I did expect her."

"Because," Josh said, "Tess had already told you Mollie had disappeared."

"That is definitely correct."

"How long has Tess been spying on my household and reporting to you?"

"A long time, Mr. Turner. And before you tell me how angry that makes you, perhaps we should insure that we are not interrupted and go in the back where we will be more comfortable. I believe we have a good deal to discuss."

Joshua nodded agreement. Ganz locked the door of the p.a.w.nshop, then turned and drew aside the curtain that shielded his small back room. "After you, sir."

Nothing had changed since years before when Josh had come to reclaim Eileen Brannigan's jewelry. The back room boasted the same two chairs, and what appeared to be the same oil lamp. A piece of velvet cloth and a jeweler's loupe all sat atop the same ancient table. Nothing else. "Please, sit down," Ganz said. Then, "Listening is my livelihood, Mr. Turner. It is foolish for you to reproach me for it."

"It's called spying," Josh repeated. "And it's detestable. And according to the three b.a.l.l.s outside your place of business, you're a licensed p.a.w.nbroker. I don't see what that has to do with what you call listening."

"A man can have more than one source of income, Mr. Ganz. You are a builder, a landlord, and sometimes a property seller and a mortgage broker. Why should I be any different?"

Josh gestured to the small dark and incommodious room. "What does it all get you? Mrs. Brannigan tells me she's been paying you half of what she earns from my corporation. And like your arrangement with Tess, she's been doing it for years. But look at this place. What are you doing with your money?"

Ganz shrugged. "I have grandchildren."

"And will they someday be proud to see their grandfather in a court of law accused of gangland activity?"

"Gangland . . . Mr. Turner, I believe you know it was Tony Lupo who abducted your wife. Do you imagine he did so on my orders?"

"What else am I to think? Mollie saw you the day she escaped. Coming out of the house where she'd been held."

"Of course. I remember it well. I had to walk for some blocks before I found another cab. And in that neighborhood." Ganz produced an exaggerated shiver. "It was not pleasant I a.s.sure you. But I was glad the hansom I brought to Bayard Street, however unwittingly, helped Mrs. Mollie get away. I hope she is fully recovered from her ordeal."

"How did you know who took her if Lupo doesn't work for you?"

"New York City, Mr. Turner, is a strumpet who whispers her tales in the ears of whoever will listen. I have many sources. I have no intention of telling you who or what they are."

"As it happens, Mr. Ganz, I have heard that before." It's what Trenton Clifford had said when Josh sat with him in the bar of the Grand Union Hotel, that first time he'd seen the b.a.s.t.a.r.d since Belle Isle. "Years ago," he said.

"Yes. I know that as well. Captain Clifford gave you a useful tip on that occasion, no? Without him you'd never have found the dwarf, or been able to make steel to get you started on what has become the mighty St. Nicholas Corporation. It was all quite marvelous, wouldn't you say?"

"Who in h.e.l.l's name are you? A magician with a crystal ball? How do you know about Clifford?"

Ganz shook his head. "If we keep going over the same thing we will still be sitting here tomorrow and nothing will be changed. You and yours will still be in danger. But not, I a.s.sure you, from me. I wish you no ill, Mr. Turner. I am quite satisfied with my share of your endeavors, and even without a crystal ball I will predict that as long as you act wisely now, you will be even more successful in the future."

Josh forced down his frustration and tried a different approach. "If it's true that Lupo does not work for you, what were you doing on Bayard Street?"

"That's easy to answer. I went there to pay a ransom. Three hundred thousand dollars. It was all I could come up with on such relatively short notice. I hoped it would be enough to get Lupo to back off his demand for your Fourth Avenue property. And before you ask, I knew about that demand because Mrs. Brannigan told me. Everything I know, Mr. Turner, eventually it turns out to be because someone told me. That's not so mysterious, is it?"

"I'm not sure. But that aside, you're asking me to believe you were going to pay such an extraordinary sum to secure my wife's freedom?"

Ganz nodded. "I am because it's true. After that, Mr. Turner, after I brought her back to you, I intended to produce a note of indebtedness. Half your profits every year until the sum was repaid. With interest, of course."

"And you thought I would sign such a note?"

"I knew you would sign it, Mr. Turner."

"How could you know that?"

"Because you are a man of honor. And despite how bad things have been between you and Mrs. Mollie since she had the misfortune of losing her child-don't look so astonished, remember Tess o' the Roses-you were devastated after her abduction. You are devoted to your wife, Mr. Turner, why else have you not taken what might be called a lover, simply allowed yourself the occasional company of a not-so-young lady on Bowling Green? For a man of means like yourself, a man in your prime notwithstanding your missing appendage, there are many more enticing prospects in this city. You, however, avoid them in favor of a . . . I mean no disrespect to the lady when I say a mere convenience." Ganz stood up. "Now, you will sit here and I will excuse myself for a moment and go upstairs and get us some refreshment. Don't leave, Mr. Turner. We have much more to discuss."

Ten minutes later he returned, carrying a tray with two gla.s.ses of steaming tea and a pot of cherry jam. Ganz stirred a spoonful of the jam into both gla.s.ses and handed one to Josh. "Despite the incongruity, hot tea is cooling on a hot day, Mr. Turner. The natives of India and other tropical climes have known that for many years."

"Have you been to such exotic places, Mr. Ganz? Or did someone tell you about them?"

Ganz chuckled. "You are being humorous, and even though it's at my expense, I take it as a good sign, Mr. Turner. I believe it means we will be able to conclude our business without acrimony. As to your question, I have never been to India, but I read many books and journals and newspapers. They too provide some of my information. Some comforts, however, are better experienced than read about." He opened a drawer and produced a small silver flask. "Schnapps, Mr. Turner. I have been in New York since I was five years old and I consider myself a proud American, but I learned about schnapps from my Austrian father and grandfather. I have found nothing better." Ganz leaned forward and poured a generous splash of the potent spirit into Josh's tea. "Your health, sir. And that of Mrs. Mollie."

Josh hesitated.

"So," Ganz said softly, "you still don't wish to drink with me. Why is that?"

"Half my profit," Josh said. "In return for your having righted a terrible and cruel injustice. Once you knew where Mollie could be found you didn't come to me with the information, help me free her. You left her where she was and tried to make money out of her suffering. Is that supposed to make me admire you?"

"Admire is not the word I would choose." Ganz produced another shrug and sipped his tea. "Will it change your opinion," he asked, "if I tell you that after you signed the note I was going to tell you how you could pay me back in two years, perhaps less?"