Chapter 8 #2
“Because I was thinking about it, that’s why, but it was rude, thoughtless and teasing, was it not? I apologize.” He smiled, clearly not remorseful in the least.
She could not smile back. She stared, unable to move, barely able to breathe, wedged against him. “We need to make love, Hart.”
“Yes, we do.”
His response stunned her.
Hart released her. “Our courtship has become difficult for me, Francesca.”
She was so surprised, she did not comment.
“I’m a man with basic needs,” he said with a shrug. “And I am used to assuaging them frequently.” He walked away, hands in his pockets now, still in his white dinner jacket and midnight-black evening trousers, and stared up at what was left of the other night’s full moon.
Did he mean what she thought he did? She composed herself—it took a moment—and went to stand besides him. “I know how important it is to you to be noble now, with me.”
“It is beyond important,” he said, not looking at her. He stared up at the starry night.
“Why?” She was careful not to touch him. She knew the need inside her could be ignited with a mere touch or even a single glance.
Still looking at the heavens, he shrugged.
“Even if we slept together, I will never be like the others,” she pointed out. His past was filled with women, but all had been experienced—divorcées, widows or married women on the prowl for a lover. Hart had never before toyed with innocence.
He made a sound. “I know that.”
“Then why? I know you are worldly enough to make certain I would not get pregnant—”
He whirled. “It’s about me, not you.”
She blinked. “I don’t understand.”
“I barely understand myself.” He was grim.
She dared to pluck his sleeve. “Please, Calder, please try to explain this to me.”
His jaw was rigid. “There is a man…a different man…and I can feel him…he actually exists.”
She had not a clue as to what he meant.
He stared ahead now. “Having decided to marry you, Calder Hart would have seduced you months ago, never mind your innocence. Calder Hart has been more than tempted, more than once. Because he wants you so much. Now that he is engaged, Hart really doesn’t give a damn about your innocence.
Hart has actually thought about seducing you well before the wedding and he has come quite close to accomplishing the feat. ”
She was wide-eyed. And why was he talking about himself as if he was a stranger?
“But someone else has appeared on the scene.” He made a sound of self-derision. “Someone better, in fact. Someone who can actually see that the sun exists on a gray, rainy day. Someone who actually prefers sunshine to rain.”
And she understood. Her heart swelled impossibly; tears welled. “Oh, Calder.”
“He isn’t as selfish. He wants to be noble.” He finally glanced at her. “I’m not being very clear, am I?”
“No,” she whispered. “I understand completely.”
“You would,” he whispered softly. “Only you would understand.” He touched her face then dropped his hand.
Francesca started to cry.
He did not pull her close. He shoved his hands back in the pockets of his trousers and stared out into the night. It was a moment before he spoke. “This other man…this is the man that you have made me want to be.”
The milliner’s shop where Kate Sullivan was employed was a block and a half north of Ehrich Brothers’ Emporium on Sixth Avenue, just past the west corner of Twenty-third Street.
The small shop boasted a large display window filled with modest bonnets, elegant hats and fine silk scarves, with a single counter inside and a rack of more goods.
Upon Francesca’s presenting herself to the proprietress that next morning, Kate Sullivan was summoned from the back room where she had been stocking goods.
The Slasher’s second victim was a pretty blonde in a dark skirt and white shirtwaist. As she approached Francesca, her pallor was obvious. Francesca smiled warmly.
“Mrs. Hathorne said you are a sleuth,” Kate said, eyes wide.
“Yes, I am.” Francesca continued to smile, handing her a calling card. Kate did not even look at it. She seemed frightened and dismayed. “I am investigating the crimes committed by the Slasher. I have some questions for you.”
Kate appeared to be near tears. “But I told the police everything.” She went to one of two chairs in a corner of the shop and sat weakly down.
She looked on the verge of fainting. Francesca followed her. “Can I get you some water?”
Kate shook her head. “I am trying to forget,” she whispered. Then tears filled her eyes. “But how can I? Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Every time I close my eyes, I hear him.”
Francesca knelt besides her. “You saw him! That was not in the police report!”
She shook her head negatively. “I never saw him, Miss Cahill, he seized me from behind. But I can see him now, so clearly, this tall elegant man!”
She was not making any sense. Francesca stood and took the chair besides Kate Sullivan. “What do you mean, precisely?”
Kate shrugged. “I can imagine how he must look. I know he was tall, because I am rather tall for a woman—I am five foot five—and he was far taller than I.”
“You said he was elegant.”
She nodded. “I had just disrobed.” She turned impossibly pale. A tear fell.
“Do you need some air?” Francesca asked in real compassion.
She nodded weakly.
Francesca took her arm and helped her up.
A moment later they were standing on Sixth Avenue.
The elevated train was roaring overhead, causing the buildings around them to shake, and leaving a cloud of black smoke in its wake.
Horns were blaring on the congested avenue, and a trolley was clanging its bells.
Pedestrians, both ladies and gentlemen, swarmed around them. “Do you feel better?”
Kate inhaled and nodded. “I get so sick whenever I think of him,” she whispered.
“That’s understandable. He must be apprehended, Miss Sullivan.”
“Yes, he must.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve read about you, Miss Cahill. I’ve read about the Cross Killer and the City Strangler. You solved those cases! And now I read you are engaged to the city’s wealthiest bachelor, Mr. Hart.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears.
“I am very determined to solve a case when I take one on,” Francesca said firmly, trying not to appear pleased. But it was flattering, indeed, to be such an object of interest that the newsmen reported on her doings. “So the Slasher seized you from behind after you had disrobed?”
Kate nodded again. “I had no idea he was in my flat,” she said.
“But I was very weary from being on my feet all day. Mrs. Hathorne had asked me to come in a few hours early to help with inventory. So it was a long day, really. I was almost asleep on my feet, I must say! One moment I was pulling on a robe, the next, he had me in his arms and he had a knife to my throat.” A tear fell.
“And he was tall.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you say he was elegant? What would make you think that?” Francesca asked. There was nothing elegant about David Hanrahan—but Kate might be wrong. Victims frequently made mistakes when it came to identifying their assailants.
“His clothes,” she said. “His jacket was very fine wool, the kind of wool that only a gentleman would wear.”
“Are you sure?”
“I saw the sleeve, Miss Cahill. The sleeve was well tailored and charcoal gray. It was a fine sleeve, Miss Cahill. A fine sleeve, indeed.”
Francesca’s mind raced. “Are you certain? Are you certain of all of this?”
She nodded. “I also saw his hand. His other hand—the one on my stomach—not the hand he held the knife with.”
Francesca almost held her breath. What wonderful clues these were! “And?”
“His hands were soft and smooth. They weren’t the coarse, red hands of a working man.”
Francesca stared.
“And there was a ring. I can’t recall it exactly, but it was gold. There was a stone; I’m not even sure what kind or color it was.” Her eyes suddenly flashed. “He was a gentleman. He was a gentleman and I have not one doubt.”
It was simply unbelievable, he thought, staring at the window of the milliner’s shop from where he stood across Sixth Avenue.
It was unbelievable that the notorious Francesca Cahill had started an investigation into the so-called Slasher; that she dared to seek out the first two bitches and question them again, after the police had already done so; that she dared to try to reveal him.
He knew she was clever. He had read all about her, who hadn’t? But she wasn’t half as clever as he was, he felt certain of that.
He watched the two of them standing outside the shop, trembling with his hatred.
God, he hated them all. Every single faithless one of them. He could count the promises, but not the lies…He knew now he should have killed them, instead of warning them, instead of letting them live.
His fingers twitched and he slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling for the small penknife.
Well, his plans had changed.
This one would die.