Deadly Illusions. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ idea where your husband is? Have you heard from him at all since he left?”

      Francis set her jaw. “I have not had a single letter—not a single word! But I do suspect he went West. He was always talking about the open ranges of Texas and California. And Miss Cahill, if he did go out West, well, then he could be dead, couldn’t he? They say that land is a dangerous, lawless place.”

      Francesca realized that trying to locate Thomas O’Leary could be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Let’s get back to the Slasher. You seem to think he was already in your flat when you came in that night.”

      “He must have been there, waiting for me.” She shivered, blanching again. “I’m sorry. I can’t forget that man. He was terrifying—at first I thought he meant to kill me!”

      “But how would he get into your flat when you left it locked that day?”

      “Perhaps he found an open window,” Francis said. “Perhaps I had left a window unlocked. The police said they were all locked, but he could have locked it after entering.”

      “It is certainly a possibility, considering you live on the ground floor. Could he have followed you inside? You said you unlocked the door, closed and locked it immediately and only then, when you were about to sit down on the sofa, he assaulted you.”

      “Yes.” But she appeared uncertain now.

      “But what did you do with your bag of groceries, your purse? And I assume you wore a hat and perhaps a coat or shawl? Wouldn’t you put your bags down first and then remove your hat and shawl and after that lock the door?”

      Francis stared. After a moment, she said, “You’re right. Of course you’re right. There were a few moments when the door was unlocked, maybe even ajar, while I did those things.” She flushed. “I seem to remember the door being ajar when I went back to lock it. Oh, God! He slipped inside while I was unpinning my hat or some such thing!” she cried.

      “Yes, I think the Slasher could have slipped inside after you. I am assuming you did not light a candle yet?” Francesca now made some rapid notes.

      “I never had a chance to light a candle that night, Miss Cahill. It hadn’t become fully dark yet. After I locked the door I went to sit, and that was when he seized me.” Her eyes re mained wide, but respect filled them now.

      Francesca smiled briskly. “You have been quite helpful, Mrs. O’Leary. Would you mind if I spoke to Mr. Wilson?”

      “No, of course not, but why would you think to speak with my fiancé?”

      “Perhaps you told him something that you have forgotten to tell me,” Francesca said lightly. But that was not the real reason. She could not rule out any man who knew any of the victims as a suspect, including Francis’s fiancé—or her errant husband.

      Of course, at this point in time, Francesca could not dismiss the possibility that a madman was choosing pretty women as his victim, purely by random.

      But oddly, she did not think so. “We will be in touch,” she said.

      THE LAW OFFICES WHERE Evan Cahill worked were just a few blocks uptown from the Lord and Taylor store. As she was on her way uptown to interview Kate Sullivan and then to meet Bragg to interview little Bridget O’Neil, she had the perfect opportunity to call on her brother. She hadn’t seen him in a week; when he had been living at home they had seen one another on a daily basis.

      The offices of Garfield and Willis were housed in an older building built at the turn of the previous century. It was still stately, with a brick facade and classical front. After being shown to a small reception room, Francesca was asked to wait for Evan there. She admired the dark wood floors, well worn but gleaming with wax, the wood paneling on the lower half of the walls and the gold fabric above and the large crystal chandelier overhead. She did not sit. Still thinking about her inter view with Francis O’Leary, she also recalled her conversation with Maggie Kennedy last night. She wondered what Evan would say when he learned of her new case.

      He strode into the room, smiling. “Fran! What a wonderful surprise.”

      Francesca rushed to embrace him. As always, her brother was smiling and he appeared happy. Evan had a sunny nature. He was also tall, dark and dashing, and until his fall from Cahill grace, he had been a premier catch. Francesca smiled up at him, searching his eyes. “You seem very well.”

      He laughed and shrugged. Then, “I haven’t been at the tables in over a month, Fran.”

      She cried out in surprised delight. Evan had a passion for gaming and, to her dismay, she had learned that his debts exceeded a hundred thousand dollars. That had been one of the causes of friction between him and their father. Recently, the man to whom he owed the vast sum of money had threatened his life. Francesca had borrowed fifty thousand dollars from Hart to pay him partially back, and Hart had called on the creditor as well, to make it clear that Evan’s life would not be forfeit for his debts. Since then, there had been no more threats and no more assaults. But on several occasions in the past Evan had lapsed into his old habit of gambling. Francesca was thrilled that he had managed thus far to stay away from the nightclubs. “That is wonderful,” she said. “And there is no temptation?”

      He gave her a dark look. “There is always temptation, Fran. I will be tempted until my dying day.” Then he lightened. “But the countess is keeping me quite busy and very distracted.”

      An image of the radiant, auburn-haired widow came to mind. “Has it become serious?” Francesca asked lightly. She happened to like the flamboyant countess, but she did not quite trust her. Bartolla Benevente had once meddled in her private affairs when she had been infatuated with Rick Bragg.

      Evan hesitated, running his hand through his dark hair, and paced over to the wall of windows, which looked out onto Madison Avenue. Francesca followed him. Below, the street was filled with carriages and trolleys; the city was doing business in full swing. Pedestrians—mostly darkly clad gentlemen—hurried up and down the street. She suddenly thought about Hart and the evening ahead and she smiled.

      Then she thought about Daisy and she frowned, her heart skipping with fear.

      “I don’t know,” Evan finally said, facing Francesca directly. “I am in love, but…I have been in love before.”

      How mature his assessment was. Francesca was impressed. “Yes, you have. And you do gravitate to the Bartolla Beneventes of this world.”

      He smiled a little at that. “Yes, I do. She would make a good wife.”

      “I doubt she wishes to wed a law clerk.”

      “Yes, I agree, and I have thought about that. She urges me frequently to make up with Father.”

      Francesca met his gaze and touched his arm. “You do what you need to do, Evan. I am very proud of you.”

      He shook his head, his expression self-deprecating. “And how are you? You seem radiant, Francesca, but then I look into your eyes and I see that you are worried. Is everything all right?”

      Now it was Francesca who hesitated. It crossed her mind to tell Evan about the awful conversation with Daisy, but she had no wish to dwell on the painful subject. “I am on another case,” she said, an attempt to distract herself. Then she gave up. “I ran into Daisy a few hours ago.”

      Evan СКАЧАТЬ