Sunday morning was clear and cold but not uncomfortably so. A perfect day for an outing, though Phil was tempted just to stay in bed with the covers over her head. Her sleep had been haunted by dreams of kidnappings and murders and, strangely, her mother.
She couldn’t hide even in sleep. She got up.
Lily appeared immediately from the dressing room. “I will bring your breakfast, my lady.”
Phil sighed. She could feel Lily’s fear. And determined to swallow her own. “I’ll have coffee in the kitchen as usual. You may bring me the houndstooth walking dress.”
“No. I mean—”
“Lily. We cannot let fear rule us. Especially not three days before Christmas. We have much to do.”
“I know, but…”
“No buts, bring me my dress.” Phil pushed away the covers and sat up. She felt awful, but nothing coffee and a little determination wouldn’t fix.
She dressed in silence and accompanied Lily to the kitchen, where Preswick was waiting to take up the cudgels.
“She wants to go to that woman,” Lily informed him, ignoring Phil’s presence.
Preswick poured her coffee. “Do you think that wise, my lady?”
Probably not, and she would happily cede her obligations and stay inside; after all, she’d been kidnapped yesterday. But she knew her duty—more or less. She knew she had to warn Mrs. Toscana and reestablish order in her own household.
Phil drank her coffee, while Preswick set a plate of eggs and toast before her. She forced herself to eat.
“I shall make the trip downtown,” Preswick announced.
“Then I’m going, too,” Lily said.
“Thank you,” Phil said. “But this is something I must do.”
Lily said, “They might be waiting outside for you.”
“I will be careful. But Mrs. Toscana needs to know what happened and be doubly cautious for her own safety.”
“You could telephone her,” Lily pleaded.
“Lily,” Phil said.
“I know, ‘ears.’ But you shouldn’t go.”
Phil felt an unusual tightening in her throat. What had she done to deserve such loyal servants? And was she right to put them in danger because she, for the first time in her life, felt she was doing something important?
She’d spent her whole life taking servants for granted. Not seeing them as people with their own dreams and fears and feelings. What dreams did Preswick have after a lifetime in service? And what about Lily?
In the end, Lily and Preswick insisted on coming, and truth be told, Phil was glad of their company. She sat squeezed between them in the taxi as they headed downtown to Mrs. Toscana’s brothel. But not before participating in some subterfuge of their own. Preswick and Lily went out the main entrance and took a taxi around to the back entrance of the hotel, where Phil—heavily veiled, at Lily’s insistence—was waiting.
They sat upright, prepared to defend her in case someone considered making a second move on her person.
She had to admit she was a little nervous. Just coming outside had set off an anxiety that kept her looking around to see if they were being followed.
She still didn’t have a plan of attack for questioning Mrs. Toscana. She’d never had to actually confront a madam of this sort before. She’d been in company with several in London at various parties and entertainments. She had probably rubbed elbows with a few more since she’d arrived in New York.
To look at Mrs. Toscana, she would have never guessed that she was a prosperous seller of women’s favors, and most likely the collector of men’s secrets. She’d appeared respectably dressed. Not ostentatious, not tawdry. A perfect balance of quality and decorum.
Phil reminded herself not to always judge a book by its cover.
She sat back, overly conscious of the erect, alert postures of her two servants, and she tried to curb her own fluttery nerves. She’d done so many, many times before. From chasing a murderer to audience with the queen. Just because a woman appeared self-assured and in command didn’t mean there weren’t times she was quaking on the inside.
It would pass; it always did. The queen turned out to be perfectly lovely, and if Phil didn’t care to be kidnapped again, she imagined she would be more successful in that endeavor also.
Thank heavens for Just a Friend and his quick wits and newsboy contacts. They’d saved her life. And now she must keep him safe, too.
Mrs. Toscana’s turned out to be a respectable brownstone right around the corner from the Cavalier Club. There were no markings, no sign to advertise to anyone who might be strolling down the street. This was a high-end pleasure palace, and most likely by invitation or recommendation only. What secrets these walls could tell.
Curtains covered the windows, and Phil could see no lights on inside.
“Maybe they’re still asleep,” Lily said. “They stay up late enough.”
“Perhaps, and all the better. They won’t be on their mettle. Besides, I imagine that Mrs. Toscana will be on the alert. Now, you two make yourselves scarce. I saw a little coffee shop on the corner. I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”
Neither of them moved.
“That is an order. We don’t want her to think she is under attack.”
Reluctantly, they walked away.
Phil waited until they had reached the corner before walking up to the front door and ringing the bell.
She was surprised when in less than a minute, the door opened, and a young woman—pretty and blond, wearing a gray skirt and blouse—opened the door.
“Oh,” the young woman said. “I thought…” She narrowed her eyes, lifted a pair of glasses that hung around her neck, and peered at Phil. “Can I help you? If you’re collecting, we’ve already given.”
“I came to see Mrs. Toscana.”
“She isn’t here. I’m her secretary, if you would like to leave your card?”
“Where is she?”
“She’s gone to church.”
“Ah. When do you expect her back?”
“I can’t say. Why don’t you leave your card?”
“I don’t mind waiting. Please, I’m no irate wife or sister. I’m here on a personal matter that involves a mutual friend. Possibly a matter of life and death.”
As they stood facing each other, a van came to a stop at the curb. Phil tensed, but a delivery boy jumped out and muscled past Phil, carrying a large box.
“Package for Mrs. Toscana.” He thrust the box into the secretary’s hands and trotted back into the van, which rattled off down the street.
The young woman wrestled the box through the door, but when Phil started to follow, she found the door shut in her face.
“What a singularly unsatisfying visit,” Phil said to the crisp air, and started back toward Third Avenue in search of Lily and Preswick.
She’d barely gotten down the steps when she saw Mrs. Toscana coming her way. She was dressed in a well-fitted wool coat and dark stole falling almost to her knees, and she was carrying a small black prayer book.
She saw Phil and hesitated, just as an explosion sent a shower of splintering glass onto the sidewalk behind Phil. The pavement shuddered beneath her.
Mrs. Toscana screamed and ran clumsily toward the brothel.
“No!” Phil reached for her, but she was too late. Mrs. Toscana stumbled up the steps to the stoop.
Glass and debris littered the ground like so much rubbish. Only a ragged gaping hole was left where the window had been. Phil tried not to think about what had become of the secretary.
Mrs. Toscana was attempting to fit her key to the lock with shaking hands.
“Wait.” Phil took the key and opened the door. Mrs. Toscana rushed inside as black, acrid smoke poured out.
Phil followed Mrs. Toscana into the house, into the cloud of choking smoke. She could barely see the forms of several women huddled on the stairs above. They were in dishabille, wrapped in blankets and quilts or shivering in their bare arms in the cold morning air.
“Stay back,” Mrs. Toscana ordered. “It may be unsafe.”
The girls moved closer to each other. No one spoke.
Mrs. Toscana stepped into a room to the left, crying, “Nellie, Nellie, are you there?” What had been an office—was now the remnant of the office.
The explosion had toppled lamps, overturned tables, breaking glass and leaving black matchboxes everywhere. Scattered papers littered the floor or were trapped against the broken glass of the windows. The shreds of the delivered box had burned into the wood of a kneehole desk that was placed near the window. But at the back of the room, a settee, easy chair, and bookcases had come through the explosion unscathed except for smoke.
A package bomb. Diabolical and deadly, and Phil recoiled.
The desk chair lay on the floor, and beneath it …
Phil heard a low moan. As she looked for the source, Preswick and Lily ran into the room.
Preswick took in the situation in one look. He moved Phil aside and gently lifted the toppled desk chair from the fallen secretary.
Mrs. Toscana let out an unearthly wail and tried to reach the girl, but Phil held her back.
Preswick and Lily were already on their knees. Lily automatically lifted her skirt and tore off the bottom ruffle of her petticoats. Preswick began tying it around the woman’s arm trying to staunch the flowing blood. Lily dabbed at the cuts on her face.
“Is she—is she—”
Preswick stood. “Telephone for an ambulance.” He turned away. “Lily, help me move her to the settee.”
Mrs. Toscana looked toward the door, where several girls had ventured and were staring at the destruction.
“Angelina, call for the ambulance. And for Dr. Battista.” One of the girls disappeared from the doorway. “Triana, help them with Nellie.”
Mrs. Toscana turned back to Phil. “What?” It was all she could get out.
“A package came,” Phil said softly. “There must have been a bomb inside. A malicious, cowardly act.”
Mrs. Toscana saw the bomb’s trappings and reached toward it.
Phil grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Don’t. This is a crime scene.”
Mrs. Toscana spun around. Phil braced herself for tears and hysterics. What she got was sheer cold fury.
“Will she survive?”
Phil looked toward Preswick. He looked grim but said, “Fortunately, the bomb seems to have detonated facing toward the window, not back toward the room. She was protected by the desk somewhat. Her wounds are numerous but don’t appear to be deep. With proper medical attention, she should survive.”
“I will kill them for this,” Mrs. Toscana hissed, her prayer book clutched to her chest.
“The Black Hand?” Phil managed.
Mrs. Toscana spat over her shoulder. “The Hand.” She laughed, low and horrible.
“I will kill him.”
“Who?” asked Phil.
“This has nothing to do with you.”
“Becker?”
Mrs. Toscana spun around. “You all must leave! The police are arriving and I must appear to be afraid of the Hand.”
Phil heard the sound of sirens, then automobiles stopping outside.
“Please, I’m looking into the death of Tommy Green.” Phil reached into her bag for her card case and extracted a card, which she shoved into Mrs. Toscana’s hand.
“This way! Quickly. You must not be found here.” Mrs. Toscana pushed Phil, Preswick, and Lily into the foyer.
“Carly, take them out the back.”
One of the women dropped the quilt that had been covering her and ran down the stairs. “This way!”
She was wearing a flannel nightgown, which seemed an odd choice in a brothel, but everything was odd to Phil at the moment.
Carly motioned them past the stairs and into an unlit room. Phil could just make out dark paneling and bookcases filled with books. One of the bookcases suddenly swung open to reveal steps leading downward.
Carly pushed them onto the steps and followed them in. The bookcase closed behind them.
And they ran, herded from behind by a young woman in a flannel nightgown. A scene from a gothic horror story.
For several long moments, Phil was only aware of the cold and the uneven bricks beneath her feet. The only light was a lantern that Carly had picked up somewhere near the beginning of their subterranean flight.
At last, Carly eased ahead of them and knocked at a heavy door. She knocked again, louder. The door opened.
A big, dark, muscular man looked in at them. “What’s happening?”
“A bomb, at Mrs. Toscana’s. Nellie’s hurt. These people tried to help.”
“This way.” His voice was very deep, and it reverberated behind them down the passage.
Preswick hurried Lily and Phil up the steps and into what must be the back hall of the Cavalier Club.
The man led them to a room that was equipped with several mirrors and sinks. And Phil saw for the first time how ghastly they looked.
Preswick and Lily were disheveled and blood-splattered. A length of Lily’s petticoat had been dragged over the bricks and hung filthily from the hem of her coat.
Phil hysterically wondered how many coats they would ruin before they captured Tommy Green’s murderer. Because it must be the same villain, or group of villains. The murder, the injuries, the people left homeless. She’d been kidnapped, her servants had been threatened, and there seemed to be no end in sight.
Mrs. Toscana wanted her revenge?
Well, now Phil wanted hers.
They cleaned up the best they could, and when they agreed they could pass on the streets without causing alarm, they made the slow, silent walk back to Union Square and the taxi stand.
Phil stopped at the statue of George Washington at the southeast corner of the square. “Show me where they were going to build the new courthouse.”
“The courthouse, my lady? Along the east side, just there.” Preswick pointed out the row of buildings that ran along the avenue.
“Is that important?” Lily asked.
“I’m not sure. It just seems so much of our investigation centers around this area of town: the bombings, Tommy’s courthouse investigation that had been leaked, Tommy and Mrs. Toscana … I wondered if they’re all somehow connected.”
As soon as they were home and changed into clean clothes, Preswick rang for tea, and Phil and Lily went directly to the study.
“Where is that map?” Phil asked, rummaging through the papers on the study table.
“Mr. Preswick mounted it on cardboard so it would be easier to study.” Lily reached beside the table and pulled out the map.
Phil added another “X” for Mrs. Toscana’s and stepped back to regard her handiwork.
Preswick brought in tea and sandwiches and placed them on the sideboard. The tea was welcomed, but no one could eat just yet.
Phil tapped the map with her pencil. “Why so many in such a small neighborhood in such a short time period? And not their normal haunt.
“And why Mrs. Toscana’s? What do they expect to gain, unless it was to pay her back for talking to me?”
“It isn’t your fault, my lady. If they went after Mrs. Toscana, it was because she knows something they are afraid of.”
“Thank you, Preswick. But why now?”
“Because Mr. Green’s investigation must have frightened them.”
“But why?” Phil asked, pacing, trying to keep control of her temper.
“The crooks want to take over,” Lily said.
“Perhaps it’s not all the same miscreants,” Preswick suggested.
Phil nodded. “Someone could be taking advantage of the Hand bombings to commit one or two crimes of their own.”
“Using similar actions as a cover for their own,” Preswick said.
“But why would they do that?” Lily asked.
“For the insurance?” Phil said.
“Or to buy up property cheaply,” Preswick said. “I believe there was a similar incident in London a few years back. As I recall, there was a railway station involved.”
“Land speculation over the relocation of the courthouse, before it was voted down. That’s what Tommy had been investigating last spring before his article was killed,” Phil said triumphantly. The triumph didn’t last. “But this isn’t where they planned to build the courthouse.” She stabbed the pencil at the place on the map where the new courthouse would have been.
“Maybe they’re planning on building something else,” Lily said.
Phil and Preswick both looked at her in astonishment.
“Or somewhere else. Brilliant, Lily,” Phil said. “Perhaps they plan to try again. Just a block or two away.” She sat down and frowned at the map.
“Is that what Tommy Green discovered during his Black Hand investigation? That it wasn’t just the Black Hand doing the damage? Is his evidence hidden in whatever this key in my pocket unlocks?”
Phil jumped up and began to pace again. Were his papers in one of those lockers in the Times storage room? Could Tommy have possibly hidden them there among the hundreds, possibly thousands, of other papers stored there? And if they were, how was she ever going to find them?
She turned suddenly. “Preswick, do you think Detective Sergeant Atkins is working today?”
“I couldn’t say, my lady. Shall I call the station?”
“Yes, please. Tell him Mrs. Dalrymple would like to speak to him.”