"Yes, I'm sure." It was nonetheless a disappointment. The beehives would have been positive identification simply because Frankie Miller was correct-they were not a commonplace in New York. There was, however, one other likely clue. "This boxy sort of structure here," Josh said, pointing to one of the drawings. "What did he think it was?"

"Hard to say. Some kind of storage place maybe. Some four feet long and three feet tall, Joe reckons. That's about the right size, ain't it? For the way Mrs. Turner was kept, I mean."

"Looks likely," Josh said, flipping the picture over and checking on the identification written below the sketch. "And that would make thirty-two the right house."

Miller nodded.

"I'll try for a bit more confirmation," Josh said. "Meanwhile, you push forward on the other fronts."

Merely the way he let himself into her bedroom was, Mollie thought, different from before. There was a certain ease to it that had been lacking for many years. And when he sent Tess away with a kind word for her attentiveness, his manner expressed that same . . . Recovered intimacy? Yes, perhaps. She felt her cheeks flush.

Josh waited until Tess had left and closed the door behind her, then, "How are you feeling? Your color is high. Not feverish I hope."

"Not a bit feverish." His words, however, turned her a deeper pink. They had not been alone since the early morning when she opened her eyes to find him lying in the bed beside her. His hand was on her bosom and somehow during sleep she had laid her head against his bare chest. As if the past years had never happened.

He'd wakened soon after, kissed her forehead, and hobbled off down the hall.

"Glad to hear you're improving," Josh said now, sitting beside her on the bed.

Mollie was propped up on a number of pillows. She moved her bottom half a bit, giving him more room. The flush traveled down to her bosom, somewhat exposed because the warmth of the day had made her leave the top of her nightdress unb.u.t.toned.

"Are you up to looking at something I'm sure won't be pleasant?" he asked. And when she said she was, "Frankie Miller's brother is an artist, however odd that seems. He went to Bayard Street and did these drawings for me. According to him the number of the house where you were kept has to be either thirty-two or thirty-four, because the only other possibility is thirty-six where the ground floor's occupied by a bakery. You didn't say anything about that."

"I didn't see it. The stairs led down to a hall and there was a kitchen behind me and a closed door on the right, as I told you."

"And you heard voices behind the door?"

"Yes. Mr. Ganz and someone else. Maybe more than one other person. I don't know. My only thought was to get away."

"Indeed. Quite right too. But you're sure it was Ganz you heard?"

Mollie shook her head. "No. Actually, I'm not sure at all. I just a.s.sumed so because I saw him in the doorway when we drove past."

"Fair enough." He handed her the two drawings, both with the front facades of the buildings facing up. "Can you say whether either of these is the house where they kept you?"

Her reaction was unhesitating. "This one." She handed him back the drawing of number thirty-two.

Josh flipped the paper over. "This is the roof of that building as viewed from across the road. It's entirely possible the structure we see there is where you were held. But there do not appear to be any beehives."

"They are portable," Mollie said. "I expect they've been taken away so as not to be evidence."

Josh nodded. "My thought as well. But I didn't know if it was practical, or even possible. Portable, you say? How do you know so much about bees?"

"My gardening journals and books often discuss them."

"Of course. I should have thought of that." He folded the drawings, tucked them into his pocket, then started to rise.

Mollie put a hand on his arm. "Josh, please. There's something no one will tell me. Not Auntie Eileen or Simon or Tess. Why was I abducted? I presume there was some sort of ransom demanded. What was it?"

"The deeds to some lots I own." He had expected to have to tell her, though perhaps not quite so soon. He had forgotten Mollie's sharp intellect, the way she always went straight to the heart of the matter.

"Which lots? You must tell me, Josh. I have a right to know."

"Yes, you do. All the Fourth Avenue lots my mother bought at the end of the war. Eighty-Seventh to Ninety-Fifth."

"All the Fourth Avenue lots," Mollie said quietly, "including our house and my garden?"

"I'm afraid so. Yes."

"It was the thing he most agonized over," Eileen said. "Signing away your garden to get you back. He thought it would destroy you. In the end, he agreed because he'd no other choice."

"Dear G.o.d."

Eileen glanced up from her embroidery. "He wasn't doing it lightly. That's exactly my point. You mustn't think he was being hard-hearted because-"

"Auntie Eileen, what do you imagine Joshua has done for female companionship these past eight years?"

The question could hardly have startled her more. Eileen's jaw dropped. Then she bristled. "Mollie, for such a clever girl as you've always been, you can sometimes be the most extraordinary fool. Given everything you've seen, how I brought you up . . . Surely you didn't think that denying your husband your bed would cause him to take a vow of celibacy."

"What did he do?" Mollie insisted, ignoring her aunt's reproach.

"This is not the time to berate Josh for-"

"Did he have a favorite wh.o.r.ehouse? I know you know. It's exactly the sort of thing you and Rosie O'Toole always find out about and discuss for hours."

"I do not gossip about my prominent nephew-in-law," Eileen insisted, then set her lips in a prim line.

"Rubbish. Not with strangers perhaps. But definitely with Rosie. Tell me. One of the Seven Sisters on Twenty-Fifth Street? I wouldn't think all that pretension was Josh's style, but I've sometimes seen him leaving the house in evening dress and-"

"Not a wh.o.r.ehouse at all." Eileen bent her head over her needlework and avoided looking at her niece. "A regular companion. A lady who works for him. Calls herself a widow, but who's to say?"

"Francie Wildwood," Mollie said. "Of course. I should have worked it out years ago."

"Rosie makes her a gown every once in a while. Mrs. Wildwood has a clattering tongue."

"Do you think Josh has switched all his affection to Francie Wildwood?"

This last spoken in a voice so small and frightened it brought Eileen's head up as sharply as a shout. Perhaps this was not, after all, about Mollie having more about which to feel aggrieved. "I can't say, but if I were to venture a guess . . . The man who was so distraught over his wife's abduction . . . Frankly, my dear, I think it is only the baggage between his legs your husband brings to Mrs. Wildwood. But if you are honest with yourself, you must admit to having packed it for her."

"I know," Mollie whispered, turning her head aside so her aunt would not see her tears.

Josh thought of Mama Jack's warning as he looked at the information Hamish Fraser had brought. He said only, "Excellent, Hamish. You've done well. It must have taken a long time to get all this."

"Och, not so long as all that, Mr. Turner. It's nay the first time I've been to the Registry of Deeds on your behalf."

Josh looked up from the array of papers-each one stamped as a fair copy-Fraser had spread across his desk. The Scot was staring straight ahead, not meeting his employer's gaze. "You devil, Hamish," Josh said with a chuckle. "You've got the registry clerk on our payroll, haven't you? C'mon, own up. You may as well, I'm considerably impressed."

"It comes out of petty cash, Mr. Turner. I dinna hide it. Mrs. Turner has approved the transaction every week."

"Has she now? And how much am I paying the registry clerk?"

"A dollar a week, sir. Fifty-two dollars per annum."

"Well, it's hardly a fortune . . ." Then, as the thought occurred, "The registry clerk's not the only one is he?"

"I canna say he is, Mr. Turner. But I am judicious in my choices. Mrs. Turner has-"

"-approved every expenditure. Yes, I've no doubt." Josh was less annoyed than amused to discover that behind his back Hamish Fraser and Mollie had been paying minor bribes in the name of the St. Nicholas Corporation. Apparently for years. But those emotions were a pinp.r.i.c.k compared to his disappointment with the information Hamish brought him today. Because however thorough a job the Scot had done, the facts were not what he wished them to be.

He sent Hamish away, promising he could come back and visit Mollie later when she'd had more time to convalesce, and asked Tess to tell Mrs. Brannigan he wished to see her.

Eileen came at once. These last few days had aged her. There were dark circles under her eyes and her bearing was less erect than he was accustomed to seeing. "Please sit down, Aunt Eileen. I wish to show you what my clerk just brought me. This is the deed to the house where Mollie was held captive."

Eileen looked down, then pressed a hand to her cheek. "I cannot believe it."

"I've been thinking the same," Josh admitted. "But there it is. Quite plain, and I have no reason to doubt it is the true and fair copy it attests to being. The owner of number thirty-two Bayard Street is Jeremy Duggan. Your attorney."

"My attorney as was," Eileen said with some feeling. "I hardly ever use him these days. Not since he deserted me in my hour of need in the Tombs. And you must admit, the owner is not Solomon Ganz. That's what you expected, isn't it?"

"It's what I hoped for," Josh admitted. "It would be straightforward. But . . ." He hesitated, remembering how agitated Eileen had been when they spoke of this before. "Aunt Eileen, as you've just said, this man proved himself disloyal years ago. How did it happen that when you and I formalized our arrangements concerning your part ownership of the St. Nicholas Corporation, you chose Duggan to draw up the papers?"

She had been staring at the deed, now she looked up. "Those were Mr. Ganz's instructions," she admitted. "I was to use the services of Mr. Jeremy Duggan and no other."

Jeremy Duggan, Joshua suspected, was not a villain. Rather a man too weak to resist being used by villains.

"It was an ordinary transaction, Mr. Turner. The sort of thing attorneys regularly do for their clients."

"Indeed, Mr. Duggan. I am, as you're aware, accustomed to buying and selling property and I too use a lawyer to attend to the details. But it is my name that finishes up on the deed. In this instance City Hall says you own not just number thirty-two Bayard Street, but a considerable number of other lots and buildings in the same vicinity."

Josh pulled a second piece of paper from his breast pocket. The first-a copy of the deed to the house where Mollie had been held captive-already lay on Duggan's desk. What he produced now was a list of addresses. He handed them to Duggan. "The deeds of each of those properties has your name on it. The majority are in Mulberry Bend, some in what I believe is nowadays called Chinatown, and yet more in the heart of Five Points. Odd sorts of investments for a man of your sort, sir. I should think simply collecting the rents would be problematic. As in you'd be lucky not to be beaten to a pulp when the attempt was made."

Duggan was studying the list of properties as if he'd never seen it before. "So many," he said softly. "I did not realize . . ."

"You've never totted it up, have you?" Josh asked. "Never done a reckoning of all those accommodating misrepresentations of the facts you've entered into on your client's behalf." He reached out and retrieved both doc.u.ments, folding them carefully and returning them to their secure place in the inside pocket resting against his heart. "Seems to me the newspapers would find this an interesting story. One more example of our city's terrible corruption. Astonishing how today's reporters have no sense of propriety, no restraint. They can hound a man to despair. Don't you agree, Mr. Duggan?"

"What do you want? I don't have much money. As you've implied, I take no profit from any of those buildings."

"I'm not after money, Duggan. I want to know who is behind all this official lying."

The lawyer shrugged. "Don't use that tone with me. You did not get where you are, Mr. Turner, by sweet purity and innocence. Why the h.e.l.l do you care, anyway?" He stood up. "I think it's time for you to go."

Josh rose as well, but he did not turn to go. He leaned forward, planting both hands on the other man's desk and putting his face close to Duggan's. "I care because my wife was held captive in thirty-two Bayard Street for almost four days. Under the most appalling conditions. Murderous conditions. That's a rather more serious charge than simple corruption. So if you weren't the one who ordered her abduction, I'd suggest you tell me who did."

Duggan drew back. "Jesus G.o.d Almighty."

"He is not, I'm quite sure, behind any of this."

"You've a quick wit, Turner. And a good deal of bravado. Especially for a man who must hobble because he cannot run. But I haven't seen your wife since she was a girl. I certainly had no hand in imprisoning her, nor indeed any reason to wish her ill. From what you said, it sounds like you've retrieved her. Count your blessings and forget about it."

Josh reached out and grabbed the other man's shirtfront. The gesture caused a silver ink pot to be swept off the desk. It landed with a crash. The door flew open. "You need anything, Mr. Turner?" The tone was conversational, with no hint of threat, but Frankie Miller's arm was outstretched and he held a pistol, c.o.c.ked and ready.

Duggan did not struggle out of Josh's grasp. His calmness with a gun pointed at his head indicated less distance than he'd implied from whatever he was involved in. "I guess, Turner, this proves you're no better than I. Back off. Both of you. You've no idea who you're playing around with, or what kind of a hornet's nest you're stirring up."

"Honeybees," Josh said, "not hornets." He let Duggan go, watching for any reaction. There was none. The lawyer shot his cuffs and brushed his lapels, seeming more concerned with his appearance than with Miller's weapon. "I believe you're telling the truth when you say you had nothing to do with my wife's ordeal," Josh said. "Give me a name and I'll go. You'll hear nothing further about any of this. Otherwise I take the story to the press. After that I warrant you'll have seen your last client."

Duggan glanced from Josh to Frankie Miller and back again. "Why not?" he said with a shrug. "Since it seems we've both learned the value of alliances. The name you're after is Tony Lupo. But I don't think that information is going to do you a whole lot of good."

They had been sitting in the back of the carriage for close on to ten minutes, ever since they left Duggan's office. Josh and Frankie Miller. Not saying a word. Miller had started to speak on at least three occasions; each time Josh waved him silent. Ollie sat at the front of the brougham, awaiting Josh's instructions.

Finally, Josh leaned forward and pushed down the window separating him from the driver. "Take us to Avenue A, Ollie. Between Fifth and Sixth."

The carriage moved into the traffic. Josh leaned against the tufted red leather of the interior bench. "Head to head with Ganz," he murmured. "Otherwise we shall go on playing cat and mouse for G.o.d knows how long. I've been the mouse long enough, time to be the cat." It was unclear whether he was speaking to himself or to Miller, but his tone did not invite conversation.

Half an hour later they were trotting south along Avenue A, leaving Tompkins Square Park on their left. A block ahead, on the west side of the street, were the three gold b.a.l.l.s that identified Sol Ganz's p.a.w.nshop. Josh lowered the front window, preparing to suggest Ollie rein in where they were. Miller touched his arm. "Mr. Turner. Look to the right, sir. Just now."

Josh turned his head. An improbable broad-brimmed hat piled high with silk roses was coming toward him.

Tess was busy putting something into the drawstring bag she carried on her arm. She did not look up and it was apparent she had spotted neither the carriage-there were half a dozen black broughams on any New York block at any given time-nor Ollie nor Frankie Miller. Certainly not her employer. Frankie made a move as if to open the door and jump out. "No!" Josh said quickly. "Stay where you are."

The flow of traffic urged them forward. Josh turned his head so as to keep Tess in view as long as possible. She kept on walking north, concentrated on drawing her bag tight closed, and did not look back.

"That was folding money she was tucking away," Miller said. His face was dark with anger. As if he, personally, had been betrayed.

"I know," Josh said calmly. Then, leaning into the brougham's open front window, "We've got what we came for, Ollie. Take us home."

21.

"YOU SHOULD HAVE let me grab her," Miller grumbled half under his breath.

"No," Josh said. They were a few yards from 1060 and it was the first word he'd spoken since they reversed direction on Avenue A. He dropped the brougham's window. "Don't stop by the door, Ollie. Drive straight into the stable."

Ollie did as he'd been told, approaching the stable from the vacant lot beside the garden, then jumping down to open the carriage door.

Josh climbed down first, Miller right behind. Ollie made a move toward the horse. "Just a moment," Josh said. "I want to speak to you both. You must keep this entirely quiet. Particularly here at 1060. I believe I've been handed an advantage in this business, but I'll lose it if either of you says anything to Tess or anyone else about seeing her on Avenue A. Is that clear?"

Miller hesitated for the s.p.a.ce of perhaps two short breaths, then nodded. "It's one way to play it. I can see that."

"It's the way I choose to play it." Josh turned to Ollie. "You understand, don't you? I want your promise, Ollie. Not a word to anyone."

The boy looked stricken. "Seeing Tess where we did means she had something to do with Mrs. Turner being s.n.a.t.c.hed," he said. "It does, doesn't it, Mr. Turner?"