Josh nodded, but still did not read the note. Whatever the urgency might be, it would have to wait. Everything about this event had been meticulously planned, and timing was the key to all else. He took his watch from his vest pocket. Three minutes to eight. They'd guessed correctly about how long the governor would speak. He didn't need to draw things out and neither would Edison. He rose and stepped to the podium.

"Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen, as those of you who live in the St. Nicholas buildings know, we have been planning for this night since our great upper Park Avenue adventure began. And let me explain for any who don't already know, the reason you see no flicker of light in the windows across the way is because the oil lamps in every apartment have been deliberately extinguished, and by design every sconce connected to electric power and provided with that miracle of our time, an incandescent bulb. Tonight, also by design, those sconces have been switched on and every curtain left undrawn. We await only the golden touch of the remarkable wizard we all know as Mr. Thomas Edison." He turned to where Edison waited, hand on a large bra.s.s lever.

It was, Joshua knew, an utter fake.

The power would be switched on in the bas.e.m.e.nts of the buildings containing the generators at precisely eight o'clock. Another glance at his watch. Josh raised his hand. "Count with me, ladies and gentlemen, and Mr. Edison will light up our world when, in ten seconds' time, the clocks of New York strike the hour. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . ."

"One!" the crowd at last shouted in a roar of antic.i.p.ation. Edison threw his sham switch.

The St. Nicholas apartments on Park Avenue came to life in a blaze of shining light that must, Josh thought, resemble the first day of creation.

They had tested the systems repeatedly in each building and on every floor, but until this moment no one could have predicted with certainty that what Mollie called his P. T. Barnum imitation would work.

It had. Josh achieved his moment of triumph. But what he saw in the dazzling illumination of the world he had brought into being was the face of DuVal Jones, standing at the foot of the dais with his back to the newly lighted buildings. He was staring up at Josh with a look of concentration stunning in its intensity.

"You're absolutely certain the house is occupied by Trenton Clifford?" Josh asked. "I heard he'd returned to the South years ago."

"He did," DuVal Jones said. "Now he's come back."

"How do you know?"

"I know."

Even if it were true, it was hard to see why Jones had come to him with the information. "Your gla.s.s is empty, Mr. Jones. I'll get you another brandy, shall I?"

They'd not come upstairs to his study until after the electrification celebration finally ended, and that had taken a number of hours. Delmonico's had catered a full banquet served in the lobby of each building, then swept it all away to make room for six-piece orchestras that provided music for dancing. He and Mollie had shown up at every party. Nearly two in the morning now. Josh's household had retired, Mollie included. He took Jones's snifter as well as his own and made his way to the decanter on the table across the room. The task gave him a few moments to think.

Jones meanwhile was staring up at the elaborate rococo-style plaster ceiling, all swirls and seash.e.l.ls. "Outdid yourself here, didn't you, Mr. Turner? Nothing like this down on Sixty-Third Street."

"Meant for a different market, Mr. Jones. What about this house in Brooklyn where you say Clifford's living. Is it luxurious? I'm told there are some fine homes on what they call the heights."

Jones took the brandy and murmured his thanks. Josh sat down across from him. "Clifford's place," Jones said, "is at the foot of Water Street. Closer to the docks than to the respectable folk of the Heights. Tucked away you might say. Hard to find. And it's in the bridge's shadow these days. On the other hand, luxury's a matter of debate, isn't it? Take my flat, for instance. Stack it against a rooming house on Bowling Green and that's one thing. Compare it to what you've done up here . . ." He shrugged and tossed back his drink. The clock on Josh's desk chimed twice and cherubs spun around under a gla.s.s dome. "Like you say, Mr. Turner, it's late. I'd best be going."

"I'm sorry I couldn't speak with you earlier. But-"

"You had important guests to attend to. I understand." Jones stood up.

Josh did the same, but paused before showing the other man out. "Look, do you want to tell me why you've come to report this? And why tonight of all times?"

"I thought you should know. Because of Lupo and your interest in him a few years ago. You mentioned Trenton Clifford's name back then as well."

"And you said you knew nothing about him."

"Did I, Mr. Turner? Well, as I said, all that was three years past. I know enough now to know that Lupo and Clifford have some . . . mutual concerns you might call them. They tend to impinge on yours."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

Jones appeared to hesitate, then he shrugged. Josh was hard put to decide if it was genuine reluctance or an instance of Thomas Edison's bra.s.s lever.

"The dwarf who got killed in your house," Jones said, "back when you were living on Grand Street . . . No reason not to tell you now. Lupo's the one did the big job. The one-eyed b.a.s.t.a.r.d himself, not anyone he sent. The way I hear it, that was a personal favor for Clifford. Because Captain Clifford, he wasn't too happy with the thought the little fellow might tell you things."

"About what had happened in Kentucky years before," Josh said, speaking his thoughts aloud as they occurred. "About Clifford being the one who told Bessemer how to make steel with a converter. Kelly's process. Which mattered because that was back when Clifford thought I was violating Bessemer's patent, and he could use that to shut me down."

Jones shrugged. "You'd know more about the details than I, Mr. Turner. But as I said, things that impinge on your interest."

Josh couldn't let it go, even though the Park Avenue project was a reality and it was hard to see how Clifford and Lupo could hurt him. But given the attempts made in the past, and the way they'd both caused Mollie so much grief, he was more than wary. He summoned Frankie Miller on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. "Put your ear to the ground, Mr. Miller. And listen very closely. There's no reason I know of for DuVal Jones to give me false information. I want to know whatever you hear about Lupo and whether it's true that Clifford is back in town."

Miller was back in two days. Josh led the way to the library. "Clifford?" he asked as soon as he closed the door.

"A sniff here and there," Miller said. "Someone mentioned he'd been at Kate Meacham's wh.o.r.ehouse. Someone else said they saw him at Delmonico's. But so far no talk of what business brought him back to the city."

"After an absence of what . . . three years?"

"Something like that," Miller agreed. "But that's not your biggest worry at the moment, Mr. Turner. Leastwise I don't think so."

Josh was startled. Frankie Miller didn't normally volunteer that sort of opinion. "What then, Mr. Miller, is my biggest worry?"

"Lupo," the gunman said. "He's taking over the business of collecting garbage from buildings like yours. Claims to be organizing the workers."

"On behalf of the labor movement? Tony Lupo?" Josh couldn't conceal his astonishment.

"That's what he says. What it comes down to . . . he's going from building to building, and each time he winds up with a contract to be the one as takes away their swill. Way I see it, the union organizing's just an excuse. Gets his foot in the door. You ask me, he's planning to put all the other garbagemen out of business, then he'll put the squeeze on the owners of the buildings. Men like yourself. He gets paid extra or the swill won't be collected. How many weeks you think it'll be before the stink will attract every rat in the city? Drive all the tenants out."

"Not many. So, how come I haven't been approached by Mr. Lupo? I own a fair number of buildings in this city, Mr. Miller. How come he's ignoring me."

"That's the thing, Mr. Turner. I don't think he is, I think Lupo left you for last because he knew you'd be the toughest nut to crack."

Josh took a day to think it over, then called Miller back. "There's a piece of the puzzle still doesn't fit. What's the interest of DuVal Jones?"

Miller looked thoughtful. "I can't say for sure, Mr. Turner."

"Try this," Josh said. "What if Lupo is trying to take business from Mr. Jones's employer."

"The mayor of Brooklyn?"

"The man who extorts protection money from the lottery offices, yes," Josh said. "Maybe Lupo is trying to-what do you call it?-muscle in."

"That's very unusual, Mr. Turner. Men like Lupo and the mayor, they usually respect each other's territory. Besides, if DuVal Jones was looking out for his boss's business, he wouldn't come to you for help. I mean no disrespect, sir, but what can you do for him that the mayor's own men can't do better?"

It was a question for which Josh had no answer. "I still think Clifford's the key," he said. "What about the house in Brooklyn supposed to be his?"

"It's nothing much. Right under the bridge these days. And it's empty. I put a man out there right away, but so far he ain't seen Clifford or n.o.body else."

"Keep watching," Josh said. "My guess is he'll show up." It struck him that the house Frankie Miller described was unlikely to be where Clifford lived. Rather, he suspected, a trysting place.

Monday morning he sent Hamish to the Brooklyn City Hall. "I expect it may take a bit of time, Hamish, given that it's over in Brooklyn, but I need to know whose name is on the deed."

"Och, not so much time as all that, Mr. Turner. Not the way it might have done in the past."

"Before the bridge, you mean? I suppose it will get you across the water faster than the ferry once the novelty wears off, but just now it's so crowded you can't-"

Hamish smiled. "I dinna' mean exactly that, sir."

Josh took a moment, then caught on. "You've got the Brooklyn clerk on our payroll as well?"

"It was Mrs. Turner's idea, sir. A wee notion she had when it began to appear the bridge might after all be finished."

"Thank you, Tess. That's beautifully pressed. Now hang it away. I don't know when I shall wear it next."

"What about that Metropolitan Opera I read about?" Tess carried the magnolia-colored evening dress to the clothes closet Mr. Turner had built right in to each of the bedrooms so no wardrobe was necessary. It was to her one of the most marvelous of the wonders of Park Avenue. "They sing songs where no one understands the words and no one can sing along. But folks get all dressed up to go and listen."

"Yes, they've a new building on Thirty-Ninth and Broadway. It's meant to be quite grand. But I don't think I could convince Mr. Turner to take me to the opera. Perhaps I shall ask Mr. Ganz to be my escort. He's from Germany, isn't he? I believe they enjoy opera in Germany."

"Not Germany, Austria. It's different. Like my third husband, the MacLachlan. He got devilish upset when anyone said England and meant Scotland. That's how Sol Ganz is about mixing up Austria and Germany."

"My word, Tess, I'd no idea you knew so much about Mr. Ganz. And you're as red as Mrs. Hannity's raspberry jam. Here, sit down."

"No need for that." Tess used her ap.r.o.n to fan her flushed face. "It's warm in here, that's all."

"Well, sit down anyway. Tell me how you know Mr. Ganz is from Austria."

"It was his wife, Mrs. Turner. Esther Cohen when I knew her first. She was a milliner ahead of she married Sol Ganz. Made me my hat."

"Did she! Mr. Ganz's wife. He speaks of her with great fondness. How did she die?"

"Consumption. Took her when she was still just a girl. Such a pity. And them never having no children or nothing. I always thought he'd marry again but-What is it, Mrs. Turner? You've gone all over pale. Oh dear, I shouldn't have said . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

"I'm fine, Tess. And thank you for pressing the gown and telling me about Mrs. Ganz. Now you'd best go back to the kitchen. I'm sure Mrs. Hannity wants you for something."

Josh's office continued to be a movable feast. For the past month it had been located in the first of his buildings, in flat Two B in the St. Nicholas on East Sixty-Third Street. At just before lunchtime Mollie knew there was no guarantee she'd find him there, but it was the best chance and she took it.

She didn't bother with the elevator, instead climbed the stairs, knocked on the door, and opened it without waiting for a reply. "Hamish, is Mr. Turner here. I need-"

"Right here, my dear." Josh appeared in the doorway of one of the bedrooms. "What is it?" Then, seeing the look of her, "Hamish, perhaps you'd like to go off to lunch."

"Och, I'm away just now, Mr. Turner," tipping his hat to Mollie as he left.

"Now," Josh said, "sit down and tell me what it is that couldn't wait until I came home."

"It's about Sol Ganz," she said. "I've discovered the most remarkable thing."

"If it's about Tess, I'm afraid I know."

"You know that Mr. Ganz's wife was the milliner who made Tess's hat?"

Josh shook his head and cursed himself for jumping to conclusions. "I'm sorry. I'm apparently on the wrong trail. But surely you've not come here to talk about Tess's hat?"

"Not exactly. But it does have a bearing on the matter. Tess just told me that Esther Cohen the milliner was her friend, and Esther married Sol Ganz. But when Mrs. Ganz was still very young the poor thing got consumption and died. The remarkable part of Tess's story, however, is that the Ganzes never had any children. And Mr. Ganz never remarried. Do you see?"

"No, forgive me, I do not." Perhaps, Josh thought, because he was concentrating so hard on Clifford and Lupo. "Look, can you just say exactly what it is that's troubling you? I'm not doing well with guessing."

"I don't mean for you to guess. I'm referring to what happened after I was abducted, when you confronted Mr. Ganz. You told me you asked him why he was mixed up with such sordid people as Tony Lupo. Do you remember?"

"I suppose I do. Words to that effect at any rate. As I recall, I pointed out he didn't live in luxury and he said-" Josh broke off, then spoke with conviction. "Ganz said, 'I've got grandchildren.' With one of those dismissive shrugs to which he's p.r.o.ne."

"Exactly. But he has none, Josh. Mrs. Ganz died never having given her husband a child. Tess told me so. Then she got all fl.u.s.tered because I looked shocked. I imagine she thought it was down to her having spoken of childlessness. Of course, that wasn't it. I just realized quite suddenly that Mr. Ganz had lied. Perhaps it isn't important, but it doesn't seem logical, Josh. Why tell an untruth then, at the same moment he was offering you a million-dollar loan and trying to convince you he was a worthy business a.s.sociate? And why a lie that has so little actual bearing on business?"

"I don't know. About Tess, did you tell her what was in your mind?"

"No, of course not. It's none of her affair. Why would you think-"

He was wondering if Tess would have thought it necessary to immediately run downtown and report the morning's conversation to Ganz, but this didn't seem the time to say so. Josh waved a dismissive hand. "I'll explain later." He would too. Should have told Mollie about Tess and Mr. Ganz years ago, he realized. But it wasn't his first priority now. "I've just remembered your Aunt Eileen telling me Ganz told her the same thing. Something about sometimes bending the law for the sake of his grandchildren."

Josh got up, motioning her to stay where she was, and went into his private office, returning moments later with a paper Mollie at once recognized as a deed. "Hamish got this a couple of days ago. From the Brooklyn City Hall property clerk. Whom you've apparently been bribing for the past year, so he's inclined to give Hamish whatever he asks for without making him wait weeks or months or plow through tons of illegible records."

Mollie showed no remorse. "It's not bribery. Just good business. Auntie Eileen taught me the importance of looking after those who can look after you." He'd handed her the deed, meanwhile, and she was quickly scanning it. "A house on Water Street in Brooklyn. Owned by-"

"Trenton Clifford," Josh finished for her.

"I thought he disappeared years ago. Probably went back to the South you said."

"Yes, around the time you were kidnapped. Frankie Miller couldn't find him anywhere and Zac and I presumed he'd gone back to Virginia since Reconstruction had just ended and there were business opportunities. But the other night, after the electrification ceremony, DuVal Jones came to see me. He lives in this building you may recall."

"One D. Yes, of course. Why did he bother coming all the way uptown to Ninety-Second if he could see you here?"

"I don't know. I'm unsure of any of his motives. But according to Mr. Jones, Clifford and Lupo are a team-which I suspected from the first-and right now they again present some sort of danger to me. And there," he pointed to the deed she still held, "Jones said, is where Clifford can be found."

"Josh, you won't do anything foolish. You can't pit yourself against-" Mollie broke off. She knew her glance had dropped to his peg. She wanted to bite off her tongue, but it was too late.

"I can't take on the likes of Clifford and Lupo with one leg," he said grimly. "You needn't remind me. I know."

"Josh, I did not mean-"

He put both hands on her shoulders and leaned in and kissed her forehead. "I know you didn't. And you mustn't worry. I've no intention of being foolish. That's what Frankie Miller and his men are for. Now go back home and leave this all to me. And thank you for the very useful information."

She was on her way out of the building just as a small and very pretty woman was on her way in. Blonde and pink and dimpled, Mollie noted, dressed in ice-blue silk and feathers and ribbons. The sort Auntie Eileen always called a mantrap. And somehow familiar.

The woman seemed to share that impression. She paused. Mollie offered a polite nod. The blonde returned the courtesy. Neither spoke, but both wore looks that said, I think I know you. And the blonde-natural, Mollie decided, or at least only a touch of help from the peroxide bottle-seemed somehow agitated.

Mollie's first thought was that perhaps, once upon a long ago, the woman had worked at Brannigan's. Some of the prettiest had become respectable despite that. If so, running into someone who knew about one's past would certainly be unnerving.

The woman turned away, walked down the hall as far as the door to One D, then produced a key. Mollie clapped a hand to her cheek. Of course! Amanda Jones, wife of DuVal Jones. They met the day Mollie went to Bowling Green to tell the wives about the St. Nicholas flats. That's what a wife and mother's supposed to be. The angel of the hearth. How could she have forgotten?

The woman turned the key, then paused before opening her door and looked back at Mollie, who guiltily dropped her hand to her side. A moment more, then the angel disappeared.

It was like a jigsaw puzzle. Josh had all the pieces, but he could not put them together. He sat for a time in the inner office he'd made from Two D's larger bedroom, writing the names on a series of pieces of paper: Jones, Lupo, Clifford, and Ganz. He kept pushing them into different configurations, but the pattern did not become clear.

Lupo and Clifford he could dismiss as men with no honor and their eye always on the main chance. It was obvious now that Clifford had sent him into the world of Manhattan real estate as a stalking horse. When he'd come up a winner Clifford wanted his reward and used his cohort Lupo to try and get it. They shared other schemes as well. Witness the attempt to involve Zac in the building of an underground railway. So it was logical they would work together on the business of undermining Joshua Turner. Ganz had also confessed to working with Tony Lupo on occasion. But his motives were a good deal murkier, and made more so by what Mollie had just reported.