All the p.a.w.nbroker's talk of making money for his "grandchildren" was rubbish. He had none. Moreover, for the last three years Sol Ganz had shown himself a totally reliable business a.s.sociate, and seen exceptional profits as a result. There were, Josh knew, men for whom nothing was ever enough, but somehow he could not a.s.sign Sol Ganz to their ranks. So what in G.o.d's name was he really after? As for DuVal Jones, he was a small-time crook who operated across the river in Brooklyn; the strong-arm man for a more important criminal, who nonetheless had, as far as Josh knew, no connections or concerns in New York City and . . .

And Clifford was the key. He had to tell Miller that. Emphasize the point. Lupo was one of the puppets, important, yes, but Trenton Clifford pulled the strings.

He'd brought his telephone here from his previous office. It lay on the floor, a useless wooden box since the company hadn't sent anyone to connect it. And it made no difference since, like most people, Frankie Miller wasn't on the exchange. Josh reached for his hat and his gloves.

The hansom slowed. Josh lowered the window of the carriage and peered at the colossus looming in front of him. The Brooklyn Bridge had changed the world. Six thousand feet long, it stood a hundred and thirty-five feet above the East River and was eighty-five feet wide at its base, the expanse divided by a sixteen-foot pedestrian promenade raised a bit above the vehicular traffic flowing east and west either side. It had cost seventeen million to build-more than three times the original budget-and was said to weigh some fifteen thousand tons and to be the longest suspension bridge in the world. Certainly, in the matter of New York City, it cast a real and figurative shadow unlike any the island city had previously known. A marvel of civil engineering that some called the eighth wonder of the world, the Brooklyn Bridge had created a swathe of Manhattan that would never again see the sun.

The driver got down and came around to open the carriage door. "This is the place, isn't it, sir? Roach's Tavern."

"Yes, this is it." The shadows were so deep he could barely see the mangy old bull beside the door. "I shan't be long. Please wait."

Not long at all. Miller wasn't at the tavern and no one could say when he'd return.

Josh climbed back into the carriage, looking again at the bridge meanwhile. It was clotted with people on foot and in slow-moving carriages. All of them shouting and waving and enjoying an adventure, not minding that it would take them hours to get across. Not an adventure he wished to share just now.

The driver lowered the window and leaned in, waiting for instructions. "The Brooklyn ferry," Josh said.

Take the bull by the horns. Maybe, like Mr. Roach's effigy, it would turn out to be blind and deballed.

23.

THERE WAS A small glove maker's shop on Sixty-Ninth Street in the shadow of the Third Avenue El where Mollie was a frequent customer. Since she was so close she stopped there on her way home from Josh's office and spent twenty minutes with her elbow on a cushion and her hand up in the air, while the craftsman fitted different models. She could have either smooth leather or sueded, she was told. And any number of shades were available. Eventually she selected particularly supple gray kid, and requested the same style be made for her in pale blue and in beige. It was nearly one when she got back into the waiting hansom, and close to half past the hour when she arrived at 1160.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Turner. There's a lady waiting for you just over there." The doorman nodded toward one of the velvet-covered banquettes that ran along the wall of the lobby.

Molly turned her head. Amanda Jones rose to greet her.

"I knew you recognized me as I did you."

"Indeed," Mollie admitted. "Not immediately, but when I saw which flat was yours I remembered meeting you years ago on Bowling Green. Please sit down, Mrs. Jones."

They had ridden to the sixth floor in silence. Jane was waiting by the door-one of the wonders of the new electrification was a means for the elevator operator to notify the servants in each apartment when their master or mistress was on the way up-but Mollie had immediately dismissed the maid and herself showed her caller to the library. Now she glanced at the bell rope. "Will you take tea?"

"Thanks, no. But I wouldn't mind a gla.s.s of that." The blonde indicated a decanter of sherry.

Mollie poured a generous portion for each of them, then took the chair across from that of Amanda Jones. It seemed absurd to inquire after her visitor's health or compliment her on her hat. None of the usual social norms felt appropriate. Mollie simply waited.

"It's about me and DuVal," the other woman said. "And someone else. I suppose you've already guessed that."

"Not exactly. I have no idea why you would wish to speak to me about anything to do with your husband."

"I think he came to see you recently."

"Not me," Mollie corrected. "I am aware that he called on my husband. But only because I was told."

Amanda Jones turned her head, taking in the size and decor of the room. "Place like this," she said. "I guess it's possible for your husband to see somebody and you'd never even know. Nothing like that can happen at the St. Nicholas. How many rooms have you got here anyway?"

"Twelve," Mollie said.

"Like it was a whole house."

"Yes, rather."

"I want a house. A whole one of my own." Amanda Jones spoke with sudden urgency. "And a maid. DuVal could buy me those things. He handles thousands and thousands of dollars for the mayor of Brooklyn. Every week. Do you know about that?"

Mollie shook her head. According to Josh, Jones worked for a small-time hoodlum, which was what Mollie had suspected ten years ago, but they'd not spent any time on details. "I know very little about your husband's affairs," she said.

"No reason you should, I suppose. You're a grand lady now. Don't involve yourself in your husband's business like when he was just getting started and you came to talk to us down on Bowling Green. Doesn't matter. I can tell you for sure, DuVal always pays the rent on time. Otherwise he might have to find some other place to put us. Me and my daughter. She's ten and I keep telling her we're going to move to someplace really nice pretty soon, but I don't think she believes me anymore. It's all like a fairy tale far as she's concerned." She raised her gla.s.s and finished her sherry.

Mollie did not bother to defend the niceness of the St. Nicholas. It was a relative matter, as she knew well. "Would you like another, Mrs. Jones?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Mollie got up and brought the decanter to where they were sitting, then filled the other woman's gla.s.s. "Do I take it you have only the one child, Mrs. Jones?"

"Absolutely. I made it very clear to DuVal I wouldn't have another until he bought us a house." She smiled but it did not seem to Mollie to be an indication of pleasure. "Couple of times he thought he'd gotten me in the family way despite that, but it always turned out he was wrong. We ladies know how to take care of that when it's necessary, don't we, Mrs. Turner? And don't look so disapproving. I know all about who you was before you married your one-legged millionaire."

"I'm not disapproving, Mrs. Jones. Everyone has to decide such matters for themselves."

Amanda Jones got up and carried her sherry to the window. "You can see the Central Park from here. I didn't realize that."

"Yes, we can." Even if Fifth Avenue and Madison were to be developed this far uptown, Josh was convinced both streets would be given over to private mansions and the upper floors of Park Avenue wouldn't lose their serene outlook.

"So what good's all this to you? The fancy apartment and the gorgeous view. The way I hear it, you never could have children and that ruined your life. People say it's G.o.d's punishment for your having lived all those years in a house of ill repute."

Mollie refused to let the direct attack disarm her. "As I recall, Mrs. Jones, back when we met on Bowling Green you insisted the role of a wife and mother was to be the angel of the hearth. Now you tell me you have defied your husband in the matter of a family."

Amanda Jones turned her back on the view and looked at her hostess. "Back on Bowling Green I was a girl of barely sixteen. I've learned a few things since then. Had them shoved down my throat, you might say."

"Exactly what do you want from me, Mrs. Jones?"

"My chance, Mrs. Turner. Mine and my daughter's."

"I don't understand."

"Captain Trenton Clifford's going to buy me a house of my own. He's promised. Only DuVal found out about me and the captain. He doesn't dare do anything about it. The mayor doesn't want that kind of trouble and he would do something terrible to DuVal if he caused it."

"I don't see that this has anything to do with Mr. Turner and myself, Mrs. Jones." Mollie's heart was pounding, but she knew she mustn't allow her feelings to show. She'd lose whatever advantage she might have if she did that.

"Course it has. I wouldn't have come here otherwise. DuVal's trying to make your husband do his dirty work for him. But if Mr. Turner does what DuVal wants, he'll be in terrible trouble. Maybe lose everything. Go to jail even. Where will you be then, Mrs. Turner?"

Coming across on the ferry the sunlight on the river had been almost blindingly bright. Now, on the Brooklyn side, Josh was once more in the shadow of the bridge and deafened by the ceaseless rumble of its traffic.

According to Miller, he had a man observing the Water Street house day and night. Josh could see no evidence of him; that after all was Miller's stock-in-trade. Josh didn't fool himself he had the same ability to be unseen, but he stood in the deepest shadows and studied Clifford's house.

It was small and old-fashioned, a one-story cottage with a ramshackle addition tacked onto one end. Most likely an outhouse. Best guess: the place had once belonged to a fisherman, perhaps an oysterman working the beds on the Brooklyn side of the Narrows. Doubtless he'd have sold his day's catch by going around the grand houses on the hills of the nearby Heights.

Fair enough. What difference did it make to him? What in h.e.l.l was he doing here? Miller said the house had been empty for forty-eight hours and he and his men knew their job. So what did Josh expect to find? And what might he do about it when he did? If he- A shadow pa.s.sed across the window of the front room.

The curtains were drawn so he couldn't be sure, but he'd wager a fair bit he was looking at Trenton Clifford. The silhouette clearly showed a man with a full head of hair that curled around his coat collar. The shadow paused, as if he were deliberately announcing his presence to anyone watching outside, then moved on. Josh wondered how he could signal Miller's man to show himself. He couldn't tackle Clifford alone. It was entirely possible the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was armed and- He felt something pressing into the base of his spine.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Turner. Name's Tony Lupo, though I stretched that to Anthony Wolfe when we met last. Up at the St. Nicholas, if you recall. You've come a long way since then, haven't you? And I'm delighted to see you here. Saves no end of trouble. Now walk across the road, please. And don't get any stupid ideas about running. Not with that peg of yours. The Colt fires six shots one after another, but I wager I'd get you with the first one."

"I doubt you believe me, son, but I'm disappointed it's come to this." Clifford held a drink, but he had not offered one to Josh. Lupo had helped himself from a bottle of bourbon standing on a ledge beneath the window.

"I doubt," Josh said, "you're as disappointed as I am."

"Probably true." Clifford chuckled softly. "Now, Antonio my friend, how do you think we'd best proceed?"

"Simple," Lupo said. "I go and speak with Mrs. Turner. I'm sure once she knows we have her husband in our care she'll be willing to provide us with the deeds to the Park Avenue buildings. Soon as I have them I bring her and Duggan back here and Mr. Turner signs over the deeds to us." A brief pause, "After that we'll have what we want, so no reason Mr. and Mrs. Turner shouldn't return home, is there?"

"None," Clifford agreed, "but I would make a slight alteration in the plan. We leave Turner here and go together to see Mrs. Turner and the attorney. I wouldn't want you to think I didn't trust you, Antonio, but I'm a man who has learned caution over a long and eventful life."

Lupo hesitated, then nodded his head. "Since it's never been in my mind to cheat you, I have no objection. But we have to be very certain this resourceful gentleman doesn't get away once we leave."

"In that we're in complete accord, Antonio." And turning to Josh, "Give me your cane, son. Come, don't be foolish. There's nothing you can do, so we may as well accomplish this the easy way."

Josh gritted his teeth, but knew he had little choice. The revolver was on a table near the door to what he imagined was the kitchen, but both Lupo and Clifford were between it and himself. There was a rifle propped beside the fireplace. Josh a.s.sumed it was loaded, no other reason for it to be here, but he dared not lunge for it. Clifford was closer to the weapon than he was. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d would bring him down as soon as he moved.

Josh turned his stick around and offered it horse's head first.

Clifford took it. "Thank you. Now the peg."

"I can't-"

"You can't walk without it and the cane. Now don't you think I know that, son? Take off the peg, Joshua. We're waiting."

He thought of diving and shouting for Miller's man. The fellow had to be out there somewhere. At least that would improve the odds. Thing was, he couldn't see how he'd be heard, whatever kind of commotion he managed to make. The rumble of the bridge traffic was almost as loud in here as it was outside. "I need to sit down to do it," he said.

"So you do, son. I apologize." Clifford dragged a small chair over to where Josh stood. "Please, be my guest."

He'd take off only the peg. Could be the harness would eventually be useful, and neither of his captors were likely to have any idea how the a.s.sembly worked. It was easy enough to pull up his right trouser leg, the one stiffened with Mollie's buckram, and he left it in a position that obscured the straps leading to his waist. The wooden leg was anch.o.r.ed to the frame with metal clamps that locked into position. There were five of them and he unlatched them as slowly as he could.

Lupo's gla.s.s was empty and he walked over to the ledge that held the bottle of bourbon.

Josh now had a clear path to the Colt on the table.

"Come along, son. I'm getting a tad impatient. You might recall I'm not at my best when that happens."

The peg was free in his hand, but Josh didn't pull it away from the frame. A number of things were obvious to him. They would tie him up when they left, not simply leave him to hobble about on one leg. When they returned, Mollie would be with them, and there was no doubt in his mind they would use threats against her to force him to sign the deeds. Once that was done they would kill them both. But until he signed those deeds they wanted him alive. The conclusion was obvious. Now or never.

He shouted at the top of his lungs and hurled himself at Clifford, using the peg as a battering ram. It caught the other man in the stomach and flung him against the fireplace. The rifle clattered to the floor and skidded away. Out of the corner of his eye Josh saw Lupo hurl himself toward it, but he concentrated on forcing the peg deeper into Clifford's gut. He heard the wood snap just as he lost his balance and fell. Josh let go of the peg and dug his elbows into the floor, using the strength of his arms to thrust him toward the table and the revolver.

He reached up. The gun was inches from his hand. A shot rang out.

Josh waited for pain to tell him where he'd been hit. He felt nothing. Only the handle of the Colt in his palm. He clicked off the safety as he rolled over. He expected to see Lupo with the rifle, but all he saw was a stranger standing by the door to the kitchen. The man's trousers and the bottoms of a two-piece undersuit were down around his ankles, and he held a smoking revolver in his right hand. "Don't shoot, Mr. Turner! I'm one o' Frankie's boys."

Josh caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Clifford was on his knees, the rifle at his shoulder. Josh swung the Colt in his direction and fired.

The peg was covered in blood, but it was useless in any case; snapped in two from the force of his thrust into Clifford's belly. The hole he'd put in the Southerner's forehead seemed as if it might have been superfluous.

"This one's dead as well," the gunman said. "And I'm thinking it's Tony Lupo." He was standing over Lupo's corpse, struggling to pull up his clothes, and he sounded morose.

"That's who he is," Josh agreed.

"Sweet Jesus. And I did it over here in the mayor's territory. There's going to be h.e.l.l to pay."

"Personally, I rather prefer this outcome to the alternative. What in G.o.d's name took you so long?"

"I was in the c.r.a.pper-Begging your pardon, Mr. Turner, in the outhouse. There's a door from the outside as well as this one here and I broke in earlier. Truth is, I've been spending most of my day in there squirting out of both ends. Must have been the oysters I had for lunch. Should have known better. June . . . Like they say, never eat oysters in a month without an R. And there's all the noise from that d.a.m.ned bridge overhead. I didn't hear anything until one almighty shout from in here."

"That was me."

"Yeah, I figured that out now. But when I came through the door I didn't know what to expect. Only thing I saw was Lupo going for the rifle, so I shot him. Couldn't do nothing else, could I?"

"No, I don't imagine you could. I've seen you before, haven't I? What's your name?"

"Donovan, Mr. Turner. I been with Frankie up at your place a few times."

"Right. Hand me that cane, would you, Donovan."

The gunman went on speaking while he did as he was bid. "I think you better get out of here, Mr. Turner. I don't expect no coppers, but you never know. Best thing is, I wait until somebody comes to relieve me. Once it's dark and there's two of us, we can get the bodies to the river." Then, looking at the shattered peg, "There ain't any hansoms come by here regular, but I could go get you one, Mr. Turner. Bring it back."

"No, that's not wise. As you point out, it will attract attention in this neighborhood. I can manage with just the cane for a few blocks."

Fully four as it turned out, and they seemed particularly long. Josh was trembling with fatigue and covered in sweat by the time he saw a cab stand on Front Street. He made sure he was safely inside before he said, "Eleven-sixty Park Avenue over in New York." The thought of getting out of the hansom and onto the ferry, then repeating the exercise on the other side was daunting. "You can do that, can't you? Now that you can take the bridge."

"I can do it. Take a bit of time, though. And there's a five-penny toll for carriages. Only a penny if you walk, but that's not going to suit you, is it, sir?" Making it apparent he had observed the empty right trouser leg and the effort required to get into the cab.

"No, it doesn't suit me," Josh said. "I'll pay the toll and I don't care how long the journey takes." Then, promising to make it worth the cabby's while, he leaned back and closed his eyes.

Mollie had looked for him everywhere she could think of. Everywhere Ollie could think of as well. This was her second trip back to the St. Nicholas and Hamish still reported no sign of Joshua. "I've run out of ideas," she said. "And I should let you go back to the stable, Ollie. It was good of you to drop everything to drive me about."

"It's no bother, Mrs. Turner. Mr. Turner's always telling me a good manager knows how to delegate responsibility. The boy I left in charge will manage for a few hours."

"Well, if you're sure . . . Take me to Fifth Street and Avenue A, Ollie."

It remained unclear if Mr. Ganz was her ally or her enemy, but Mollie was certain he was somehow in the middle of all that had happened.

He was not, however, in his shop. The door was locked and the curtain pulled across the window. Mollie tugged firmly on the bell, waited a few seconds, and rang it again. This time with obvious impatience. A second-story window opened and a woman leaned out. "He ain't here. You can come back tomorrow."