The Gangster

“When we catch him, he will stand trial, defended by the best lawyers money can buy. The prosecutor will need every break he can get. He will trade years off Francesca’s prison sentence for her testimony.”

“Prison?”

“Archie, you weren’t the first job she did for him. Just the easiest.”

36

“Where does Francesca live?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How could you not know where a woman you were seeing lives?”

“She never let me take her home. She was very proper.”

“‘Proper’?” Isaac Bell echoed sharply. As good as this plan was, he was still angry enough to throw Archie Abbott off the speeding train.

“Ladylike. I mean… modest… Well, you know what I mean.”

“Where would you meet up?”

“The Waldorf-Astoria.”

“How’d you manage that?” Bell asked. Archie was a socially prominent New Yorker, welcome in any Blue Book drawing room, but the Abbotts had lost their money in the Panic of ’93 and he had to live on his detective salary.

“Francesca’s quite well-off, and her husband had business at the hotel, so she has a good arrangement with the management.”

“You said you don’t know where she lives. Now you’re saying she lives at the Waldorf?”

“No, no, no. She just books us a room.”

“When were you supposed to see her next?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, actually.”

“Will she show up?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think she will,” said Bell.

“How do you know?”

“She will be curious about what you’ll tell her next.”

Again, Abbott hung his head. “How long are you going to rub salt in the wound?”

“Until I am absolutely sure that I can override a powerful impulse to knock your block off.”

* * *

Archie was late.

Francesca Kennedy had already luxuriated with a hot soak in the porcelain tub. Now, wrapped in a Turkish robe, she curled up in an armchair and let her eyes feast on the beautiful hotel room. It had a fine bureau with an etched-glass mirror, a marquetry headboard that matched the bureau, and French wallpaper. She peeked through the drapes; it was snowing again. Warm and cosy, she settled in with the afternoon newspaper.

Standing in the rocky cavern 1,100 feet under the bed of the Hudson River a week after he returns from Panama, President Theodore Roosevelt will press a key and electrically fire the blast to “hole through” the Hudson River Siphon Tunnel of the Catskill Aqueduct…

Footsteps were muffled in the Waldorf’s carpeted halls, and she lowered the paper repeatedly to glance at the crack under the door, waiting for Archie’s shadow to fall across the sill.

* * *

“Are you an opera singer, sir?”

Antonio Branco gave the elevator runner a dazzling smile. “If I-a to sing-a, you will-a run holding ears. No, young fellow, I only look-a like one.”

Americans scorned and despised Italian immigrants, but they were amused by well-off Italians who dressed with style. A cream-colored cape, a matching wide-brimmed Borsalino, an ivory walking stick, and a waxed mustache did the job. His masquerade wouldn’t fool a Van Dorn detective, or anyone who had met him face-to-face, but it drew salutes from the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel doormen and bows from house detectives. Across the lobby and into the gilded elevator, he was questioned only by the starstruck boy running it.

“Floor, sir?”

“Sesto! That means floor seeze. Pronto!”

* * *

Francesca had worked her way to the back pages, where features were tongue-in-cheek.