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“How so?”
“Is this on the square?” she asked, and for the first time she let Bell see that she was scared.
“Yes.”
“You’ll really do it?”
“You have my word you will get a square deal.”
Francesca Kennedy nodded. “I’ll take your word . . . Shake on it.” She slipped her fingers through the mesh. Bell squeezed them before the matron interrupted with a sharp “No hands!”
Francesca flashed her a pleasant smile and said, “Sorry.” To Bell she whispered, “It’s ironic, because Branco used to be a regular customer.”
“You knew Branco? You said you didn’t.”
“Not as the Boss . . . I didn’t lie to you, Isaac. I just didn’t tell you everything.”
“When was this?” asked Bell, thinking to himself, Bless Joseph Van Dorn for steering him back to her. The “old man” had invented the best tricks in the detective book.
Francesca took a deep breath. “Back when I was streetwalking. He set me up in an apartment. All I knew was, he was a rich grocer. Gave me this little apartment and a few bucks a week if I’d stay off the streets. I said to him, ‘What are you, jeal
ous of my other customers?’ and he said, ‘You’ll get killed on the street and you’re too valuable to get killed.’ Fine with me. Nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Besides, he was right. You die on the street; it’s just a matter of time. Anyhow, ’til he showed up at the Waldorf, I hadn’t seen him in ages—not since I started ‘confessions’ with the Boss. But he had kept sending the dough and paying the rent.”
“Didn’t you recognize his voice?”
“Not through the grille. And he talked different, too. Different words. I feel kind of dumb, but I never thought for a second he was the same man.”
“Where was the apartment?” asked Bell.
“I still have it. Or did ’til now.”
“Would he hide there?”
Francesca shrugged. “He never came to my place. When he wanted me, we’d meet at an apartment he kept on Prince Street.”
“His home that blew up?”
“No, he didn’t live there. I never saw his home. Our place was over near Broadway. He just kept it for me. And whoever else I guess he had.”
“What was the address?”
Antonio Branco returned to Raven’s Eyrie the way he had left, through the cave. His handsome face was battered from the fight with Bell and Abbott, both eyes blackened, his nose swollen.
“Detectives are watching my safe house.”
“You’ve become a less valuable asset,” J. B. Culp shot back.
“It means nothing.”
“You are turning into a liability.”
Culp was ready to pick up a gun and shoot him. End this whole thing before it got worse. He had his story ready: Italian fugitive snuck in here. I caught him trying to steal my guns. Thank God I got the drop on him. Reward? No thank you, give the money to charity.
He was about to turn around and pluck the Bisley off the wall when Branco surprised him by answering mildly, “I am moving my business to Canada.”
“Canada?”
“I have padrone business in Montreal. The railroads are hungry for labor. The Italian colony grows larger every day, and many owe me their place in it. A good place to lay low.”
