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Branco said, “I promised not to saddle you with things you shouldn’t know,” and walked between the elephant tusks that framed the fortress door.
“Where are you going?”
“As I promised, you will not be saddled,” said Branco and walked out.
Culp lumbered after him. “Hold on, Branco. I want to know when you’re coming back.”
“Later.”
Branco followed a winding path through a forest of ancient fir trees and down the slope between the outside entrance to his rooms and the estate wall. Near the wall, he slid through a low break in a rock outcropping that opened into a small cave under the wall.
Only an experienced pick and shovel man would recognize the cave as a man-made construction of hidden mortar and uncut stone artfully laid to look like natural rubble cast off by a glacier. It had been built sixty years ago by Culp’s grandfather, a “station master” on the Underground Railroad, helping escaped slaves flee to Canada.
“Why?” Branco had asked, mystified. He had studied the family; none were known to be what Americans called do-gooders.
“He fell for a Quaker woman. She talked him into it.”
“Your grandmother?”
“Not bloody likely.”
Branco emerged outside the wall and hurried through another fir stand. The mule wagon full of barrels was waiting. The elderly Sicilian groom holding the reins obeyed Vito Rizzo’s last orders before his arrest as unquestioningly as, back at Prince Street, he had obeyed Branco’s to dump a sugar barrel in the river. The old man stared straight ahead and pretended he heard no one climb into a barrel behind him until Branco said, “Muoversi!”
Francesca Kennedy’s “confession” two weeks ago in the Prince Street church had been her last. The Boss had ordered a complete change of their routine. From then on, she reported by telephone from a public booth in Grand Central Terminal at three o’clock in the afternoon on odd-numbered days. On even days, she checked a box at the nearby post office. The letters contained instructions and money. The instructions included the number she would tell the telephone operator to give her. But for two weeks, whatever number she asked for rang and rang but was not answered.
This afternoon, three on the dot, he answered. “What sins?”
“Adultery.”
“I didn’t know he was married.”
“He’s not. But I’m supposed to be a widow, so it’s adultery until we marry, because, you see, the Church—”
“What have you learned from him?”
“You picked a good day to answer the phone. I just found out he’s going on a big raid.”
“Raid? What kind of raid?”
“A detective raid.”
“Why would he tell you that?”
“He broke a date. He had to tell me why.”
“Maybe he’s seeing someone else?”
“Not on your life,” she said flatly. “He’s mine.”
“Did he happen to say what he is raiding?”
“Some rich guy’s estate.”
“Where?”
“It’s way up the river.”
The Boss fell silent. The telephone booth had a little window in the paneling. Francesca could see hundreds of people rushing for trains. She had a funny thought. The Boss could be right next to her, right beside her, in another booth. He knew where she was, but she could only guess where he was.
