Philip watched Julia’s reaction. “Kessler was less sanguine than you at the news. His reaction involved a few choice invectives. Wallace let him down rather badly.”
“Or Eva proved more resourceful than anyone gave her credit for. She’s an intelligent and determined woman, Philip. She’d know exactly the dangers she faced. She wouldn’t simply put her fate in a few men’s hands and trust them to take care of her.” Julia spoke with conviction, though at some level she was voicing hope more than certainty. She and Eva seemed to share many instincts; surely an impulse to take charge of her own fate would be one of them.
“She did manage to hoodwink your admirer, it seems,” Philip allowed, his inflection suggesting Wallace’s dim wits were as much to blame as Eva’s cunning.
“How did it happen?” There was no point in tussling over blame (or credit). Julia needed to know what Wallace had told the men.
“He said he took her to his home on Tuesday to bathe and rest. His housekeeper went to fetch some things from Eva’s apartment—which had been turned over pretty well by Kessler’s men. She reported that hoodlums had been there as well, defacing her things and leaving nasty messages on the walls.”
Julia grimaced. She’d known Eva wouldn’t be safe there, but even unseen the graphic assault unsettled her.
“Unfortunately, that led to new problems. The next morning, his housekeeper, a Mrs. Hoskins, laid down a law of her own. Apparently she refused to countenance Miss Pruitt living under her roof. Wallace said she feared it put them all in danger—though the man must live in a virtual fortress, given the circles he moves in.”
Before Julia could challenge his unsavory insinuation, Philip went on. “But it turned out the real rub was that she did not care to be waiting on a colored guest, even though she’s black as coal herself.” He smiled at the absurdity.
It made sense to Julia, though, after hearing Eva’s tales of being resented and mistrusted by some darker Negroes. She’d explain it to him later. “What did he do?”
“When a good housekeeper says jump, one jumps. He moved Miss Pruitt into a vacant apartment in a building he owns up on West 141st. He claimed the tenants there keep to their own business and thought she’d be safe there. Kessler was none too pleased he hadn’t been consulted or even informed about the move.”
Julia could well imagine his outburst at the news, and she silently applauded Wallace’s initiative. Kessler would have simply taken her back into custody. Once Eva entered a cell, Julia feared she’d never be allowed to leave it. “For her own safety” would become a prison sentence of its own.
“And that’s when she got away?”
Philip nodded. “Vanished, according to Wallace.”
A terrible thought occurred. Surely he would have said. But she had to ask. “Was there any sign of trouble? That she’d been forced to leave? That maybe Timson’s men took her?”
He shook his head. “Wallace swore he saw nothing untoward.” The vague word encompassed a multitude of scenarios best left unimagined, and Julia was grateful for its abstraction, leaving her thoughts clear for the immediate purposes.
“So what happens now?”
“Shall I quote?” Philip lit a fresh Régie. “After the juicier expletives, I believe cherchez la femme crossed a few lips. Kessler turned a few shades closer to scarlet, and I had to remind him to breathe. He blamed me, complaining that no one would have to cherchez at all if I hadn’t badgered him to release the lady.”
“Thank God you did, or she’d be pilloried to high heaven by now.” A week without an arrest had the newspapers in a frenzy, as Wright had pointed out.
She glanced at the mantel clock. “Sergeant Hannity must be spitting daggers.” A week ago the man had been prowling about this very room badgering her for information about that evening at Carlotta’s. Seven long yet fruitless days ago. “What does Kessler intend to do?”
“Oh, he wants her found pronto, as you’d expect. Wallace did some pretty fancy talking, claiming he’s in a better position to retrieve her with no one the wiser. He swore he’d see to it himself.”
“He’s right. Wallace knows those neighborhoods. He can make sure it’s done on the sly, with a well-placed word here and there.”
“Quite possibly,” Philip agreed, “though Kessler’s understandably more chary of his word this time around. Still, what choice does he have? He’s in a tough spot. A beefy platoon of Hannity’s boys tramping around would only throw off all sorts of delicate balances. He’s convinced there are still too many raw suspicions and itchy trigger fingers in the mix. One blunder and he’d have anarchy on those streets—Timson’s aggrieved men seeking retribution wherever they can find it. Kessler’s worst nightmare.”
“No one mentioned this to Wright, did they? He’d love nothing better than to see Kessler raked over the coals in the press for losing a suspect.”
Philip shook his head. “But Kessler knows it’s only a matter of time before the press cotton on to it, and the commissioner will demand an arrest.”
“We all know it,” Julia said. Arbitrary and expedient though it was, she knew how public officials could sacrifice almost any nicety of justice and fair play to appease a bloodthirsty public. “So what did he do?”
“He relented. It nearly choked him to say, but he gave the fellow permission to try to find her himself.”
“Was that what he meant by ‘two weeks’?” Julia asked, remembering his cryptic last comment as she’d
