“Miss Kydd?” He supported her shoulders as she tried to sit up. “What on earth?”
“It was all so—” She made little crying noises, too nervous to produce real tears. “A man—into my taxi.” She turned away in distress. “He, oh!”
Ernie’s fists clenched nicely. “Did he hurt you, miss?”
She shook her head, leaning heavily against him. “I tried to fight. He grabbed my—” More wailing as she peered into her violated handbag. “We flew around a corner, and he—he threw me out.”
She held on to his sleeve and gazed into his face with every forlorn guile she could summon. “Thank God for you. You’re my guardian angel.”
“Mr. Wallace isn’t at home, miss,” Ernie said. “If he were, I’m sure he’d insist you come up, but I can’t allow it without his permission.”
Julia knew Wallace was out of town—it was key to her plan—but Ernie’s loyal refusal to let her in was an unforeseen problem. She clutched the gash on her leg and came away with a bloody palm, exclaiming at it.
Ernie bit his lower lip. “Can you walk, miss?”
“Maybe. If you help.” Ernie lifted her to her feet with solicitous care. She sagged against him, staggering with each effort to bear her own weight. Austen’s face appeared briefly from the entry: Get a move on!
The pathos in her voice grew to a groan. “I think I may be sick.” She glanced about fearfully, as if for twitching curtains or curious passersby. She tucked her forehead into his sleeve. “This is awful.”
“Right,” Ernie said, succumbing to his good heart. “You come with me, miss.” He held her waist and half dragged, half carried her toward the apartment’s private entrance. “We’ll get you patched up inside. Mr. Wallace will understand.”
He guided her into the small lobby, his concern growing with each moan. He didn’t notice the ungated elevator or Jerome and Austen creeping out from its shadows.
Julia stumbled and gasped, bringing Ernie’s worried face close to hers. It crumpled under the sickening thwack of Jerome’s revolver handle on his skull. His sudden weight knocked her down, twisting her knee in fresh pain.
“Not so hard,” Julia hissed.
Jerome stared at the gun in his hand, surprised by his own force. “Sorry,” he whispered. Julia echoed the sentiment, apologizing into the poor man’s senseless ear. They dragged Ernie into the elevator and climbed in around him. Julia crouched to cradle his head.
“How do we operate this thing?” Austen wondered. Jerome closed the gate and assessed the controls. He eased the machine up.
The men bound Ernie’s wrists with his necktie, and Jerome loosely knotted Ernie’s shoelaces together. Austen rolled his handkerchief into a makeshift gag. Julia watched their progress in some surprise, as if both men were characters in a boy’s adventure story. They decided to leave the woozy Ernie in the elevator, his head cushioned by Austen’s rolled-up jacket. With luck they could find Eva and get her away before the poor man regained his wits. Julia couldn’t bear to see the betrayal on his face.
Mozart. Figaro. The first thing they heard when they stepped into the marble foyer was a tenor proclaiming his love. Someone was listening to opera in Wallace’s grand living room.
The second thing was the hearty voice of a woman ordering vegetables. Julia’s heart sank, capsized by the immense folly of her plan. Mrs. Hoskins was at home, likely bustling about in her kitchen. From there she might easily see them creeping by to check the vacant servants’ bedrooms—Julia’s guess for where Eva might be hiding. Hopes of a devout churchgoing housekeeper had blinded her to this possibility.
Worse, the music suggested Wallace himself might be at home. She’d been told he was called away to Albany, not returning until this evening. She cursed Ernie for loyally repeating this ruse, perfectly aware that the man’s offense was nothing compared to her own.
Austen and Jerome stared anxiously, waiting for her lead. Julia’s knee throbbed. She stood stupidly, as if she’d had a good head coshing herself. Could they storm the service wing and escape with Eva (please, God) before Mrs. Hoskins and her rolling pin, or worse, could intervene?
Ha ha ha ha! A third sound coursed through the apartment.
Eva’s marvelous deep, rich laugh.
Before Julia could stop him, Jerome dashed toward the electrifying sound. Julia and Austen leaped after him.
They froze at the portal to the living room. Across the room, in two green damask chairs by the windows overlooking the park, sat Eva and Wallace. Eva’s bruises had healed. She looked healthy, well fed, well tended. Newspapers lay about the floor and across her knees. A white Belleek china teapot and two cups and saucers rested beside a vase of pink roses on the table between them. Relief swept through Julia at this surreal tableau. Eva was not only safe but secure. At least Wallace had not lied about that.
Until that moment Eva had probably looked content as well. But now her face swam with shock. Shock and horror. She stared at Jerome, at his cracked lips and veined eyes, his bony neck and rolled waistband. The assault upon their rose-tinged air was no less vivid.
But mostly she stared at the gun quaking in his hands, pointed vaguely in their direction.
“Jerome.” Her breath wobbled on the long vowel, freighted with fear, regret, reproof, shame, sorrow. She stood, and the newsprint fluttered to her feet.
Slowly Wallace stood as well. He edged toward Eva and moved in front of her. “Put your weapon down, son.”
Julia felt as if time had folded and returned them to that moment in Timson’s office when all attention had converged on the barrel of a pointed gun. Now too her vision shrank to Eva’s stricken face. And once again it was Wallace’s voice, calm and measured, that rose to ease the crisis.
The gun jerked in Jerome’s hands. “Get away from her, you bastard.”
Wallace curved one arm back to shield Eva. He held out his other palm, open and empty. “Look at her. She’s safe. I’ve kept my
