New rumors flew hot and heavy this morning. One had the Sheriff of Orange County raiding Raven’s Eyrie, the fabled estate of the Culps, whose many generations have accumulated great fortunes in river commerce, railroad enterprises, and Wall Street dexterity. Locked up were a dozen men found there. Speculation as to why the Sheriff raided Raven’s Eyrie prompted new rumors, the most intriguing of which had the Sheriff hot on the heels of Italian immigrant Black Hand fugitive Antonio Branco.
It was unclear why a gangster (formerly purveyor to the city’s Catskill Aqueduct) who is running from the law would choose to go to ground in a plutocrat’s fortified retreat. It was equally unclear who the men arrested were. Hearsay ran the gamut of imaginings, from immigrant laborers, to private detectives, to Tammany contract grabbers.
The Sheriff of Orange County denies the event ever took place and displayed for our correspondent his empty jail.
Mr. J. B. Culp’s offices in Wall Street report that the magnate is currently steaming across the continent on his private train and therefore unavailable to comment.
The Italian Branco left no forwarding address.
Francesca flung off the terry robe and pulled on her clothing. She knew Branco. Not as a gangster, but as a wealthy grocer who had set her up in a small apartment with a stipend that allowed her to get off the streets. He hadn’t visited it in two years—not since, she realized now, she had been summoned to confession with the Boss. She had lived on tenterhooks, wondering when it would stop, but he had kept sending money and kept paying the rent.
She was stuffing her things into her bag when a shadow fell on the sill.
The lovely room was suddenly a trap. An interior door connected to an adjoining room. She gripped the knob with little hope. Locked, of course. She had only rented the one room, not the suite. She backed up to the window and pulled the drapes with even less hope. No fire escape; the Waldorf was a modern building with indoor fire stairs. No balcony, either. Only the pavement of 33rd Street, six stories down. She carried no knife on this job, no razor, no weapon that would warn Archie Abbott that she was trouble.
Antonio Branco opened the door with a key and swept into the room.
Francesca Kennedy backed against the window. “I was just reading about you.”
“I imagined you were.”
Though her mind was racing, nearly overwhelmed with fear, she was struck, as always, by how handsome a man he was. There was a sharpness to him she had not seen before, an alertness he had hidden, which made him even more vital. But when his expression hardened, he looked suddenly so familiar that she glanced at her own face in the bureau mirror, then back at his.
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His eyes were as dead as hers when she did a job.
Branco’s flickered at the window, and she realized instantly how he would do her. Francesca Kennedy wouldn’t be the first young and beautiful suicide to jump to her death from an expensive hotel room. Fell for the wrong man?
He turned around to lock the door and was reaching for the latch, when it flew inward with explosive force, smashing into his face and hurling him across the room. The armchair in which Francesca had been reading stopped his fall and he kept his feet, blood pouring from his nose.
Archie Abbott burst through the door he had kicked open.
The tall, golden-haired Isaac Bell was right behind him.
The detectives bounded at Branco like wolves.
Branco had lightning reflexes. The Italian had retained his grip on his walking stick and managed to twist it around as Archie charged. He rammed the tip into Archie’s gut. Archie doubled over. Isaac Bell knocked the stick out of Branco’s hand. It flew into the drapes and dropped at Francesca’s feet. When she picked it up, she was shocked by the heavy weight of its steel core.
Bell and Branco traded punches, grappled and fell against the chair with Bell on top. Branco clamped his arms around the tall detective in a crushing grip. He surged to his feet. His bloodied face contorted with herculean effort, he lifted Bell’s hundred seventy-five pounds off the floor. Bell broke his grip and pounded Branco’s ribs. They tumbled past the bed. Bell crashed into the bureau, shattering the mirror. Branco whirled to the door. But Archie was up again, throwing a hard, expert punch that drove the gangster to his knees.
Francesca held the walking stick in both her hands and swung it like a baseball bat. It connected with a loud thud, and she dropped the stick and ran into the hall. Antonio Branco’s eyes opened wide in disbelief as Archie Abbott sagged to the floor.
Branco snatched up the stick. Isaac Bell was back on his feet. Branco aimed for his head, but Bell was too fast for him and ducked the blow. Branco swung again, but, as he did, the half-conscious Archie Abbott kicked him. Thrown off balance, Branco missed Bell’s head but caught him instead in the back of his knee. Bell’s leg flew out from under him, and Branco was out the door.
He saw Francesca racing down the hall.
“Come with me,” he called.
“You’ll kill me.”
She darted into a service stair. Branco ran past it to the end of the hall where, before going to her room, he had confirmed an escape route down a stair to the hotel kitchens.
Isaac Bell tore after them.
The hall was empty. He ran full tilt, spotted a service stair, and wrenched open its door, which emitted a scent of fresh linen. Then he saw blood farther along on the hall carpet. He ran to it, spotted another stain, and kept going until he found a second service stair.
It was dimly lit and smelled of cooking grease.
He cocked his ear
