Escapade (9781301744510)

  A fine sweat broke out on Decker's brow. "I don't know why I should be singled out for this abuse. I have been an alderman for years and discharged my duties well, I might add. Ask our mutual friend, Mrs. Van Hallsburg, or inquire of any of my constituents."

  "Such as these?" Zeke asked. Turning, he produced from his desk the one book in his library that showed signs of being well worn—Jacob Riis's photographic essay, How the Other Half Lives.

  Zeke held the book out to Decker, rifling through the pages. Stark images of poverty flipped beneath Zeke's fingers—the slums, the brothels, the nickel¬a-cup rotgut liquor saloons. All those pictures in uncompromising black and white—the ragged children in the refuse-littered alleyways, the family of six cramped in one room, the withered old women; sitting on stoops outside tumbledown tenements. All those faces so devoid of hope, seemed to stare at Zeke, haunt him with images of a life he had once known, scenes too well remembered, places he had tried to escape from and just forget.

  Decker averted his gaze, refusing to look at the book. "I am hardly responsible for such misery, Mr. Morrison. On the contrary, I and my fellow Members at Tammany Hall have done much by way of charity to relieve the sufferings of these poor creatures."

  "Oh, indeed. You hand out turkeys for Christmas while you block any real social reform." He slapped the book closed and dropped it back on the desk.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Decker. With my full support, Mr. Addison will continue saying all those unkind things about you and your Tammany friends. With a little luck, we may even be able to arrange a congressional investigation into your activities."

  Decker ran one finger beneath his starched collar. "You can't have considered, Mr. Morrison, the advantages you might find yourself from belonging to Tammany Hall. You have shipping interests. Arrangements might be made with customs authorities that you would find beneficial."

  What little patience Zeke had had for this interview reached its end. "Get out of here. Now!"

  "On the other hand, Mr. Morrison, if you persist in this course, you may find yourself in a world of difficulties, For instance, I hope your fire insurance is paid up. The volunteer companies can be so slow in answering a call-.”

  Decker's words were choked off as Zeke collared him.

  "Are you threatening me, Decker?"

  Decker's eyes dilated with fear, but he managed to gasp, "Only trying to give you some good advice."

  "You know what you can do with your advice." Zeke raised his fist, but Decker was such a pathetic excuse for a man, white faced and trembling, a look of desperation in his eyes. Zeke contented himself with hustling him to the door. Opening it up, he thrust Decker out of his study.

  "Give my regards to the boss when you see him," he growled.

  Decker made a last attempt at valiance when he was out of Zeke's grasp. But he muttered so low that Zeke caught little of words other than something about "would regret" before Decker fled across the hall. Zeke slammed the door behind him. He assumed there was no need to summon Wellington. He doubted Decker would be tempted to linger upon his property.

  Zeke turned back to the study, pushing aside velvet draperies to fling open the windows. Decker seemed to have left a bad odor in the room.

  Zeke had met his share of thieves and con men in his day, shifty-eyed fellows who would slit your throat for a two-bit piece. But the knaves he most despised were the Deckers of this world, who hid their corruption behind a guise of gentlemanly respectability.

  Still seething, Zeke flung himself down in the chair behind his desk and fidgeted with a glass paperweight. He needed to cool off a little or when Miss Kavanaugh appeared, he would greet her like a snarling dog.

  It didn't prove too difficult to curb his anger. The more he thought about the session with Decker, the more he experienced a sensation of triumph. When he had first decided to back Stanley Addison, Zeke had had his doubts about what the young lawyer could accomplish against the might of Tammany Hall. But someone must finally have perceived Addison's campaign as a threat. Why else would Decker have been sent sniffing and groveling?

  Addison ought to be apprised of Decker's threats. Not that Zeke expected much to come of them. Decker was a paltry fellow, but Zeke wouldn't put it past him to hire a couple of thugs to smash windows and that sort of thing. Scare tactics. But still Addison should be warned.

  Zeke had reached for the telephone directory, preparing to do just that, when Rory finally made her appearance. She crept through the open study door with some nervousness. What was it about Zeke Morrison that unsettled her normal sense of breezy self-confidence?

  Perhaps it was because she had never had anything much to do with a millionaire before. But as Rory hovered on the threshold, she knew it was not the size of Morrison's bank account that intimidated her, but the man himself. The study was a spacious, all oak paneling and leather-covered furnishings, but Zeke still managed to dominate the room.

  He stood by a telephone box mounted on the wall, the receiver held to his ear as he leafed through the pages of New York's slender directory. Garbed in black evening attire, his Prince Albert coat contrasted with the whiteness of his starched shirt and high standing collar. He looked strikingly handsome, but the formalness of his suit failed to civilize him. He still presented an untamed appearance, dark and fascinatingly dangerous.

  Detecting Rory's approach, Zeke glanced up with a smile. He beckoned for her to enter, waving her toward his desk, where some paper and an inkwell stood waiting. He indicated that she should help herself while he continued his efforts to get the operator to connect him to the telephone exchange of a Mr. Stanley Addison.

  Rory seated herself behind the massive desk and reached for a sheet of the paper, fine cream-colored vellum with the monogram of J. E. Morrison printed on the top in letters as bold as the man himself. As Rory picked up the pen, she tried to think how she was going to explain all of this to Tony, why she wouldn't be here waiting when he arrived. He wasn't going to like it, the idea of her going off to supper with a strange man.

  But Tony often presumed too much on the basis of old friendship, acting at times as domineering than her father had been. She was Tony's employer now, certainly not obliged to account to him for her movements. Thus assuring herself, she dipped her pen into the inkwell and began to scratch out her plans for the evening in the most unvarnished terms, directing him to convey the balloon to the warehouse, where she would meet him later.

  As she wrote, it was impossible not to be aware of Morrison's presence. He was so preoccupied with his telephone call, he appeared to have forgotten she was there, making it safe to steal peeks in his direction. She didn't mean to eavesdrop on his conversation, but it was hard to help it, Morrison was talking so loudly into the speaking piece.

  It was not Zeke's intention to shout, but as usual he was finding the new-fangled invention he had installed in his home a less than satisfactory means of communication. Addison sounded far away, as if he were at the end of a tunnel, with static causing even more interference than usual.

  "I said Decker came by to see me this evening," Zeke bellowed. "I think he's scared. Things could get damned unpleasant."

  "What?" Addison's voice crackled.

  "Things could get ugly." Zeke's voice vibrated with annoyance at his inability to make himself understood. "Your windows could get smashed."

  Addison's reply came in a garbled fashion that left Zeke barely able to distinguish every other word. ". . . not surprised . . . been uncovering something new . . . will embarrass more . . . not just Decker. Wait until you hear-"

  To Zeke's frustration, he heard nothing but more static. "This is hopeless. Why don't you just plan to meet with me tomorrow? The bar at Hoffman House. Four o'clock."

  For a moment, Zeke thought he had been disconnected. Then he heard Addison repeat, “Hoffman House. At four."

  "Yes." Recollecting the absentminded Addison's habit of forgetting appointments, Zeke added, "And you damn well better be there."

  When
he rang off, he slammed the receiver back onto its hook. The noise startled Miss Kavanaugh, and Zeke vented his irritation by complaining to her.

  "Telephones! The most useless device ever conceived. You might as well try to shout across town."

  "I wouldn't know," she said somewhat wistfully. "I've never used one."

  "They will never replace the telegraph or even a hand-delivered note. Speaking of notes, how is yours coming?"

  “I've finished it," she said, folding the paper in half.

  "Good. Just leave it there on the desk and I'll instruct Wellington to make sure your friend gets it when he arrives. Are you ready to go?"

  Was she? Rory still wasn't sure, but she nodded and rose to her feet. His bold gaze raked over her in an appraising stare. She lifted one hand to the neckline of her gown in a self-conscious gesture.

  "Do I look all right?"

  "You look just fine." The words were simple, but he pitched his voice to a low timbre that caressed her as surely as if he had run the warm rough tips of his fingers along her bared flesh. When Rory shivered, he added, "Of course, I know the temperature is dropping, so I thought you might be glad of this."

  Turning, he reached behind him for a lady's garment that had been left draped over a chair. It was a black velvet cloak with two shoulder capes, trimmed with braid the shade of primroses. Rory had never seen anything so dainty or so elegant, but she eyed it dubiously. She couldn't imagine how a bachelor like Zeke Morrison would have such a thing in his possession unless it had been left here by that friend of his.

  When Zeke moved to drape the cloak about Rory's shoulders, she demurred. "No, thank you. I really don't think I ought to borrow anything that belonged to her."

  "Her?" Zeke looked puzzled then understanding appeared to dawn on him.

  "Mrs. Van Hallsburg?" He laughed. "Believe me, I wouldn't have the brass to lend you anything of hers either. No, this cloak is merely a trifle I bought my niece for her birthday. She's a very good¬hearted girl and wouldn't mind in the least your using it."

  His niece? Even she was not naive enough to swallow that one. But she made no further protest as Zeke settled the cloak about her, merely speculating on how many "nieces" a man like Morrison was likely to have.

  But he was behaving like a gentleman so far, offering her his arm in courtly fashion. Only the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. Rory prided herself on her ability to handle any situation, but maybe for once she had strayed out of her depth. Yet no Kavanaugh had ever backed down from a challenge.

  She allowed Zeke to link her arm through his, meeting his bold stare with an equally direct look of her own. She had had a most eventful day, but she had a premonition. It wasn't going to be anything compared with her night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The soft glow of incandescent lamps illuminated pristine white tablecloths, gleaming silver, sparkling crystal—all the elegance that marked Delmonico's, New York's premiere dining establishment. Here the fashionable set gathered nightly to sample the excellent cuisine, millionaires rubbing elbows with actors and politicians, No matter what newer, smarter salons opened their doors, it still was considered a matter of social necessity to be seen dining at "Del's."

  Or so Cynthia Van Hallsburg had informed Zeke upon many occasions, advice that Zeke for the most part ignored. Delmonico's was a shade too fancy and sedate for his tastes, the food good but overpriced. So he could scarce say why he had chosen to bring Miss Kavanaugh here tonight.

  As they crossed the plush carpeted foyer, she hung back a little, her pert nose crinkling in doubtful fashion. "Are you sure we should-. I mean, don't you have to have reservations to get into this place?"

  "No," he assured her. "Del's doesn't take reservations after six. They would keep you waiting even if you were the President of the United States."

  With that, he caught the attention of the headwaiter, Phillipe.

  "Ah, Monsieur Morrison." Phillipe made a smart bow. "So good to see you this evening."

  "Good evening, Phillipe. Table for two, the best in the house."

  "But of course, monsieur." The man flattered him with an unctuous smile that was at the same time a little insolent.

  It was at this instant Zeke realized to his chagrin what he was doing at Delmonico's. He was showing off. Hell! He hadn't done that since the time he had nearly impaled himself on the schoolyard fence, doing handstands to impress Mary Lou Grosvenor.

  Mary Lou had been suitably awed, but then it was easy to dazzle a girl when you were both only ten. Not so easy now. Had he managed to impress Miss Kavanaugh? He stole a glance down at her as they followed Phillipe to their table.

  Those remarkable quicksilver eyes of hers registered curiosity as she made a study of Delmonico's main dining salon. It was a curiosity that was returned, although the occupants of the other tables were too craven to stare as frankly as she did.

  The room was already thronged with black dinner jackets and females sporting more diamonds than could be found in the display case at Tiffany's. Although the hum of polite chatter and the sedate chink of forks against china never ceased, Zeke could sense his progress across the room being followed by a myriad of eyes.

  "It's that Morrison fellow," he heard someone mutter. "Who's he got with him? One of the chorus girls from Casino's?"

  The speculation didn't bother Zeke. By now he was accustomed to the interest he aroused wherever he went, but as she became aware of the whispers, Miss Kavanaugh appeared disconcerted.

  Phillipe showed them to a table at the front, quite close to the large plate glass window. It was an excellent location, giving them not only a view of the square outside, but also most of the rest of the room. Yet Miss Kavanaugh looked flushed and distinctly uncomfortable as they took their seats.

  As Phillipe bustled off to send a waiter to fill their water glasses and bring menus, Zeke leaned forward. "You know if you don't like this, Miss Kavanaugh, I could ask to be shown to a private room."

  "Oh, no, this is just fine." She snatched up the linen napkin and spread it on her lap, as though by laying claim to the spot she would resist any attempts to dislodge her.

  Zeke suppressed a smile. So she was still skittish at the notion of being alone with him. She needn't have worried. At Del's, they didn't let you close the doors of the private rooms, not even if you were married. But Zeke let the matter drop.

  Settling back in his chair, he appreciated the scene unfolding beyond the window. Outside hansom cabs jostled for position at the curb, trying to deposit their passengers. The trees across the way in Madison Square Park cast rustling shadows, and beyond them, the lights twinkled, reflections of the great hotels, the theaters and the cafés.

  He noted that Aurora had begun to relax, enjoying the view with him.

  "This is much better than Del's old location, isn't it?" he said.

  She laughed a little at that "I wouldn't know, Mr. Morrison. Where I come from, we don't mention Delmonico's for fear we might be charged for just saying the name."

  "And just where do you come from, Aurora Rose Kavanaugh?"

  "Certainly not from Fifth Avenue."

  "Where then? I want to know all about you. It's not every day a beautiful woman drops from the heavens onto my lawn."

  Both his interest and the compliment seemed to fluster her.

  "We probably should place our order," she said, retreating behind her menu. This resembled the thickness of a pamphlet, with page after page of entrées listed in French and mercifully translated into American.

  Miss Kavanaugh appeared capable of employing the menu as a shield for an indefinite length of tithe, so Zeke took matters into his own hands. He beckoned to the waiter and ordered for both of them, his own appetite dictating a list comprising vegetable soup, lobster salad, oysters scalloped in the shell and for the main course tenderloin with Madeira sauce, Lyonnaise potatoes, green peas and stuffed eggplant, with apple fritters for dessert.

  "That sound all right to you, Miss Kavanaugh?" he asked, be
latedly consulting Rory. From behind the menu, he could just see her nod.

  Zeke quickly dispatched the task of selecting a wine, choosing not only a red Bordeaux, but also a bumper of champagne to be served beforehand. With that the waiter retrieved the menus and Miss Kavanaugh was obliged to come out of hiding.

  Zeke shifted a small vase of flowers out of his way so that he had a more clear view of her face. Resting his elbows on the table, he glanced across at her and smiled. "Now where were we? Oh, yes, we were talking about you."

  "I thought we came here to discuss my balloons."

  "Balloons?" he murmured, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips. She had the most delectably shaped mouth, perfect for kissing. When that same delectable mouth pursed into an expression of impatience, he forced himself to snap to attention.

  "Oh, yes, your balloons. Tell me, have you been with the circus long?"

  She heaved a deep sigh. "Only for one afternoon. I told you before, Mr. Morrison, I am not a circus performer. I have my own balloon company."

  As a waiter trundled the ice bucket with champagne forward and began to discreetly fill their glasses, she reached for her beaded purse. The reticule had been retrieved for her from the balloon's soggy depths, Consequently both the purse and the business card she proceeded to hand Zeke were a little damp.

  Zeke was more interested in watching the way the lamp's glow played against the silken curls of her hair, highlighting that sheen of red he was sure gave the spice to her temper. But he wrenched his gaze away long enough to glance at the card.

  Transcontinental Balloon Company

  The name meant nothing to him, sounding like mere fanciful nonsense. But the address of the company startled him. It was located not far from the dockside where he had once worked in his youth. He passed quickly over that, moving onto the last printed line on the card.

  "Seamus Kavanaugh, President,” he read aloud with an inquiring glance at Aurora.

  "My father," she said, the word laden with a mixture of sadness and fierce pride. "I never had the cards changed after his death last year."