Constance turned in alarm to see a suited man, vaguely familiar, sprinting toward her. Her heart pulsed against her chest as she fought the urge to run. The man halted in front of her, a bit breathless. She backed away.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am,” he said. “Name’s Marchand. I worked with your husband. You won’t likely remember me, but I’ve seen you down here with Mr. Halstead once or twice. I wanted to say how sorry I am. You must be here walking, remembering him. I’m so terribly sorry. Such tragedy.” The man backed away and raised his hand as if to wave himself away.
Constance nodded and looked beyond him. She could no longer see Pulgrum or the man to her right. She could see no one except this impulsive fellow with his misguided comfort and his terrifying interruption of the plan she must follow. Constance nodded to him, muttered a barely audible acknowledgment of his concern and kindness as she again lifted her skirt and stepped away. Let him take her response as grief. Her eyes were on the bench at the edge of the wharf, where she was to hand over the packet. She fingered the tooled leather of her bag as she walked forward, clicking and unclicking the clasp with each step.
Out of the trees at the side of the wharf, she caught sight of that face that beleaguered her well being, the thin dark man with his sinister mustache, barely covering his leering grin. He might have been the devil standing there. The cells of her body blazed within her. She gave one last click to the clasp of her handbag.
The man took a threatening step toward her. From behind, Constance heard the crash of falling lumber. The man spun and disappeared into the trees from which he had emerged. Constance froze, her head whirling in confusion, as Pulgrum, then the other two raced past her in pursuit. They were gone. She was paralyzed in panic on the wharf, not knowing what to do. She turned a full circle. Men were scurrying, working, reloading and hauling the spilled lumber, shouting instructions above the din.
Constance was fearfully lost. She turned back toward the street from which she had come. Suddenly the supervisor, Marchand, was at her side again.
“It’s like this, you know,” he said. “Always organized chaos. Accidents all the time. Don’t know what that melee was, but sorry it disturbed your reverie for your husband.”
Constance stared at him, everything in her empty now.
“You’ll be all right walking home, will you?” he asked. “I could accompany you.”
Constance shook her head and began her way back to Chartres. She had gone only three blocks when Pulgrum stepped out of the side street in front of her.
“We lost him.” He was breathing hard.
Constance was paralyzed by the terror that hit her. That man was loose. Nothing had gone as planned.
“Moreau had to make his way around a dray of lumber. Fellows were rearranging some loose planks that fell. Something about the confusion attracted attention, and our quarry recognized Moreau, even in disguise. Don’t know how. He must have seen him in Storyville sometime, maybe. At any rate, he’s gone.” Pulgrum pulled himself up straight. “The men’ve gone to the precinct. I’ll walk you home.” They set off in the direction of her house.
Constance was numb with disbelief and confusion. And monumental fear.
“Will he harm us?” Even her voice trembled.
“I don’t believe so, no. What they want is the money. You are a secondary mark, as I explained before. Now they know we are on it, and I expect they will go on to something else.”
Constance knew he was studying her. She worked to hold herself steady. Suddenly she was fighting to hold back an unexpected well of tears. She concentrated on feeling the back of her head, the point where the crown of her hat touched her hair, a spot she used to still herself. If only she could hold her focus.
“We will have an extra guard near your house for a while. You will be safe.”
For a moment Constance could not find a voice with which to respond. She quickened her steps. She unclasped her leather bag, drew out the packet, and handed it to him. He took it and returned her twenties in a seemingly absentminded way.
“You won’t know the guard is there, Mrs. Halstead. I will have a man in plain clothes round the clock for at least a week. If they contact you again, they will do so quickly. We know their patterns. We’ve watched the Black Hand a long time now. Their patterns are fairly consistent.”
“And what if this time they are not?” She had found her voice, had got the words out, however bitter.
“That is why I will have your home under guard,” he said. “Just in case, but mainly for your peace of mind.”
“You think I have any peace of mind?” Her voice came out bitter and forceful. She had not intended that, but she meant it. “My husband is dead, my children are threatened, and your plan was disaster. I should have just paid them. What will they do now?”
They had reached her gate. Pulgrum released the latch and pushed the gate open.
“In our experience, nothing. But we will keep you safe, Mrs. Halstead. You and your children.” Pulgrum pulled the gate shut between them. “I will have the extra guard here within the hour. You will not notice him, but he will be here. You can be assured of that.”
“I can be assured of nothing at this point, Sergeant Pulgrum. Perhaps I shall never be assured of anything again.”
Constance turned and moved rapidly up the steps into her house, then slammed the door behind her. She stood leaning against it, struggling to quiet her raging fear and anger. Nothing, nothing assured her. Her life was upended. She had heard the gruesome tales, perhaps diluted in respect of her womanhood, but she knew the vile things these people could do. What if Pulgrum discovered she had been on that train, might be responsible for Benton’s fall? She stared at her fingers. At their tips she could sense the roughness of Benton’s gray serge jacket. No one could have seen her. She had been so careful. Well, plenty had seen the young man she was not, though possibly not manly enough: the conductor; the bartender; the random passengers from car to car, some child running about wild and an angry father, the dealer at the table, the man running through the vestibule, an old woman at the restroom. Her soft skin and lack of a beard, in spite of the mustache, could have given her away. The way she had walked or used her hands—she wasn’t a man, and in spite of the nearly flat chest her mother had fretted about, there was a way of manliness, which she did not possess.
Yet Benton had approached her on that train vestibule, not her, but a boy he did not know, until she had opened her eyes. The thought made her sick. Made her remember how, in their marriage, he had handled her sexually, often without actual intercourse, in strange positions with unusual appetites. Her mind struggled to block out these thoughts, but they would not release her.
*
Alice was waiting, Analee beside her. They will be eager to know what happened, Constance thought. Then she took note of their faces: Alice’s color drained, Analee ashen.
“What’s wrong?” Constance flew to them, grabbed their hands. “Where are my children? What have they done to my children?”
“The girls are safe in the playroom, Constance. They will be fine. But you must sit down.”
“Did the police get that man?” Analee’s voice carried a sharp edge of distress as she drew Constance to the chair at the end of the settee.
“No.”
Alice and Analee looked at one another. Constance could see fear etched in every feature of their two faces.
“What happened?” Alice said. “Tell us what happened.”
“You are certain my girls are all right? You would tell me the truth . . . Are you telling the truth?”
“Yes, Miss Constance, the girls is upstairs playing house with their dolls. I promise you that.”