Part 16 (1/2)

He took his time about it. He'd come up without his cane and his good leg was aching badly by the time he finished, but he was too elated to care. He had, he was quite certain, all but definitely rented three units.

”According to Wolfe, he's living with his wife's family on Fourteenth Street and Seventh Avenue. Seems they have two children and expect a third. No wonder they think it's time to move to a place of their own.”

Mollie wrote down all the information, repeatedly dipping her pen and careful to blot away any excess ink. She was quite sure this was a ledger that would someday be a family heirloom. The first flats Joshua ever built and rented. When he was the king of Manhattan property she knew he would be, they would show it to their child. Their children, she amended to herself, keeping her free hand in her lap all the while, pressed tight against her belly. According to Tess and Mrs. Hannity she should be feeling a kick any day now and she was terrified she might miss it. ”Which flat are the Wolfes to have?”

”Six A,” Josh said. ”Corner flat closest to Fourth Avenue. At least that's what he said he'd have if he decided to go ahead. Mind you, he's not yet put down a deposit. None of them did, unfortunately.”

”It can't be expected, Josh. Not on the first visit. I'll make a column that indicates how many times you see a potential tenant before the lease is signed. That way you'll be able to establish guidelines. You can know what to expect for the future.”

”Do that, Mollie. That's quite clever.”

She smiled, but went on with the business at hand. ”Mr. Elva Jackson, isn't it? And his wife's name is Margaret. They've three children as well, I believe.”

Another glance at his notes. ”The names are right, but I don't know how many little Jacksons there are. They may have said, but I didn't write it down.”

He was looking at her quizzically. It was, Mollie knew, her moment. She could tell him the whole story right now when he was so happy about the enormous breakthrough that meant so much to the future of his business. He'd be sure to forgive her. Even if it turned out Francie Wildwood had spilled Mollie's beans and Josh had for whatever reason kept silent about it, she'd get credit for doing so herself. She could do it. She would. Except . . . ”The ledgers for the house on Bowling Green,” she said, her courage deserting her. ”You've noted the numbers of children in each family in those records.”

”That's right, so I have. Well remembered, Mollie. And after only a week.” Despite his earlier reluctance, Josh had slipped into having her keep the books for the rooming houses as well as the flats. Hard not to when she did it with as much ease as skill. ”You're a wonder, my girl.”

And a coward, Mollie thought.

On the Tuesday evening following his first visit to Sixty-Third Street, Elva Jackson arrived at the house on Grand Street and placed a check for two hundred and fifty-five dollars in Joshua's hands.

The two men conducted their business in the drawing room turned office. Josh had been reluctant to use the room for some time after the murder, but nearly six weeks had pa.s.sed since he'd found George Higgins's body. Meanwhile the police had let the matter drop, and Jane had managed to scrub the carpet clean of bloodstains. After that the room had been thoroughly aired and put back together by Mollie, who refused to be either sentimental about a man she barely knew, or fearful about bad omens. Auntie Eileen's upbringing had given her a bit more spine than that. Besides, no one could arrange Josh's disturbed papers better than she.

Josh found it easier than he expected to slip into his old ways of doing things. He was waiting in his office when, as expected, the bell rang promptly at seven and Mollie showed Mr. Jackson into the front room.

After which she promptly ran around to the dining room where she could press her ear against the double doors and hear every word the men exchanged.

”Flat Four B,” Joshua said. ”To be leased to at a sum of eighty-five dollars a month payable in advance in quarterly installments of two hundred and fifty-five dollars each. This first payment to serve as a deposit against damages. The first quarter's rent due the day you move in.”

Four B. A canny choice, Mollie thought. Cheaper because it wasn't a corner flat, and less expensive than the flats on the floors below. But three flights were manageable if one didn't wish to use the elevator. She heard nothing for a moment or two. Presumably both Josh and Mr. Jackson were looking over the lease. Then Josh asked, ”Are we agreed, Mr. Jackson?”

”We are, Mr. Turner.”

Mollie couldn't see the handshake, but she knew it had happened, and that both men had signed, and she twirled around the dining room in a single and silent waltz of triumph.

By week's end DuVal Jones had agreed to lease the ground-floor flat closest to Fourth Avenue. It was now well known that Vanderbilt would start sinking a tunnel for his trains come spring, and Josh had a.s.signed One D the highest rent of any of the units, one hundred and ten dollars a month. Mollie had paled when he mentioned the sum. ”It's not as exorbitant as it sounds,” Josh insisted. ”For one thing it looks west to Madison and Fifth. They'll be grand avenues one day, even as far uptown as Sixty-Third Street.”

”Still, Josh, it's so much more than they're paying at Bowling Green.”

”Jones didn't quibble over the price and he's chosen to pay me a year in advance. Plus the security deposit. That's sixteen hundred and fifty dollars cash money.”

”If he can afford so much, Josh, why doesn't he buy a house?”

Josh shrugged. ”Can't rightly say, but the price of real estate is on the rise everywhere in the town. Mr. Drexel of Philadelphia has just bought a building on Wall Street for three hundred forty-eight dollars a square foot.”

”Good Lord.”

”Exactly. Meanwhile, Mr. Jones is leasing six hundred and fifty square feet for what-?” Looking to Mollie to supply the sum.

”Two dollars a square foot per annum,” she said instantly. ”Plus a fraction.” She picked up her pen to enter DuVal Jones's name in the ledger that listed the St. Nicholas tenants. ”I shall mark it down as a bargain.” Then, as her pen moved across the columns, ”Do we know what Mr. Jones does for a living, Josh?”

”No idea. But he's never been late with the rent in the years he's lived at Bowling Green.”

”And you gain a tidy bit in interest by having a year's rent in advance.” She wanted to cut out her tongue as soon as she spoke the words. Never forget, Mollie, Joshua has more to prove than most men. You must not put yourself forward in the matter of business.

He didn't bristle, just said with the exuberance that marked him since things began going so well, ”The devil with the interest. It's folding money, my love. Working capital. That's a lot more important to me right now. But,” with a quick kiss planted on her forehead, ”nothing for you to be concerned with in any case.”

”So,” she said, ”the only one of the prospects we haven't heard from is the one-eyed Mr. Wolfe.”

”Not another word from him,” Josh said. ”But two out of three's a fine result. I am certainly not grousing. And I'm told another prospect came by yesterday when I wasn't at the site. Mr. Stanley Potter who, according to Samuel, says he'll return next week.”

”Stanley Potter, recently admitted to the bar? Who also lives at Bowling Green?”

”That's the one. And why are you smiling like a cat with a bowl of cream?”

”I'm thrilled for you, Josh. For all three of us,” she added with a shy smile.

”All three of us,” he agreed, reaching out to pat her swelling belly.

She had to find a way to visit other family residences. There were dozens in the city. Of course they weren't owned by her husband so she wouldn't have such easy access. Perhaps she should see if Francie Wildwood might introduce her. It might even be an opportunity to discover what it was Mrs. Wildwood wanted, and how come she had apparently kept Mollie's secret.

”I trust you don't object to bringing the papers here,” DuVal Jones said.

He and Josh were in an oyster bar on South Street, typical of many on the waterfront. The sign outside said Hanrihan's and inside a long counter with stools accommodated men wanting a quick half dozen and a gla.s.s of beer. It was lunchtime and there were many more customers than stools. Josh and DuVal Jones, however, were seated at a small table beside a window. Jones sat with his back to the room. Josh where he could see everything. His topper, he noted, was pretty much the only one in the place. Some of the patrons were laborers in the nearby fish market, or men who worked on the ferry pier a few steps away. They wore caps. Like many of the others-men who managed the ferry traffic and the market stalls-Jones wore a hard round bowler, the sort of hat sometimes called a derby, and a black overcoat with a velvet collar. Proof against the cold March winds. ”I'm not likely,” Josh said, ”to object to meeting a man any place he chooses when he's prepared to pay me a large sum of money.”

Jones responded with a tight-lipped smile. It occurred to Josh that he'd known the man since he moved his blonde and dimpled young bride into the Bowling Green rooming house, but he'd never actually heard DuVal Jones laugh.

The clang of the bow slamming the dock announced the arrival of the Brooklyn ferry. A few of the men went out to meet it. The window was foggy with warm breath and Josh used the side of his hand to rub a clear s.p.a.ce. The gla.s.s was crusted with salt spray, but he could make out the crew securing the mooring lines, and beyond them, on the opposite sh.o.r.e, the rising tower of the audacious bridge some said would make the ferry obsolete. ”Do I take it we meet here because you're on your way across the river, Mr. Jones?” Francie Wildwood had reported Amanda Jones saying her husband worked in Brooklyn. She never mentioned at what.

”No, Mr. Turner. On this occasion it happens I've just returned. It is a journey I make frequently.” Jones took an envelope from his inside pocket.

”Am I to a.s.sume, Mr. Jones, your business is based across the river?”

Jones didn't answer, merely laid the envelope on the table between them and covered it with his hand.

”It might be thought,” Josh said, ”that a flat way uptown on Sixty-Third Street is particularly inconvenient for a gentleman who makes regular ferry trips to Brooklyn.” He did not reach for the money.

”I do not expect to find it so, Mr. Turner.” The envelope edged closer to Josh, but Jones kept his hand over it. ”In any case, it is a trade I am willing to make.”

Josh lay his hand over that of Jones. ”In return for what? If you don't mind my asking.”

”Not at all.” Jones slid his hand out from under Josh's. ”I believe Mrs. Jones will be most comfortable further uptown. If you care to count that, Mr. Turner, it is quite safe to do so here. And I will certainly understand your caution. I can a.s.sure you, however, that it is all there.”

”I've no doubt of it,” Josh said. He slipped the envelope into his pocket and produced the lease. Both men signed it and pocketed a copy of the doc.u.ment. Jones rose to go. ”It's always a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Turner.”

Josh insisted the pleasure was his.

Stanley Potter, Esquire, was short and thin. Looked, Josh always thought, like a paper cutout of a man. As if you could fold him up and put him in your pocket. He had, however, a surprisingly deep voice. Twice the size of the rest of him.