Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 853 & 854, September/October 2012

He said, “You had someone with you there, in Seattle?”

“No.” She could barely shake a word out.

“There to break my head.”

“No, I... ran away when he... when he came.”

“Ran away and left me to him? That’s your story?” Killy pulled her farther from the cart, farther from the group enjoying breakfast.

Pressed against the house, she stared up at the marshal. He was a handsome man — this time it came as no surprise. She watched emotions flicker over his broad face, and wondered what he saw as he looked at her. Did her confusion show? Her suspicion?

“You ran away,” he prompted.

“Yes.” She tried not to see it again in her mind. The marshal’s head on the cobblestones, his blood filling spaces between the pavers. She’d shrieked at Mario, then knelt to put herself between him and Killy so he wouldn’t bring the metal pipe down again. She’d feigned sickness that night. She’d found Mario another place to stay. For the rest of the strike, she’d avoided him.

But Mario knew she’d go anywhere, on anybody’s say-so, to see Nicky.

“I ran,” she said, “but then I went back.” She had indeed ventured there later, keeping out of sight. “To be sure you weren’t dying. But you were gone.”

“And I suppose you looked all over for me, eh? And yet strangely, the next day, when I stopped throwing up and seeing double, I found no one who’d spotted you. They expected you at a union-hall kitchen, but you didn’t show up. It took a few days to find your apartment — wise of you to change names. But you’d cleared out of it. Well done, my girl. For I’d have arrested you then.”

“You’d have arrested me that night, I think.”

“As big a fool as I am? I don’t know that I would have. But never mind that now. What are you doing here?”

She made a sweeping motion to indicate her uniform.

“Ah. Shall I ask the Westfields if you’re truly their servant?” He grabbed her arm as if to pull her inside.

“No. Please. I’m filling in for someone, that’s all. They can’t generally tell us girls apart, unless one’s a Negro. They’ll fire my friend. And I... honestly, I mean no harm to anyone.”

“And yet I’ve a new scar behind my ear from our last encounter.”

“I saw all the blood on the street where you were. I would never have wished that on you.”

“Miss Gualtieri — or whatever you call yourself now — I’ve yet to find it in my best interests to believe you.”

“I know. But...” She forced herself to stand as tall as she could pull herself. “But you’re always on the verge of arresting me. It colors everything I say to you — how could it not?”

“Well, perhaps you’ve a point.” His words were mild, but he looked furious, his face reddening, a vein throbbing in his temple. He took a deep breath. “My my. What a dance it’s been. How smooth your every step.”

“It’s not what I wanted.”

“Nor I.” He pulled her farther still from the groups on the veranda. “Shall we put our cards on the table, then, at last? You know why I came after you, don’t you?”

Immediately she saw the jewels in her mind’s eye. “You think I’ll confess to something now? To save you the trouble of dancing?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a trouble. At least, not here, where I’m in no danger of another crack on the head.” His smile was almost sweet. “You’re an interesting girl, I’ll say that. But you’ll tell me the truth today.”

She looked past Killy, at the tray glinting on the cart by the porch rail. Beyond it, the lawn was the color of pippins. A rose-trimmed path ended at a pond as bright as a mirror. Beside its boathouse, tethered skiffs floated like confetti.

It was fully hitting her: Whatever else happened with the marshal, she wouldn’t see Nicky here. Maybe she’d never see him again.

“A boy I grew up with,” she said. “He was the reason I ran from you, in Chicago. I thought he must have been looking for me at the Kingstons. That he’d gotten into trouble there, and so you came after me. To make me say something or do something to make things worse for him.” She heard herself say it but couldn’t make herself believe it. “Is that true?”

He stood very still. Then he nodded.

Their eyes held for a moment.

There was hearty laughter at the other end of the veranda. As if she’d stepped into some bizarre play.

“Because he was a draft dodger? Was that it? Or did you think him guilty of worse? And me too?”

“Are you guilty of worse?” He squinted down at her. “Are you a Galleanist?”

“No. Or... not in the way you mean it.”

“In what way, then? You know they tried twice to kill my friend, Mitchell Palmer?”

“I heard that someone bombed his home. I... I was sorry. It must have frightened the girls who work in those houses, up and down R Street.”

“Carlo Valdinoci,” he said. “That’s the bomber’s name. Do you know him?”

Carlo? Whose sister Assunta sewed the uniform Ella wore now?

“No, I... I don’t believe you.”

Carlo had come to the Hall with Mario and Galleani a few times. He was film-star handsome, a natty dresser with fine wavy hair. He used to flatter Ella by asking her to dance when old Mr. Shelstein played the piano. As if she were old enough, pretty enough, to catch Carlo’s sparkling eye.