Dawn of the Golden Promise (22 page)

“I need to speak with you alone, Mr. Whittaker, if you please.”

Evan noted the policeman's glance at Billy Hogan, who, along with three other boys, was in the midst of applying a generous coat of white paint to the hallway walls.

“Of course, Sergeant. B-boys, go right on with your p-painting. I'll be back directly.”

Evan gestured toward the dormitory room across the hall. “We can talk in there.”

As soon as Evan closed the door behind them, the sergeant came right to the point. “Sorley Dolan is out,” he said, his voice hard. “This morning. I thought you'd be wanting to know.”

Evan stared at him, trying to comprehend. “You can't m-mean he's free? Not so soon!”

“Scarcely anyone serves their full time these days,” the policeman said with a scowl. “The jails are jammed. There's not enough room for even half the felons we run in, and that's the truth.”

Evan nodded. The city's overcrowded prison conditions had been the subject of frequent newspaper reports over the past year. Citizens were demanding reforms, while the politicians demanded bigger jails. The policemen, on the other hand, continued to urge the city to add more men to their number. It seemed that everyone had a solution, but meanwhile the problem continued to explode out of control.

“Most of the blighters are out the back door not long after we haul them through the front,” the sergeant went on. “Even the lowest sort of riffraff are back out on the street in no time. There's simply no place for them. We need what cells we have for the murderers and madmen.”

“But the m-madmen shouldn't be in ordinary jail cells at all,” Evan couldn't resist pointing out. “They ought to be confined to hospitals or institutions, where they can get the kind of m-medical attention they need.”

“Perhaps. But when the city can't find room for the hardened criminals, they're not likely to put themselves out for the lunatics.”

The idea of murderers and madmen jolted Evan back to the purpose of the policeman's call. “Dolan has no legal rights so far as B-Billy is concerned, does he?”

The sergeant shook his head. “None whatever. But legal rights aren't going to be stopping a devil like Sorley Dolan. Especially if he's in his cups—which no doubt he will be by dark.” He paused. “It might be well to keep an eye out for the lad just now, if you take my meaning.”

Worry for Billy settled upon Evan like a blight. What if Dolan were to come after the boy? He was just irrational enough to blame Billy for his own savagery, when all the boy had done was to tell the truth.

The policeman seemed to read his thoughts. “I'll do what I can to keep track of Sorley, Mr. Whittaker. I'll be about, sure. And if you should happen to need help, just send one of the little lads running. Any of the men on the force will come.”

Evan knew Sergeant Price meant to reassure him, and he managed a weak smile. But the truth was, he didn't feel in the least reassured.

“Ah—and I'm almost forgetting the other reason I came,” said the sergeant, handing Evan the most recent selection he had borrowed from the library. “I didn't like this one as much as the Milton, I confess.”

Evan regarded the sergeant with interest. The big policeman had been borrowing books from the library for weeks now. Evan still found it astonishing that Sergeant Price's interest seemed to lie almost entirely with poetry, especially classical poetry. His remarks upon returning each selection proved to be surprisingly incisive.

“What is it about Milton that fascinates you so, Sergeant—if you don't mind my asking?”

The policeman considered Evan's question only for a moment. “Why, in truth, Mr. Whittaker, I believe it's the man's earthiness.”

Evan's interest was captured. “Earthiness? Milton?”

The sergeant nodded. “Aye. Though he was obviously a God-fearing man and eloquent entirely, he seems to have had a great deal of understanding about his own weaknesses. He's even a bit coarse at times, it seems to me. A man with his feet in the clay of humanity, so to speak, while his soul soars in the heavens. He can write about sin or sainthood, the loveliness of Eden or the darkness of the devil's domain itself. But no matter what he's saying, his words do make music, don't they?”

Evan stared at him. He thought he had never heard Milton described so succinctly as by this rough-hewn policeman with the enormous hands and gentle eyes.

“Please feel free to choose another book before you go, Sergeant, if you like,” he said.

“Why, thank you, sir, but I'm in a bit of a rush today. Perhaps I'll stop by tomorrow, though, if you're sure you don't mind.”

Evan shook his head. “You needn't feel you have to ask, Sergeant. You're always welcome.”

As he watched the policeman descend the stairs, anxiety again swept over Evan. He opened his mouth to call Sergeant Price back, then changed his mind. The city's law officers already had far more than they could handle. They couldn't be expected to stand lookout for a drunken cad like Sorley Dolan.

Turning, he stood watching the boys at work at the other end of the hallway. He hated to spoil what was surely one of the few carefree moments in young Billy's life. Just now he appeared to be enjoying himself immensely, trading boyish jests and good-natured teasing with the others as they splashed paint on the walls. His wheat-colored hair was streaked with white paint, his thin face creased in a smile. The boy looked happy.

Billy
had
been happy of late, Evan thought, at least happier than he had been before coming to live with them. No longer did he wear that pinched look of worry; other than concern for his mother and two little half brothers, he seemed as free of life's troubles as a boy his age ought to be.

It was a shame to bring this newly found peace to an end. But since caution would seem to be their only real protection for now, he supposed there was nothing else to do but alert the boy.

Evan sighed and, with a heavy heart, started down the hall toward Billy and the others.

Downstairs, Denny Price would have stopped to talk with the cat-eyed Quinn O'Shea had the girl not been otherwise occupied.

He stood just inside the door, watching her and the Kavanagh lad—Daniel—on the porch out front. Denny's eyes narrowed as he took in the way the boy was gawking at Quinn. He looked about to swallow his tongue.

So that's how it was, was it?
The lad was sweet on her.

Denny turned his attention to Quinn. Although there was no actual appearance of coquetry about the girl, she was smiling up at the long-legged
gorsoon
as if he were a man grown, and one to defer to at that.

Denny ground his teeth. Why, most times he was lucky to coax a civil word from the girl! Perhaps on a good day she might even give him a smile and take a stroll with him, but the whole time she looked as if she were ready to bolt and run.

Yet wasn't the little minx treating young Daniel like gentry? Sure, she could not have set her cap for a cow-eyed schoolboy! Why, he could not be much more than half Denny's age.

Young Daniel was a good enough sort, of course. He was known to be as decent and straight as they came. He was a smart boy, a fine boy—no denying it. All the same, he
was
still a boy.

And what of the girl? Denny studied her with the practiced, dispassionate eye of a policeman, suppressing his feelings for the moment. He couldn't be certain, of course, but he thought her smile might not be quite so strained, and those odd feline eyes of hers might not be quite so guarded, so suspicious, as they usually were.

But why? What was there about Daniel Kavanagh that had apparently managed to sneak past her defenses?

The longer he watched them, the more Denny began to burn. Everything about the Kavanagh lad was quiet and refined: his looks, his voice, even his apparel. Irish or not the boy had a kind of gentility about him that couldn't be denied. And his manner with the girl was nothing less than that of a knight with his lady. Respectful. Courtly. Gallant.

Jealousy crashed through Denny like a wild boar breaking through a forest. He could deny it all he wanted, but the truth was that he could see why Quinn might take a fancy to a boy like Daniel Kavanagh, young and callow though he was. He was a good-looking, sweet-talking, smoothfaced sort of boy—an educated lad. In comparison, Denny felt square and loud and brutish.

There was no mystery in how a fellow like that could attract a lass. More than likely, Daniel Kavanagh was just the kind of lad a girl like Quinn O'Shea would be drawn to.

Denny swallowed down his disappointment. He had felt all too keenly his own lack of appeal to her. When she wasn't being altogether obstinate, she looked at him as if he held all the interest of a tree stump.

He wasn't quite sure what accounted for her indifference. At times he thought she was just hostile to men in general. Other times he thought it was as simple as the fact that he was an Irishman. A big, uneducated, heavy-handed Irish cop.

Why couldn't he just stay away from her, then?

Disgruntled with himself, Denny made a fierce attempt to suppress his envy of the Kavanagh lad, at least for the moment. Sure, and a challenge was good for a man now and then. He wouldn't be much of a policeman if he turned tail in the face of combat, would he?

Finally he managed to plaster a big, confident smile on his face. Stepping out from the shadows, he walked onto the porch, where he wedged himself deliberately between the young knight and his lady.

In her opulent parlor on Staten Island, Alice Walsh sat on the piano stool smiling with considerable pleasure over the legal document propped up on the piano in front of her—and the letter beside it.

The legal paper was a contract issued by the New York publishing house of Firth, Pond & Co. Eventually, if everything went as it should, the contract would result in the publication of sheet music for a choral suite and two numbers for band instruments—all composed by Evan Whittaker.

Alice was as excited as if the contract had been written on
her
behalf. Evan Whittaker had no knowledge of her efforts. Only Harold Elliott, a member of the church choir and an employee of the publishing house, had been taken into her confidence.

For some time now, Alice had not only served as Evan Whittaker's accompanist, but had taken on the additional task of transcribing his choral and instrumental compositions. The diligent, mild-mannered Englishman already had more than enough to do. Composing at the keyboard had to be laborious for a man with only one arm; he certainly didn't need the added effort of copying his final arrangements.