Wicked, Wicked Women by Gardner Fox - Chapter 07

1961 Genre: Vintage Sleaze / Historical Fiction

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

Men like Mike Gannon and Black John Bennett made their living off the Erie Canal, forever battling one another for control of canal shipping.

Women like Moira Kennally—the wanton widow turned Madam -- and the Egyptian, owner of the notorious pleasure parlor, The Golden Tassel - made their living off men like Mike and Black John, offering their passionate embraces in return for the hard-earned dollars the canalers wrested from "The Big Ditch."

Together and apart they lived and loved in a mad search for power and pleasure during one of the most turbulent eras in the mainstream of American life.

You can download the whole story from the Fox Library.

CHAPTER SEVEN 

An arm about her daughter, Moira Creegan entered the courtroom. 

There was terror in her eyes and a wild thudding in her heart. Her legs were weak and her skin crawled. Every few moments her gloved hand would tighten, pressing Kathleen against her hip. 

She was going to lose her child! 

After all the years, after all the struggles with her pride and modesty, they would come and take her away. Everything she had built was being washed down the drain. She was accused of being a sinful woman, a strumpet unfit to raise a daughter. And because of this she hated Aunt Martha Creegan and Elvira Tomkins with a fierce and savage fury. 

She had been right that evening last year in The Mummy Case, when she had seen young Morgan Davies in the audience. He had kept silent for a long time, but a slip of the tongue to the wrong person, the swiftness of malicious gossip—

"Your sisters-in-law are very determined about this thing," Frank Bannerman had told her in his office. "They mean to take Kathleen away from you, back to Rome. They claim—-permit me to be brutal, my dear—that you're no better than a common woman." 

"They can't, they can't,” she had whispered in horror. 

She had been too distrait to cry. She'd done enough of that the day before when a process server had found her at the Jennings boarding house and had served her with the legal papers which now lay across Bannerman's desk. Her first thought had been to turn to Mike. 

"You're lucky they didn't serve you at The Golden Tassel," Mike had said bitterly when she sought him out. "This way, at least, you have a chance." 

"What can I do, Mike? What?”

"Marry me. Then we can spit in their eyes together.” 

Yes. It was a way out, but not the way for Moira Creegan. Not until she had exhausted every other chance. There was always Frank Bannerman. Since the night she'd first met him, Moira had been hearing good things about him. A power in the city, he was respected and liked. In some quarters, he was even feared. He would know about lawsuits. 

Bannerman's hand tapped a letter opener on the desk as his eyes touched her pale face. "You'll need more than a good lawyer. I've already contacted Brandon Partridge of Partridge, Heap and Taggart. One of the oldest and ablest legal firms in Buffalo. They handle all my work. 

“But as I say, we need something more than that. A lawyer needs evidence with which to fight, just as a soldier needs a rifle and ammunition. Well! We've got to—ahem— manufacture some.” 

"I–I don't understand.” 

His lips curved into a smile. Moira Creegan was a beautiful woman. Her mouth was parted in her fear, but it was full and moist, indicative of passion. Frank Bannerman intended to sample that passion before very long. To him, this lawsuit was a godsend. He could not have asked for a better way in which to put her in his debt. 

He cleared his throat. “If Morgan Davies testifies that he saw you doing that bathing suit act, you're finished.” 

"And he will testify, he will,” she whimpered. "He's Phineas Davies' nephew. Nothing can possibly stop him." 

"Well, now. I'm not so sure about that. Do you know where he is right now?" 

Dumbly she stared at him, shaking her head. Bannerman laughed softly. “Neither does his uncle, nor any of his family. I know because I told him where to go. For your information he's on an extended fishing tour five hundred miles from Buffalo. Naturally, he couldn't afford to do that unless he were certain he had a good job waiting for him when he came back.” 

“A good job?" she echoed. 

"Morgan Davies wants to practice corporation law. Partridge, Heap and Taggart specialize in just such practice. He walks into that firm as a junior partner—after the judge hands down his decision in your case." 

“Oh! I—you're a miracle worker, Frank!” 

His upraised hand held her silent. "I've done more than that. You've been telling Mrs. Jennings you travel a lot. I own a number of dummy corporations. One of them is Western Developments. I've toyed with the idea of expanding into Cleveland and Detroit. I employed you to scout those territories for me, you understand? You do travel a lot. For Western Developments." 

He opened a desk drawer and drew out a thick file crammed with papers. “This contains everything about the corporation and what you may need to know in case you're called to the stand. Partridge won't call you. The plaintiff's attorney might. I want you to be prepared. 

"Naturally, you won't go back to The Golden Tassel until after judgment has been given. Not even to visit. You understand?" 

"But men who've seen me—won't they—?” 

"What men?” he asked with a smile. "Canalers? Everybody knows you. Everybody loves you. Great Lakes sailors? You think they'd let the people from above The Terrace do anything to you? Besides, I've already passed word around. The man who takes the chair against you-" 

He shook his head to hide the ugly look stamping lines on his face. He was so close to winning this woman that he'd cheerfully kill any man who stood in his way. 

Now Moira Creegan was sitting tensely on the edge of a courtroom bench, listening to the lawyers arguing over an adjournment. The case had been put over four times already while Phineas Davies turned western New York State over in an unsuccessful hunt for his absent nephew. Brandon Partridge was objecting strenuously to a fifth adjournment, explaining that this constant harassment of his client was turning her into an ill woman. 

The judge had read the complaint. He looked now at Moira Creegan and found himself unable to believe that this poised, respectable woman dressed so fashionably, could ever have removed her garments before a male audience. His scowl darkened as he turned toward a perspiring Phineas Davies. 

"Motion for adjournment denied, counselor. I think we'd best resolve the matters at issue here and now, in fairness to everyone concerned." 

Her hands were clenched so tightly they ached, Moira realized as she watched and heard the parade of witnesses to the chair, but she could not have moved for the world. Half a dozen disreputable characters testified they had seen the bathing cart performance on the stage of The Mummy Case. Four of them could not identify the defendant as the entertainer who had held them spellbound. One witness grudgingly said it might be she, but on cross-examination Brandon Partridge compelled him to admit he was not at all certain, that he'd had a seat in the rear of the hall, and that more than half the time men standing on chairs or tables had blocked his view. 

Only one witness was adamant. He positively identified Moira Creegan as the entertainer. As he rose to cross-examine, Brandon Partridge was curious. He wanted to know why the witness was so positive. 

“I just know, that's all. I know her," the man said flatly. 

"Then you can tell us the color of the bathing cart,” the lawyer said affably, "and describe the clothes the defendant is alleged to have removed." 

"I wasn't looking at the bathin' cart.”

“What about her clothes? How was she dressed?” 

There was a little silence. The man had a squinting look to his eyes that made him seem lost and frightened. Moira almost felt sorry for him. He sat rigid in his chair, elbows on its arms and from time to time he wiped away the sweat beading his forehead. In answer to the question, he shook his head. 

"Speak up," Partridge encouraged. "You shook your head. The answer to my question must be, you don't know. Is that correct?" 

“Yes, I—don't know. I was lookin' at her face." 

Brandon Partridge turned to his counsel table, lifted a sheet of printed matter and handed it to the witness. "Read that, please," he smiled. 

The witness read it, loudly and firmly. Partridge took away the paper, then asked, "Where in the audience were you sitting on the night you claim to have seen the defendant on the stage of The Mummy Case?” 

"Somewhere in the middle of the room. Fifty, sixty feet away.” 

"In other words, roughly the length of this judicial chamber, which is—I believe the Court will take judicial recognition of the fact—exactly fifty-seven feet, six inches long." 

"About that," the man muttered. 

Brandon Partridge turned to the judge. "I ask that the defendant be directed to walk out into the hall, Your Honor, then to return in a minute." 

The judge looked over his pince-nez at Moira. Patting Kathleen on the shoulder, she rose to her feet and moved out past the leather-covered doors into the corridor. She stopped short, staring. Five women—each dressed exactly like her, with black hair done up in her own coiffure and carrying the same pocketbooks—stood waiting for her to join them. 

"You walk with us, dearie," one of them smiled, moving aside so Moira might step into line. "Ready, girls?” 

Even the judge gasped at sight of the six women. The witness stared dumbly, unable yet to understand his predicament. Brandon Partridge lifted a hand and the six women lined up against the far wall of the courtroom. 

“Now, sir, pick out the defendant in the case.”

The witness licked his lips. "I—my eyeglasses..." 

"Eyeglasses? This is the first time we've heard anything about spectacles. If you need them so badly, why don't you have them on?” 

Without waiting for a reply, Partridge continued, and now his voice grew harsh and menacing, "You've never owned a pair of spectacles, have you? Your name is Squinty Doland. You can see up to ten feet away. Beyond that you're as blind as a mole. Isn't that so, sir?"

"I—" 

The judge looked down at the witness. “I want the truth. If you lie to me I'll see to it you face charges of perjury and contempt of court." 

"No," the man mumbled. "I never had no eyeglasses."

"But you need them?” Partridge thundered.

"For more’n about ten feet, I do." 

"On the night in question, you saw very little of what happened on The Mummy Case stage, is that correct?” 

"I tried to get closer but there was so many men” 

"Step down," the judge said grimly. "I want this man remanded to the city jail and the district attorney instructed to arraign him for perjury. All right, counselor, let's get on with the rest of it." 

At the close of the plaintiff's testimony, Brandon Partridge moved to dismiss on the ground that the plaintiffs had failed to make out a prima facie case. The judge took the motion under advisement. Brandon Partridge presented evidence that Moira Creegan had been working for Western Developments for the past three years, that she spent her days while in Buffalo at the Jennings boarding house. Bertha Jennings proved an excellent witness. She was indignant and did not hesitate to admit it. 

"Little Kathleen goes to a private school. She attends Sunday church services with her mother when she's home, with my husband and me when Mrs. Creegan's got to be working. Anyone says Mrs. Creegan isn't a fit mother is a mean and spiteful liar.” 

The judge looked down at Aunt Martha Creegan and Elvira Tomkins over his pince-nez and cleared his throat. "I think I've heard enough testimony," he said dryly, and reached for his notes. "I'll make my decision by the end of the week.” 

It was over. Instinctively, Moira knew she had won.

Her head bent and she began to weep, very softly. 

Frank Bannerman pointed his finger at Black John Bennett. 

“You'll have no more to do with Mike Gannon until I give the word, my friend. Let that fact be clearly understood between us. Let bygones be bygones." 

Bennett squirmed in the big leather chair which held his heavy body. A big man on Canal Street, he felt small and insignificant in these rich offices where Frank Bannerman lorded it over his corner of the world. "When he makes trouble—” he began. 

Bannerman chuckled. “When he makes trouble, we'll make trouble. But not before. I have certain plans—which I mean to see carried to a proper conclusion." He would not explain to the uncomfortable Irishman that he meant the bedding of Moira Creegan, but his mind toyed with the thought of the handsome Mrs. Creegan stark naked in a hotel room with him. 

"The further annoyance of Mike Gannon," he went on, “has no part in those plans. As a matter of strict fact, annoying him any longer might cause me embarrassment." By which he meant, If we make a martyr out of him we may rouse Moira Creegan's sympathy, which would be a tactical error. Making such errors was abhorrent to Frank Bannerman. 

“All right," Bennett growled. "If that's the way you want it." 

“Concentrate your energies on developing the Empire Line, John. You'll have plenty to keep you busy. And there's more than enough haulage on the Erie to make both Gannon and us fairly wealthy." 

His attitude indicated that their conference was ended. Bennett reached for his gray derby, rose to his feet and left the office. 

Bannerman's secretary came in to announce, "A young woman to see you, sir. She says her name is Lily Anders." 

The Egyptian. And right on time. Bannerman leaned back in his chair. “Send her in, Miss Loomis. I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances.” 

He came to his feet as The Egyptian swept into the room with a swirl of her long taffeta skirt. 

"Lily, you grow more lovely every hour." 

She stared back at him coolly, disengaging her hand. "You didn't bring me here to tell me that. What's on your mind?” 

The Egyptian was out of her element in a business office and was nervous. She took the chair he offered, her eyes moving to the oil paintings on the walls, to the glass cabinets lined with leather-bound books, then watched Bannerman move around the edge of his desk to seat himself. Above the tips of his fingers, which he pressed together to form a vee, his eyes regarded her. "Lily, I want you to do me a favor.” 

She started, eyeing him carefully. "What sort of favor?” "I want you to make love to Mike Gannon." 

The Egyptian opened her mouth, then closed it. She drew a deep breath. "I can't do it. It isn't that I object for personal reasons, you understand. He's good in bed, is Mike Gannon. No, it isn't that. It's the fact that he's sweet on Moira Creegan. Never touches anybody but her." 

"Exactly. And Moira's been living at the Jennings boarding house ever since she was served with a summons. Close to a year now, isn't it? Gannon visits her upon occasion, I know. He takes her and Kathleen to the theater or out to dinner. But there's been no love-making between them, I've made sure. I've had them both watched." 

"You're keen for her," the woman stated. 

"I admit it. I mean to make her my mistress.” He could lie to Black John Bennett but The Egyptian, being a woman, was another matter. He had the feeling that unfailing honesty might be his best policy. 

Bannerman leaned elbows on his desk. "I want you to stage it just right. I want Moira to walk in when you're both in bed." 

The woman gaped. "You're mad," she managed to say, and stood up. The determined manner in which she straightened her gloves and the tightness of her mouth echoed her emotions. 

"Everybody has a price, Lily. What's yours?" She hesitated, looking sideways at him. "Nothing you'd pay." 

"Try me."

"Part ownership of The Golden Tassel buildings." 

He frowned, considering. The rental from the Canal Street properties brought him a handsome profit year after year. To divide that with The Egyptian would hurt, but it was a price he could afford to pay. 

“When Moira finds us together, the woman said wryly, "she'll want to claw my eyes out. Maybe she'll even want to dissolve our partnership. I have to have some financial protection." 

Bannerman put his hands palm down on his desk. "You have a deal, Lily. Come back this time tomorrow. I'll have papers ready for you to sign." 

“What about Moira? How can you be sure she'll walk in on us?” 

"Judge Walker is signing the judgment this afternoon. It will be recorded on Monday. Soon after, I'll pay her a visit in my brougham. I'll bring her to The Tassel myself, when we're ready. Gannon isn't due back from Utica for another week.” 

"Just send me word. I'll be ready."

The Egyptian smiled faintly, alive with anticipation. 

The days went slowly for Moira Creegan. She was anxious to be back at The Golden Tassel, yet she was well aware that her enforced imprisonment at the Jennings boarding house afforded her an unexpected opportunity to get to know Kathleen as an individual. Until now, though everything she did was directed toward making Kathy's life happier and more secure than her own, she had spent so little time with her, she seemed almost a stranger. 

Now, however, they were always together in the mornings. "And in the afternoons there were visits to be made together to the Washington Market for shopping, to the Genessee Street Bridge to look at the canal boat colony moored to the long wooden docks, and sometimes, even to the Music Hall. 

Mike Gannon was away on one of his interminably long hauls. Since the trial, he had paid them a flying visit, to take them both to the Casino Theater Kathleen, now in her eleventh year, was growing swiftly and Mike teased Moira, saying that if she didn't hurry up and marry him, he'd ask her daughter. He always made his joking threat with a smile but if Moira was looking into his eyes at the time, she could see the longing and the hurt deep inside him. 

Frank Bannerman was even more of a companion than Mike Gannon. Suave and polished, always impeccably attired, he paid Moira court with flowers and large boxes of candy. They ate out twice a week, at least, at the Niagara Hotel. 

On a warm evening in late June a glittering black brougham drew up before the Jennings boarding house. Bannerman bowed to Moira, kissing her fingertips. 

“Tonight you go back to The Golden Tassel, ma belle amoureuse.” He smiled. "But only after the theater and a late supper of oysters and champagne at my club." 

One thing she had to say for Frank Bannerman, Moira reflected as she went down the porch steps with a hand resting on his forearm: he always did things in the grand style. 

Mike Gannon was angry at himself. 

He paced the thick Turkish carpet of the rooms above The Golden Tassel, driving a big fist into his palm, muttering oaths between his teeth. Fool! Fool! Not to have checked before coming to The Golden Tassel at such a late hour! Moira had not yet moved back from her lodgings at Jennings boarding house. He had been positive that he would find her here, flushed and triumphant from her stage show, ready to fall into his arms. Ever since the service of the summons in the action to have her declared an unfit mother, he'd seen precious little of Moira Creegan. 

A footfall swung him toward the opening door. 

He took a step forward, then stopped. The Egyptian was entering the room, showing surprise at sight of him. A thin wrapper appeared to be all she wore, though he caught sight of a shapely leg in a black silk stocking when the wrapper fell away to her stride. 

"Oh! I thought Moira'd come back. I heard you talking."

"To myself. Where is she?”

“Still at Jennings, I guess." 

She came across the room to the wall mirror, lifting her arms to fluff at her hair. The thin sleeves fell back, revealing smooth arms. Her heavy breasts lifted to punch thrusting nipples against the wrapper. Staring frankly, Mike Gannon began to remember that night so long ago when he and this woman had shared several hours of love-making. He moved about the room, suddenly uncomfortable, but he could not avoid the musky perfume in which she was misted. 

Lily turned and smiled at him, reaching to the silver box. Putting a cigarette between her lips, she waited while he approached and struck a match. 

“She may not be back for a long time. Frank Bannerman's been advising her, you know." 

Mike groaned. "He helped her when I couldn't.” 

The Egyptian moved with swinging haunches toward the Belter sofa, throwing herself into it with both arms stretched across its back. She crossed her legs casually, ignoring the fact that a fold of the wrapper fell aside to show her heavy thigh from hip to knee. 

"Sit down,” she invited, waving the hand in which she held the cigarette. "Light up a cigar. Make yourself comfortable. Moira won't be here. The Tassel's closed. Enjoy yourself.” 

Later, he never remembered what it was they talked of, with The Egyptian sprawled in the sofa and with him seated across from her in a leather-covered Morris chair. From time to time she would remember that the front of her wrapper was loose, that it gaped to expose the inner swells of her breasts, and clutch it to her with a hand; but always as she did so, her eyes touched Mike slyly and with hunger. 

It became a game to them. 

The woman crossed her legs to expose her left leg. She bent forward, snubbing out her cigarette in a ceramic ash tray, knowing that one entire breast swung naked to his stare. Mike fought the desire she was breeding in him, trying to keep Moira in the forefront of his mind. 

How far would she have to go to get the big canaler out of the Morris chair? Lily wondered. Throw off the wrapper and sit naked to her navel with her hard breasts jutting straight at him? Or cross her legs some more, letting him see that all she had on were the black silk stockings fastened with red garters and the high-heeled shoes? 

She slid from the couch to go to the silver cigarette box again, but she had taken only two steps when Mike was off the Morris chair, arms going around her, lifting her off her feet, hands sliding up the backs of her stockinged legs to her naked thighs. She gasped at his strength and at the hunger for her flesh. 

"Mike! Let go of—" 

"Let you go, is it? And me with all this need for you? And you with your breasts so full and hard, your hips so eager?” 

"We shouldn't-" 

She felt she had to make the protest so as not to arouse his suspicions. But his mouth, moving across her soft throat and to the slopes of her soft bosom, left her with no will to think. All that was alive in her body was a feverish hunger for this man. She wanted to urge him to hurry, hurry! They had to be in bed when Moira and Frank Bannerman came walking through the door. 

Ah, but what woman could hurry such a man? 

He was gentle and tender, with an air of suppressed savagery about him, as though he restrained the fiery desperation of his body only for her sake. As she had teased him, so now he teased her, with lips and fingers. 

Lily uttered soft cries as she felt the tide of sensation running free and wild within the confines of her flesh, thudding and pulsing, needing liberation, desperate for release and freedom. 

Then the floor rocked under her bare feet and she stood swaying, watching him throw his clothes recklessly about the room. Now his hands were yanking at her wrapper, freeing her of its sash and sleeves. 

She reached for him but he held her off, turning her with his hands and sitting in the Morris chair, then drawing her down on him. The Egyptian cried out thickly. The muscles of her thighs tensed and bunched. She began to curse slowly and monotonously, as their bodies joined in a taut, frenzied rhythm of motion. 

Delirium was an eternity of sensual impressions, the scratch of ragged breathing and the distant ticking of a clock. Life flowed on in a thick river of delight, punctuated by whispers and soft kisses, the brush of hands-on satin smooth skin. ... 

The scream came from the open doorway, where Moira Creegan stood with a hand lifted to her open mouth and her eyes wide with disbelief and horror. A fur muff dangled from her wrist. She was smartly dressed in a fashionable green satin Polonaise gown, fitted with curtain drapery and a waterfall back, with a matching pelerine thrown about her shoulders. Her eyes grew wide and stormy. For an instant she seemed poised to flee, then her chin lifted and she stepped swiftly across the thick rug. 

The Egyptian was away from Mike Gannon, her hand outstretched for her wrapper, when Moira slammed into her. Curving fingers went into the loosened brown hair which spilled about the naked woman's shoulders and tugged savagely. Crying out with pain, Lily Anders whirled and slammed a hand against Moira's face. 

Then they were clawing and scratching, crying out in a black, bitter anger. They went off their feet in a melee of naked legs and ripping green satin. They rolled over and over across the carpet, fingernails clawing, teeth bared and biting. 

Mike was standing with one trouser leg on and one off as they careened into his ankles, taking his feet out from under him. He went down hard just as Moira aimed a palm straight for his cheek. 

She screamed, "I'll kill you for this, Michael Gannon!” 

Then The Egyptian sank her teeth in a bared shoulder and Moira erupted in fury, sobbing and cursing wildly, her hands balled into fists which she pummeled into the soft belly of the naked woman. Each tore at the other's hair. Each bit down hard at exposed flesh. Lily had ripped the Polonaise dress from bodice to hip, revealing the lace camisole beneath. - 

Frank Bannerman stood framed in the doorway, stunned by the unexpected violence. He had expected Moira Creegan to turn from the sight of her lover enjoying himself with her business partner, and to weep on his shoulder. His position would have been secure, then; he could have offered her consolation; he had been positive that, as a woman scorned, she would have fallen into his arms. 

He ran forward to separate them and took a high-heeled shoe in his groin, bending him double with pain. His gray derby toppled to the floor. The Egyptian rolled over it with Moira, straddling her hips, slapping hard at her flushed face. 

"Look," groaned Bannerman. "Here, now. You can't-" 

Mike Gannon elbowed him aside. "You've had no experience with fighting females, sir. Let me show you the technique.”

The big Irishman had donned his trousers. Below and above them he was naked. His big hands went out and his fingers twisted in thick brown hair and disarranged black hair. He gave a tug, another yank, and then a solid jerk. Both women screamed in pain but they came apart. With his fingers in their hair he held them at arms' length. 

"It's ashamed of yourselves you ought to be," he growled. 

"Ash—ashamed?" Moira screeched. “I'll claw your eyes out!” She tried to reach him but his grip was too tight. 

"Lily, go put your wrapper on," Mike ordered, releasing her. 

For a moment she looked as if she might hurl herself on Moira again, but she shrugged, touched her breasts gingerly, looked down at the bruises on her belly and thighs, and glowered darkly at Bannerman. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, lifting her wrapper and shrugging into it. She walked out of the room with head held high. 

"All right, Michael Gannon. All right! You can let go of me now," snapped Moira. 

"I'm not so sure, mavourneen. You have the devil in your eyes." 

“You black-hearted gossoon. Oh, Mike—you bastard!” 

He let her go without a word. Bending, he lifted his thrown clothes from the back of the Belter sofa, from a lampshade, from the floor. A flush rode his cheeks and he could not look at the woman who was vainly trying to put herself to rights with clasps and pins. 

"I—I'll dress outside in the hall,” he muttered. 

Frank Bannerman waited until the door closed behind him. "Moira, I don't know what to say.”

"Don't say anything then," she hinted darkly. 

Tears glistened in her eyes. A moment more and they would be spilling over, flooding her cheeks. She did not want Frank Bannerman to see her heartbreak, her inconsolable despair. This man had been good to her in his fashion. He deserved more from Moira Creegan than quivering lips and running eyes. 

"Of course I understand.” He had caught the finality in her tones. For one black moment he thought that his expensive plan had failed. The woman would take Gannon back to her bed; she would forgive, even if she might not forget, his faithlessness. 

Moira brushed at her tears with the heel of a palm, then swung around smiling and bright. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap. The shock—" 

"Don't say another thing. I only regret it happened. If I may do anything to help ..." 

"Not now, Frank. Please be patient just a little longer. I want to see you soon, here in my rooms. A small supper, just the two of us?” 

He made a little bow to conceal his elation. An intimate tête-à-tête, just the two of them, with chilled oysters and grilled steak, with iced champagne. Yes. In such a setting, he would be paid back for what this dismal night was costing him. 

Moira Creegan and The Egyptian met three weeks later in the plush offices of Partridge, Heap and Taggart. Neither would look at the other, and they conducted their conversation through their attorneys. 

"Tell the woman I'm asking a hundred thousand dollars in cash for my interest in The Golden Tassel," said Lily Anders to her lawyer, Bellamy Moulton. 

"You,” Moira snapped at Brandon Partridge, "tell that that creature the business isn't worth twenty." 

"Naturally, without me to run things—”

"You? Run things? Why, you painted—”

"Ladies," said Brandon Partridge firmly.

"Please," begged Bellamy Moulton. 

The Egyptian said loftily, “I'll sign for seventy-five thousand." 

"Not a cent more than fifty!” 

The lawyers talked for a while, comparing ledgers, seeking to find a talking point. Moira stared out the window. For the life of her, she would not look at this woman; to do so would bring back the memory of her with Mike on that Morris chair. And if she thought of that again, she would go mad. 

She had neither seen nor heard from the big Irishman since that night. She and Lily, via a series of notes carried back and forth between them by one of the charwomen, had assured one another that the continuance of their partnership was no longer possible. The sooner one bought out the other, the sooner each would be content. 

Moira offered to do the buying. She found Lily oddly agreeable. 

All that remained was to establish a price, to get it down on legal cap and to attach their signatures.

Moira said suddenly, “Sixty thousand for The Golden Tassel, lock, stock and barrel. No more, no less. What about it, Lily?” 

Lily said flatly, "It's a deal. I'll be at the Niagara Hotel, Mr. Moulton. When you have the papers ready, notify me." 

She went out with a swagger to her hips, parasol tapping the rug at every stride. Moira stared down at her pointed shoes. Sixty thousand dollars was a lot of money. She would have to raise a mortgage, she supposed. 

Frank Bannerman might help her there.