Murder On Mulberry Bend

9

SARAH PURPOSELY DIDN’T GLANCE OVER WHEN SHE walked past Police Headquarters on Mulberry Street. She was half afraid she’d see Malloy if she did. Of course, he didn’t have any right to stop her from what she was doing. Nobody did, come to that. Still, she didn’t feel like having an argument with him about it in the middle of the street, and she knew him well enough to know he’d want to argue if he saw her heading toward the Prodigal Son Mission.

She’d wanted to come yesterday, but she knew Sunday wasn’t a typical day at the mission. Besides, she’d had a baby to deliver, and by the time she was finished, it was too late. Yes, Monday morning was better anyway. The beginning of a new week would be the perfect time to offer her services as an instructor. Volunteering her help was just what she needed to make her feel her life was serving an important purpose.

And if she found out more about Emilia Donato’s murder, too, well, that would be extremely fortunate.

A very small girl opened the door to her knock. She looked up at Sarah with big brown eyes, her expression solemn, and didn’t utter a single word. Sarah couldn’t help smiling.

“Is Mrs. Wells at home?” she asked.

The little girl nodded her head and didn’t move.

“Could I come in to see her?” Sarah asked.

The girl had to think it over. Apparently, she decided Sarah was acceptable, because she stepped back after a few moments and opened the door wide enough for her visitor to enter. The red-haired girl who had answered the door the last time was hurrying down the hallway from the kitchen. “Aggie, I told you not to open the door!” she scolded the child.

The little one looked up at Sarah, gave her a mischievous grin, and scurried away, dodging the older girl to scramble up the staircase and out of sight.

“I’m sorry, miss,” the red-haired girl said, a little breathless from her rush. “Aggie don’t pay much mind to anybody but Mrs. Wells. Can I help you?”

“I came to see Mrs. Wells, if she’s available. Would you tell her Mrs. Brandt is here?”

“Mrs. Brandt, how good to see you,” Mrs. Wells said.

Sarah and the girl looked up in surprise to see her descending the stairs.

“Aggie told me I had a visitor.” She gave the red-haired girl a look that appeared only mildly disapproving, but the girl paled noticeably, and her eyes widened with apprehension.

“I’m that sorry, Mrs. Wells, truly I am!” she said anxiously. “She don’t pay me no mind when I tell her not to do something.”

“Doesn’t,” Mrs. Wells said, correcting her. “She doesn’t pay you any mind, Maeve. In that case, you need to watch her more closely, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she agreed eagerly and bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll do that, I will.” She hurried off up the stairs, presumably to find Aggie and watch her closely.

“One does try to teach them manners,” Mrs. Wells explained apologetically. “One isn’t always successful. Would you come in and sit down, Mrs. Brandt? I presume you’re here to discuss the party.” Sarah’s mother had scheduled the party to benefit the mission for Thursday evening.

Sarah followed her hostess into the parlor and took a seat on the worn sofa once more. “I’ll be glad to discuss the party, if you wish,” she began, “but I really came here to volunteer my services to you.”

Mrs. Wells was so self-contained that Sarah had a difficult time reading her reaction. She’d had one, of course, but it was so slight it might have been anything from pleasure to distaste. Sarah had no way of judging. “You said you are a midwife,” Mrs. Wells said, and Sarah heard the unspoken question.

“I’m sure you don’t have a need for a midwife at the mission, but I’m also a trained nurse. I was very impressed with the work you’re doing here, Mrs. Wells, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the mission. I want to help you in whatever way I can.”

“You’re already helping quite a bit by raising funds for our ministry here,” she reminded her.

Sarah folded her hands and leaned forward to show her sincerity. “I want to do more than that. I’d like to work directly with the girls.”

The expression on Mrs. Wells’s face looked almost like suspicion. “Doing what?”

“I could teach them a class in hygiene,” Sarah offered, glad she’d taken the time to think this through. “So many illnesses can be prevented by the simple application of soap and water, and you mentioned yourself how ignorant the people in the tenements are about the importance of cleanliness.”

“You’re right, of course,” she said, her voice carefully expressionless.

Sarah hadn’t really thought about what reaction she might get from her offer, but she’d certainly never imagined disapproval. “On the other hand,” Sarah said quickly, “if you have something else in mind, something you think would be more valuable, I would be happy to do whatever would help you the most.”

“My dear Mrs. Brandt, please don’t think I’m ungrateful for your offer,” she assured Sarah with one of her sweet smiles. “I didn’t mean to give that impression. I’m afraid… Well, quite frankly, people are often inspired when they see the work we do here and enthusiastically offer to help. Their enthusiasm seldom survives a few additional visits to the mission, however. You see, the idea of helping the poor is far more appealing than actually doing the work. The poor aren’t especially anxious to be helped, and they are seldom grateful.”

Now Sarah understood. She wasn’t the first upper-class woman to impulsively offer her assistance. “I’m not as innocent as you imagine, Mrs. Wells,” Sarah assured her. “My husband was a physician who worked with the poor, and I’ve delivered many babies right here in this neighborhood myself.”

“In that case, you understand the situation. I’m also reluctant to introduce someone new to the girls who might not ever return. If that happens frequently, the girls begin to believe they are repulsive in some way. God’s creatures should be humble, Mrs. Brandt, but not humiliated.”

Sarah nodded her understanding. “I promise you, I won’t disappear after one visit.”

This time Mrs. Wells folded her hands and leaned forward, her eyes dark with the soul-searching intensity Sarah had noticed before. “Mrs. Brandt, why are you doing this?”

Sarah thought she’d already explained herself. “I want to do something important with my life.”

“Why?”

Sarah hadn’t expected to be challenged, and she was surprised to realize she didn’t really have an answer to that question. “I… I guess it’s because of Emilia.”

“Because of her death?” Mrs. Wells asked.

Sarah knew this was a large part of her motivation. “Yes, that’s it. It’s difficult to accept that such a young girl with so much promise will never get the chance to fulfill her destiny.”

Mrs. Wells smiled kindly. “On the other hand, she’ll never fall back into a life of debauchery again either. If you are going to mourn for what might have been, you should know how few girls succeed in fulfilling the goals you had for Emilia.”

“But she was determined to have a decent life,” Sarah argued.

“They all are, when they arrive here. For every girl who stays pure, a dozen more backslide, and a thousand never come to us at all. Emilia had already failed once, and she might well have failed again. This time at least she was fortunate that she died in a state of grace and will spend eternity in heaven.”

“Are you saying her death was a blessing?” Sarah asked in amazement.

“Death can be a blessing, Mrs. Brandt. We should trust the Lord’s judgment.”

“But the Lord didn’t kill her,” Sarah pointed out. “A human being took matters into his own hands.”

“Then we must trust the Lord to be the judge of that, too.”

“I’m afraid I can’t be as forgiving as you, Mrs. Wells,” Sarah said. “I’d like to see justice done.”

“ ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,’ ” she quoted.

Sarah would have to be sure to tell Malloy that he and Mrs. Wells agreed about the necessity of catching Emilia’s killer. “I suppose I’m going to have to learn to accept your point of view.”

“Because you’ve seen the wisdom of it?”

“No, because the police have closed the investigation into Emilia’s death.”

“Closed it?” Mrs. Wells echoed as if she didn’t understand.

“Yes, they aren’t particularly interested in who killed her or why, and since no one else is either, they’re not going to waste any more time on it.”

Mrs. Wells was staring intently at Sarah. “Your friend Mr. Malloy seemed very determined to solve the case, and you were certain he would.”

“He was ordered to stop the investigation,” Sarah said, trying not to sound bitter. “I’m very much afraid no one will ever find out who killed Emilia.”

Mrs. Wells closed her eyes as a spasm of pain twisted her features. It was the first strong emotion Sarah had seen her display, and it lasted only a moment. Then she lowered her head, and Sarah realized she must be praying. Even though she hadn’t betrayed her grief at Emilia’s death, Sarah now knew she had been concealing her true emotions, holding them tightly in check as well-bred females were expected to do. Perhaps she had been hurt so many times, she could no longer allow herself to feel the true depths of anguish and loss at all. Even still, losing Emilia was a blow, and her grief was just as real as if she’d collapsed on the floor in hysterics.

When she raised her head, Sarah saw how fragile was her self-control and how strained the smile she managed. Her eyes were moist with unshed tears. “We must accept God’s will,” she said softly, as if trying to convince herself. Obviously, she wasn’t as resigned to Emilia’s death as she’d wanted Sarah to believe.

“The question is, will you accept me?” Sarah asked. “I couldn’t do anything for Emilia, but perhaps I can help the next girl. I’d like the chance to try.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Brandt,” she said, shedding her grief by force of will. “We would be honored to have you here.”

Frank shouldn’t have felt guilty. He didn’t have any reason to feel guilty. Nobody could find Emilia Donato’s killer. Even if someone knew something, the Italians didn’t trust the police. They’d carry a secret like that to their graves before sharing it with the cops. All things considered, the killer had probably spared the girl a life of misery anyway. Not that he approved of murder, of course, but some deaths were more tragic than others. This girl’s was less tragic than most.

And it wasn’t that he’d just given up or anything. He’d been ordered to close the case. He could lose his job if he disobeyed. Which was why he didn’t feel guilty, not a bit.

He just wished he could forget the expression on Sarah Brandt’s face when he’d told her they’d never find Emilia’s killer.

So now he was back in the alley where he’d found the mysterious Danny, the boy who supposedly knew who’d killed Sarah’s husband. This time he’d brought some help, though. He’d had to hunt down these two cops from the night watch and wake them up. When things were quiet, the beat cops found a safe hideyhole and nodded off. They weren’t too happy about being disturbed, but since he could’ve reported them for sleeping on duty and Commissioner Teddy Roosevelt had been cracking down on malingerers on the force, they weren’t complaining too much.

“You sure he’s back? I ain’t seen him around,” one of the cops asked as they groped their way through the alley to the rear of the tenements.

“He’s back,” Frank said with more confidence than he had a right to feel. What he knew for sure was that somebody was living in the hovel where he’d found Danny the last time. An empty space where no one would charge rent, no matter how humble, wouldn’t stay vacant for long. Probably the most he could hope for was that someone inside would know where to find Danny now. A slim possibility, to be sure, but the only one he had.

Frank cursed as he tripped over a drunk sleeping it off in the alley. “Light your lantern,” he told one of the cops irritably. “We’ll need to see who’s in the house.”

After some fumbling and some more cursing, the cop got the lantern lit. It made an eerie glow in the shadowy courtyard, revealing more sleeping forms on the ground here and there, drunks taking advantage of the relative shelter.

Frank sent one of the cops around behind the shanty in case someone tried to create a new exit through the rear wall when the trouble started. Then he stationed the other cop on one side of the crude doorway, holding the lantern up to illuminate the inmates, and he took the other side himself. When they were in position, he nodded to the cop with the lantern. The fellow raised his nightstick and pounded on the door, nearly shattering the flimsy structure with the force of his blow.

“Police!” he shouted. “Everybody out!”

The other cop began pounding on the back wall of the structure to hurry the evacuation process along.

The place came alive like a disturbed beehive. Shouts and screams and the sounds of bodies thudding against walls and each other erupted from within. In another second, the door swung open and small forms spewed out, arms covering heads to ward off blows from the dreaded locusts. They ran in every direction, disappearing into the darkness.

Frank waited like a patient fisherman, letting the little ones go. Finally, a larger figure emerged. The cop brought down his locust, and the taller boy fell to his knees with a cry of pain. He wasn’t Danny, but Frank grabbed him and dragged him out of the way, holding on to the limp form in case he was only faking injury. They watched until the last of the children had vanished, but Danny didn’t come out. Frank sent the cop with the lantern inside to make sure no one else was lingering, then he jerked his prisoner to his feet and slammed him up against the wall of the hovel.

The cop shone the lantern light directly in the boy’s face. He squinted in pain, but Frank recognized him as the one who had sliced his arm so Danny could escape. “Do you remember me, b’hoyo?” Frank asked menacingly.

The boy blinked, trying to focus, but having little success. He stank of beer, among other things, and the blow from the cop’s locust had scattered whatever brains he’d had left.

“Let’s take him down to Headquarters so he can think about his situation for a little while,” Frank suggested and turned him over to the two cops. They each took an arm and began dragging the protesting boy toward the alley that led to the street.

Frank followed, absently rubbing the cut on his arm. The stitches still itched like crazy. His mother said that was a good sign, but it didn’t feel good. It just made him angry. This kid would bear the brunt of his anger. Frank couldn’t help hoping the boy didn’t betray Danny too quickly.

Mrs. Wells had scheduled Sarah’s first class for Tuesday morning. The girls had entered the classroom quietly, almost hesitantly. She could see their wariness and suspicion. Like stray dogs who had been kicked too many times, they trusted no one. The red-haired girl, Maeve, was the worst of all. She glared at Sarah with undisguised animosity.

Sarah forced herself to keep smiling, as if she sensed nothing amiss. At least they were paying attention, she thought, painfully aware of their unblinking stares as she began her lesson. At first they seemed to be afraid to react, but then Sarah said something especially silly, just to test them. Someone in the back giggled, quickly slapping a hand over her mouth as if afraid of being reprimanded, but Sarah laughed, too, and soon they were all laughing. All except Maeve, who continued to glare.

Slowly, Sarah won them over. By the end of the class, they were interrupting each other with questions, raising their hands and waving them to capture her attention, if only for a few moments. When the class was finished and she dismissed them, they jostled each other, pushing and shoving, as they all tried to gather around her at once.

Their faces revealed a variety of ethnic backgrounds, the tongues a babble of different accents, but the eyes were all exactly alike. Every pair held an eager desperation for Sarah’s attention and approval. This, she knew, was why she’d come. Here was her chance to touch these girls’ lives and show them they had other alternatives than the ones they saw around them. She wanted to help them choose the right path so they didn’t end up selling themselves in the streets or worse.

Finally, the bell summoned the girls to their noon meal, and they reluctantly took their leave of her after extracting numerous promises that she would return. Only then did she notice the red-haired girl, Maeve, still lingering. She hadn’t joined the group that had surrounded Sarah but had hung back. When they were alone, she came forward.

“Did you have a question, Maeve?” Sarah asked kindly, hoping to break through the animosity.

Only then did she correctly identify the expression in Maeve’s brown eyes. She was defiant and… and haughty. Sarah could think of no other word to describe her. She came right up, looked Sarah straight in the eye, then turned and walked out of the room. Clearly, she wanted Sarah to know she didn’t need her attention the way the other girls did. She didn’t even want it. Sarah couldn’t help wondering why she had felt compelled to inform her of that.

After gathering her things, Sarah went to find Mrs. Wells to take her leave. Everyone was in the dining room. Plank tables had been set up there, and girls of all sizes and shapes lined the benches on either side of them.

“Won’t you join us, Mrs. Brandt?” Mrs. Wells asked before Sarah could say a thing. If she still harbored any reservations about Sarah’s motivations for being there, she hid them well. Her smile was warm and friendly.

“I don’t want to…” Sarah gestured helplessly. “Imppose.”

“You mean take food out of the children’s mouths?” Mrs. Wells guessed. “Nonsense. We’re just having soup and bread. One serving of each won’t make any difference at all. Please, have a seat.”

She indicated an empty place at the end of one of the tables, across from Maeve and the child Aggie. Maeve didn’t look pleased by Sarah’s choice of seats, but Aggie glanced up when Sarah sat down across from her. Her expression was still solemn, but her eyes danced with mischief.

“Aggie, behave,” Maeve warned sternly, giving Sarah a look that accused her of encouraging bad behavior.

“Maeve, please get Mrs. Brandt some luncheon,” Mrs. Wells said.

Maeve’s expression changed instantly. She smiled, practically beaming with pleasure as she looked up at Mrs. Wells. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, rising so quickly she would have knocked over the bench if the other girls’ weight hadn’t been holding it in place.

“I can serve myself,” Sarah protested, but Maeve didn’t even glance at her. She took her orders from Mrs. Wells and sought only to please her.

“You’re our guest,” Mrs. Wells said, sliding into the bench beside her. She had, Sarah noticed, gotten her own bowl of soup.

“Aggie seems young to be here,” Sarah observed, noticing the next youngest of the girls was at least several years older than the child. Aggie couldn’t be more than five and perhaps as young as three.

“She’s a foundling,” Mrs. Wells explained, giving Aggie a small smile which the child did not return. “We found her sleeping in our doorway one morning several months ago. She was painfully thin and filthy and dressed in rags, and she wouldn’t speak. We tried to find her family, but no one in the neighborhood knew who she was – or at least no one admitted it.”

“She’s still very quiet,” Sarah said, then smiled at Aggie. “Do you like living here, Aggie?”

The little girl did not return the smile, but she nodded slowly, deliberately, proving she’d understood Sarah’s question. Sarah had wondered if the child might be deaf, which would explain her being mute, but apparently, she could hear just fine.

“She still doesn’t speak,” Mrs. Wells explained. “And we don’t really know her name, of course. I named her Agnes, after my mother.”

“Sometimes children stop speaking when they are badly frightened by something,” Sarah said as Maeve returned with her soup and a slice of bread. Sarah didn’t even want to imagine what a child like Aggie might have seen to scare her speechless.

Maeve carried the soup carefully, not allowing so much as a drop to spill. She set it in front of Sarah with the air of one delivering a precious gift, then looked at Mrs. Wells for approval. She didn’t care if Sarah was pleased or not.

“Thank you, Maeve,” Mrs. Wells said, and the girl fairly beamed with pride.

Squaring her narrow shoulders, she took her own seat again, bumping Aggie slightly but deliberately in the process. The smaller girl cast Maeve an annoyed glance, but she didn’t make a fuss. Once again Sarah saw the mischievous gleam in her eyes.

Aggie got up from her place, walked around to where Mrs. Wells sat, and gently tugged at the woman’s sleeve. Mrs. Wells looked down.

“What is it, Aggie?”

The child gave her a beseeching look and held out her arms. No one could have resisted such an appeal. She reached down and lifted the child into her lap. “You haven’t finished your soup,” she said and pulled the child’s bowl over so she could feed her.

Sarah happened to glance over at Maeve and caught a look of sheer loathing in the girl’s honey brown eyes. Jealousy was an ugly thing, Sarah thought, looking to see if the other girls shared this emotion. To her surprise, she saw that most of them were staring at the cozy couple with unabashed envy. When she looked back at Aggie, she caught the little one giving the rest of them a superior smirk that Mrs. Wells couldn’t see.

The hair on Sarah’s arms rose as a chill raced over her. So much for her illusions that the mission was a haven from the evils of the world. If she’d thought of this as Eden, it was an Eden where the serpent operated freely.

Did Mrs. Wells suspect the petty rivalries that existed? Did she realize she was sowing seeds of discord among her charges simply by favoring one who appeared to be weaker and more helpless than the others? Surely not, Sarah decided. Someone as caring as Mrs. Wells wouldn’t consciously foster such rivalries, and she certainly wouldn’t let the rivalries continue if she knew about them. But no wonder so many of the girls backslid, as Mrs. Wells had lamented. They’d come here seeking acceptance and found only more of the rejection they’d known outside.

Sarah was wondering how she could tactfully point out what was happening when Mrs. Wells asked, “How is your soup, Mrs. Brandt?”

“It’s delicious,” Sarah lied, then took her first spoonful. Fortunately, it was tasty enough that she didn’t have to retract her praise.

“We are fortunate that several of the grocers supply us at a very reasonable cost, and my father was a butcher,” she said, feeding Aggie another spoonful of soup. “He always sold the better cuts of meat to his customers, so I learned early in life how to use the parts no one else wanted. We pinch every penny we receive in donations.”

“You must be sure to mention that on Thursday night,” Sarah said. “Which girls will you be bringing with you to the party?”

Instantly, Sarah regretted the question. Although Mrs. Wells seemed unaware of it, Sarah could literally feel the wave of reaction that swept through the room. The eyes of every girl had turned to her. Obviously, they’d known nothing about a party or the prospect of attending. Their desperate longing to be chosen was palpable – and not very pleasant to behold. These were children who very recently would have sold their bodies or even their souls for a crust of bread. What might they do for such an honor as this?

Looking at the desire burning in those eyes, Sarah could almost imagine they might do murder.

“No, Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Wells replied, still engrossed in feeding Aggie her soup. “I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Frank stifled a yawn as he finished up his report on the warehouse robbery he’d just solved. The hour was late, and he was the last detective still working at Police Headquarters, but Frank had to admit that was the only inconvenience involved. If real business ran as smoothly as criminal business did in the city, Millionaires’ Row would be a hundred miles long, he thought, recalling how easily he’d put this case to rest. The Short Tail Gang had robbed a warehouse of a shipment of dry goods, and the owners had summoned the police. Frank let it be known among his informants that he’d been assigned to the case, and the next day a member of the gang approached him. After some negotiating, they’d settled on the amount of the reward, and he’d notified the owners, who had duly posted it. Then Frank had been able to locate the missing goods exactly where the gang member told him they would be. The owners paid Frank the reward, he gave the gang their share, and everyone was happy. Except, of course, the poor folks who had to pay more for their dry goods to cover the cost of the reward.

Why couldn’t all crimes be solved in such a civilized manner? Frank’s job would be so much easier, and he’d be able to make captain a lot sooner. Making the rank of captain had always been his goal, because of the financial security that came with it. Captains received a percentage of all bribes paid to the men in their command, and they retired as wealthy men. Ever since Brian was born, Frank had believed the child would never be able to earn a living and would need to be supported the rest of his life. A mere policeman or even a detective sergeant couldn’t hope to leave a legacy large enough for that. A captain could, though, even after paying the $14,000 bribe necessary to obtain the appointment.

Brian’s recent operation had taken some of Frank’s “captain” savings, but it had also reduced the possibility that Brian would require the kind of care Frank had once envisioned. The boy was still deaf, but even that might not be much of a handicap. Educators he’d spoken with assured Frank that the boy could learn a trade and make a living. So maybe making captain wasn’t so important after all. Maybe, instead, he had a totally different kind of obligation to his son.

And to Sarah Brandt.

He stacked the reports neatly and filed them. Then he sighed and made his way back down the stairs to the lobby of the building. The offices were mostly empty at this time of night, and the rest of the building was quiet. No one had brought in any prisoners for a while, and those who were already in custody had been locked away two floors below in the dank dungeon that passed for a jail.

Frank wearily headed down the stairs to the cells. The stench of unwashed bodies, vomit, and human waste was like a miasma in this airless, windowless hole. The night guard slept in his chair, snoring loudly, as did many of the inmates who were curled on filthy mattresses or on the even filthier floor. Others sat, sleepless, staring into the constant darkness with haunted eyes.

Frank picked up the guard’s locust and poked it through the bars to prod a body that sat huddled against them, trembling even in sleep. He started awake, coming to his feet instantly, ready to ward off whatever attack was imminent. His crazed gaze finally settled on Frank, standing patiently outside the bars.

“Hello, Billy boy,” Frank said cheerfully. “How are you feeling? Are they taking good care of you down here?”

Billy was the boy Frank had found living in Danny’s hovel. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since Frank had brought him in, but he’d steadfastly refused to betray his friend. Frank could have charged him with assaulting a police officer – for cutting his arm the day he’d tried to arrest Danny – but that would have meant transferring him to the city jail. In spite of its nickname, The Tombs was a palace compared to this lockup. Frank figured Billy would never betray his friend once he’d settled in over there in relative comfort.

Frank had begun to doubt he would break even here, but seeing him now, he realized the fight had finally gone out of the boy. Stronger men than he had broken in this place.

“Get me out of here,” the boy pleaded in a broken whisper.

“I’ll be glad to, just as soon as you tell me what I want to know,” Frank said pleasantly.

“I’ll tell you anything. Please,” he added, his youthful face twisting with the effort of begging.

Frank told the guard to let Billy out, and he had the boy taken to an interrogation room on the floor above. He smelled pretty bad, Frank noted when he closed the door to the room behind him. He wore only a ragged pair of pants and an equally disreputable shirt, all he’d had time to grab on his dash out of the hovel after the raid. Shoeless and coatless, he’d suffered from the chill of the cellar in addition to all the other discomforts. A stocky young man, he’d been quite formidable when Frank met him the first time. Now he sat with shoulders hunched and eyes lowered to the table.

He looked up warily, showing a black eye and bruised face beneath a layer of grime. Frank had administered some of the bruises, while others were courtesy of his cell mates. The other men would have subjected him to additional indignities as well, unspeakable things he’d never tell a soul for as long as he lived. Frank had tried to warn him last night, but the boy had to learn the hard way.

Frank pulled out the other chair, and the boy jumped at the noise. He eyed Frank as a cornered rat would have eyed a dog. “Are you hungry, Billy?” Frank asked.

The boy nodded quickly.

“I’ll bet you’d appreciate a square meal and a clean bed.”

The boy nodded again, more slowly this time, as if sensing a trick.

“You know,” Frank said thoughtfully, “you ruined a perfectly good suit when you cut my arm. I get mad whenever I think about it.”

“I don’t know where Danny is,” Billy said.

Frank started to rise.

“But I’ve got some ideas where you could find him,” the boy added hastily.

Frank took his seat again and waited.

“What’ll I get if I tell you?” the boy asked.

Frank smiled. “You’re in no position to bargain, Billy boy,” he reminded him. “What you’ll get if you don’t tell me is to rot right here. I can hold out as long as you can, but every day that passes gives Danny a chance to hide better and gives you less of a chance of giving me information that will help me find him.”

“What did he do that you want to find him?”

“You can ask him that yourself when you see him in The Tombs,” Frank replied, losing his patience. “Now are you going to talk or do I send you back downstairs?” He started to rise again, but the boy stopped him.

“All right, all right!” he cried, motioning for Frank to sit back down. “I’ll tell you everything I know. Like I said, he might not be in any of the places, but maybe somebody there’ll know where he is.”

Frank reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his notebook and a pencil. Wetting the tip of the lead on his tongue, he said, “Start talking.”

A half an hour later, Frank had only had to cuff the boy a couple times to remind him not to lie. Satisfied he’d gotten all he could for now, he said, “I’ll call the guard.”

“I’m going to The Tombs now, right?” Billy said hopefully.

Frank called the guard and stood back as two burly men came in. “Take him back downstairs,” he said.

“No!” Billy cried and began swearing and fighting as the guards jerked him to his feet. Several blows from the locust sticks subdued him enough to allow the guards to drag him out without too much trouble. He still cursed Frank roundly as his voice faded down the hallway.

Frank looked at the list of locations Billy had given him. None of them were places he could go alone at night, and some would be risky even during the day. He’d need to get some patrolmen to go with him, but that would have to wait until tomorrow. Billy would have to spend another night in the cellar, but he certainly deserved it. And if he’d lied, he’d be even more anxious to make amends tomorrow.

Frank tucked his notes back into his coat pocket and made his way upstairs and out into the street. He’d get an early start tomorrow. Tonight he’d go back to his flat and spend a few minutes watching his son sleep to remind himself why this was all worthwhile.

Sarah had spent the day delivering twins to a family who already had five more children than they could feed. The mother was so sickly, Sarah doubted she’d be able to nourish two babies adequately. The babies would doubtless die, and the effort might kill the mother, too. Tomorrow she would return to check on everyone and suggest an orphanage for the infants. They might even be adopted if they were healthy, which meant any delay in placing them would lower their chances.

Convincing the family was often difficult, however. For some reason, people thought it cruel to put an infant in an orphanage, but thought nothing of turning a five-year-old out into the streets to fend for itself. If this woman died, her husband would probably be unable to keep the family together and all of the children would be on the streets. No one wanted to imagine themselves being that desperately cruel in the future, however, so people were reluctant to take steps to prevent it.

Sarah knew of a few good orphanages in the city, but she couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Wells had contacts someplace. If Sarah could assure the family of the babies’ care, convincing them might be easier. As she left the family’s tenement, she turned her steps toward Mulberry Street.

The weather was unseasonably warm, teasing in its promise of spring. But soon the winter wind would whistle through the city streets, stealing men’s hats and freezing the unfortunates whose only home was a sheltered doorway. As Sarah reached the mission, she heard the sound of shouting coming from inside. Even stranger, the shouter was a man.

Thinking Mrs. Wells might need assistance, she hurried up the front steps and let herself in without knocking.

Once inside, she realized the shouting was also in Italian.

“Please, Mr. Donato,” Mrs. Wells was saying very calmly and patiently. “I can’t understand you unless you speak English.”

Mr. Donato! Could it be Emilia’s father? The doors to the parlor were open, and Sarah saw a middle-aged man dressed as a laborer confronting Mrs. Wells. He stood only a few inches taller than she, but his body was thickened by years of hard labor. He was shaking his fist in her face, but miraculously, Mrs. Wells didn’t seem the least bit concerned for her safety.

“You have money,” Donato was saying. “Give money for bury Emilia!”

“I told you, we’re all very sorry about Emilia’s death, but the mission simply doesn’t have money to spare for something like that. I dearly wish we could help, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take care of her yourself.”

“No have money to bury!” Donato informed her. “You have money. You bury!”

Mrs. Wells still betrayed no hint of apprehension. She stared Donato straight in the eye. “I cannot help you,” she said loudly. Many people believed they could make those who didn’t speak English understand them if they shouted. “And if you don’t leave, I’m afraid I shall have to summon the police.”

He may not have understood much else, but he knew the word “police.” He stiffened in alarm and muttered something unpleasant in Italian. Then he turned on his heel and hurried from the room. Sarah stepped out of the way just in time to avoid being run over. He hardly spared her a glance.

“Mrs. Brandt,” Mrs. Wells exclaimed in surprise. They both winced as Donato slammed the door behind him. Then Mrs. Wells managed a small smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s no wonder,” Sarah said, coming into the room. “You were otherwise engaged. Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, although she did look a bit pale. “That was Emilia’s father. He’s naturally upset. It seems he inquired about her body at the city morgue and was told she’d be put in a pauper’s grave unless he claimed the body.”

“I gather he can’t afford to bury her himself.”

“No, and he just wouldn’t accept the fact that the mission doesn’t have money for that sort of thing, either.” Mrs. Wells sighed and sat down in one of the chairs. Obviously, the encounter had upset her more than she wanted to admit. “I’d like nothing better than to give Emilia a Christian burial, but it just isn’t possible.”

“Funerals are more for the living, I’ve always believed,” Sarah said by way of comfort. “The dead certainly don’t need them, but it helps the mourners accept the loss better.”

“We did have a memorial service for her with the other girls,” Mrs. Wells said. “That was all I could do, since her family is Catholic and wouldn’t attend a service here anyway.”

“Then you mustn’t feel guilty,” Sarah said. “You’ve done what you could.”

“Thank you for your encouragement, Mrs. Brandt.” Mrs. Wells smiled her sweet smile. “Now, was there some reason you stopped by or were you just sent by an angel to rescue me from Mr. Donato?”

Sarah began to tell her about the twin babies and their family, but even as she spoke, she was thinking about Emilia being buried in a pauper’s grave. Sarah didn’t want that either, and she was certain she could figure out some way to help her family.