Murder On Mulberry Bend

5

“A STILETTO?” SHE REPEATED, AS IF SHE’D NEVER heard the word before. Maybe she hadn’t, Frank thought.

“It’s a long, thin-bladed knife. The Italians like it, for some reason. Probably because it goes in so easily.”

She flinched at the image, and he instantly regretted drawing it for her. “Here, let’s put her clothes back in the bag. I’ll tell Haynes your theory. He can check to see exactly what happened.”

He took the jacket from her and began stuffing it into the bag, but she made a sound of protest and snatched both of them away from him. Probably, she didn’t think he was showing enough respect. She carefully folded the jacket and placed it into the bag along with the rest of her things. When everything was tucked away, she gently pulled the sheet back up over the dead girl, preserving what little was left of her privacy. Her hand lingered for a moment, smoothing the girl’s hair one last time.

“Come on,” he said, his voice sounding a little gravelly to his own ears. “Let’s get some fresh air.”

“Aren’t you going to speak to the coroner first?”

“He’s not here right now. I’ll come back later.”

He took her arm when she hesitated. He certainly didn’t mind touching her, and she didn’t resist when he led her to the door and out into the hallway and up the stairs. When they emerged into the crisp, sunny afternoon, they stopped as if by mutual consent to take a deep breath.

Malloy looked down at her. At least she wasn’t crying anymore. He’d never seen her cry before. They’d been through a lot together, including several attempts on her life, and none of those adventures had brought her even close to tears. Who would have guessed the death of a girl she hardly knew would do it? He certainly hoped he’d never have to witness such a sight again. It had nearly unmanned him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, looking up at him. “I’m furious.” She looked it, too.

Greatly relieved, he asked, “At who?”

“At whoever killed that girl. Do you think it was the Black Hand?”

“How do you know about the Black Hand?” he challenged.

“Everyone knows about the Black Hand. They’re the most despicable creatures on earth. Imagine blackmailing your own kind, people who are slaving away just to make a living.”

The members of this secret society sold “protection” to their fellows. The police did pretty much the same thing, except if you didn’t pay the police, you were simply at the mercy of the laws you were already breaking. The Black Hand sold you protection from themselves. If you didn’t pay, they’d beat you or damage your business or burn it to the ground. Sometimes they even used bombs, if they wanted to make a particular example of someone. Killing people also set an example, although you couldn’t collect money from a dead person, so murder was only used as a last resort. A very nasty bunch.

“Why would the Black Hand want to kill this girl?” he asked, taking her elbow again to encourage her on her way.

“I have no idea. That’s what we have to find out.”

And that’s what he’d been afraid of. “I can’t help thinking that if Commissioner Roosevelt had appointed you to the police department, it would have been in all the newspapers.”

She gave him a look that told him she didn’t appreciate his attempt at humor. “Do you really think you’ll find out anything useful from the girls at the mission? They’ll be too frightened of you to say a word.”

“I’m sure those girls have seen much worse things than a police detective, Mrs. Brandt. Don’t forget where they came from before they got to the mission.”

She was glaring at him now, her blue eyes flashing fire. For a moment he thought of Kathleen. If she’d even thought about crying, her eyes and nose would turn beet red for hours. Sarah Brandt’s fair complexion showed no trace of the tears she’d shed over the dead girl. He wondered vaguely if that was because she’d been born rich.

“Malloy, you know I can help you with this,” she argued.

“Nobody can help me if it’s the Black Hand. Even if somebody knows who killed her, they’ll never tell. They’re all too scared… and they should be.”

“That’s terrible! How will they ever be free of those devils if no one speaks against them?”

“How will somebody ever speak against them if they’re dead?” he replied quite reasonably, if she’d just admit it.

She wouldn’t. “The police should do something then!”

“Like what? Arrest everybody in Little Italy?”

“You must have an idea who the ring leaders are,” she insisted.

“Even if we did – and didn’t anybody tell you that it’s a secret society? – what would we do with them?”

“Put them on trial!”

“For what? And who would testify against them? You can’t just lock somebody up because you think they deserve it. If you could, this world would be a better place.”

Even she didn’t have an answer for that. Or at least he didn’t think she did. He was busy looking for a Hansom cab to take her home when she said, “I wouldn’t be afraid to testify against them. That’s why you should let me help you with this case.”

He turned on her the look that made hardened criminals tremble in their chairs. “And that’s exactly why I’m not going to let you anywhere near this case.”

His glare had no effect on her whatsoever. “Then how will you ever solve it?”

“I won’t solve it. Nobody will. Sarah, listen to me,” he said, forgetting not to use her first name. “You told me yourself this girl was a prostitute.”

“She had been once, but she wasn’t anymore, not since she went to live at the mission!”

As if that made a difference. “Her family disowned her. They won’t care that she’s dead. No one will care. She’ll be just one of the hundreds of people who die in this city every year without being noticed.”

“I’ll notice! I’ll care!”

She’d claimed she was furious a few minutes ago, but she’d only been getting started then. She was really amazing when she got good and mad. “Enough to get yourself killed by asking the wrong people the wrong questions?”

“I’m not going to do that!” she insisted.

“You’ve done it before,” he reminded her.

This time she gave him a murderous glare that almost made him smile, because it meant that for once she didn’t have an answer.

“You can’t just go waltzing down to Mulberry Bend and start asking people who killed this girl,” he said, prepared to be reasonable now that she was silenced. “No one will trust you, so no one will tell you anything. And if you get too annoying, somebody will stick a knife into you, too. I really will find you dead, and if you ever put me through that again,” he threatened, shaking a finger in her face, “I’ll kill you!”

She blinked in surprise, and only when she grinned did he realize how ridiculous his threat was. Whatever ground he had gained vanished, evaporating in the blaze of her smile. “Malloy, you always amaze me.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw his salvation. A Hansom cab was coming toward them. He held up a hand to flag it down.

“Where are we going?” she asked when she realized what he was doing.

“You are going home, where you’ll be safe.”

She didn’t like that a bit. “You can’t just let this girl’s killer go free!”

Frank supposed being rich gave you a completely different way of thinking. It wasn’t a very good way, either. “I told you,” he said, trying to be patient when he really wanted to start shouting at her. “Nobody will care that this girl is dead.”

“You mean nobody will pay a reward to find her killer,” she said, knowing full well how angry this would make him. Everybody knew the police solved crimes only when a reward was involved or when someone in power demanded it. Frank hated that it was true, but it was the only way he could support his family, since no one could be expected to live on the meager salaries the police department paid.

He managed to hold his temper and say quite reasonably, “I mean nobody will give me any information, so it won’t matter if there’s a reward or not.” If she offered to give him a reward to solve the case, he really would kill her.

Fortunately, she knew better than that. “Aren’t you even going to try?” she asked, which made him even madder than if she’d offered him a reward.

“I’m going down to the mission now to tell them she’s dead and find out what her last name was,” he said, trying hard not to grit his teeth or sound angry. “Then I’ll try to locate her family and tell them.”

“But…” she began to protest. He held up his hand to stop her.

“I will also ask them questions and try to find out who might’ve killed her. My guess is they’ll swear she didn’t have an enemy in the world and they don’t have any idea who could’ve done it. If I’m wrong,” he continued when she would have interrupted him again, “and they tell me they think a lover killed her or some jealous wife, then I’ll investigate. But don’t count on it,” he added.

He’d expected another argument, but she seemed pleased with this promise. “So if you get some information, you’ll investigate?” she asked.

“Yes, I will.” Now he was gritting his teeth. He couldn’t help it. “Do you want me to take a blood oath or something?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said with one of her smiles. “Your word is good enough for me.”

The cab had finally managed to pull over to the curb, and the driver was waiting for his passenger.

“Now swear to me you’ll go straight home,” he said as he handed her into the cab.

“Of course I will,” she said, holding up her hand as if to take an oath.

Frank frowned as he gave the driver the address on Bank Street. She’d given in far too easily. She was up to something. He just hoped to God it didn’t get her killed.

Sarah settled back into her seat and tried not to remember how poor Emilia had looked lying there so cold and dead in the morgue. She couldn’t help thinking that she somehow could have prevented the girl’s death, even though she knew that was ridiculous. She didn’t even know why Emilia had been killed, so how could she have prevented it? Logic didn’t prevent her from wanting to weep again, however. She couldn’t explain her tears back there at the morgue, but she knew they had come partly from a sense of helplessness. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop evil from triumphing. And heaven knew, she wasn’t really trying very hard most of the time.

She thought of Mrs. Wells. Now she was trying. And she was succeeding. Sarah might not share her religious fervor, but she had to respect the woman. Look at all those young girls who were safe at the mission, probably for the first time in their lives. They were learning how to take care of themselves, earn an honest living, and have self-respect. Compared to that, Sarah had never accomplished anything worthwhile.

Oh, she knew that saving babies and their mothers from dying in childbirth was important, but what happened to them after that? Perhaps she’d saved them for a life of misery. She had never considered this possibility, and she didn’t like the thought at all. Was it possible for her to do the kind of lasting good that Mrs. Wells did at the mission? She didn’t know. Certainly, not many people could accomplish what Mrs. Wells had. Not many people would have had the courage and dedication to even try.

But if Sarah couldn’t do that work herself, perhaps she could at least help those who did. Mrs. Wells needed volunteers and supporters. She remembered what Richard had said about his wife. Hazel Dennis had first gotten involved when a friend had been asked to make a donation to the mission. Mrs. Wells probably had to work very hard to keep contributions coming from wealthy people like the Dennises. Cultivating wealthy donors would take a lot of time and energy away from the real work she was doing. She would probably greatly appreciate some help in that area, and Sarah was certainly in a position to give it to her.

She reached up and knocked on the roof of the cab to get the driver’s attention.

“Yes, miss?” he called down.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Could you take me to West Fifty-seventh Street instead, please?”

“I sure can,” he replied happily. The longer distance would mean a higher fare. Sarah sat back and began to plan what she was going to say to her mother.

Elizabeth and Felix Decker lived in a townhouse right off Fifth Avenue, not too far from Marble Row, where millionaires flaunted their wealth with marble-fronted homes. The Deckers were more modest about their wealth, but they were probably even richer than anyone on Marble Row.

The maid recognized her instantly and admitted her at once, greeting her by name. Sarah couldn’t help remembering that this same girl had almost turned her away a few short months ago as unworthy to enter. Her long estrangement from her parents had made her a stranger to their household.

“Mrs. Decker is in her salon, Mrs. Brandt,” the girl told her. “I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you. Shall I tell her you’re here?”

“I’ll go with you and save you a trip,” Sarah offered, certain her mother would be “at home” to her.

Her mother was writing letters at her desk, a delicately carved work of art. She looked up in surprise when the maid announced her daughter, and a smile brightened her lovely face.

“Sarah, my dear, I hope you’ve come to tell me what a wonderful time you had at the opera with Richard,” she exclaimed, rising from her chair and hurrying over to give her daughter a kiss.

Sarah felt a twinge of guilt. She probably should have come over much sooner to give her mother a report on her first outing with the very eligible Mr. Dennis. She also felt guilty that wasn’t her reason for being here today, either. Still, her mother never had to know it. “I did have a wonderful time, Mother,” she said, taking a seat beside her mother on an exquisite brocaded sofa. “Do you want to hear about every thrilling aria and all the glorious costumes?”

“Of course not,” her mother said. “I want to know how you and Richard got along.” She folded her hands expectantly.

Sarah didn’t want to disappoint her mother. Mrs. Decker had been hoping to see her daughter married to someone she considered suitable ever since the day Tom Brandt had died. Both of her daughters had married men she considered unworthy of them. That decision had cost Sarah’s sister Maggie her life. Sarah’s choice had given her three joyous years followed by three years of mourning after Tom’s death. She couldn’t blame her mother for wanting to see her settled again. Unfortunately, she’d never see her settled with Richard Dennis. Sarah couldn’t bear to tell her that, however. At least not so soon.

“We got along very well,” Sarah said quite truthfully. “He’s a very charming man.”

Mrs. Decker frowned. “You don’t like him.”

“I like him very much,” Sarah protested, wondering how her mother could have come to such a conclusion.

“Very charming?” Mrs. Decker said, mocking Sarah’s words. “I could say that about my footmen. In fact, I consider it a qualification of employment for them.”

“What should I have said?” Sarah asked contritely.

Mrs. Decker sighed in mock dismay. “You should have said he was handsome and exciting and the most fascinating man you’ve ever met.”

“But we hardly know each other,” she protested good-naturedly.

“Which is exactly why you could have found him fascinating. Fascination seldom survives long acquaintance, as I’m sure you know.”

Sarah didn’t bother to hide her smile. “I’m sorry to be such a constant source of disappointment to you, Mother.”

Mrs. Decker waved her disappointment away. “I’m growing used to it now, Sarah. I’ve despaired of ever finding a man who will suit you.”

For some reason, Sarah thought of Frank Malloy. No one would consider him suitable for her, least of all Frank Malloy, but she had to admit the idea was intriguing. She didn’t mention it to her mother, however.

“I’m afraid Richard isn’t ready to remarry either,” she confessed.

Mrs. Decker was surprised at that. “Hazel has been gone at least four years now.”

“Five, I think. But he’s still married to her in his mind. In fact, I don’t think he would have invited me to the opera if he thought I was seriously interested in a relationship with him.”

“Why else would he have invited you, then?” her mother asked in amazement.

Sarah couldn’t believe how easily she had brought the subject up. “He wanted me to help him understand his wife better.”

“But you didn’t even know her.”

“No, but I do have some understanding of the work she was doing when she died.”

“Work?” Her mother said the word as if it were slightly distasteful.

“Yes, Hazel Dennis was helping at the Prodigal Son Mission down by Mulberry Bend in Little Italy.”

Mrs. Decker absorbed this astonishing piece of information. “She hardly seemed the type, from what I remember of her. What is this place like? What kind of work do they do there?”

“They help young girls. Some of them have been abandoned by their families and others have run away from theirs because things were so bad for them there. They have no place to go and no honest way to make a living. The mission gives them a place to live and food to eat and an education. They also teach them how to operate a sewing machine and other skills they can use to get a job.”

Her mother was frowning again. “How do you know so much about it?”

“Because Richard and I went there on Sunday afternoon for a visit.”

She brightened instantly. “You went there together?”

“He asked me to accompany him. He wanted to find out why Hazel had been so interested in their work.”

“That was kind of you, Sarah.”

“I’m a kind person, Mother,” she reminded her with a grin.

“Of course you are,” Mrs. Decker said with a grin of her own. “And a lovely one.”

“At any rate, Richard was pleased with what he saw at the mission, and so was I. In fact, I was just thinking on the way over here today that I’d like to do something to help them myself.”

Mrs. Decker surprised her by frowning yet again. This frown looked worried. “That’s an admirable sentiment, Sarah, but I must warn you, it’s very difficult to compete with a ghost.”

For a moment, Sarah had no idea what her mother was talking about, but then it hit her. “I have no intention of competing with Hazel Dennis,” Sarah assured her.

“That’s the spirit,” Mrs. Decker said, making Sarah want to roll her eyes.

“I mean it, Mother,” she insisted. “I’m not interested in taking Hazel’s place in Richard’s life.”

“You would be foolish to even try.”

Sarah was beginning to think her mother was deliberately misunderstanding her, but she didn’t want to take the time to find out. She had a more important task to accomplish today.

“I do, however, want to help the mission, if I can.”

“Are you going to offer to deliver babies for them?” her mother asked doubtfully.

Sarah almost laughed at the notion. “I think the idea of the mission is to prevent them from having babies. No, I had something more practical in mind.”

Her mother was an intelligent woman. She guessed instantly. “And you want me to help.”

“Yes, I want you to have a party.”

“For the people at the mission?” She was horrified at the very thought.

“No, for your rich friends, so we can ask them to make a donation to the mission.”

Sarah didn’t know what reaction she’d expected, but her mother had heard only one word in that sentence. “We?”

She’d said that by accident, but it had turned out to be the magic word. “Well, I haven’t actually asked him, but I’d like Richard to help host the party. He already said he was going to make a donation himself, in Hazel’s memory. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind asking others to do the same.”

“How could he possibly refuse?” her mother asked. “We’ll ask everyone to make a donation in Hazel’s memory.”

Sarah could see she was already mentally composing a guest list. “How soon can you arrange it?”

“I’ll have to check my calendar, but I think a week should be enough time. I’ll have my secretary start making out the invitations this afternoon. As soon as I hear from you that Richard has agreed to participate,” she added shrewdly.

Her mother drove a hard bargain. “I’ll stop by his office on the way home and ask him.”

Sarah was probably being cruel, getting her mother’s hopes up like this. Still, she knew perfectly well Richard Dennis wasn’t any more interested in marriage than she was. Sarah would never have to refuse a marriage proposal she hadn’t received, and her mother would have a few weeks of happiness, imagining her daughter marrying her way back into Society’s Four Hundred.

Frank was only too familiar with the Prodigal Son Mission. He’d watched its transformation from a rundown boardinghouse into its present incarnation when Reverend Wells first took possession of it. He’d also watched a parade of young girls going through there during the past several years. Some had gone on to find respectable jobs and even to marry. Others had escaped back into the world they’d originally fled, managing to find men to mistreat and abuse them and make their lives even more miserable than before. He’d long since ceased to wonder why some chose one path and others another.

The girl who answered his knock was Irish, all gangly limbs, frizzy red hair, and enormous eyes that stared up at him apprehensively. People always knew he was a cop, even though he dressed just like every other man in the city. Nobody liked cops, and most people feared them.

A swear word escaped her young lips before she could stop it, and she quickly covered her mouth in horror at the slip. Probably, they frowned on swearing at the mission.

“Is Mrs. Wells here?” he asked as kindly as he could, hoping to reassure her.

“She ain’t done nothing. Nobody here done nothing!” she argued.

“I didn’t say they did,” he reminded her. “Now if you don’t want to get Mrs. Wells, I guess I’ll have to come in and find her myself.”

That prospect frightened the girl even more. “I’ll get her,” she cried, but she slammed the door in his face instead of inviting him in, as she should have. The lapse in etiquette didn’t bother Frank. As soon as her footsteps clattered away, he opened the door and stepped inside anyway.

The place fairly echoed with emptiness. The sparse furniture, bare wooden floors, and religious pictures made him think this was what a convent would look like. He doubted Mrs. Wells would appreciate the comparison.

He could hear the sounds of activity from upstairs, and after a few more minutes, a woman he recognized as Mrs. Wells came down the staircase. She moved slowly, her hand resting gently on the rail, her back rigidly straight, her face calmly expressionless. She was in no hurry to see him, nor was she reluctant. She had nothing to fear from the police.

“Mrs. Wells,” he said, removing his bowler hat as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, not at all concerned about whatever he might have to say to her.

Frank glanced up the stairs and saw several young faces peering over the railing above, straining to hear what he was saying.

“Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

“I don’t pay protection money to the police,” she warned him. “Our heavenly Father protects us.”

Frank decided to ignore the provocation. “I have some news about one of your…” He gestured helplessly, not certain what to call the girls who lived here.

“Guests?” she supplied.

“Yeah, one of your guests,” he agreed, glancing up the stairs again. More faces were staring down at them now. All sounds of activity upstairs had stopped.

She glanced up, too, and instantly the faces vanished. The sound of scurrying footsteps was followed by the slamming of a door, and all was quiet. She turned back to Frank.

“Very well,” she said. “Please step into the parlor.”

He followed her into a shabbily furnished room. She didn’t bother to close the doors – or maybe she didn’t trust him enough to close the doors. She turned to face him, neither offering him a seat nor taking one herself.

“What is it?” she asked, making it clear she still didn’t think his visit was important.

“Did you have a girl named Emilia living here?”

Finally, he saw the apprehension he would have expected, although she was trying hard not to let it show. “A girl named Emilia lives here, yes,” she said cautiously.

“Blond hair, brown eyes?”

“Yes,” she said, clearly reluctant to admit it. “Why are you asking about Emilia? What’s happened?”

“She was found dead this morning in City Hall Park.”

She took a moment to absorb the shock. “That’s impossible,” she finally said. People always denied death at first.

“Why? Is she here now?”

Mrs. Wells’s apprehension was slowly giving way to anxiety. “No, but…” She glanced out the doorway, as if expecting to see the girl standing there. “She was going out this morning to look for work. She hasn’t come back yet, but I expect her any moment.”

“She won’t be coming back, Mrs. Wells. She’s dead.”

She shook her head slightly in silent denial. “I can’t… There must be some mistake.”

“There isn’t. She was identified at the morgue.”

Mrs. Wells was beginning to look noticeably agitated. “Who could have identified her?”

“Mrs. Sarah Brandt.”

“Who…?” she began, but then she remembered. And frowned with what might have been disapproval. “Oh, yes, Mr. Dennis’s friend.”

Frank felt as if he’d been punched. Dennis’s friend! Sarah had said she came here on Sunday. Had Dennis come with her? If so, she’d been with him on Saturday night and on Sunday, too. She’d only known him for a week! He felt something burning in his chest, as bitter as gall.

“Detective?” Mrs. Wells said sharply. “I asked you a question.”

“What was it?” he asked, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand.

“I asked you how Mrs. Brandt came to identify Emilia’s body.”

“She was wearing Mrs. Brandt’s clothing. I thought she might know who the girl was, so I asked her to come to the morgue.”

Mrs. Wells was completely bewildered. “How did you know she was wearing Mrs. Brandt’s clothing?”

“Because Mrs. Brandt is a friend of mine, too,” he said with a small sense of satisfaction.

Fortunately, Elizabeth Decker had suggested Sarah telephone to make sure Richard would be in his office this afternoon. He’d planned to go out, but he changed his plans immediately when he learned Sarah needed to see him. After Sarah had luncheon with her mother, she’d been delivered to Richard’s bank in the Decker family carriage, complete with its charming footmen.

Now she was being escorted directly into his private office by an obsequious little man whose plump body had been stuffed into a suit that was too small for him. When she entered his office, Richard rose from behind his desk and came out to greet her, taking her hand in both of his.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked in his very charming way as he led her to one of the chairs in front of his desk. Instead of returning to his place behind it, he sat in the other chair beside her. She had his full attention.

“I’m afraid our visit to the mission on Sunday had a profound effect on me,” she began, debating whether to tell him about Emilia’s murder. No use in starting out on such a tragic topic. She’d wait and see if she could work it naturally into her explanation.

“What kind of an effect?” he asked, his brow furrowing with concern.

“I’ve had a… a reawakening, I suppose you’d call it. I suddenly feel as if my life doesn’t have much meaning, and that I’m not doing anything important.”

“What nonsense,” he said gallantly. “Your work must be very important.”

She chose not to notice that he really wasn’t certain it was. “You’re right, of course. I do save lives,” she added, in case he hadn’t realized it. “But Mrs. Wells changes lives. I don’t think I could do the kind of work she does, but I could help her. I’ve asked my mother if she’d give a party and ask her friends to make a donation to the mission… in Hazel’s memory.”

She’d touched him deeply. For a moment, he couldn’t speak. “Sarah,” he finally said. “I think that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“I’m not being kind, Richard,” she assured him. “I’m being selfish. I want to feel better about myself by doing something good.”

“I’m sure that’s the basic motivation for all charitable acts,” he said with an understanding smile.

“Perhaps it is. I hope it doesn’t matter what the motivation is, so long as the act itself is good,” she added.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Would you come to the party?” she asked.

He seemed surprised. “Of course. I mean, I assumed you wouldn’t have told me about it if you weren’t going to invite me.”

Had he forgotten that he blamed the people at the mission for giving Hazel her fatal illness? If so, Sarah wasn’t going to remind him. “We want to do more than simply invite you. We were hoping you’d agree to help host. Perhaps you could also speak about Hazel’s work at the mission.”

“I don’t know what I could say, but I’ll be happy to play host. I’ve been to a number of this type of event. We should ask Mrs. Wells to come and speak about her work. She’s the one who knows the most.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. What a good idea.”

“She’ll probably also bring a couple of the girls along, to show the guests some examples of her success.”

Sarah almost winced when she thought of Emilia. “You haven’t asked me what inspired my sudden desire to help the mission.”

“I assumed it was a result of our visit there.”

Sarah took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “I wish that were all. I had a very unpleasant experience today. Do you remember that girl Emilia whom we met at the mission?”

He frowned in concentration. “I’m afraid I don’t remember any of the girls in particular.”

“She was the one who answered the door. Mrs. Wells said she’d been seduced by a man who refused to marry her and her family had disowned her.”

Plainly, he hadn’t seen any reason to remember the incident. “Has she approached you for help?”

“No, not exactly. She was found dead in City Hall Park this morning.”

“Dead?” he echoed in surprise. “A young girl like that? What happened?”

“She was murdered.”

An expression of distaste crossed his handsome face. “How unfortunate. But I suppose you can’t be too surprised with that kind of girl.”

Sarah wanted to demand to know what he meant by “that kind of girl,” but she refrained. She had little hope of changing Richard Dennis’s prejudices. She’d settle for getting his help in changing other people’s lives. “She was wearing my clothes when she died.”

“Your clothes?” he echoed, obviously confused.

“The clothes I donated to the mission on Sunday. That made me think, ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ I don’t want any other girls to die like that.”

He nodded, his expression grave with understanding, although Sarah suspected he couldn’t even begin to understand. “Certainly not. And don’t worry, I’ll do everything I can to help. Would your mother like for me to give her a list of Hazel’s particular friends?”

“I’m sure she’d appreciate that. I can’t thank you enough for helping with this.”

“I’m glad to do it, but I’m afraid I will have to have a favor in return,” he added with a smile.

“What kind of favor?” she asked, intrigued.

“Some friends of mine are giving a party on Halloween. I was hoping you would accompany me.”

Sarah’s mother would be so pleased. “Of course,” she said.