Murder on St. Mark’s place

9

FRANK HAD LOCATED THE NEW YORK INSTITUTION for the Deaf and Dumb without too much trouble. It was, he had learned, a much older school than the one on Lexington Avenue. This one had been here over sixty years. A long time, if they were doing something wrong, Frank thought cynically.

This school was as silent as the other had been. He entered the main office. The young man working there as a clerk looked up. “May I help you?” he asked, moving his hands quickly in a way Frank had never seen before. Frank realized this must be the sign language Mrs. Brandt had told him about.

“I’m not deaf,” Frank told him, unconsciously speaking too loudly.

“Neither am I,” the boy replied with a smile, still using his hands. Now Frank was certain it was sign language. “Do you have business with Mr. Peet?”

“Is he the one in charge?”

“Yes, sir. His father founded the school.”

“Then I guess I do have business with him.”

“I’ll see if he’s free,” the boy said, and disappeared into an inner office.

Frank didn’t quite know what to expect when he was ushered in to meet Lewis Peet. He was relieved to discover Mr. Peet wasn’t deaf, and he didn’t use his hands when he spoke, the way the boy had.

Frank told him about Brian, and he listened intently.

“I went to the Lexington Avenue School first,” he told Peet.

“An excellent facility,” he said tactfully.

“They said they could teach my son to speak.”

Mr. Peet nodded. “I’m sure they did. Did they introduce you to a student who could speech-read and talk?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “His voice was a little odd, but I could understand him. He could understand me, too. If my son could learn to do that, he would be able to make his way in the world.”

“But the boy you heard speaking wasn’t born deaf, was he?”

Frank frowned. How could he have known that? “No.”

Mr. Peet nodded again. “When someone is born deaf and has never heard human speech or sound of any kind, it’s very difficult for them to ever learn to speak clearly. It’s also difficult for them to understand the concept of language, because they have no language of their own.”

Frank wasn’t sure he understood all of this completely, but some of it sounded reasonable. “You do something different here at your school than they do at Lexington Avenue,” Frank said. “You teach them to talk with their hands.”

“Yes, we teach them sign language. You may have seen deaf people using it in the street.”

“The boy outside used it.”

“He always does, if he suspects he might be talking to a deaf person. Sign language is a unique method of communication. Many people assume the signs are letters of the alphabet, spelling out words, but if you think about it, you’ll realize that would be a cumbersome method, and very slow and boring to use for actual communication. Actually, the signs are words, motions representing what we in the hearing world hear as sounds. A skilled signer can speak as quickly as you and I can speak with our voices, and one who understands the signs can comprehend as easily as you understand what I’m saying right now.”

“But how do they talk to people who don’t know the signs?”

“Ah, that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Peet said, sitting back in his chair and steepling his hands in front of him. “If we could get everyone in the hearing world to learn sign language, then deaf people could get along just like hearing people. Since that doesn’t seem likely to happen, what does happen is that the deaf develop their own society. They work at trades which don’t require hearing or speech, they marry other deaf people to whom they can speak easily with signs, and they socialize with other deaf people.”

“Which means that the Lexington School has a better solution,” Frank said. “Their students can speak and read lips. They can communicate easily with hearing people and live in their world.”

“Except they don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

Peet smiled. “The theory behind the oralist method-that’s the method of teaching speech reading and speaking that the Lexington School uses-is to give the deaf students the skills to allow them to live and work and socialize with hearing people. In practice, however, they don’t do that. In fact, the graduates of the Lexington school have actually organized their own social club, the Deaf-Mutes Union League, which has only deaf members. They have lectures and meetings and dinners and balls for the deaf. They still associate primarily with each other, and work together and marry each other.

“Please understand, Mr. Malloy. I’m not criticizing what they do at the Lexington School. I’m simply pointing out that their results have not been any more successful than ours for most deaf people, especially if your goal is to give your son the skills he will need in life. And for someone like your son, who most probably would never learn to speak clearly enough to be understood or to read lips well enough to truly comprehend, it would be a frustrating and ultimately a fruitless experience.”

“Of course you think I should send Brian here,” Frank said, still trying to judge the validity of the arguments.

Peet smiled. “Your son is too young to send anywhere at the moment. When he’s older, I think he would do very well here, probably better than he would at Lexington Avenue. But you have some time to find out more about both theories of educating the deaf. In the meantime, I would suggest you meet some deaf people and find out their experiences. I’d be happy to introduce you to a family I know who has a boy about Brian’s age.”

“He’s deaf?”

“Oh, no. He can hear perfectly well, but his parents are deaf. However, he uses sign language quite well. He learned it before he learned to talk, to communicate with his parents. Perhaps he could help Brian begin to understand how to communicate.”

“A boy that young?” Frank thought of the intricate motions the clerk outside had used. He himself would have a difficult time learning such a thing, much less a boy of three.

“If Brian could hear, he’d be talking by now,” Mr. Peet pointed out. “I’m sure he’ll have no trouble at all learning to sign once he’s exposed to it. It will be his language. You could learn right along with him. You’d be able to talk to your son, Mr. Malloy.”

To be able to talk to Brian. To have Brain know who he was. The thought was stunning. Frank had long since given up hope of reaching his son. Until recently, he’d believed there was nothing inside of him to reach. But now…

He’d have to tell his mother, of course. He tried to imagine her learning to sign, but the idea was too ridiculous even to consider. She’d continued to pretend Brian was a normal child, totally ignoring all evidence to the contrary. Being deaf was almost as shameful as being feebleminded, at least by her standards, so she simply denied it.

“Maybe you’d tell me more about these people with the boy Brian’s age,” he said.

SARAH HAD FORGOTTEN how interminably dull society dinner parties could be. No one talked about politics or philosophy or literature or anything even remotely interesting. Sarah did learn more than she ever wanted to know about her old friend Amanda’s trip to Europe and Hazel’s twin daughters. She also learned what had happened to most of the friends she had had as young woman, before she’d decided not to follow the course her father had set for her and gone into nurses’ training. Unfortunately, none of them was doing anything Sarah found interesting.

After dinner, as custom dictated, the women withdrew while the men smoked their cigars and took their brandy. Sarah could have used some brandy herself. She needed fortification to get through the rest of the evening.

To make matters worse, Sarah had begun to realize that having a private word with Dirk Schyler, which had been the entire purpose of organizing the evening in the first place, was going to be practically impossible. They would certainly never be alone at all, and the chances of them having a moment when no one could overhear them was unlikely, particularly when everyone seemed intent on watching the two of them closely for any signs that they were interested in one another.

Her mother could have done a better job of disguising the fact that Sarah had merely wanted the dinner party as an excuse for seeing Dirk. As it was, everyone present was aware of it, since they were the only two unattached people in the party. To make matters worse, they had also come to the conclusion that Sarah had set her cap for him. If it hadn’t been so frustrating, Sarah might have been amused.

Amanda Walker had just asked where she had gotten her gown-a purely idle question since Amanda could have no interest whatever in such an unstylish creation-when the door opened and the men came into the parlor, saving her from admitting it had come from Lord & Taylor. Sarah’s mother had insisted she buy a new frock for the occasion, but Sarah had seen no need to pay a dressmaker for an ensemble she might never wear again.

Instantly, Amanda and all the other women lost interest in her, to her great relief. The men filled the room with their energy, loud voices, and booming laughter. Sarah watched in growing frustration as Dirk Schyler spoke to his sister and then wandered away, off to a far comer of the room. She was just hatching a plan to get herself near enough to him to ask for his help when he called out to her.

“Sarah, would you be so kind as to identify the people in this photograph for me?” he asked.

Sarah gaped at him in surprise. Could he possibly know she wanted a private word with him? Or did he want one with her? Perhaps he was simply afraid she would reveal that she had seen him at Coney Island in the company of a working-class girl and wanted to beg her discretion. Or perhaps he understood that he’d been invited for a reason, and that reason involved Sarah. Whatever it was, Sarah was simply glad for the excuse to confer with him.

“Certainly,” Sarah said, trying not to appear too eager to answer his summons.

As she crossed the room, she heard a stifled giggle and realized that everyone was watching her. Well, what had she expected? They were all waiting for the two of them to show some signs of interest in each other. They would imagine such interest no matter what really happened. Sarah Decker Brandt’s desperate ploy to land herself a rich husband would probably be the talk of visiting rooms for the next month.

Dirk had picked up a photograph of her father’s college rowing team and pointed at one of the men. Sarah, of course, had no idea who any of them were. In fact, she would have been hard-pressed to identify her own father, and she was certain Dirk had no true interest in their identities, either. He proved it instantly.

“Now tell me, Sarah, why on earth have you gone to all this trouble to encounter me again?” he asked in a whisper, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He held the photograph up for her to see, as if it were the true subject of their conversation.

“Why, Dirk,” she replied, unable to resist, “isn’t it obvious? I developed an instant passion for you, and I couldn’t wait to see you again.”

He gave her a look of feigned shock. “Does Mr. Malloy know about this?”

“He wouldn’t be likely to care if he did,” she replied. It was the first word of truth she’d spoken in this conversation.

“Don’t be too sure about that. I’m quite certain Mr. Malloy wouldn’t approve of your consorting with me.”

“Fortunately, I don’t need his approval.”

“What do you need, then?” Dirk asked. His face was still handsome, Sarah noticed, although the signs of dissipation were starting to show. The flesh beneath his attractive blue eyes was pouched from too many late-night drinking parties, and his skin was sallow and unhealthy. He was even developing a slight thickening around the waist that would turn to fat in a few years if he wasn’t careful.

“I need to go back to Coney Island with someone who is familiar with the place.”

He seemed surprised. Fortunately, he was also intrigued. “What on earth for?”

“Because I’m looking for a murderer.”

Dirk looked even more shocked than she would have expected. His face actually paled, and he stared at her for a long moment, as if looking for the answer to some question he dared not ask aloud. Most likely, he had never heard a well-bred woman even utter the word “murderer,” which would more than account for his reaction.

Thus far, their whispered conversation had the attention of everyone in the room, and clearly, they would need more privacy to continue. Dirk visibly collected himself. “It’s awfully warm in here,” he said so everyone could hear, setting the photograph back on the sideboard. “Perhaps you’ll stroll with me in the garden for a bit, Sarah.”

“That sounds lovely,” Sarah agreed. “If you’ll excuse us,” she added to her mother, who nodded her consent. She looked so pleased that Dirk was performing to her expectations that Sarah actually felt guilty for deceiving her.

Dirk offered his arm, and they stepped out through the French doors leading to the fenced enclosure that passed for a “garden” in the city. It was much larger than Sarah’s small backyard, and the flowers had been professionally tended. The shade was cool, and the scents fragrant, but most important, no one could overhear them.

They’d walked a ways from the house before Dirk spoke. “Surely, I misunderstood you, Sarah. You could not possibly have said you were looking for a murderer.”

“But I did. I know it’s hard for you to understand how I could be involved in such a thing, but a young girl I know was murdered recently. Her family has asked me to help in the investigation,” she explained, stretching the truth a bit.

“Why would they ask you to do such a thing?” He looked horrified, or at least that’s how Sarah read his expression. He certainly seemed upset, although he was using all his formal training to conceal any unseemly emotions.

“As you know, I have a friend who is a police detective.”

“Ah, yes, the charming Mr. Malloy. Surely, he doesn’t need your help finding criminals, though. Why, the police hardly bother doing that themselves!”

Sarah ignored the insulting remark. It was, unfortunately, too true. “I have been of some use to him in that respect in the past,” she admitted with a trace of pride.

Plainly, Dirk didn’t believe that for a moment. “Sarah, I’m afraid you haven’t learned much of the world, for all your independence from your family, if you believe for one moment this Malloy fellow has any interest in you aside from seduction.”

Sarah was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud at such a ridiculous notion. If Malloy wanted to seduce her, he was certainly adept at concealing his intentions. He was also the world’s most patient-and inept!-seducer. “Is it so difficult to believe a woman could help solve a crime?”

“Quite frankly, yes,” Dirk said, his smile condescending.

Sarah wanted to wipe that smile off his face. She wanted to tell him she had helped solve a murder only a few short months ago. She had been of so much help that Malloy had told her she would have made a good detective, if the police hired women, which they didn’t. But she really wasn’t at liberty to reveal the details of the case, and besides, she doubted Dirk would believe her anyway.

“Well, then,” she tried, “perhaps you will indulge me in my delusions. I would dearly love to return to Coney Island and learn more about it, but Mr. Malloy refuses to accompany me.”

“More fool he,” Dirk said, his grin flirtatious. Sarah wondered who might be watching them from the house. She hoped it looked as if they were having a romantic tête-à-tête. Her mother would be pleased.

“Since you obviously know a lot about the area, I was hoping I could convince you to escort me and show me some things I might have missed on my first visit there.”

His smile was mocking. “Do you think I can point out potential killers to you?”

Sarah gritted her teeth at his tone, but she managed to maintain her facade of congeniality. “I am hoping you can help me understand the place. The dead girl met her killer there, you see.”

This instantly wiped the smirk off his face. “How do you know that?”

“He bought her a gift there right before she died. At least we suspect the man who bought the gift was her killer.”

“And what, exactly, was the gift in question?”

Sarah felt silly saying it aloud. “A pair of red shoes.”

Something flickered deep in his eyes, something Sarah couldn’t decipher, but then he was smiling. It was a dazzling smile, a delighted smile. “Oh, Sarah, what could be more pleasant than helping you discover who killed a young lady of such abominable taste?”

He didn’t have to respect her, she reminded herself. He didn’t have to take her seriously or even believe her. He only had to go with her and show her around. “Are you free this Sunday?” she asked, and they set the date for the day after tomorrow.

NOBODY KNEW ANYTHING more about the mysterious man named Will than the ones Sarah Brandt had spoken with. Frank had questioned all the girls who knew the four victims well enough to tell him anything. After days of tracking the girls down and interrogating them again, he knew no more than he’d known the first day.

The fellow had been careful not to reveal his last name or to give any indication of where he lived. Uptown was Frank’s guess. By all accounts, he always had a lot of money to spend. Even those who had never seen him knew that much. His reputation was excellent among those who judged a man’s worthiness by how many times he treated a young lady to a beer or an amusement-park ride. He couldn’t have been an average workingman, not if the girls Frank had spoken with were accurate in their estimates of the amount of money he spent on the girls he found attractive. His clothes and his manners, by all accounts, had also indicated he was upper class.

A few of the girls had been more than treated by him, too, if Frank was any judge. They didn’t admit it, of course. Why should they? Even if this Will had murdered their friends, they were still alive and had to live here. Destroying their reputations wouldn’t bring their friends back, would it? And if he hadn’t killed them when he had the chance, he wasn’t likely to do it now, was he?

Frank was beginning to wonder why Sarah Brandt was so desperate to avenge the deaths of these girls. He was so annoyed with them, he was beginning to sympathize with the killer.

Frank was bone weary when he climbed the steps to his flat that evening. He hadn’t been home in two days, and when he opened the door, he found his mother knitting in her rocker by the front window. Brian was playing on the floor, carefully building a tower of wooden blocks so he could knock it over and build it again.

When he caught sight of Frank, however, he scrambled to his knees, smashing the tower in his haste as he crawled over to greet his father. His mother said something by way of greeting, but Frank hardly heard and didn’t even acknowledge her. He was, he realized, really seeing the boy for the first time.

For three years Frank had been torn by the existence of his son. The boy’s birth had killed Kathleen, the only good thing that had ever come into Frank’s life. If Kathleen had lived, Frank could have borne any disappointment in the child because she would have made it right. She would have loved the boy no matter what was wrong with him, and she would have made Frank love him, too.

But Kathleen had died, taking with her Frank’s one source of happiness in the world. That alone would have been enough to embitter him, but the boy had also remained, a painful and broken reminder of what he had lost. Not only had he taken his mother’s life, he had left Frank with a burden so enormous, at times he felt it might crush him.

For a time he had hated the child, blaming him for killing Kathleen. But that had passed, leaving only a profound sadness and pity and a bitterness so deep, Frank doubted he would ever find the bottom of it. And, of course, the guilt. Because if the boy had killed Kathleen, Frank had been the one who put the child inside of her in the first place. If he hated the boy, he would have to hate himself as well.

So the guilt drove him to do right by the child, no matter what his true feelings might be. It drove him to take the bribes that had enabled him to move up in the police force so he could ensure the boy would always be provided for. It compelled him to tolerate his mother because she was willing to take care of the boy.

Now he looked at his son, this imperfect remembrance, all he had left of the woman he had loved more than life itself. She would have expected Frank to love the boy simply because he was their flesh and blood. She would have done anything, made any sacrifice for him. Frank had been willing to make every sacrifice except one. He hadn’t been able to love him.

He gazed into the face that was so much like Kathleen’s, it caused him physical pain to behold it. The boy was looking up at him through Kathleen’s lovely eyes, pleading with him for something he couldn’t say but understood instinctively.

The small, spindly arms were reaching up even as he held himself back, braced for the rejection he almost always received. For so long, Frank had believed the boy an idiot, too damaged even to feel normal human emotions. He’d shielded himself with that belief, telling himself his indifference didn’t matter to the child because he couldn’t understand such things. Now he looked down into the boy’s face and knew it had all been a lie.

If Frank was guilty of causing Kathleen’s death, then there was only one thing in the world he could do to earn absolution. He reached down and caught the boy up into his arms. Small arms and legs wrapped around him, as if the boy felt he had to hold on with every ounce of his strength for fear of being thrust aside. From the comer of his eye, he saw his mother had risen to her feet, her eyes wide with surprise. She crossed herself and pressed a fist to her lips.

He wrapped his arms around the boy’s small body, amazed at how slight he was, hardly there at all. He buried his face into the cloud of silken red-gold curls and inhaled the clean, fresh scent of him.

Frank felt a stabbing pain in his chest as years of bitterness cracked and fell away. He’d wronged the boy terribly, but it wasn’t too late. He still had a chance to really do right by him.

“Ma,” he said, “there’s some people I want Brian to meet. They’re deaf.”

SARAH HAD BEGUN to regret her decision to ask Dirk to accompany her to Coney Island before their trolley had even left the city. He seemed highly amused by the entire escapade, and he felt compelled to share his mirth with everyone they encountered. Sarah found it exhausting, and by the time they reached Coney Island, she was wishing she had come alone.

“Have you seen the Elephant yet, Sarah?” he asked cheerfully as they strolled from the trolley station toward the park.

She looked to where he was pointing and saw the Elephant Hotel, a enormous hotel actually built in the shape of an elephant. It was one of the landmarks of Coney Island. “Seeing the Elephant” had come to mean making a trek out of town to see something extraordinary.

“I saw the elephant the last time I was here,” she reminded him.

“I don’t think you did,” Dirk said meaningfully. “I doubt Mr. Malloy is adventurous enough to allow such a thing. Fortunately, I am.”

Yes, fortunately, Sarah thought cynically.

“I’m surprised Mr. Malloy didn’t take you bathing, Sarah. I imagine the sight of you in a bathing costume would be quite pleasant. Have you ever bathed in the ocean?”

“Have you?” Sarah countered, trying unsuccessfully to imagine herself wearing one of those skimpy bathing costumes with the skirts that only reached to the knees.

“Certainly! I find the sand a bit annoying. It does tend to creep in where one least desires it to, but the water is quite refreshing. Healthful, too, I’m told.”

“I thought warm springs were good for the health, not the frigid ocean.”

“It’s not frigid this time of year,” he chided her.

“No, only very cold.”

He conceded defeat graciously. “Where would you like to go first? The Flip-Flap Railroad?” he suggested with a glint in his eye. Malloy had been afraid to go on it.

Unfortunately, Sarah was, too. “I think I’d rather just look around and talk to people. If the killer frequents Coney Island, and we have reason to believe he does, then someone may know him.”

“Are you planning to just walk up to everyone you meet and ask if they know any killers?” he asked incredulously.

“Certainly not.”

“Then what will you ask?” Plainly, he thought her either a fool or an idiot.

“I’ll ask them if they know a man named Will.”

Dirk stopped in his tracks and looked at her in amazement. His eyes were darker than she remembered, and his expression was strained. He was so shocked that for a moment he couldn’t even speak. “You know his name?” he asked when he got his voice back. “If the police know his name, why on earth do they need a midwife to help them find him?”

Sarah was beginning to enjoy knowing more about something than Dirk for a change. “Do you have any idea how many men are named Will? And we don’t know what he looks like or where he lives or really anything much at all. Just the name, and that might not even be his real one.”

He studied her face for a long moment, his eyes unreadable. “And you think he killed this girl? The one who wore the red shoes. What was her name?”

“Gerda Reinhard. I guess we don’t know for sure that he did, but…” She debated mentioning the other victims and decided not to. Dirk was already unbearable enough. If he knew all the facts in the case, he might begin to hinder her investigation. “We do know that she met a young man she liked very much here at Coney Island shortly before her death. He spent a lot of money on her and bought her the red shoes.”

“That’s not very much to hang a man on, Sarah,” Dirk chided. “I daresay, most of the men here would have been executed if that was a punishable offense.”

“Including you?” she countered.

He grinned boyishly. When he was younger and not quite so jaded, it might have been an appealing expression, but now it just looked grotesque, at least to Sarah. “A gentleman never tells,” he said. He took her elbow and directed her toward the entrance to the park.

Dirk took her to the Flip-Flap Railroad with its unbelievable loop, and they watched people going around, shrieking in terror, for a few minutes. “You see, no one ever falls out,” he said wisely. “It’s perfectly safe.”

Sarah watched the people getting off at the end of the ride. Some of them were rubbing their necks. None of them looked particularly pleased with their experience. “I notice no one is going back for another ride,” she pointed out.

Dirk shrugged. “I thought you’d have more courage than that, Sarah. How about the Ferris wheel, then?”

Sarah enjoyed the view of the ocean from the top of the wheel, and she didn’t even mind that Dirk put his arm across the back of the seat and sat closer than he needed to. He was only teasing her. Since his tastes ran to fifteen-year-old shop girls, she figured her virtue was safe. Besides, she had a hat pin handy if he got any ideas.

They watched Captain Boyton perform his aquatic feats in the reflecting pool. The captain was the owner of the park. He’d had an interesting career that included trying to market inflatable suits for bathing in the ocean. This had led to founding a water park, in which trained seals performed. The seals hadn’t drawn enough customers by themselves, so the captain had added Shoot-the-Chutes and some other amusement-park attractions, and Sea Lion Park was born.

They also watched the sea-lion show again, but the alligator was no longer on display. It had tried to attack a large Newfoundland dog, probably thinking it had found an excellent source of dinner, but the dog had won the battle.

After the shows, they ate some Red Hots and rode Shoot-the-Chutes. Dirk put his arm across the back of Sarah’s seat again and moved closer when they went through the dark tunnel, but she managed to restrain herself from throwing her arms around him when the boat made its terrifying lunge into the lagoon. Malloy had been as appalled as she when they found themselves embracing at the end of the ride, but somehow she didn’t think Dirk would have quite the same reaction. She certainly didn’t want to find out for sure that she was right.

As they came off the ride, Sarah saw the photographer waiting to pose people in the replica of the Shoot-the-Chutes boat to have their pictures made. Remembering that Gerda had had her photograph made that last day she was at Coney Island, Sarah wondered if the photographer would remember. If this Will person made a habit of finding his victims here, he might be a familiar character.

“Excuse me,” she said, startling the fellow. He had been fiddling with his camera.

“Just get in the boat, miss,” he said. “Soon as it’s full, I’ll take a picture.”

“No, I don’t want my picture made. I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”

“About what?” He glanced uncertainly at Dirk, who shrugged, telling him he had no explanation for Sarah’s strange behavior.

“There’s a man who comes to the park a lot. He’s quite a ladies’ man, and he’s probably with a different girl every time. I was wondering if you knew him. His name is Will.”

The photographer stared at her as if he’d never seen a creature like her before. He glanced at Dirk again, but got no help there, either.

“I know that’s not much help,” Sarah admitted, realizing how silly her question must sound. Hadn’t she pointed out to Dirk how many men were named Will? “I also know that he’s well dressed and well mannered,” she added lamely, hoping to jog his memory a bit. “He seems to have a lot of money to spend, too.”

The fellow looked at Dirk once more, and the two men seemed to reach some sort of understanding. Over what, Sarah couldn’t imagine, and it annoyed her tremendously. Why was the fellow looking at Dirk when she was the one asking the questions?

At any rate, the fellow seemed to relax and even smiled at her. “Sorry, miss. I don’t know nobody named Will. The men come through here, they don’t tell me their names. Now, maybe if you had a photograph of him…”

She did have a photograph, of course, but she wasn’t sure the fellow in it was the man named Will, and even if he was, his face was obscured too much to identify him. “Thank you for your time,” she said, less than graciously.

Dirk was grinning as they walked away. “Did you really think that fellow would know who you were talking about?”

Sarah didn’t know what she’d thought. Every time she believed she’d come up with a plan to find the killer, she realized the depths of her ignorance. Malloy would be laughing in her face for being so naive. Her one comfort was that he would never know how stupid she had been.

“Do you plan to ask every man who works here at the park if they know this Will person?” Dirk asked, his amusement all too evident. “Shall we stop here at the freak show? I’m sure the barker would be more than happy to answer any questions.”

Sarah glared at him, but that only amused him more. “I don’t think the killer is a freak,” she informed him. “Or at least he doesn’t look like one. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to attract the attentions of young women.”

“You’re right! Maybe we should try asking if anyone has seen a normal-looking man named Will, then. Someone who doesn’t look like a killer. That should help a lot.”

Sarah sighed wearily. “You’ve made your point. It’s hopeless. I can see that.”

“Oh, perhaps not hopeless. Simply futile,” Dirk allowed graciously.

Sarah wanted to smack him, especially because he was right. Asking if anyone knew this Will was a waste of time. She wasn’t even sure Gerda had known the man named Will. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that the key was here, in Coney Island. If only she could find it.

“Shall we move on then?” Dirk asked, his charm back in place. “What would you like to do next?”

Sarah allowed him to lead her on through the park.

Malloy had won her a prize with his marksmanship, but Dirk had no such skill. Instead, he tried to impress her on the Hi-Striker machine, the one that tested a man’s strength. He removed his jacket-today he had chosen to dress conservatively, probably in deference to her-and handed it to Sarah to hold.

“Dirk, this isn’t necessary,” she protested.

“Of course it is,” he replied with that grotesquely boyish grin. “I’ll take three chances,” he told the barker, who removed the coins from his hand so quickly, Sarah hardly saw his fingers move.

Dirk turned back his cuffs, as if preparing to do a hard day’s work, and he spit on his palms and rubbed them together, probably because he’d seen someone else do it and thought it looked manly. Then he picked up the huge hammer.

Lifting the thing was a challenge in itself. Sarah supposed that kept children from making a pest of themselves, trying to ring the bell. If they couldn’t lift the hammer, they couldn’t play the game.

Dirk raised the huge thing up over his head with practiced ease and brought it down with a crash. The weight rose up more than halfway, then fell back down with a thud. The crowd murmured its disappointment.

“Look at the gentleman here,” the barker shouted. “Out to win his lady a prize. Look how far he got it. Just a little more, sir, just a little more’ll do it! Ring the bell and win, you pick any of the prizes! Step right up, folks! Watch the gentleman win his lady a prize! Try your luck! You there, young fellow, you could do this with one hand tied behind your back!”

Sarah watched as Dirk lifted the hammer again, swinging it in an arc over his head and bringing it down onto the strike plate with a crash. The weight rose up and up, and Sarah found herself rising on her tiptoes, as if by stretching herself, she could help it reach the top. But it stopped just short and slid back down to the bottom again. The crowd moaned.

They were breathless with anticipation now. They started to cheer Dirk on, encouraging him to try again. He flashed Sarah a grin, enjoying the attention. She felt a little foolish, but she was calling out encouragement, too.

The obnoxious barker was whipping up the crowd’s enthusiasm, urging everyone within shouting distance to come and watch. Sarah found it odd that he would be as interested in seeing someone win as the rest of them were, but then she realized that if Dirk won, a dozen more men would be encouraged to try their skill and prove themselves at least as good as he. Few of them would succeed, and the barker would still have their money.

Dirk waited, rubbing his hands together, shaking his arms to loosen the muscles, playing his part to perfection, until the barker had the crowd whipped into a frenzy of anticipation. The look Dirk cast Sarah was one of pride. He was doing this for her, to impress her in some way, or perhaps simply to prove that he had a sort of power. Probably, he had used this tactic to impress his shop girls. The young girls in the crowd were certainly awed. He did look imposing, standing there in the center of the crowd, ready to master the fearsome machine.

He seemed to sense the perfect moment, the time when all eyes who could be on him were. Then he started swinging the hammer again. Back and forth, building up a rhythm, building up momentum. That was when Sarah realized that he had known how to get the bell to ring all along. He could have done so on the very first try, but no one would have been watching. He had to tease it along for a while, until he had the crowd in his thrall. The barker was nearly hysterical, ranting and chanting, the meaning of his words lost to the delirium of excitement building around them.

Sarah watched in fascination as Dirk finally swung the huge hammer up over his head and brought it down with a resounding smack that sent the small weight sailing up and up and up until it struck the bell with a clang that set the crowd to cheering wildly.

Men were slapping him on the back and shaking his hand. Women were gazing at him in admiration. And Sarah was taking it all in with a combination of amazement and amusement. Anyone would think Dirk had just accomplished something important, like saving someone’s life or bringing peace to warring nations, instead of just using brute strength to ring a bell.

No one was interested in Sarah’s opinion, however, so she stood back, still holding Dirk’s jacket, while he finished receiving his accolades. The barker encouraged him to select his prize while the crowd was still interested. He wanted to remind everyone that there was a higher purpose in ringing the bell. The satisfaction of achievement was only part of it. But Dirk finally remembered Sarah, and he insisted she make the selection.

The prizes were cheap trinkets, glass beads and small toys. Sarah thought of Malloy’s son, but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate her bringing Brian a prize Dirk Schyler had won for her. Then she remembered Gerda Reinhard’s nieces and nephew. She chose a small rag doll. She could purchase toys for the other children, and deliver them next time she was in the neighborhood. Perhaps that would gain her admittance to the Otto home.

Dirk was still teasing her about her selection of a prize when they came to the Old Mill ride. “What does this do?” Sarah asked.

“Let’s get on and find out,” Dirk suggested.

Sarah could think of no reason to refuse, so they got in line and quickly made their way to the front. They were seated in a boat which began drifting down a man-made stream toward the opening of a tunnel, much like the Shoot-the-Chutes tunnel. A mill wheel turned picturesquely in the water, and over the entrance of the tunnel, Sarah saw a tableau of scantily clad girls performing some kind of spring Maypole dance.

“Oh, my,” she said, a little shocked at how suggestive the picture was.

“People come to Coney Island to be shocked,” Dirk explained cheerfully as their boat was swallowed up into the darkness of the tunnel.

Before Sarah could think of a suitable reply, she was shocked once more. Dirk took her roughly in his arms and covered her mouth with his.