Fallen Women (18 page)

“Aw, come on, Mick, give a guy a break. You can trust me. The other boys’ll be right behind me, and I want to get into print before they do.”

Mick blew out his breath, thinking. “Look, Gene, you tell Thrasher over there I said you could go inside and look around. All’s I can tell you is she was stabbed eight times and it happened sometime last night. Her name was Sadie Hops, and I don’t know a thing about her, don’t even know if that’s her real name.”

“Now, Mick. You can do better than that. I did you a favor on the parlor house girl that got murdered, made you a household name. My stories got picked up by newspapers all over the country, even New York.”

“Why would I care about that?”

Beret looked at the reporter distastefully, for the offensive write-up of Lillie’s death, with its clichés and condescending tone, that she had read in New York, must have been a truncated version of one of this man’s articles.

Latham continued to badger the detective, but Mick refused to say more, and at last the reporter put away his pencil. He shook hands with Mick and nodded at Beret, saying, “Pleased to meet you.” Then as if to satisfy his curiosity about why the woman was there, he asked, “This Sadie some kind of relative of yours, ma’am?”

Beret raised her head a little in a gesture of disdain, a gesture that would have made her aunt proud. “Certainly not.”

“Begging your pardon, but it’s not every day you see a lady at a murder scene.” When Beret didn’t respond, he asked outright, “What is it you’re here for, if you don’t mind my asking, ma’am?”

Beret continued her haughty stare, although the reporter must have been used to such looks, because he did not appear uncomfortable. At last she said, “I do mind, but I will tell you. I am a criminologist.”

“A what?”

“An expert in crime,” Mick told him.

“You go to school for that?” The reporter smirked.

“Of course. The New York Institute for the Study of the Criminally Insane.”

“Doesn’t sound like a line of work for a lady.”

“She helped solve the Porter-Masters murders. You remember that one, Gene.”

“Well, sure,” he said, and walked away in the direction of Sadie’s crib.

As she got into the carriage, Beret asked, “What were the Porter-Masters murders?”

“Darned if I know. I made it up. What’s the New York Institute for the Study of the Criminally Insane?”

“That’s made up, too.”

Mick took Beret’s arm and helped her into the carriage. They were at last a team, Beret thought. Perhaps they would indeed solve Lillie’s murder—and the murder of Sadie Hops. She hoped that would be before a third woman was killed.

Chapter 11

Beret ordered Jonas to take the detective to the station. She would bid Detective McCauley good-bye, then go home, get out of her bloodstained clothes, and rid herself of the smell of death. She was anxious to continue with the investigation, but viewing the dead prostitute’s body had taken its toll on her. She was tired and heartsick and wanted nothing more than to let the warm water of the bath wash away the taint of Sadie’s murder.

She settled back into the seat and looked down at her hands, which still held the detective’s handkerchief. It was filthy with blood and gore. “I’ll wash this myself and return it to you,” she said.

“How do you get blood out of a handkerchief?”

“I have no idea.”

He plucked the fabric square from her fingers and threw it into the street. “There, you have better things to worry about.”

“Yes.” Beret was silent for a while, thinking, and they rode for several blocks. At last, she said, “Detective McCauley, I want to ask you something. Do you think there is a chance the murders could have been committed by a woman? We’ve been assuming the killer is a man, but is there a possibility the culprit is female?”

Instead of scoffing as he might have done a few days earlier, the detective thought over the question. “It is always a possibility. Some women are as strong as a man, and there are one or two girls on Holladay Street who could best me in a wrestling match. Little Annie must weigh over three hundred pounds, and Iron Betty killed a horse once when she socked it in the head. Of course, that’s rare, but yes, it’s possible.”

“But not probable. Is that what you’re saying?”

“I am. If there’d been just one killing, I might have wondered if the killer was a woman. In fact, I did. I never completely dismissed the idea that one of the whores at Miss Hettie’s killed your sister. They can get that mad, you know, and anger carries strength. Besides, the first time, the killer used scissors. That’s a woman’s weapon. And the body was covered up, too.”

“In my experience, women operate differently from men,” Beret said. “A prostitute might get angry enough to grab a knife—or scissors, as the case may be—and stab another woman in a fit of madness, maybe over a man or a piece of jewelry or some word of insult. She might even plan the murder of a man who’s mistreated her. I know of a girl in New York who set fire to her father, a monster who’d forced her to lie not only with himself but with any drunken bum with a dime. And I am familiar with another, an abandoned woman who drowned her children in a bathtub rather than let her husband’s new wife take them. But I’ve never heard of a woman so depraved that she murdered just for the thrill of killing. That’s a man’s way. Still, perhaps we are too quick to assume the killer is a man.”

“As I say, I’d agree with you if there’d been only one murder. But now there are two, and I believe you are right when you say women don’t have the bloodlust that men do.” Mick continued, “Now when there’s a third—”

“A third.” It was more a statement than a question.

Mick looked out the window at the streets that were muddy, now that the sun had melted the snow. The carriage splashed a group of dandies who were too slow to get out of the way, and Beret thought she saw Jonas smile.

“Yes, I’m sure there’ll be a third. And the third murder will establish once and for all that our killer is a man. There could be even more than that. If the killer is indeed mad, if it is bloodlust, then he’s only begun.” Mick thought that over. “Or maybe he’s already killed girls elsewhere. He could be new to Denver.”

“Teddy?” Beret asked softly.

“You tell me. Is he capable of it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“But you didn’t think he was capable of seducing your sister, either.”

Beret nodded. “I have been wondering if he gave Lillie drugs.”

“Pimps are known to do that. Do you think she was a doper?”

“I don’t know. A maid found something in her room in New York, a powder of some kind, but she didn’t tell me until after she had thrown it out.”

“Was your husband?” Mick asked.

“I know he tried drugs, but to what degree I can’t say. I think I need to find out.”

“I don’t see that it matters so much. Many of the girls try opiates. Your sister didn’t die from drugs.”

“But I want to know.”

“Perhaps we can look into it later,” Mick said, dismissing the subject. Suddenly, he put his hand on hers. “This is hard for you. I won’t think less of you if you quit. It’s all right. I’ll keep you apprised of the progress, daily, if you like.”

The detective’s hand felt warm, and Beret liked the touch. It had been a long time since someone had held her hand, and she’d missed that connection with a man. Nonetheless, she said, “I will not back out now. I don’t care what you think of me, Detective McCauley.” But she did care.

Mick nodded.

“What do we do next?” Beret asked. “Do we interview Joey Summers?”

Mick looked down at his hand over Beret’s. “
I
will interview Joey Summers and maybe his father, too. I told you that.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me with you?”

“I’ll do it alone. Do you really think those two will talk about your sister in front of you? What do you think Joey will say when I ask him if he’s been intimate with Lillie? I can talk to him man-to-man, and he’ll say more, might even want to brag a little about his conquest. And Mr. Summers, I know him. He’d be furious if I brought you with me.” He grinned. “Of course, he’ll be furious anyway.”

Beret thought that over and decided that the detective was right. “Then I must sit and twiddle my thumbs?”

“No, I would like you to write some letters.”

“Letters?” Beret asked scornfully. As if she were some typewritist.

“To police departments. I think we should find out if our killer has been elsewhere. We should write to police chiefs in all the major cities and inquire whether they have had similar murders.”

“And you think they would reply to
me
?”

“They’ll reply if you sign my name. I’ll set you up with names and addresses and writing materials, and you can compose the letters while I’m chasing down Joey Summers.”

Beret nodded, although the idea did not appeal to her. She would write a few letters to show she was willing to do her part. But she had other ideas. She would not tell the detective about them just now.

*   *   *

Beret had planned to return to the police station to begin the letters the following morning, but her aunt came down with one of her headaches and begged Beret to stay with her. So Beret had sat in Varina’s bedroom, reading to the older woman and filling towels with ice to put on her brow. Caring for her aunt reminded Beret of a time she herself had been ill with the influenza, and Lillie, ten at the time, had come into the bedroom, a white apron over her dress and a white napkin tied around her head and announced, “Hello, madam, I’m Nurse Fish. I’m going to take care of you.” Then she’d set a bell and a glass of soda water on the bedside table. “Now drink this up like a good girl,” she’d told Beret, handing her the water. When Beret gave her back the empty glass, Lillie had said, “Ring the bell if you need anything, and I will fetch it.” She’d left the room, but Beret had known the girl was lurking just outside the door, so after a few minutes, she’d rung the bell, and Lillie had come bounding back. “Yes, madam?” she’d said.

“Nurse Fish, I should like a cup of beef tea.”

“I’ll talk to Cook,” Lillie had replied gravely, putting the back of her hand to Beret’s forehead. “And I’ll ask her for two pieces of chocolate cake.” And so the two had played at patient and nurse until Beret was better.

*   *   *

It was longer than she’d hoped before Beret met again with Mick McCauley. He was on his way out of the station when she arrived. “I’ve made an appointment to see Joey Summers.”

Although she knew she could not accompany the detective, she was still disappointed. She did not like being cast aside.

Mick didn’t seem sorry and he added, “There’s plenty for you to do. The names and addresses of police departments in a dozen cities are on my desk for you. You can write the letters we talked about.” Then he softened. “That won’t be as interesting for you, but it has to be done. Police work can be tedious, you know.”

Beret had not come to Denver to write letters but she agreed it was necessary. So she went to the detective’s desk and found the list, along with police department letterheads that Mick had left for her. Ignoring the stares of the officers around her, she settled herself on the chair and opened a bottle of ink, then picked up the pen lying next to it—Mick’s pen, she thought, wondering how many police reports he had written with it. She dipped the pen into the ink and began to address an envelope, but the nib was dull, and the ink spattered. She might as well write the letters at home where she had decent writing materials. So she collected the list and stationery and left the room.

“You want me to take you back to Mrs. Stanton’s now?” Jonas asked. He had insisted on waiting for her, saying because her aunt was ill, she would not be needing the carriage.

“No,” Beret said suddenly. She paused, thinking. Detective McCauley would be furious with her, for going off on her own, but she didn’t care. After all, he had excluded her from the interviews with the Summerses. So if he could proceed by himself, so could she. Beret gave Jonas an address on Holladay Street.

Jonas turned around and stared at her. “You know what that is, miss?”

“Of course I do. Do you?” Remembering what the detective had told her about Jonas, Beret regretted her tone. The driver didn’t need her scorn. And why wouldn’t he know the address? After all, his mother had been a harlot. “I will be perfectly safe, Jonas. I have you to protect me.”

“You ain’t going to, you know…”

At first, Beret didn’t understand, and when she did, she laughed. “Join the House of Dreams? Of course not. I merely want to question one of the girls.”

“The madam ain’t goin’ to let you in.”

Beret shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“Mrs. Stanton’ll be mad as a turpentined cat.”

“Well, don’t tell her, then.”

When Jonas dipped his chin, Beret didn’t know if he agreed with her or was merely underscoring his objection. It didn’t matter. Beret would worry about Varina’s anger later. Jonas slapped the reins against the horses’ backs, and they rode along in silence.

When they arrived at the House of Dreams, Beret sat in the carriage for a moment, gathering her thoughts, wondering if she should send Jonas to fetch Elsie. But she wasn’t sure she could trust him and decided to go herself. After all, this was her investigation. She watched as a man went up to Miss Hettie’s. The door was opened, then shut, leaving the man outside. He knocked again, but the door remained closed, and he walked away. When the street was deserted, Beret allowed Jonas to help her down from the carriage, then went to the door herself and lifted the heavy knocker. She had not seen who had opened the door a few minutes previous and hoped it was Mae. If Miss Hettie answered, Beret would have to think of some excuse for calling.

But it was indeed Mae, surprise and then consternation on her face. “What you doing back here? Miss Hettie throw you out on your pretty rear end she find you standing here,” Mae said, balancing a stack of towels on the door frame.

Beret held out her hand with a gold coin in it. “Tell Miss Elsie I need to speak to her. There is another coin for her. I’ll wait in the carriage at the end of the block.”