Oh Danny Boy (28 page)

“Nevertheless, I’d like to see for myself.” Sabella was firm.

Papa Rosetti led us upstairs and we went through the room carefully. The girls owned nothing more than a change of underclothes, a few pairs of well-darned stockings, missals, rosaries, and a few treasures like a lace handkerchief or a cheap broach.

“Tell me, Signor Rosetti,” Mrs. Goodwin said carefully, “does Rosa have any special ways to identify her—a mole perhaps or a scar? Anything unusual?”

His face went ashen gray. “You think something bad has happened to her.”

“We’re not sure yet. But just in case.”

“No,” he said. “She has nothing wrong with her. She is a beautiful girl. Full of life. Everyone loves Rosa.”

At that moment the oldest girl, Lucia, burst in.

“They have news about Rosa?” she asked, her face bright with hope.

“Not yet,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “We think her disappearance may be linked to that of some other girls. We hear that your sister received a note from a boy while you were all at Coney Island.”

“Oh that?” Lucia shook her head. “It was just a bit of nonsense that goes on in places like that. Boys come there alone and tease girls. That’s what boys do. Anyway, I made Rosa throw the note away.”

“So you don’t think she could have gone back later to meet him alone?”

“How could she? I crumpled the note myself. I threw it into the bin. It was gone.”

“She could have memorized the important parts of the message first?” Mrs. Goodwin suggested.

“I don’t think so.” Lucia looked perplexed. “That is—I don’t know how long she’d been reading it before she showed it to us.” Then she shook her head violently. “But she wouldn’t do a thing like that. She knows what Papa would say. She wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t.”

But I got the feeling that Lucia was not sure of this at all. Rosa, the fun-loving, naughty daughter, might very well have disobeyed Papa.

The whole family escorted us to the front door. Papa shook our hands earnestly. “We thank you for all you do to find our dear daughter,” he said. “If you bring her back to us, we will be your servants forever.”

We tried to smile as we went back to Bert, standing guard beside his auto.

“At least we’ve established that she received a note on Coney Island,” I said as he got the automobile started again and then we edged our way, with much horn honking, past the inquisitive children and back onto Flushing Avenue. “We now know that two girls received notes from a boy saying that he liked them. It’s a pity we don’t know whether Rosa’s note suggested a time and place they could meet again. Or where that place was.”

“That’s true.” Sabella Goodwin nodded. “Maybe the other family will be able to show us the note their girl received.”

The day had heated up rapidly and the sun beat down on the front seat, sparing me in the back, where there was a rudimentary canopy that looked as if it came from an old carriage.

“I wished we’d thought of bringing a parasol,” Mrs. Goodwin said. She looked hot and uncomfortable, and I guessed that her side was hurting her. But she refused my suggestion to stop for a cool drink or an ice cream.

“Let’s get it over with,” she said. I realized it was not her own discomfort she wanted to end, it was the difficult meet
ing with another family, for whom the ultimate news could only be even worse.

We headed north along Fifty-eighth Street into Queens. The Lindquist family had an apartment over a baker’s shop and the delicious smell of baking lingered in the warm air. We went up the stairs beside the shop, and the door was opened by a round-faced young woman with light blue eyes and light hair.

“Are you, by any chance, Krissy Lindquist?” Mrs. Goodwin asked.

“Ya.” The girl looked worried.

“You wrote me a letter about your sister.”

“You have news for me?”

“Not yet. I wanted to ask you some questions about your sister,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “I wondered if we could talk.”

The girl glanced nervously into the interior of her apartment, then closed the door quietly. “Downstairs. On the street. Maybe safer,” she said, and led us down.

We stood under the awning outside the baker’s shop.

“Now, Krissy,” Mrs. Goodwin began. “You said your sister received a note from a boy. Did she show it to you?”

“No,” Krissy said. “I think she maybe made it up. She don’t always speak quite truthful.” Her accent was foreign with definite overtones of someone who has learned English on the streets of New York.

“And did she tell you anything about this boy she was going to meet?”

“No. Nothing. I ask her lots of questions, but she acts all mysterious. Very pleased with herself because I never had a boy want to meet me, and I’m older than her.”

“Had you been to Coney Island with her before she got the note?”

“No. She went. Not me. I was supposed to go too, but I got sick right before it. She said it was wonderful, like a dreamland. I was annoyed because I couldn’t go, so I didn’t ask her too much about it.”

“But you think she met the boy there?”

Krissy shook her head. “I don’t know. She could have
met him anywhere, but Coney Island would be a safe place to arrange a secret meeting, wouldn’t it, because there are so many people. It’s like you’re invisible. Nobody to report home to my pa.”

“Do you have a picture of Denise?”

She glanced up the stairs. “Wait here. I bring you one.”

She came down again soon after, a little out of breath, and handed us a photograph. It was a portrait, taken in a studio, and it showed a pretty, plump girl with her hair braided in a rather unflattering way across her head. But the hair was light brown at best, and the girl I had seen on the morgue table had been much smaller.

“It’s not her,” I said, without thinking.

“You’ve found someone?” Krissy asked.

“Yes, a girl’s body,” Mrs. Goodwin said quickly, “but it’s not your sister.”

“Then there is still hope.” She put her hands together in prayer. “I tell you, lady. I feared the worst news. Dilly would never run off and leave me and Mama and Papa worrying about her. She was a good daughter and a good sister. So I really thought something very bad had happened. You read about it in the newspapers, don’t you—bad things happening to girls?”

Mrs. Goodwin touched her arm. “I can’t guarantee that something bad hasn’t happened to your sister, Krissy. Tell me—one thing the police will want to know. Did she have any distinguishing marks on her?” As Krissy looked puzzled she went on, “Anything we could recognize her by? A mole? A broken tooth? A scar?”

“Well,” Krissy said, “she lost the top of a finger once. It got slammed in a carriage door when she was little. You hardly notice it now, but she has no nail on the finger.” She pointed to her right hand.

“Thank you. That’s most helpful,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “May we take the photograph with us?”

“If you bring it back to me,” she said. “It’s all I’ve got now. My parents won’t even talk about her. They won’t even listen.”

At that very moment loud footsteps stomped down the uncarpeted stairs and a big, fair-haired man appeared. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and he wore red suspenders.

“What’s this?” he demanded and broke into a flood of Swedish.

His daughter answered him. As she spoke he glared at us.

“Go. Be gone,” he said, gesturing in a threatening manner. “Tell them.” And more Swedish came out.

Krissy looked at him imploringly. “But Papa.”

“Tell them!” he roared.

“He says he don’t want his daughter back no more, even if you find her. He don’t want to know. His daughter is no good. Ruined.” A tear escaped from the corner of her eye. “But please don’t believe him. Please go on searching for her. I beg you.”

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Goodwin gave her a reassuring smile. “We will do our best, I promise you.”

We made our exit with Papa Lindquist watching us go, hands on hips and glaring.

“I fear we have just left two families whose hearts are destined to be broken,” she commented as the automobile got up speed and a warm wind blew in our faces.

Bert’s wife, Marge, insisted that we stay for a meal with them.

“You’re lucky you came today and not tomorrow,” she said as we helped her clear away the dishes. “You’d have got no sense out of him then. He’d be busy tuning and polishing that ridiculous motor vehicle so that it made it all the way to Coney Island.”

“Coney Island? You like to spend the day at the beach?” I asked politely, trying not to sound too interested.

He laughed. “Can’t stand it. Can’t stand crowds either, but I love a good fight. There’s a boxing match going to take place out there tomorrow evening. I reckon half of New York is going. I’ll be going early to get a good seat.”

“A lot of silly men watching two other men beat each other to a pulp,” Marge muttered to us. “You wouldn’t catch me there for all the tea in China.”

“It’s no place for a woman,” Bert Goodwin replied. “But men need their sport. It was a stupid law that tried to shut it down.” He looked at his sister-in-law. “Your husband enjoyed a good fight, Bella. He liked nothing more.”

“I know he did. And I’m quite partial to one myself,” she said unexpectedly. “In fact I wouldn’t mind coming with you tomorrow.”

Bert Goodwin laughed. “You never cease to surprise me, Bella. Come if you want to, but I warn you it will be rough.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” I whispered to her. “You’ll get jostled and bumped in that crowd.”

“But it’s too good a chance to turn down,” she muttered back to me. “And I’m sure we’ll be quite safe with Bert to escort us,” she said in a louder voice.

“Quite safe? I reckon you will be, especially with half the New York Police Department out there.”

“Trying to stop the fight?” I asked.

He threw back his head and laughed even louder. “Trying to stop it? Betting on it, my dear. There’s nothing a cop likes better than a good brawl. Am I right, Bella?”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “I’m sure half the department will be there. Whitey always was.”

“But your little friend here surely won’t want to go, too?” Marge Goodwin looked at me as an ally in the midst of all this barbarism. “She can stay here and keep me company.”

“Oh no,” I lied. “I love a good boxing match. I used to watch them all the time with my brothers in Ireland.”

“There you are, Marge,” Bert said. “You heard her. But I’m warning the both of you—if I take you with me, don’t go changing your minds and come begging me to take you home in the middle of the fight because I’m not budging until it’s over, even if it goes on all night.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

“Right, then I’ll expect you back here by six tomorrow evening. The fight starts at eight-thirty and I’m allowing plenty of time for the crowds.”

“Thank you kindly, Bert,” Mrs. Goodwin said.

“Why don’t they stay with us tonight, rather than going
all that way back to the city?” Marge Goodwin said. “It’s a while since we’ve had Bella to talk to. I’ll make us a good Italian spaghetti tonight.”

“Very kind of you,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “We accept, don’t we, Molly?”

I could hardly refuse. “Very kind,” I echoed.

Later when we were up in their guest room, I accosted her. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? By rights you should still be in your sickbed. Even riding in that auto today was painful for you, I could see it.”

“You learn to be tough in the police force,” she said. “And who knows when we’d ever get a chance like this again? We’ll have Bert to escort us, and, as he said, half the New York police will be on hand, if we should get into trouble.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” I said. “I understood that one of the reasons for Daniel’s arrest was that he was setting up an illegal prizefight. Now you tell me that most of his fellow officers will be attending it?”

“Officially it’s against the law, if you wanted an excuse to arrest somebody,” she said. “But nobody’s going to stop that fight tomorrow night. I can guarantee you that. Too much money riding on it.”

“So the betting is a big part of it, is it?”

“Oh yes, indeed. There will be plenty of men who go, not to watch the fight particularly, but to wager large amounts of money. And heaven help their favorite boxer if he doesn’t win. He’ll have to make a hasty getaway.”

I thought of Gentleman Jack and wondered how many times he’d had to make that hasty getaway. There was a lot for him riding on this fight, too. Tomorrow would be an important day for all of us.

We passed a pleasant enough Sunday morning. Bert and Marge went to church, but Bella declined for herself and me, saying she didn’t feel up to sitting on a hard bench for a long sermon. I thought this was a poor excuse for one who was about to sit through a twenty-something-round boxing match, but it was accepted with good grace.

“Now let’s get down to strategy,” she said when we had the house to ourselves. “What is it we hope to accomplish on Coney Island?”

“For one thing we want to talk to the pimp of the first prostitute whose body was found under the boardwalk,” I said, “and maybe some of her fellow workers. One of them might be able to give a description of the man with whom she was last seen.”

“And apart from that?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “If two young girls were given notes by a strange boy, then maybe I’d better make myself available and unaccompanied. You or Bert can keep a safe distance behind me and watch.”

“You’re making yourself the bait?”

“If you put it that way. But I’ll be quite safe, because I’ll be aware, and you’ll be watching.”

“Coney Island is a big place,” she said. “It’s a long shot.”

“It might pay off,” I said. “If it doesn’t, we present our findings to Captain Paxton.”

She nodded. “And he’ll solve the case and get all the
glory and I’ll go back to being assigned to the women’s dormitory, and picking up fleas into the bargain.”

It was early evening and the world was bathed in rosy twilight when Bert wheeled out the automobile. True to Marge’s prediction, he had polished it until it gleamed. He cranked it up and we were off.

“Is the fight going to be at the Athletic Club as usual?” Bella asked.

“Out at Norton’s Point, you mean?” Bert shook his head. “They can’t hold it there. That would be the obvious place, and it would be shut down before it started.”

“But I thought you said half the police force would be there?” I asked.

“Unofficially. But officially they’re duty bound to shut it down. So it has to be at a secret location.”

“And you know where that is?”

“I just happen to know where that is,” he said with a smile.

The streets of Brooklyn were congested with Sunday evening activity as families enjoyed an hour or two of leisure on the stoop. We were reduced to crawling past children’s games and ice cream barrows. We couldn’t have been more than halfway there when there was a shudder, a pop, and we came to a halt.

“Danged, blasted thing,” Bert muttered. “What can that be now?”

He opened the hood. “Danged fan belt has broken. Where am I going to find another one on a Sunday evening?”

A crowd gathered around us, the young men pretending expertise and offering suggestions. Since I knew nothing about motor cars, I couldn’t tell if they were helpful or not. At last one of them mentioned someone who owned an automobile and might have spare parts. Bert took off with him while we waited, feeling horribly conscious of being objects of curiosity. Some of the remaining young men tried a little flirting, but were driven off by Mrs. Goodwin’s frowns. At long last Bert reappeared, his face red and his shirt drenched
with sweat. A lot more tinkering went on until finally the motor was cranked and mercifully it turned over.

We set off on our way again. Darkness had all but fallen, and Bert had to go at a snail’s pace through poorly lit streets. Then we saw a glow ahead of us, and against that glow the monstrous silhouettes of the giant wheel and the roller coaster. We had finally arrived at Coney Island. Bert left the car at a nearby stable, paying the groom to keep an eye on it. Mrs. Goodwin grimaced as she was helped from her seat.

“You weren’t wise to do this,” I said.

“I’ve never been known for being wise,” she answered briskly. “If I had been wise, I’d have married a bank clerk and stayed home to keep house. Unfortunately I grew up wanting excitement.”

“We really are kindred spirits,” I said, “but is there some way we can keep you out of the crowds and not have you walking too much?”

“I’ll survive,” she said. “I’m more interested in getting the job done.”

Bert took her arm and escorted us across Surf Avenue. We had to negotiate a throng of people, heading home after a day at the beach and on their way to the nearest railway station or trolley stop. We pushed past them to plunge into the heart of Coney Island. Sounds came to meet us—the competing music of hurdy-gurdies, organs, drums, screams. The night glowed with electric lights at the bigger establishments and hissing kerosene lamps at the more modest booths.

Bert Goodwin took out his watch from his breast pocket. “Dang it, we’re late because of that no-good fan belt,” he muttered and strode out ahead of us. “This way.”

I noted that he had guided us onto the Bowery itself. I had only seen it by day, when it had been lively enough. Now, at night, it was positively bewildering. Touts were shouting outside all kinds of entertainments from the wholesome to the bawdy. Music spilled from dance halls. From the fun house came the sound of mechanical laughter. I hardly had time to take it all in as Bert swept us forward.

“In here,” he said, and stopped outside the entrance to Inman’s Casino and Dance Hall.

There was a burly man guarding the entrance. He ignored Bert and tipped his derby to us.

“Are you ladies here for the dance?”

“Dance? I thought this was where the fight was going to take place,” Bella Goodwin said.

“Fight? What fight?” The man said innocently. “Oh, no. Fights are prohibited in New York State—didn’t you know that? What we’re having tonight is a nice little tea dance. But if the gentleman gets restless and decides to go exploring, he might come upon some entertainment more to his liking.”

He accompanied this last remark with a wink, and we all understood what he was saying. He wasn’t allowed to let anyone in to see a prizefight, but if they happened to discover one after they were inside, then it was all right with him.

“We’ll have three tickets for your—dance,” Bert said, and paid for us.

We went inside and found ourselves in a modest-sized ballroom. It had a fancy chandelier in the center, lit by hundreds of electric lightbulbs, a row of red plush chairs around the perimeter, as well as little tables on which candles flickered. In one corner, on a dais, a band was playing lively rag-time tunes. One couple was already dancing a two-step. A few women sat listening, or fanning themselves as it was stuffy inside, but apart from that, the room was empty. However, we were instantly aware of the noise that almost drowned out the sound of the orchestra. It was a roar, and it came from a small doorway in the corner. Bert almost dragged us toward it. We went down a dark and dingy hallway and emerged into a much larger room that was already so full, it was hard to even get through the door. The place echoed to shouts and catcalls. It was fierce male shouting, alarming in its intensity, like the heat of a battle; and I stood in that doorway, unwilling to force my way farther into the room. At first all I could see was backs and heads. Some men hadn’t even taken their hats off and it was impossible to see over them. But little by little we wormed our way forward.

Then suddenly there was a parting in the crowd enough for me to see the object of all the shouts and catcalls. In the middle of the ballroom a raised platform had been erected, surrounded by ropes. There were several rows of chairs around it, all occupied, I noted. Behind the chairs the crowd was packed in like sardines. Over the boxing ring several electric lights were suspended and the heat from them made the room like a Turkish bath.

At that moment the crowd gave another mighty roar, and I got my first good look at the fight. Two big men were dancing and weaving around the ring, both naked to the waist, their bare torsos already smeared with blood. Suddenly the crowd gave a cheer as a powerful punch was thrown. I heard the sickening thud as it connected. One man’s head jerked backward and he staggered against the ropes, while a stream of blood and spittle flew out from his face over the spectators in the front row. It took me awhile to recognize that man as Gentleman Jack. One eye was half-closed and his nose was already a bloody mess. I turned away.

“Follow me,” Bert said. “We’ll see if we can get a better view.”

I looked at Mrs. Goodwin. “Don’t worry about us, Bert,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll risk getting poked in the ribs so soon after my injury. I’m quite content to watch from the back here. But you go ahead. We’ll meet you when the fight’s over.”

“That could be awhile,” he said. “Apparently they’re only on the fourth round. It should go for at least twenty-five.”

“You go ahead and enjoy yourself.” Mrs. Goodwin almost pushed him into the thick of the crowd.

“Well, that’s got rid of him,” she said. “Now we can make our retreat. I take it you don’t really want to watch any more of this disgraceful spectacle than I do?”

“I think it’s truly horrible,” I said as another punch landed with a deep thud and the crowd groaned.

“We’ll let Bert get himself settled, then we’ll push off,” Mrs. Goodwin whispered.

I was trying not to look at the boxing ring. My eyes
scanned the crowd. Then I froze. I was looking straight at Detective Quigley, and next to him was Captain Paxton.

“Let’s get out of here fast,” I whispered. “Quigley’s over there.”

We fled down the hallway. “I hope he didn’t see me,” she said. “They think I’m still in bed, recuperating.”

“So the righteous Mr. Quigley watches fights,” I murmured.

“So it seems.”

We came out into the dance hall, where a few more couples were now dancing.

“We have an hour at least, if the fight goes the distance,” she said. “Let’s get to work. What do you want to do first?”

“Find someone who can tell us about the murdered prostitute,” I answered.

“That shouldn’t be hard at this time of night,” she said, as we came out into the bright lights of the Bowery. As soon as I looked around, I realized she was right. Just out of those bright lights, in the little alleyways that ran off to either side, there were girls waiting, leaning against walls, striking provocative poses, some even smoking cigarettes.

Mrs. Goodwin went up to a cluster of them. They eyed her warily.

“One of the girls here was found murdered under the pier a few weeks ago,” she said. “You heard about it, of course.”

“Course we did,” one of the girls said insolently.

“Did any of you know her personally?”

“That would be Jewel. She was one of Harry the Horse’s girls,” a tall redhead spoke. “He’d probably know more.”

“Have any more girls been attacked or had narrow escapes since then, have you heard?” Mrs. Goodwin asked.

They looked at each other for confirmation. “Not that we’ve heard,” one said. “Mind you, we’re more choosy who we go with now, and we keep an eye out for each other.”

“So you didn’t know this Jewel personally?” I asked.

“We knew what she looked like,” one said, “but not to talk to. Harry doesn’t like his girls mixing too much.”

“So where would we be likely to find Harry the Horse at this time of night?”

“Couldn’t say,” one said. “Down by the pier, maybe? He likes to sit in Maxwell’s saloon there and keep an eye on things. Some of his girls take their customers down under the boardwalk. The cheapskates who don’t want to pay for a room.”

“Now go on, hop it,” the first girl said. “You’re keeping the customers away. What are you, anyway, her aunt?”

“Just someone who wants justice for her,” Mrs. Goodwin said quietly, and we moved off.

“Down to the pier then, I think,” she said to me, and we made our way back along the Bowery.

The pier stretched out like a ghostly arm into the black ocean. The bathing house beside it was already shut and in complete darkness. I looked down to see white lines of waves rushing at the beach and lights along the pier twinkling in the water. It was a festive scene, but I was as taut as a watch spring. The couples who passed us would be finding the darkness romantic, I thought. Then my mind went to two couples in particular. Did Rosa Rosetti and Dilly Lindquist have high hopes of a romantic evening when they strolled arm in arm along the boardwalk? When had they been lured into a carriage? When had they first begun to feel afraid? Not here, surely, where there were always people within earshot.

I looked around me. Here on the boardwalk there was a steady stream of pedestrians, but down those steps, on the beach, or maybe under the boardwalk, it would be completely dark now. A good place to go for a stolen kiss, perhaps, but also complete darkness for more sinister motives. Except—I watched figures going up and down those steps. She would only have to scream and help would be at hand. And if he killed her down there, how in heaven’s name did he manage to carry the body to a waiting vehicle?

“This is the bar they mentioned,” Mrs. Goodwin said, “and if I’m not mistaken, that’s the man we are looking for with one of his girls now.”

A flashily dressed young man, in jaunty derby and white spats, was wagging his finger as he shouted at a young girl.
She was scantily dressed and shivered as if it was cold, which it wasn’t. Even the thick lipstick and rouge couldn’t disguise how young she was.

“You Goddamn well get back to work, you lazy bitch,” he was growling, “or you’ll feel the back of my hand across your face.”

Mrs. Goodwin stepped in with me right behind her.

“Are you Harry?” she asked.

“What if I am?”

“I’ve a few questions to ask you,” she said.

“Oh yeah? And why should I answer your questions?”

“Because of this.” She whipped out her badge in a way that made me green with envy. This is what a private investigator lacks, I thought. Each time we talk to someone we have to win them over and make them want to talk to us. We can never force them to, like the police.

He laughed. “Go on. That ain’t real. There ain’t no women cops.”

“Want to test it if I blow my whistle?” she asked.

The bluster subsided a fraction. “You can’t do nothing to me. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“You were threatening that young girl. And you know she’s underage.”