Murder on Sisters' Row (8 page)

 

 

N
EARLY TWO HOURS LATER, SARAH ARRIVED AT THE house where Mrs. Van Orner had provided a refuge for the women she rescued. Mrs. Keller, at the Daughters of Hope, had loaned her a market basket in which to carry the baby. She’d be less noticeable, they’d decided, if Jake did return and started asking if anyone in the neighborhood had seen a woman carrying an infant. By the time she arrived at the modest clapboard house in the Lower East Side, however, she was extremely noticeable. The baby was screaming bloody murder, drawing looks varying from pity to outrage from the people passing her in the street.

Having only the address and seeing nothing about the house to distinguish it from its neighbors, Sarah breathed a silent prayer that she was at the right place and pounded on the door. A young woman opened it, her astonished gaze taking in Sarah and the screaming baby in the basket with one glance, then sticking her head out to hastily check the street before drawing Sarah inside and closing the door securely behind them.

“Are you Mrs. Brandt?” the girl asked.

“Yes, I—”

“Thank heaven you’ve come. That girl Amy, she’s half out of her mind worrying about what happened to you and the baby.” She reached into the basket and snatched up the squalling child. “He’s soaking wet!”

“I was in such a hurry to get him away, I didn’t even think to ask them for spare diapers,” Sarah said by way of apology, but the girl was gone, hurrying toward the stairs at the end of the front hallway.

Sarah stood there stupidly, watching her disappear up the stairs. Then she looked around. The place reminded her of the Daughters of Hope Mission, an old house furnished with threadbare rugs and castoff furniture. Faded wallpaper covered the walls, unrelieved by a single picture. A far cry from the house on Sisters’ Row.

She heard a door open upstairs and a woman’s voice raised in anguish, the words indistinguishable. The door closed, muffling the baby’s cries, and then they ceased altogether. Sarah sighed with relief.

“Not exactly what you expected, was it?” a familiar voice asked.

4

B
EING SUMMONED BY THE CHIEF OF DETECTIVES WAS never a good thing, Frank observed as he made his way upstairs to Stephen O’Brien’s office. When he saw a woman was already in O’Brien’s office, he knew it was even worse than he’d thought.

“Close the door, Malloy,” O’Brien said. He didn’t sound happy to see him.

Frank closed the door and took a few steps closer to O’Brien’s desk. The chief didn’t invite him to sit down.

The woman glared up at him from where she sat, as if she held him personally responsible for whatever she was so angry about. He thought she looked familiar, but maybe she just looked like every other madam in the city—a bit past her prime, more than a bit plump, and wearing expensive clothes that still looked cheap. Her hat had probably cost more than Frank made in a month, but the bird perched on it and staring at him with beady glass eyes was orange. Not a color found in nature.

“Mrs. Walker, this is the detective sergeant I told you about,” O’Brien was saying.

“The one who knows this Mrs. Brandt?” she asked sharply.

Frank’s stomach knotted, and he managed not to swear aloud, although the curses were roaring in his head. In the one second that ticked by, he saw in his mind’s eye exactly what had happened. Sarah had ignored his advice and done a very stupid thing. He wasn’t going to let on that he knew, though. Things were already bad enough. Frank just clamped his teeth shut and waited, knowing anything he said would be wrong.

“You do know Mrs. Brandt, don’t you, Malloy? The midwife?” O’Brien prompted.

What had happened to Sarah? Was she all right? “We’ve met,” he allowed.

O’Brien wasn’t amused. “Met? Hasn’t she been involved in some of your cases?”

“A few.”

“Involved in your cases?”
Mrs. Walker echoed. “Does she work for the police?”

“Of course not,” O’Brien assured her. Frank noticed his face was a dangerous shade of scarlet. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous,” Mrs. Walker informed him. If possible, she was even more furious than O’Brien. “I’ve been robbed, and I want you to do something about it.”

“Did Mrs. Brandt rob you?” Frank asked before he could stop himself.

Mrs. Walker hadn’t missed the sarcasm in his voice, but she squared her shoulders righteously. “As a matter of fact, she did. She kidnapped a baby.”

Frank wanted to groan. He could easily imagine Sarah kidnapping a baby if she thought that was the right thing to do. He wasn’t going to admit that, though. “What were you doing with a baby? What kind of a place do you run anyway?” he asked, pretending to be shocked.

Now
her
face was a dangerous shade of scarlet, but she turned to O’Brien. “I don’t have to sit here and be insulted. I pay good money for the police to protect me, and I expect you to earn it!”

“Malloy, what do you know about this?” O’Brien demanded.

“I know Mrs. Brandt isn’t a kidnapper. She’s a respectable lady, and she never would’ve gone into a brothel voluntarily. Maybe she was the one who was kidnapped.”

“Nobody did anything to her,” Mrs. Walker said indignantly. “She got away scot-free.”

The knot in Frank’s stomach loosened a bit. At least she was all right. For now. “With this baby?”

“Yes, with the baby, and his mother, too.”

Frank gaped at her. “She took a woman and a baby out of your house, and nobody stopped her?”

Mrs. Walker made an exasperated noise. “Of course not! I told you, she took the baby. Then some other people came and took the woman. Kidnapped her! Carried her out of there against her will.”

Frank remembered what Sarah had told her about those rich do-gooders who rescued prostitutes. Apparently, they’d succeeded. “Don’t you have a bouncer in the place?”

“Of course I do, but your Mrs. Brandt asked him to take her and the baby in the carriage, so he wasn’t there when the rest of them showed up.”

“She’s not
my
Mrs. Brandt,” was all Frank could think to say to that.

“Do you know anything about this, Malloy?” O’Brien asked.

“No,” Frank lied. “And if I did, Mrs. Brandt wouldn’t be involved in it.”

“Well, she is involved in it, and I want you to get her in here so she can tell us where they’ve taken this woman.”

Fury welled up in Frank, almost choking him, but he knew anger wouldn’t get him anywhere with O’Brien. Fortunately, he had another weapon he could use. “Do you know who she is, Chief?”

“Mrs. Brandt? Of course I know who she is.”

“No, I mean do you know who her father is?”

“Her father? No, why should I?”

“Because he’s Felix Decker, that’s why. I don’t think he’d be happy to hear you hauled his daughter down to Police Headquarters to ask her questions about something that happened in a brothel.”

“Who’s Felix Decker?” Mrs. Walker asked.

“One of the richest men in the city,” O’Brien said sourly. “And not one of your clients, I take it.”

Mrs. Walker glared at him. “I just want my girl back. I don’t care who took her. I pay you to protect me, O’Brien. I expect to get my money’s worth.”

“Malloy, go see this Mrs. Brandt and find out what happened to the girl,” O’Brien said.

“She’d have to be crazy to tell me that, knowing I’d have to tell you,” Malloy said. “And she’s not crazy.”

“I don’t care about any of that. Just find out what happened to the girl and get her back to Mrs. Walker.”

Why, Frank wondered as he let himself out of O’Brien’s office, couldn’t Sarah ever take his advice?

“
N
OT EXACTLY WHAT YOU EXPECTED, WAS IT?”

Sarah looked up in surprise to see Miss Yingling standing in the doorway of what must be the front parlor. She wore the same drab olive green suit she’d worn the first day Sarah had met her, but she seemed much more animated today than she had then. Her eyes were actually sparkling.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sarah admitted. “I didn’t expect to get away with the baby so easily.”

“Mrs. Van Orner had a bit more trouble, I’m afraid.”

“But she did get Amy out, didn’t she?”

“Oh, yes, but the stupid girl wanted to get dressed and pack up all her clothes. Mrs. Van Orner tried to reason with her—how much use will those clothes be to her outside of a brothel, after all?—but she kept arguing. Finally, Mr. Porter just picked her up bodily and carried her out of the house in her nightdress.”

“Oh, dear! I knew I should have warned her they were coming. She could have been ready.”

“Oh, yes, waiting at the door with her grip,” Miss Yingling scoffed. “That would be a pretty picture.”

“She could have at least gotten dressed,” Sarah said.

“It’s just as well. They never want to part with the fancy clothes, and they even want to wear them. A woman can’t walk down the street dressed like that without attracting the wrong kind of attention, so we end up having to burn the clothes.”

“Did Mrs. Walker try to interfere?”

“A little, but she was late to the party. Mr. Quimby kept the cook busy at the front door for quite a while, long enough for Mrs. Van Orner and Mr. Porter to get back downstairs with the girl. The girl was making a fuss by then, and the cook heard it and started shouting for the madam. She and Mrs. Walker came running, but Mr. Quimby and Mrs. Van Orner were able to hold them off until they got Amy into the carriage.”

“Were you with them?”

“Oh, no, I was here, helping Lisa get everything ready. Mrs. Spratt-Williams told me all about it.”

“Lisa?”

“Lisa Biafore, the Italian girl who let you in just now. She’s really Analise, but she’s trying to be more American, so she changed it to Lisa.”

Sarah heard a door open and close upstairs. “I’d like to examine Amy, to make sure she’s all right after the carriage ride and all the excitement.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Van Orner will see the wisdom of that. Should I ask her?”

“Yes, please.”

She left Sarah standing in the front hall as she hurried off toward the rear of the house. In a few minutes, Mrs. Van Orner came into the front parlor, where Sarah had found a seat on a battered sofa. Miss Yingling came trailing along behind.

“Mrs. Brandt, we can’t thank you enough,” Mrs. Van Orner said as Sarah rose. “Your information was invaluable.”

“Not as invaluable as your courage,” Sarah replied. “If you and your friends hadn’t been willing to go in there . . .”

Mrs. Van Orner waved Sarah’s praise away. “Not at all. We simply do God’s work. Tamar said you wanted to examine the girl. I think that’s a good idea. She was extremely agitated during the entire event. I’m so glad you brought the baby over, though. Perhaps she’ll calm down now. If not, we can give her some laudanum.”

“I’d rather not, since it can go through the milk and make the baby too groggy to feed well. Let me see how she’s doing first.”

“Certainly. Tamar, will you take Mrs. Brandt upstairs?”

Miss Yingling seemed only too glad to oblige. She led the way and Sarah followed.

“How many women live in the house?” Sarah asked as they climbed the stairs.

“Just two others right now. We have room for more, but the women don’t do well if they have to share a room with someone, I’m afraid. They have a difficult time adjusting to normal life, so we try to give them privacy when we can.”

“Is it unusual for a woman to be as agitated as Amy was?”

“Not at all. They’re frightened and excited at the prospect of freedom. Some of them become hysterical while others just huddle in a corner and shake.”

Miss Yingling stopped in front of one of the doors that lined the upstairs hallway. Sarah could hear the murmur of voices from inside. Miss Yingling tapped lightly, then opened the door without waiting for an invitation.

“Mrs. Brandt would like to see Amy,” she announced.

The room was already crowded. Furnished with a plain iron bedstead, a wardrobe, and a washstand, the place felt more utilitarian than comfortable. Plain muslin curtains hung at the window, and the walls were painted an ugly shade of brown. Amy lay propped in the bed, the baby at her breast, and Mrs. Spratt-Williams and the girl Tamar had told her about, Lisa Biafore, stood by, ready to help in any way. Miss Yingling and Sarah took up the remaining floor space.

“Mrs. Brandt,” Amy said, brightening. “I got out!”

“Yes, you did. I’m very happy for you.”

“You should be. You have no idea how horrible that place was. Of course, my room there was a lot nicer than this,” she said, looking with disfavor around her current accommodations.

“You should be grateful you’ve got a roof over your head and a bed to sleep in,” Lisa Biafore chided.

Amy ignored her. “I’m hungry. I have to keep up my strength to feed the baby.”

Lisa sniffed in disapproval. “It’s not mealtime yet, but I’ll see what we have in the kitchen.”