Oh Danny Boy (27 page)

“And Miss Norton was comforting me when I became distressed.”

Miss Van Woekem looked from Arabella to me. “Wonders will never cease,” she said. “And what is this quest of yours, child?”

“It’s—” Arabella looked at me for inspiration.

“Miss Norton wanted me to locate a friend of hers. I appear to have done so.” I nodded to Arabella. “I really should be going. There is much I need to accomplish, as I’m sure you do, too. Please excuse me if I rush away, Miss Van Woekem.” I bowed to her and made for the front door.

“I’ll make that telephone call today and attempt to supply you with what you need,” Arabella called after me.

“I must say the Irish are an emotional race. Now what was all that about?” I heard Miss Van Woekem saying as I closed the door behind me.

I went to visit Mrs. Goodwin on my return, stopping off to buy a bunch of grapes at a greengrocer’s. Her neighbor let me in. She was clearly enjoying herself, having established herself as queen of the household, bossing around the nurse and Mrs. Goodwin.

“I’ve made her a junket,” she said, ready to give me my instructions, too, “and I’ve some calf’s-foot jelly cooling and a poultice all ready for her ribs.”

“I keep telling her a poultice isn’t going to help with a cracked bone, but she won’t listen to me,” the nurse said.

The two women glared at each other. I stepped between them.

“Thank you so much. What a lucky lady Mrs. Goodwin is to have such a kind neighbor as yourself,” I said. “Why don’t you go home and have a rest. You must be worn-out.”

“Well, I have been on my feet all day,” the neighbor conceded and left.

“Odious woman,” the nurse muttered. “Comes in here, bossing me around as if I was the hired help. And bossing the poor invalid, too.”

“How is she?” I asked.

“Go upstairs and see for yourself,” she said.

I climbed the stairs and found the supposed invalid sitting in a chair beside her bed.

“Well, this is good news,” I said. “I’ve brought you some grapes.”

She smiled. “It was a case of get well or have to suffer those two women going at it hammer and tongs,” she said. “Getting well seemed the safer option.”

“Are you sure you’re not rushing things?”

“Well, my side feels as if a mule kicked it, and my head aches when I try to stand up, but other than that I’m right as rain,” she said. “And I can’t abide wasting time lying in bed. Now, tell me everything. I was worried when you didn’t return yesterday evening.”

“I wanted to set things in motion as quickly as I could,” I said, and recounted my visits to the morgue and Dr. Birnbaum. “But I don’t want to give Letitia Blackwell’s family grief for nothing, so I’d really like to have the hair samples examined before we hand this information over to that police captain.”

“And I’d really like to interview the families involved before the police get at them,” Sabella Goodwin said.

“I don’t see how I can do that for you,” I said. “You told me yourself that I would get in terrible trouble if I went prying without proper authority, and you won’t be well enough for a while yet.”

“Don’t be so sure of that.”

“How can you think that you’d be able to take trams and trains and be jostled by crowds?” I said. “You’d be risking even greater damage to yourself.”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “It just happens that my late husband’s brother runs a small garage and repair shop in Brooklyn. And he happens to own an automobile of sorts. I’ve never seen it actually run, but it would be better than trying to fight the crowds or hoping a cab will turn up.”

“But even an automobile won’t spare your sore ribs,” I said. “I really think you should put your own health first at this moment.”

“I am putting myself first,” she said. “If we can present all the facts to Captain Paxton, one step ahead of those arrogant young men, then my superiors will have to take me seriously. It won’t hurt your reputation as a detective either.” She held up her hand as I went to speak again. “And frankly
I’d rather put up with a bit of bone shaking in an automobile than listening to those two women all day. I thought we might take a trip out to Brooklyn tomorrow and see if Bert can spare the time to run us around. Are you up for it?”

She gave me a determined, defiant stare. “I’m up for it whenever you are,” I said.

“Good. Then that’s settled.”

So it seemed to be. I must say I was anxious to speak to the girls’ families and see if they could give us any hints to the identification of the young man who might have lured two girls to their deaths. Of course maybe I was jumping to conclusions here. Maybe each girl was grabbed or lured away by the Ripper before they ever got to their assignation—snatched up into a passing carriage, maybe. In which case we had little hope of tracking him down, unless history repeated itself and this time there were witnesses.

Arabella Norton was swift to act and by that evening a parcel had been delivered to my door. It contained a silver locket that encased a strand of golden hair. I delivered it to Dr. Birnbaum and entreated him to go to work on it as soon as possible.

It felt as if we were poised on the brink of finding out one way or the other. However, if my suspicions were confirmed, it would bring no relief but only heartbreak. It was not an en-viable task that lay ahead of me and I lay in bed wondering why I felt compelled to see it through. I wasn’t a police matron, hoping to make my mark as a detective. And I’d be no nearer to releasing Daniel. Yet I knew that Mrs. Goodwin was counting on me. She needed me more than ever in her current condition. Of my own current condition I chose not to think.

Early on Saturday morning I arrived at Mrs. Goodwin’s house and found a cab waiting for us.

“I decided I would be foolish to risk my ribs on the tram over the Brooklyn Bridge,” she said.

“But a cab, isn’t that an awful expense?” I blurted out.

“I shall present the bill to my superiors at the same time as I give them the benefits of my investigation,” she said, looking
a trifle smug. “When they see what we have accomplished, I don’t think they will dare turn me down. And it’s not as if I have access to police vehicles like my male colleagues.”

“Quite right,” I said. This woman never failed to impress me. She would be my model from now on.

The cabby and I assisted Mrs. Goodwin to board and seated her with pillows in her back before we set off. There was brisk traffic across the bridge to Brooklyn. The half-day Saturday laws were beginning to take effect, meaning that many city workers were probably headed to the nearest beach to escape the heat. That beach would be Coney Island. I wondered how soon Mrs. Goodwin would be well enough to go there with me. I was anxious enough to go there, but not alone!

We crossed into Brooklyn and the cab deposited us on a street of wood-framed row houses and various small businesses. The brother-in-law’s house was at the end of the row, and the shed beside it sported an impressive sign:
GOODWIN’S MOTOR SHOP. AUTOMOBILES REPAIRED.

We knocked and Mr. Goodwin himself appeared at the door—a big, ruddy man with arms like tree trunks, dressed only in an undershirt, with a hairy chest clearly visible.

“Sabella—well, I never. What a surprise to see you. Come in, do. Marge will be pleased.” He went to enfold her in a bear hug, but she blocked his advance.

“I’ve come to ask a favor, Bert,” she said, “and I’d like to introduce my young friend and helper, Miss Murphy. Molly, may I present Albert Goodwin.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.” He shook hands with awkward embarrassment at the formality. “Now come on in. What is it I can do for you, Bella, my dear?”

Bella explained her accident and our mission, then we had a pleasant cup of coffee in their little kitchen while Bert prepared the automobile. It was nothing like the sleek models that I had ridden in a couple of times before; in fact I suspected that it was partly homemade—not much more than a box on wheels. Bert had to crank it up several times, but at last it popped and banged and then chugged away merrily.
He helped me into the backseat, Sabella into the front beside him, and we were off. Even though the ride was smoother than a horse and trap, I could see it was an ordeal for Mrs. Goodwin, although she’d never admit it.

Fortunately the first address was not too far away, on a small side street just off Flushing Avenue. It was obvious as soon as we came to a halt that we were in an Italian neighborhood—the smells, the sounds, the very exuberance of life. Italians don’t talk to each other—they yell, they laugh, they fight, and all with the maximum of arm gestures and flashing eyes. The children played equally loudly. A street musician was singing a haunting Italian song in a rich, pure voice. Our automobile caused much interest. The children stopped playing to swarm around it. Bert leaped out and drove them off before they could damage his precious vehicle or burn themselves on the hot hood.

We asked for the Rosettis’ residence and were escorted to it by a mass of dark heads. The man who opened the door looked as if he hadn’t slept in a few nights. Mrs. Goodwin showed him her badge, and we were ushered inside. A large woman, dressed head to toe in black, appeared from the kitchen.

“They’ve come from the police, Mama,” the man said in broken English.

“They bring news? News of my Rosa?” she asked.

“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “But we’d like to ask your daughters some questions, to see if they can shed any more light—” she stopped, realizing she was going beyond his English skills—“if they can tell us anything we don’t know.”

“Bene.”
He nodded. “Our young ones are here. Lucia come home from the factory soon. Gina! Sophia!” he boomed. “Mama, go get the girls.”

The wife disappeared and immediately two young girls came rushing into the room.

“What is it, Papa?” they asked and stood there looking shyly at us.

“They want to ask questions about Rosa,” he said. “Answer them good. Tell them everything you know.”

“We don’t know nothing, Papa. I told you that already,” the older one answered. “If we could do something to find Rosa, we would.”

Mrs. Goodwin produced the letter. “You say that she went to work at the factory that day and never came home?” she asked the father.

“
Si.
That’s right.”

“Do your other daughters work at the same factory? Didn’t anyone see her leave?”

“Her sister work there with her, but she’s been staying late. They’re trying to start a union, and my Lucia wants to be part of it. She is very”—he slapped himself on the chest—“my Lucia. Strong. With fire. Big heart.”

“So nobody saw Rosa leave that evening?”

“Another girl say she was in a hurry, and she look excited. But she didn’t tell anyone where she goes.”

“Did she have a young man?”

“Young man?” he boomed out the words. “She was sixteen years old. No boys. Too young. That’s what we tell her. We find her a nice Italian boy when the right time comes.”

He looked up at his wife, who was still hovering in the doorway, and she nodded.

Mrs. Goodwin glanced at me before saying, “Mr. Rosetti, would it be possible to talk to your daughters alone, without you and your wife in the room? They may be too shy to speak in front of you, but Rosa may have confided something to them. Something she didn’t want you to know.”

“My Rosa, she tell her mama and papa everything,” he said angrily.

“Sometimes even the best girls don’t tell their parents everything,” I said quietly. “You do want us to find out what happened to Rosa, don’t you?”

“You want I should go?” he demanded.

“If it helps to find Rosa,” Mrs. Goodwin said.

He gave a large, expressive shrug. “
Bene
. I go. Anything to bring my Rosa home to me. Come, Mama.”

The door closed behind them.

“Now girls,” Mrs. Goodwin said, “we need to know if your sister told you anything that she kept secret from your parents. Did she have a secret admirer? Did she give any hint that she was planning to meet a boy?”

“Oh no, signora,” the older girl said. “She wouldn’t do that. Papa would never allow it. When we go out, he makes us all go together and watch over each other.”

“Like this photograph at the beach?” She produced the picture.

They smiled.
“Si, signora.”

“Was this taken at Coney Island?” I asked.

“Si.”
They nodded again, their eyes smiling with the memory.

“Do you go there often?”

“When there is money to spare. It’s only a nickel on the train and Mama packs us a lunch so we don’t have to buy food. Sometimes Lucia treats us to a ride or a show. Sometimes we just walk around and watch the people.”

“And did Rosa ever meet a boy during one of these outings?” I asked.

“No. Never,” the older one said.

“But she did get that note,” the younger one reminded her.

“What note?” Mrs. Goodwin asked quickly.

The younger girl gave her sister a half-frightened glance then said boldly, “Last time we went. Rosa laughs and says some boy slipped a note into her pocket. He said he liked her and wanted to meet her alone.”

“Did you see the boy?” Mrs. Goodwin asked.

“No, and neither did Rosa. She just found the note in her pocket. It would be easy for someone to put the note there without her noticing because the crowd is so thick that it’s hard to move.”

“Where was this exactly?” I asked.

“On the Bowery. You know where that is? It’s like a street
in the middle of the fun fair. Lucia had made overtime money and she treated. She told us we could choose what we wanted to do. So we went to the freak show, cos we’d never seen it before and we had a good laugh there.”

The older sister took over. “Then Rosa said she wanted to visit the Cairo Pavilion and maybe be snatched up by a sheik and taken to his harem. We all laughed. Rosa was naughty sometimes. She said wild things. Have you ever been there? They have real camels and belly dancers and fire-eaters—oh my, it’s wonderful. It’s like being in another world.”

“And did she keep the note? Do you still have it?” Mrs. Goodwin asked.

“Oh no. Lucia made her throw it into the nearest rubbish bin. Rosa made a fuss and said Lucia was being a spoilsport and no boy had ever said nice things to her in a note; but Lucia grabbed it, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the bin. ‘You know what Papa would say about that, don’t you?’ she said.”

“And she never heard from the boy again?”

“Never. Lucia made us go straight home after that. She was mad at Rosa.”

“How long was this before she disappeared?”

The girls wrinkled their foreheads. “Four days,” the little one said. “It was the weekend before she vanished.”

“Mrs. Goodwin got to her feet. “I’m going to ask your father if I can look through her things. She might have a secret hiding place for letters and treasures.”

The girls looked at each other and laughed. “We share a chest of drawers, all four of us,” the younger one said. “There is no place to be secret in our room.”