Tell Me Pretty Maiden

by Rhys Bowen

  “Which police department would that be?” I asked.

  “Depends exactly where it happened. If it was in the Bronx then it’s officially part of New York City jurisdiction. If it was farther out from the city then it would be the local police of whatever town was closest, and the investigation is not likely to have been as thorough. I’ll ask a few questions. Someone in the department will know.” He turned to me. “Are you free to come with me some day this week?”

  “Tomorrow would be best because the show opens on Tuesday. After that I don’t know how much time I’ll have to spend at the theater. And we must finish up our investigation on Mr. Roth, and I’d like to be around when Dr. Birnbaum treats the poor mute girl.”

  “You’ve taken on too much again, haven’t you?”

  I smiled. “Better than sitting at home twiddling my thumbs. At least if I’m going to be able to pay the bills.”

  “It’s not right,” Daniel said. “I should be providing for you. I want to, Molly. I’m waiting for the day when—”

  I put my hand up to touch his cheek. “Until that day it’s you we’ve got to worry about. I want you back on the job, Daniel. I want you to feel happy again. I want my old Daniel back—cocky, arrogant, and fun.”

  “Oh, Molly, I know what I want.” He looked at me and suddenly we were in each other’s arms and he was kissing me passionately. It was lucky we had the compartment to ourselves. Who knows where that particular exercise might have led if a rap on the compartment door hadn’t made us break apart guiltily. “I need to see your tickets, sir,” said the ticket collector, looking distinctly embarrassed. “I’m sorry to be disturbing you and the young lady.”

  Daniel smiled. “Sorry. We got a little carried away.”

  “I quite understand, sir.” The ticket collector grinned knowingly. “I was young myself once. Now I’m the father of seven. Make the most of it while you can, sir.”

  With that he shut the door again. We sat with Daniel’s arm around me all the way back into New York. When I got back home to Patchin Place I found Mrs. Tucker sitting on Mary’s bed with the girl asleep in her arms like a small child. She put her fingers to her lips as I poked my head around the door.

  “She looks so peaceful,” I whispered.

  “Now she does,” Mrs. Tucker exclaimed. “You should have seen her earlier.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was downstairs, doing some knitting, and suddenly I hears this unearthly noise,” she said in a low voice, smoothing the girl’s hair as she spoke. “I rushed upstairs and the poor thing is out of bed, rushing from room to room with this look of pure terror on her face, shrieking like a banshee.”

  “Oh, no. What did you do?”

  “It took me a while to quiet her down. I held her tightly in my arms, just like I’d hold my own children when they woke up with nightmares and suddenly she starts to sob. She cried and she cried and I kept telling her it was all right now. Then I gave her some of my soup, mixed her a dose of the sedative, and she went straight back to sleep.” She shook her head. “Poor little thing. She was scared out of her wits.”

  “That’s exactly right,” I said. “She has been scared out of her wits. We have an alienist coming to see her.”

  “An alienist? What in tarnation is that?”

  “He’s a doctor of the mind,” I said.

  “Never heard of such a thing. How can you treat the mind?”

  “It’s the latest thing. He tries to get through to the subconscious—that’s the thoughts and fears we don’t even know about.”

  “Sounds fishy to me,” she said. “I’ll wager my good broth and loving care will work better than his mumbo jumbo.”

  “Maybe both together will do the trick,” I said. “And if we find her family then that would be the best thing of all. She needs to be safely home again.”

  “As long as it wasn’t her family that brought on this terror in the first place,” she said knowingly.

  “Oh, surely not,” I began but she shook her head. “Have you not heard of fathers doing unmentionable things to their daughters?”

  “Holy Mother of God,” I said, my hand coming up to involuntarily cross myself. This was something that hadn’t crossed my mind before. I suppose I’ve always been naïve. Then I remembered. “But the doctors say she hadn’t been assaulted in that way.”

  “Well, that’s one blessing, isn’t it?” Mrs. Tucker said gently. “Whatever happened to her, it was something terrible, I could tell that. I bet the crying did her a power of good. It was as if a damn had burst. I’ll wager she’ll be much better in the morning. Back to her old self, maybe.”

  But the next morning there was still no indication that her speech or memory was returning. She greeted Dr. Birnbaum with an apprehensive stare as he came into the room, glancing at me to make sure I was going to stay close by.

  “Hello, my dear. And how are we today?” he asked merrily. Then he turned to me. “I’ve some letters for you to read, Miss Murphy. Our first replies.”

  “Does any of them look promising?”

  “I doubt it,” he said, “but one never knows. Take a look for yourself.” He handed them to me, “Oh, and I’ve revised the advertisements, adding the phrase ‘May be called Annie.’ We’ll see if that produces better results.”

  I had been watching the girl. At the mention of the word Annie she became suddenly alert and her eyes opened wide with fear.

  “It’s all right, my sweet.” I went to her and patted her shoulder. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you again. You are safe here among people who care about you. You do understand me, don’t you?”

  I thought I saw the slightest of nods, but I couldn’t be sure. I opened the letters and read them out loud, one by one, hoping that I’d see some sign of recognition in an address or a signature. To be sure none of the missing girls matched the description of our young lady, but it was worth a try. Some of the letters were quite piteous and I realized just how many runaway girls there could be in the world.

  After I’d finished the letters, Dr. Birnbaum tried hypnotism on her again but once more she became horribly agitated when he said the word “Annie,” and he had to stop. If she understood more than the word “Annie,” she didn’t let on. She was living in her own private hell and she wasn’t going to let anyone else in.

  “It may take time,” Birnbaum admitted, “although in some of these cases it only takes one thing to trigger a response and return speech and memory to them. She may wake one day as if from a dream. If she does suddenly come to her senses, I want to be called immediately. It could be a very dangerous moment for her. Realizing the implications of the trauma she went though could be too much for her conscious mind and could result in permanent madness or suicide or even violence to those around her.”

  I nodded, remembering my friends’ concern that I might have taken on something too difficult and dangerous. “I have now engaged a nurse to be with her when I cannot,” I said.

  “That’s a wise precaution.”

  We all looked up at the sound of a horn tooting outside. I went to the window and there was Daniel, at the wheel of an automobile. I ran down to the front door.

  “Are you ready for a ride?” he shouted over the noise of the engine.

  “But what about all that snow yesterday?”

  “It hardly snowed at all around the city,” he said jauntily as he jumped out of the automobile. “And I’m sure they’ll have taken the trouble to put down salt and gravel on the main roads out of town. So I think we’ll be all right. I doubt if we’ll make it all the way to New Haven, though. Have to leave that for another day.”

  “I’ll have to see if Mrs. Tucker can look after our patient. I did warn her I might have to go out today.”

  “She’s going to prove satisfactory as a nurse, is she?” Daniel asked.

  “Absolutely. She’s treating our patient like one of her own children.”

  “Well, that’s one thing off your mind then,” Daniel s
aid. “I’ll go and fetch her while you get ready, shall I? I bet she’ll enjoy being seen driving away in an automobile!”

  I helped him reverse the auto out of our alleyway and then off he went, his wheels spinning up slush from the gutters. I put on warm clothes, as my experience of automobiles led me to believe that they were not highly successful at keeping out the cold and damp. I was just tucking my hair under my hat when Daniel returned with Mrs. Tucker.

  “How is the lamb today?” she asked eagerly. “I couldn’t sleep all last night, worrying about the poor little thing. If I find the one who did this to her, he’s going to wish he’d never been born.” And she waved her knitting needles in a threatening manner.

  “I think we hit pay dirt on our choice of nursemaid,” Daniel said as we drove away. “She’s one of those women who relishes taking care of others.”

  I laughed. “When Mrs. Goodwin was confined to bed after her accident, Mrs. Tucker took it upon herself to look after her. She drove Mrs. Goodwin mad. It was a real clash of wills.”

  “So a sedated girl would be more to her liking,” Daniel said. “Either way, it means I have you to myself again. We have the use of a stylish automobile and our time is our own.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  I had to admit that it was a thrill to be seen driving up Fifth Avenue in a dashing motor car, with a handsome man beside me. The elegant neighborhood of the East Seventies soon faded, however, and the city became a collection of humble row houses mixed with ramshackle huts as we reached the northern tip of Manhattan Island. We crossed the icy bridge over the Harlem River with great caution and then had to proceed at a snail’s pace because the main road wasn’t as well maintained as Daniel had hoped. We passed signs of habitation, but it seemed that the towns were to the north of us. And we soon found ourselves in snowy countryside.

  “Do you know where we are going?” I asked.

  “We’re going to a police station,” Daniel said. “Just off the road here. It was apparently the first local station to respond to the accident,” he said. “I’m hoping they can show us the accident scene and maybe answer some questions.”

  We found the police station in a little main street next to H. Bingler, dry goods, and R. Murray, greengrocer. It was lucky that Daniel was known to the sergeant on duty. He sent a constable with us who was only too eager to come for a ride in the rumble seat of our automobile and show us the accident site himself.

  “It gave Ernie and me an awful scare, I can tell you,” he said, leaning between us from the back seat of the auto. “There was this horse less carriage, crashed into a tree, oil spilled out onto the snow, and not a soul in sight.

  “ ‘Where can they have gone?’ Ernie says. ‘Someone must have been hurt, the way this thing’s smashed up.’ ”

  “When was this?”

  “It was the Wednesday morning. Later we found out that the vehicle must have collided with the tree the night before. But you’ll see how it ran off the road at a bend, so it wasn’t noticed until a farmer came by at daybreak.”

  We rejoined the main road and soon the constable told us to stop in a wooded area where the road took a sudden swing to the right. “It was smashed into that oak there,” he said, climbing out of the seat. “See where it hit the tree?”

  I could see a big gash in the trunk. I could also pick out dark patches in the snow. More snow had fallen the night before so it was hard to know if they were oil or blood.

  “So the auto itself was pretty badly damaged?” Daniel asked.

  “It sure was, sir. The whole front was smashed in. The steering-wheel column had been pushed clear out. I tell you, whoever was in there couldn’t have walked away, that’s my opinion.”

  “And yet they did,” I said. “Were there any trails leading off through the snow?”

  The constable looked sheepish. “Well, to start with we had no idea that this automobile was connected with a crime, so we looked all around to see if any wounded travelers had staggered away from the wreck and then collapsed. So a fair number of the tracks would be ours. But we saw no clear set of tracks leading away, I can tell you that. One strange thing. It did look as if a second vehicle had pulled up beside it at some time, then driven away again. It must have been another automobile because there were no signs of horses’ hooves. I think that must have been a good Samaritan just checking to see if anyone was hurt. He found nobody and drove off.”

  He looked at us for affirmation.

  “Where is the wrecked automobile now?” Daniel asked.

  “We had it towed to the yard behind the police station. We thought that whoever owned it might want to salvage any parts that he could. But nobody showed up, and then we found out that it matched the description of the automobile that drove away from the Silverton place. When we gave it a thorough search, the sarge came up with the silver pot. ‘It’s part of the loot, boy,’ he said to me, and it was.”

  “So was the auto ever checked for evidence?” Daniel asked.

  “Evidence?” the constable looked confused.

  “You know—scraps of clothing, hairs, that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t think it ever was, sir. It was in pretty bad shape. Ernie says to me that it’s nothing but a heap of junk and we should help ourselves to the wheels, ’cos they were still good.”

  “You didn’t, I hope?”

  “Oh no, sir. By then word had come in that this particular automobile was wanted in a robbery.”

  “Then I’d like to take a look at it,” Daniel said. “You can learn a lot with a magnifying glass and close observation, you know.”

  “Really?” The young man looked impressed. “I know that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was supposed to be able to pick up a cigarette end and tell you what kind of person smoked it, but I didn’t think that kind of thing was done in real life.”

  “They are using fingerprints these days,” Daniel said. “Did you know that every fingerprint is different and they can be identified on most smooth surfaces?”

  “No kidding, sir. Well, I guess I’d have to ask sarge if it’s okay for you to take a look. I’d sure like you see you find them fingerprints.”

  “I don’t have a kit to do it with me,” Daniel said. “But I could come back with one. But it’s possible that clothing got torn in such a bad crash or even bits of skin and tissue were left behind.”

  “Golly, sir,” the constable looked pale. “You surely wouldn’t want the young lady to see that?”

  “The young lady has seen worse,” Daniel said. “She’s a bona fide detective, my boy.”

  “No kiddin’, sir?”

  He looked at me as if I were an exhibit in Mr. Barnum’s circus.

  I felt that I should warrant the label so I left the motor car and walked around to examine the accident scene for myself. The ground was truly trampled, and to make things worse, a horse and cart had been used to tow away the wreck. A light coating of new snow had fallen, blurring the outlines of footprints, so that it would now be impossible for anyone to pick up a trail in the pristine woodland beyond.

  My eye was caught by a scar on a nearby tree. A horizontal line cut neatly along the bark, about chest level. I followed the line and saw some kind of blemish on a tree beyond. I held my skirts free of the snow and waded across to see.

  “Daniel, come here,” I called, my excitement mounting. I pointed at the trunk. “There is something stuck in the wood.”

  Daniel produced a penknife and extracted it. “Good eyes, Molly. It’s a bullet.”

  “And there is the path that it took grazing the outside of that tree trunk,” I said.

  Daniel frowned as he looked. “Someone was shooting into the direction we have just come. A falling out among thieves, maybe. One of them tried to run off?”

  “He obviously succeeded, since no body was found,” I said. “And remember what the constable said about the tracks of a second vehicle. Did another motor car catch up with this one and stop to offer help? Then why shoot?”

  Daniel s
hook his head. “Interesting question. Was it just coincidence that a second vehicle showed up? Had it come to help them? Or come to take the loot from them?”

  “You’re saying them, but we only believe that John Jacob Halsted was in the car, don’t we?”

  “He could have been working with a partner.”

  “Who then tried to double-cross him and run off with the loot, knowing he was injured.”

  “And Halsted shot at him to stop him from getting away,” Daniel finished with satisfaction.

  “In which case, where is Halsted?”

  “It could be that the partner was the one doing the shooting and that he managed to kill Halsted and bury the body somewhere close by.”

  “Don’t, it’s too horrible.” I shuddered. I looked up at the constable who was watching us with interest. “Were any dogs used in the search?”

  “Wasn’t no need. You’d have seen the tracks, plain as day, if they’d gone off through the woods.”

  “We were just speculating that there could have been a falling out among thieves here. We’ve just found a bullet imbedded in that tree. So it’s not beyond possibility that a body could be buried nearby.”

  “I don’t think so, sir. It had snowed, remember. The snow would be all disturbed, wouldn’t it?”

  “No harm in searching again, though,” Daniel said. “Does anyone nearby keep hounds?”

  “Yes, sir. Farmer over Hatcher’s Corner way keeps a pair of coon hounds.”

  “Did you ask at all the farms around this site, to see if the victims of the crash came to seek shelter anywhere?”

  “Oh yes, miss. We asked, all right. And then when we knew it was a wanted man, we checked out barns and hen houses and everything. Didn’t find nothing though.”

  “My money would be on the second automobile,” Daniel said. “It could even have been an arranged meeting, although I’m sure the crash wasn’t intentional.”

  “So you are suggesting that someone met Halsted and whisked him and the loot away?”

  “Exactly.”