Fallen Women

by Sandra Dallas

  A potbellied stove, its pipe sticking through the exterior wall, was next to a window. The room was cold, and there was little light, but it was a step up from the tenements Beret had visited in New York, and she knew that Jonas had been lucky to be quartered there. Certainly, it would have been better than the crib he had lived in as a boy as well as the quarters he had shared later on with the other newspaper boys. She was surprised at the tidiness of the room. She would have expected the bedcover to be pushed aside on the cot and the clothing heaped on the floor. There was much she did not understand about Jonas.

  Beret set the lantern on the cold stove and looked around the room, considering where to start. She went to the shelf and took down the newspapers, wondering if Jonas could read. But of course, he could have read, at least a little. After all, he had been a newsboy. She unfolded the top paper and discovered a story about the murder of Sadie, the crib girl. Beret had not seen it and took it to the window to read it in the daylight.

  Last night, just as the revelry on Holladay Street reached its fever pitch, a frail sister was cut down in the bloom of her youth by a fiendish killer. The police believe the same madman who stabbed Lillie Brown, the soiled dove who was later identified as Lillie Osmundsen, the niece of Denver Judge John Stanton, is responsible for the death of Sadie, a crib girl who worked out of a hovel on upper Holladay.

  No one witnessed the foul deed. Police say the body was discovered by a member of the sisterhood this morning.

  Sadie was lying on the bed of the dwelling that served as both home and place of business, her clothes torn and bloody from where she had been stabbed over and over. Her hands were clasped together in death in an attitude of prayer, as if in her final moments, the wanton woman was asking a power much greater than any she had ever known for forgiveness for her sinful ways and begging for everlasting life.

  Why did reporters write such nonsense? It was self-righteous and degrading to that unfortunate girl. Her death had been foul. Why couldn’t the reporters leave it alone? The man hadn’t seen Sadie’s body, because the corpse had been hauled away by the coroner before any of the newshounds arrived. Had someone told him Sadie had posed in prayer as death came on her, or had he just made that up? Probably the latter. Beret remembered that Sadie’s arms had been crossed over her body, not in prayer but in defense against the blows. Beret glanced at the rest of the article, which was written in the same overblown prose and filled with more errors, then thrust it aside. She could only wonder at the stories that would run about Jonas—perhaps in newspapers that already were being sold by newsboys—scarring her uncle by association. Perhaps she did have a duty to protect his reputation, and her aunt’s, as well.

  Beret went through the other copies of the Rocky Mountain News. The next one had a front-page story about Lillie’s death. Subsequent editions followed the death, but as the killer was not apprehended, each day’s follow-up was farther back in the paper than the previous one. Beneath the News were copies of the Denver Tribune, and the Republican, all with stories about the murders. Beret thought that Jonas must have saved all the accounts he could find, perhaps reading them late at night by the light of the kerosene lantern, as he sat on his cot reliving his evil deeds. Maybe he had read the newspapers to Tom, hinting that he knew more about the killings than the reporters or the police.

  The shelf was high, and Beret could not see what else was kept there. She did not want to search it with her hand for fear of touching a rodent. So she found a box in the hayloft and dragged it into the room, climbing on top of it to peer onto the shelf. That must have been where Jonas kept his treasures—two rocks that Beret thought might be ore samples and a silver penknife. The knife was an odd thing for a carriage driver to own. There was a deck of cards, greasy and dirty, and a tiny metal implement that Beret recognized as a hold-out, a clip used by gamblers to cheat.

  The only other thing on the shelf was a cheese box, and Beret took it down and opened it. Inside were a flint arrowhead and a brass button from a military uniform, a cheap pink hair ribbon, a woman’s garter, and a linen handkerchief with an L embroidered on it. Beret would compare it with the handkerchiefs Lillie had left behind in the bedroom dresser. There was a penny doll no more than an inch high, without any arms. Beret picked it up and stared at the cheap bisque image, the tiny red mouth. The hair was painted the color of a buttercup, she observed, as she returned the doll to the box.

  Lying facedown under Jonas’s treasures was a photograph, torn in half. Beret turned over what had been the bottom part of the picture, which showed the lower half of a woman, her legs in striped stockings. Beret picked up the top half of the photograph with the upper portion of the woman’s body on it. She was dressed in a wrapper that was parted in the front so that it came perilously close to exposing her breasts. The woman leaned forward, her chin on her hand, her head tilted, her mouth in a seductive smile. But the photograph was chilling, because the face had been slashed with a knife and the eyes scratched out. Beret knew prostitutes sold such pictures and thought the woman might be Sadie or Blond Bet, because she had long blond hair. But she did not resemble Sadie, and Mick had said that Blond Bet was a large woman. The prostitute in the photograph was small. As she returned the two halves of the photograph to the box, Beret wondered if the woman might have been Jonas’s mother. There was no inscription, no name on the back.

  Setting the box aside, Beret felt along the shelf, but there was nothing else, and she found that disappointing. She had hoped that Jonas would have saved other things. Then it occurred to her that Tom might have gone through Jonas’s possessions, could have taken whatever Jonas had of value or anything he found of prurient interest. Jonas might have kept photographs of other prostitutes, and Tom would have stolen them but left behind the mutilated one. If Jonas had taught Tom to play cards and drink whiskey, wouldn’t he have taught him other things, as well? The idea frightened Beret a little. She didn’t like being alone in the stable with the boy. She would speak with him later, but she would do it outside.

  Beret had not found what she was searching for, and looked around the room hoping to discover a hiding place. She took down Jonas’s clothes from the nails and went through them, the pockets, the seams, feeling for anything the boy might have hidden there. Then she opened the blanket and examined the pillow but found nothing. She searched the room, much as she had Sadie’s crib, looking for places where the woodwork had been pried up but nothing looked suspicious. As she walked across the room, she stubbed her toe and looked down. The floorboards gaped, and she got down on her hands and knees to find one that had been pried up. She had almost given up the search when in the corner of the room farthest from the door, she discovered a short piece of flooring that was unattached and lifted it up.

  Underneath was a tobacco sack, and Beret took it out, carefully untying the knot in its yellow string. Then she shook the sack, and two earrings fell into her hand. Beret closed her eyes and took a deep breath. There, she thought, the final proof that Jonas had killed Lillie. That would end her doubts. But as she lifted the jewelry, she knew without looking at them that the earbobs were not Lillie’s diamond stars. They were too flimsy. She held them to the light and saw that they were made of cheap metal, fitted with bits of red glass, some of it missing. A strand of coarse blond hair was stuck in a prong holding one of the remaining stones. Sadie had had such hair.

  Beret put the earbobs back in the bag and placed it in the cheese box, then searched the hiding place for Lillie’s earrings, but they were not there. Tom might have taken them. Perhaps he had realized that Sadie’s earrings were only junk and left them behind, to be found by the police—or Beret. But he would have taken the diamonds. Even a stable boy would know about diamonds.

  Beret returned the box she had stood on to the hayloft, then tiptoed to the steps and listened. Tom was downstairs, talking to one of the horses. She walked noiselessly back to Jonas’s room and gathered the papers and the box and set them on the floor. Then she went into T
om’s room and looked around. The cell appeared to have no hiding places. There were no shelves, only the cot and nails on the walls that held the boy’s clothes. Beret went to the bed and lifted the mattress, uncovering a stack of photographs tied together with a string. She took out the packet, untied it, and found herself staring at more girlie pictures. These were of different prostitutes posed in various stages of undress. One was of a little girl not yet at puberty. Beret knew that children younger than this one supported themselves and often their families with their bodies. What an evil place the world could be. Beret was suddenly chilled by the cold room and wanted to get out of there.

  “What you doing, miss?”

  Beret had not heard Tom approach, and she was startled. She looked at the boy a moment, and then she spread the photographs on the cot. She was about to ask Tom where he had gotten such images, but she knew the answer, and instead she asked, “What else did you steal from Jonas?”

  “He’s dead. He don’t care if I have his things. They ain’t doing him no good.” He reached out a dirty hand, his eyes gleaming as he stared not at Beret but at the images. “Gimme.”

  “You had no right to them. The police will want them. What else have you taken from Jonas’s room?”

  “Nothing. I don’t steal.” He glared at her in such a way that Beret felt uneasy. After all, Tom had been close to Jonas. Jonas might have bragged of the killings, bragged in such a way that Tom was jealous, had made Tom himself consider what it would be like to kill a woman.

  It was the second time Beret had been standing in a strange room, frightened, wishing she had waited for Detective McCauley. She raised her chin, hoping Tom would not see that she was uncomfortable. “I would say you stole these. Shall I ask the police to search your room for contraband, or will you tell me where you’ve hidden it?” She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

  “Hidden what?”

  “Contraband. Stolen articles. I would like you to return my sister’s diamond earrings, the ones shaped like stars. Jonas stole them. If you give them to me now, I shall not tell Judge Stanton. But if you won’t, then the police will arrest you.”

  Tom looked around wildly. “I didn’t steal no earrings, miss. I took those pictures, but I didn’t take nothing else. You look around and see. Lookit here. This is where I keep my things.” He pried loose a board from the bottom of the wall, revealing a sugar sack. Tom removed it and handed it to Beret, who emptied it onto the boy’s cot. The contents were a collection of odds and ends that might have come from a packrat’s nest. There were several marbles, a toy horse with one leg broken, the makings for cigarettes, and two gold coins. He would have taken the coins from Jonas’s box, but there was no way Beret could prove it. Underneath were more girlie pictures. “Jonas give me them. They wasn’t of no consequence,” Tom admitted when Beret picked them up. “There ain’t nothing else. I didn’t steal no earrings,” he repeated.

  He might have taken the earrings and sold them, Beret thought, but when would he have done that? He would not have known until a few hours earlier that Jonas was dead. “I should like you to turn out your pockets,” she told the boy, who obliged, perhaps because they contained nothing of interest. If Tom had taken the earrings, he could have hidden them anywhere in the stable, and she would have no way of finding them, Beret realized. “All right, Tom,” she said. She had been peremptory with the boy, and her voice softened now. “There will be a reward for the earrings. If you find them, I will pay you a hundred dollars, which is far more than they would bring on the street. And I won’t tell Judge or Mrs. Stanton. Are we understood?”

  Tom’s eyes were wide. “A hunnert dollars? If I find them, I’ll bring them to you. I sure will, miss.”

  Beret nodded, and picking up the newspapers and cheese box, she started to leave, but Tom touched her arm. “Miss?”

  Beret jumped, chilled by the touch.

  “Why do you think Jonas cut up that picture like he done? He showed me the others, but I never seen that one till I went looking.”

  “I don’t know, Tom. Maybe he hated prostitutes because his mother was one.”

  Tom stared at Beret. “Oh no, miss. Jonas told me she was a nurse. He said she went in a mine at Georgetown to save some men and got killed in a cave-in. They never found her body. She’s an angel up in heaven. Jonas told me that, too.” He paused. “You think Jonas is up there with her now?”

  She shrugged. There was no need to tell Tom that Jonas had made up the story about his mother, probably to elevate himself in the younger boy’s eyes. Jonas might even have believed it. Nor would she tell Tom that instead of being in heaven, Jonas was more likely burning in the fires of hell.

  Chapter 17

  To her disappointment, Beret did not receive word from Mick McCauley to meet with him the following day. So she accompanied her aunt to a luncheon at which a group of young ladies in Greek attire performed a tableau. Still caught up in Jonas’s death, Beret paid little attention to the display and later found it difficult to be charming and entertaining. When the discussion turned to how awful it must have been for Judge and Mrs. Stanton to learn that the young man they had engaged to drive their carriage had turned out to be a demented killer, Beret merely nodded, barely able to engage in conversation.

  Several women confided to Beret that they had been a little afraid of the strange coachman and had almost refused to ride in the Stanton carriage, and one confessed she had asked dear Varina why she had hired someone so repulsive.

  “Aunt Varina has always been aware of the needs of the disadvantaged,” Beret replied, wishing her aunt had not subjected them both to the unpleasant afternoon. Was the luncheon really that important to the judge’s appointment to the Senate?

  “Yes, of course, but to take that fellow into her home. Why, you all could have been murdered in your sleep.”

  The woman was right, although Beret wouldn’t admit that to her. “But we weren’t,” she replied. “My aunt is the soul of compassion. And my uncle, too,” she added, thinking this was the sort of conversation the judge hoped she would engage in. “If those of us who are privileged don’t reach out to the poor, who will?”

  “Had she any hint?” someone asked.

  “No, of course not.” Beret paused to gain control of herself and added, “Aunt Varina would have dismissed him if she had, of course.”

  “Well, it gives us all pause. From now on, I will insist on at least three references for anyone I hire. Will you have cake?” She handed a plate to Beret, as she added, “And then there was that awful murder of your sister. What do you say about that?”

  Beret took a slice of cake and picked up her fork, as she replied, “I have always heard Denver was lovely in the spring, and now I can see it for myself. I spied a clump of violets in the garden this morning, so pretty and fresh. My dear aunt suggested I pick them for my room. I love violets, don’t you?”

  The woman looked disappointed, for she surely wanted to gossip about the murders. Perhaps Beret should inform them that it was their husbands, fathers, and brothers who kept the whorehouses thriving. They were the patrons of the finer brothels—they might even have been Lillie’s clients—and they owned the blocks along Holladay Street where the prostitutes plied their trade, making far more money off the business of prostitution than did the girls. But of course, that was never a topic of conversation among ladies. Beret could only wonder what the women would have said about Lillie if she or her aunt hadn’t been there. Varina was right in wanting Beret to accompany her if for no other reason than to keep down the gossip.

  Before she left, Beret was invited to two or three other social engagements and knew that she could spend all her idle time in Denver involved in useless entertainments—afternoons and evenings that would be as dull as this one. As long as she was in Denver, she had no excuse to turn them down without giving offense. Before, she might have said she was busy with Detective McCauley, but the murders had been solved. So for her aunt’s sake she accepted th
e social obligations, although she wished she might get the plague or be bitten by a rabid dog before they took place. She hoped she could return to New York soon without offending her aunt and uncle.

  Varina was much pleased with Beret’s performance, and when they returned home, driven by the stable boy, Tom, Varina announced she had engaged her dressmaker to alter Lillie’s dresses for Beret, and the woman, a Mrs. Beaton, would be waiting for them. So even if Detective McCauley had sent for her, Beret could not have met with him that day.

  The dressmaker was trying. Beret stripped down to her corset and let her aunt and Mrs. Beaton fit the dresses on her. “You are not as well constructed as your sister, poor girl,” the woman said. “She had a fuller figure.” Then apparently afraid she had given offense, she added, “You are more statuesque. I always liked a tall figure. It shows off a gown to perfection.”

  Beret searched for something to still the woman without giving offense. But the dressmaker continued. “A lovely girl. Such a shame.” She had mastered the challenge of talking with her mouth full of pins.

  “Yes.”

  “I made this yellow gown for her,” the woman hurried on. “You remember, don’t you, Mrs. Stanton? The fabric was costly, but she said she had to have it, and oh, wasn’t she a beauty in it?” She stood back and looked at Beret critically. Yellow, Beret knew, was not her color, and the dress, cut low and fulsome in the front, was anything but flattering. “I’ll take it in at the bust, perhaps add a little lace there to tone down the color. And the hem must be let out. A bit of trim will cover the crease, and no one will know.”