“Fair enough.”
“But then they said, In that case, let another clergyman come with you. They said they were worried about his safety, but really, I think they just wanted to make sure he wasn’t … that he was doing what he said he was.”
“How did he answer?”
“He said no. Quite violently. He talked about his work with these women in terms that were, so I’ve heard, disturbing. Disturbing enough for Emmanuel, at any rate. So they threw him out.”
“I see.”
Michael Behan enjoyed language; his verbal restraint was disheartening. Feeling defensive, I said, “He was a much younger man then, more headstrong, more … At any rate, it’s been years since he went out like that. Women either come to the refuge of their own accord or they’re sent by a forward-thinking policeman. He doesn’t need to…”
Aware I was babbling, I threw up my hands. “He was at a colleague’s, I’m sure of it. And he won’t give their name because he’s a private man and he hates being questioned. Hates it. He doesn’t want to trouble his friends by sending the police to their homes. Which is understandable. I don’t know why we’re even discussing it. It’s ridiculous. My uncle would never…”
I had talked so much, I was no longer sure which acts I was dismissing as beyond my uncle’s capacity. I finished by saying, “You must know he would never harm anyone.”
Was I wrong or did he hesitate before agreeing? “I know it because you tell me so, and I’m inclined to believe you. If I weren’t so inclined, I’d wonder about a man who lives alone with twenty or so women who don’t pay him rent. I’d wonder what that does to him. I’d wonder if any man is really that decent. I’m sorry.”
I wanted to be angry, but Michael Behan was only telling me how Herald readers might see it. Those little wonderings, the ripples of distrust that come when we encounter someone who does things we simply would not do. Out of self-regard, we sniff out the self-interest: He’s not really so pious. It’s all a sham. Pride. Arrogance. Or worse.
Perhaps to cheer me up, he tapped my elbow and said, “That’s an impressive weapon. I think you did damage.”
“Not really?”
He looked down at his ribs. “Bruise at least. I’ll have to come up with some story for this one. Jumped by hoodlums, pounded by political bosses, something a little more dignified.”
“Well, you should have let me hit him.”
“Whacking an inebriate on his already-aching head, that’s a fine way to persuade the press to be on your side.”
Be on my side. The words resonated, and I realized perhaps that was what I had hoped for from Michael Behan. Silly, since he wasn’t even writing about crime anymore.
Now he said, “Explain something. You said Sadie Ellis was sneaking out to meet McInerny.”
“Yes.”
“But McInerny’s locked up.”
“She may not have known that. They lived not far from the refuge; she was probably going to their rooms…”
As I said it, I saw my error. Berthe had told me Sadie had been leaving the refuge for weeks. But Joe McInerny had been in jail most of that time.
Where on earth had she been going?
Still thinking out loud, Behan said, “So poor Sadie thought she was going off to meet her sweetheart, but she runs into a knife before she gets there…”
No, I thought slowly, Sadie was going off to meet someone else. But I didn’t want to share that. Not if Michael Behan thought Harry Knowles had his good days.
“What about the other women?” he asked. “Any of them ever run into a difficult customer?”
“You think Sadie turned a man down and he did that to her?”
“Been known to happen.”
I shook my head. “I saw Sadie. After. Whoever killed her, it wasn’t just about ending her life. He wanted to hurt her. Mark her. He…”
He did it slow. You know why? Because he enjoyed it. That deep, southern voice that made everyone else sound rushed and sloppy. That dark split skin, red and white at the bone …
“He enjoyed it,” I said bluntly.
“Then I’d ask the other ladies if they know a man like that. Unless, of course, you do, which I sincerely hope you do not.”
Wanting to end the conversation before it became obvious I wasn’t sharing all my thoughts, I stood up. “Well, the Lower East Side is a crowded place. I should start looking for this man if I’m going to find him.”
“And if I pointed out that bringing yourself to the attention of a man who does this sort of thing to women might be … misguided?”
“No, I wouldn’t listen. But I thank you for the thought, Mr. Behan.”
* * *
On my way back to the refuge, I pondered the matter of brains. How we give them shelter under our skulls. Do our best to fill them with knowledge, protect them from blows. When they are bored, we seek distraction. When they are tired, we allow them rest, if possible. In return, they should concentrate on the things we wish to think about and ignore those we don’t want to.
And yet my brain returned again and again to the same question: Why had Sadie left the refuge?
Joe McInerny had been in jail for weeks. Once, twice, she could have made a mistake. Sooner or later, though, a neighbor would have given her the news. I believed Sadie was fond of Joe, despite everything he did to her. But she was also practical, in her own way. She wouldn’t waste her time on a man who’d be no use to her for months, even years. She had no money to go dancing, and no friends or family to give her any—aside from Carrie Biel, who would have returned her to the refuge straightaway. Of course, she could have earned it …
But the truth kept insisting on itself: Sadie had gone to meet a man. And that man was not Joe. I felt sure someone would have told her about the arrest. Joe and Sadie were unpopular in their building due to their fights and the business they were in. One might have expected Sadie to return weeping once she found out, but according to Berthe, Sadie had been in a good mood. Mischievous and self-centered as ever. Yes, she’d been sulking about the other women avoiding her, but the arrest of her man would have been an obvious chance to regain their attention. If she hadn’t used it, it meant she had moved on.
Who was Sadie meeting? And was he the same man who had killed her? She would have had little opportunity to meet men outside the refuge. It would have had to be …
My thoughts were interrupted as I turned the corner and saw the Purity Brigade. Their numbers had swelled since Sadie’s murder. There was Orville Pickett, Mrs. Hilquit, and Miss Cobb, and several new arrivals I didn’t recognize. One of them held a copy of the Herald bunched in his fist. Instinctively, I looked across the street to see the Duchess and her court. Instead of their usual antics, they stood with their arms crossed, keeping careful watch on the brigade. The Duchess, I noticed, kept one hand to her thigh, where she was reputed to keep a spring-loaded flick knife she called Ladyship’s Will.
At the back of the crowd was Bill Danvers, his hair slicked close to his scalp, scrawny neck rising from his snow-white collar. Even as he prayed, his fox eyes stayed sharp on the refuge door. Coming the day after Sadie’s murder, this was an outrage of decency by anyone’s standards, and striding up to Orville Pickett, I said as much.
Pointing to the refuge, Orville shouted, “There’s the outrage, Miss Prescott! Right there. That young woman died because of what goes on in that house and we all know it.”
Bill Danvers bellowed, “You tell her, Orville!” And the crowd, eager for conflict, shouted encouragement, with the kind of feeling that feeds on its own righteousness when its appetite is really for bloodshed. That they should treat Sadie’s death like a point scored in their favor infuriated me.
My voice rising, I said, “That house is the only place Sadie Ellis was safe from the sort of man who got his hands on her last night. And you know that, Mr. Pickett. Somewhere in your heart, I think you know it.”
A shout from the back. “And who was that man, Miss Prescott? You ask yourself
that?”
“It wasn’t my uncle.”
Mentioning my uncle had been a mistake. The crowd reacted like a bull to red, shouting, badgering. Orville demanded, “How many men had she talked to recently? Just one that I can think of.”
The crowd roared its approval. I countered with “Well, she talked to you, Mr. Pickett.”
Orville had not anticipated that response, and he went pale. Pressing my advantage, I shouted, “Or perhaps she talked to you, Mr. Abrams. Or maybe Bill Danvers. See, Mr. Pickett? I can shout names, too. Mud is cheap, it costs nothing to throw, anyone can do it.”
“Now she’s accusing me!” Danvers cried. “First McInerny, now me!”
That was all the group needed to make me the villain. I heard accusations that I was a fool, a liar, an accomplice, and worse. Because of me, an innocent man was accused. Because of me, the women trusted my uncle. Because of me, they went with him. A hand reached out and shoved me. Another grabbed at my coat. Panicked, I swung my arm to be free, felt pain as someone wrenched my hair. Twisting to get loose, I saw Bill Danvers grinning, his fist raised.
Fresh howls told me the Duchess and her ladies had joined the fray. Men were knocked sideways, women shoved into the gutter. Frantic, I looked for the Duchess, terrified that Ladyship’s Will might assert itself. Shouting, “Stop it! Stop!” Orville cleared a space by placing his large self between me and the crowd. Shocked by the sudden turn to violence, I hurried off in the wrong direction, not toward the refuge but farther down the street. After a few moments, I became aware that someone was following me.
“Miss Prescott … Miss Prescott…”
The calls were ragged, the breath short, the tone … pleading. I slowed, turned around to see Orville Pickett bent from the waist, gulping air.
“I’m … sorry,” he panted.
“I suppose you see yourself as Christ saving the woman taken in adultery.”
From his bent position, he waved a finger. “I don’t take your side, Miss Prescott. I just didn’t want to see you hurt because of your own rashness.”
“My rashness—” I clenched my teeth through several responses. “Mr. Pickett, I know you and your mother feel you have a mission, but you need to send these people home. The bottles, the rocks, now this.” I gestured to my hair, which had been pulled from its coiled plaits. “Send them home before it gets worse.”
“All benefit from hearing the word of the Lord,” he said stubbornly.
Having parroted his mother like a good son and a weak man, he turned to rejoin his group. I called, “If you have any decency, you’ll say a prayer for Sadie’s soul.”
“I have already remembered her in my prayers,” he said, and took his place next to Mrs. Hilquit and Bill Danvers.
Berthe was waiting for me at the door, broom in hand, Sal and Ruth behind her. My uncle had said that no one was to engage with the Picketts, but clearly, they had been ready to break that rule. “We were going to come get you,” said Berthe. “Then the fat fool pulled you out.”
“Where is my uncle?”
“Upstairs. Doing the accounts.”
Going to his office, I knocked, then opened the door without waiting to be invited. My hair was still down, my coat sleeve torn at the shoulder, and my skirt was spattered with mud kicked up in the scuffle.
My uncle removed his spectacles. “Who…?”
“Have you seen the Herald?” I demanded.
“I have not.”
“Joe McInerny is in jail. He has been for weeks.” My uncle did not react. “That means he didn’t kill Sadie.”
“Yes, I understood that.”
“The article mentioned the refuge. It mentioned you specifically.”
“Jane…”
“People listen to Mrs. Pickett.”
“That’s unfortunate for them.”
“She’s talking to the newspapers. She’s talking to the police, who have no suspect for Sadie’s killer.” I left the words “except you” unspoken.
“What will you do?” I asked finally.
“I’m not aware that I have to do anything,” he said.
“Tell the police where you were the night Sadie was killed.”
“I will not do that.” Over my objections, he said, “I do not have to give an account of myself in order to satisfy gossips and fantasists. Who will not believe me in any case.”
For a long moment, we stood in silence. I thought, At least tell me where you were that night. At least then, I’ll know it’s a thing that can be told.
My uncle went back to the accounts. But I had other questions. “If Joe McInerny was in jail, where was Sadie going at night? Why sneak out if not to meet him?”
“You expect me to have the answer.”
“Do you?”
Slapping his hand on the desk, my uncle said, “You want me to respond to false accusations against myself with false accusations against another man. Do I understand you correctly?”
My head still aching, I thought, I wish you to accuse Bill Danvers. I wish you to tell the police he is dangerous. I wish you to do something.
My uncle said, “I will speak to someone about this afternoon’s incident.”
Incident. Such a tidy word. And even I knew there were too many people involved for guilt to settle directly onto Bill Danvers. The Picketts might well claim the Duchess or one of her number had pulled my hair. They certainly weren’t going to admit any wrongdoing by a member of their group.
I tried to think of someone else who might have seen Bill Danvers in a different light at a different time—maybe when he was that “difficult customer” Michael Behan had spoken of. I had. Sadie had …
He did it slow.
“Do you remember Otelia Brooks?”
Surprised at the seeming shift in the conversation, my uncle said, “Of course.”
“You remember when she came to us. Her face.” He guessed my meaning and shook his head. “You don’t think it’s curious?”
“It was years ago.”
“She told me about the man who did it. He told her he wanted to hurt her.” My uncle winced. “What if it was the same man?”
“What if it was?”
Then we could prove that man was not you. My hands became fists in the effort not to shout. “Do you know where Miss Brooks is now?”
“I do not.”
“Did she say nothing of her plans? Even if she went back South, that could—”
“She said nothing to me, and even if she had, I wouldn’t tell you. Jane, these women come to us in trust. They leave to rebuild their lives, and when they do, they want never to hear from us again.”
“That’s not true. Some of the women—”
“Some of the women return, yes, but that is their choice, and I would never ask it of them. As far as I am concerned, I lose all knowledge of a woman’s existence once she walks out those doors. If I see her under other circumstances, I do not acknowledge her, and I do not expect her to acknowledge me.”
“Why on earth not?”
“What would you have me say? ‘Ah, yes, Mrs. So-and-so, I know you, of course.’ And the people in her new life will not wonder, How does he know her? Think, for one moment, Jane.”
“I am thinking,” I said. “I am thinking what may happen if we do not find someone who can vouch for your character—”
“There are many people who can vouch for that poor creature.”
“But none of them who might have met the man who killed Sadie. Why do you not see that?”
“Because I see other things,” he said. “Such as Miss Brooks’s right to her new life, undisturbed by us.”
Here it was, at last, a show of genuine anger. At me. I dropped my gaze to the floor, took a long breath. The man had all but saved my life. Really, I had no right to ask more than that. Trust, affection, respect—those were a little girl’s hopes. They made as much sense in my uncle’s world as Tootsie Rolls and dollhouses.
* * *
I had just gotten into my nig
htclothes when Sal called upstairs to say someone was on the phone for me. I sighed, thinking it must be Louise, anxious about tomorrow’s rehearsal. She would be apologetic. I would have to reassure her, a task I did not feel up to. But I couldn’t ask Sal to make my excuses. So I pulled on my robe and trudged downstairs. Picking up the phone, I said, “Yes?”
I was answered with an epithet. One word, quick, brutal, a backhanded slap. It was a man’s voice, rough, angry, and—yes, drunk. He said it again, grunting.
He liked the word, I thought. He’d shouted it at one of the women two weeks ago.
I heard commotion in the background. Voices. Shouts of laughter. He was inside, surrounded by people. Oddly, that made me feel safer. Aware of Sal watching me, I said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Danvers, there’s a lot of noise, I didn’t quite hear you.”
He chuckled. I felt the chill wariness that follows a misstep.
“… come after me…”
He was rasping, mumbling, and it was hard to match the voice to my memory of Bill Danvers’s manner of speaking. Fear had taken hold, and clarity wouldn’t come.
“… come after you.”
For a searing instant, I knew, knew, he was in the house. Then reality reasserted itself as I took in the faded wallpaper, the worn hallway carpet, the sconce light, Sal, a shawl wrapped round her shoulders, clutched to her throat as she listened. He was not here. But he was close.
Swallowing in order to breathe, I said, “Thank you, I’ll let Officer Nolan know you said that.”
Laughter. Free and easy before dwindling to sighs. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”
He hung up.
I made Sal check the locks on the door. Then I checked them, pulling hard to feel the door hold fast. Then we went to the back entrance and to the cellar to make sure every entrance was secure.
“Windows,” I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “We should check all the windows.”
Sal went to make sure the windows were shut and locked. The windows on the first floor had bars over them. Not so on the upper floors. Where the classrooms were. Where the women slept.
Death of an American Beauty Page 8