Emily turned again in her seat; I had her full attention. “What does she look like?”
“She’s small, dark, about our age. She behaves as if she’s here to dance. But she isn’t really. She goes around asking gentlemen to buy her a drink. Then if a gentleman shows interest, they have to go somewhere else to…”
“Exchange goods,” said Emily.
“Exactly. It would have to be somewhere close by, but I don’t know where.”
Happy to be in the know, Emily gazed at the moving parts of the crowd, trying to find a dark-haired girl she’d never seen before. The band finished their song, and as people returned to their tables, the dance floor cleared. That was when I saw her at a nearby table, leaning on a man who looked barely able to sit upright, let alone stand or do anything else. She had her hand on his shoulder and seemed to be showing extreme concern for the state of his shirt and jacket. Lapels were adjusted, buttons examined, pockets smoothed. Then I watched as she laughed expansively, all the while slipping her hand into the inside of his jacket. The lower pockets, I realized, would have been searched sometime before.
The hand emerged empty; what she sought was either in his seat pocket or too snug to be lifted without notice. The young lady then felt in the mood to dance. Her partner seemed less willing—or able—but she managed to haul him out of his seat and lead him, stumbling, onto the dance floor. I was going to lose sight of her. Telling Emily to keep watch from where she was, I went to find Leo.
He was bringing a tray full of drinks to a table. I followed him and helped him hand them out. Then, swiftly depositing the tray back at the bar, I said, “Dance with me.”
“No—although I adore you in that dress and dancing with you happens to be one of my very favorite things.”
Taking hold of his hands, I trotted him onto the floor.
“I’ll lose my job,” he said.
“You were dragged here by an overeager young woman who’d had too much to drink. I’ll swear to it.”
“Well, if you’ll swear…”
We began moving in sight of the girl and her client, who now seemed rather overeager himself. She was having trouble keeping him at bay.
“How does it work?” I asked Leo.
“She’ll ask him if he wants a more … private dance. If he doesn’t, he puts a dollar in her stocking. If he does, they go downstairs.”
The girl turned her head as if looking for someone. Following her gaze, I saw another gentleman nod. Almost immediately, she started leading her swain off. I guessed a bed had opened up.
I made to follow. Leo said, “Where are you going?”
“I have to talk to that girl.”
“That could be a very expensive proposition.”
We made our way off the floor, past the tables, and to the far side of the room, which had been left clear for waiters to go to and fro. She would, I thought, take him either outside or downstairs. Bagnios were usually in the cellars. I was right; the girl was leading the man to a stairway at the back of the club. Wherever she was going seemed a likely place for Bill Danvers to be, so I headed that way as well. Then I felt Leo grab my arm.
“Look, I know you want to find this guy. But you can’t go down there.”
“I see two feet, a left and a right. I think I can.”
Pulling myself free, I hurried down the wooden stairs. I could feel Leo start to follow, but someone called his name. He must have hesitated, because they called it again, this time sharply. As I went through the door that led to the cellar, I knew he had stayed behind.
The basement was markedly different from the glitter and gaiety of the dance hall. Cramped and low-ceilinged, it had the feeling of servants’ quarters. One low light hung halfway down the long corridor, dimly revealing several curtained booths on either side. The wooden floor was raw timber and rotting from damp. At the end of the hallway, a man slouched on a three-legged stool. Fortunately, he was passed out. I heard the creaking of bedsprings and other sounds of business. If Bill Danvers was down here, I didn’t see him.
I stayed half-hidden around the corner. After a few minutes, one of the curtains opened and a gentleman stumbled out buttoning up his pants. As he passed me, he leered—or tried to—confusing me with a girl about to begin her shift.
Then I heard another curtain shoved aside, saw another man take his leave. Here, the young woman was not as shy, coming out with him and giving him a kiss. It was the dark-haired girl. When her customer was well clear of the stairs, I went to the curtain and put a hand through. I heard, “Oh, for—” Then the curtain was yanked aside. But seeing me, the girl tried to pull it shut again.
I said, “I only want—”
She turned on me, fierce, made a slicing gesture across her throat. Then she nodded toward a door cut into the wall on the right. Someone was listening. For a moment I stared at the door; there was something odd about it. Not only its existence—why would a room this small require a door?—but its appearance. Hinges, I realized. There were no hinges. A hook in the center for a robe or coat. But no hinges.
I pointed to her, then myself. Mouthed the word “Talk.” She rolled her eyes.
I mimed taking a drink. She glanced at the door, then nodded. Putting her finger to her lips, she led me out of the little room, past the sleeping man, and up the stairs. “You get the bottle,” she said. “I’ll meet you outside.”
I hurried back to the table, where Emily was in animated conversation with Frank the Tango Pirate. The bottle of champagne was still on the table. Saying, “May I borrow this?” I took it and went out to the street.
Friday night on the Bowery was a crowded, raucous affair. I was trying to decide where I could stand so that the girl could find me but we wouldn’t be found. I was making my way to the end of the block when I ran right into an old mattress that had been soaked in beer and lain in the hot sun for days—and possibly used as a toilet—until it was a stained, burst mess. As the smell hit my nose, I recoiled—and saw that I had encountered Mr. Harry Knowles emerging from a saloon called the Dump.
The words “You are a disgrace” leapt to mind, but that sounded Clementine Pickett–ish, so I settled on “Mr. Knowles, you should go home. You’re in no state to be out.”
He had to open his piggy eyes very wide to see who had spoken. When he realized it was me, he staggered and said, “Not … afraid. Not a pretty young whore, why should I … be afraid?” The eyes narrowed again. “Unless you’re going to take another … whack at me.”
The word “whack,” the effort it took to say it, seemed to unsteady him to an intolerable degree, and, lurching to the side, he vomited into the gutter. He was, I noticed, well practiced, taking care to lean against a streetlamp so he could bend at an angle that kept his shirt and shoes clear of the flow. Mostly. I started to ask if he needed a handkerchief, but he raised a finger, requesting silence, then vomited again.
“Yes, thank you,” he said when he was upright.
I handed him the piece of cloth. As he wiped his mouth, I said, “My uncle gave me that handkerchief.”
“And it’s a very pretty thing.” He handed it back to me. I folded it carefully, wary of soil. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen. I was leaving home, and I suppose he thought I should have something.”
“That place is home to you.”
“I suppose so.”
“And he’s … like a father to you.”
He had an odd way of asking questions. He did not interrogate as some reporters did; he seemed to ask simply because he was curious.
“My father left me on a dock when I was three. I don’t know what fathers are like. My uncle took me in. He didn’t have to. But he did. He gave me a safe place to be until I was old enough to go out into the world, and when I went, I was ready. I think many women he works with would say the same. And I’d like you to think about that before you write your next piece.”
“Devils don’t always show their horns, Miss Prescott.”
I looked
pointedly at his head. “No, sometimes they wear hats.”
He chuckled at that. And when he did, a chill went down my back. That laugh—I had heard it before.
“You called the refuge,” I said.
He frowned. “I don’t…”
“You did. You called a few nights ago. You said if I came after you, you’d come after me.”
Even as I said it, I realized confronting a man with his misdeeds could be unwise.
But Harry Knowles looked confused. “I said that?”
“Yes. The day I hit you with the newspaper.”
“Oh.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t remember that.”
“Are you saying you didn’t?”
“No. Just that I don’t remember. It happens sometimes. When—” He looked back at the bar. “I’ve woken up in some strange places.”
After doing what? I thought uneasily.
“Maybe you should stay out of saloons, Mr. Knowles.”
“So people tell me, Miss Prescott. Good night.”
He made his way past me, head down, hand to his hat. He was steadier now, but he had to draw up short now and then to avoid another collision, and I wondered: Did he know where he was? Was he even now in that strange state of sleepwalking he had described? Would he remember tomorrow that he had seen me? That we had talked? What I had said about my uncle?
I told myself a man who could barely walk could not hold a young woman down and take her life.
Before I could think more on that subject, I heard “Now what? Did your husband come see me, your brother, your father?”
“I don’t have any of those,” I said, and offered the dark-haired girl the bottle. Taking it, she made it clear she would have preferred gin, yet drank about half of it in one swallow. She was barely twenty, but there were tired lines around her mouth, a heaviness to her face, a dullness in the eyes, all testament to a dedicated effort to stay as numb as possible.
I asked her name. She said, “You’re not here to talk about hellfire, are you?”
“No.”
“Then it’s Moira.”
“I was here the other night. You were arguing with a man. A skinny man with greasy dark hair.”
She took another swig from the bottle. “So?”
“It was Bill Danvers, am I right?”
“How do you know Bill Danvers?”
Knowing the bottle wouldn’t last through that story, I said, “I know he’s a dangerous man.”
She snorted. But drank again.
“I know he likes to hurt women.”
“Lucky Bill, then. Makes a living from his hobby.” She hiccupped slightly, not used to bubbles.
“Why did he hit you?”
“He thought I took the roll.”
“Roll?” Then I remembered the pat on the pocket. “The money.”
“Right. Men come in here, they come with a lot of cash. The idea is, you get them in the room, hang the coat on the door…”
The strange door with no hinges. “It turns, doesn’t it?”
She smiled sourly, tapped her head. “I get the gentleman otherwise occupied, Bill reaches around, takes the coat, takes what’s in the coat, wraps up the bills with paper so the roll looks fat, and puts it all back in place in time for the gent to take his leave. Most of them are too drunk to know better, and even when they find out their money’s missing, they stay quiet because they don’t want their wives knowing where they’ve been.”
“How much do you get?”
“Club gets most of it. It’s their bed, right? Bill gets a piece, I get…” She held up thumb and forefinger a sliver apart. “Only with that guy there wasn’t anything to get. Which I told Bill. You saw how he took it.”
I didn’t ask if she had stolen the money; she had earned it as far as I was concerned. “Is it always Bill on the other side of the door?” I asked.
“Not always. Club doesn’t rob everyone. Word would get out, and there goes your business. Just enough from the tourists to make a little extra and keep the police sweet.”
“And was Bill Danvers here all that night?”
She had the sharp ears of someone used to trouble. “Why?”
How much could I trust her? There was every chance she could share the details of my interest in Danvers with Danvers—or even Chick Tricker.
But Bill Danvers already knew I suspected him of murder, so I decided to be honest. “Two friends of mine have been killed, one the night I was here. They both … The three of you had things in common. But they were working toward a different life, and I think Bill Danvers might have killed them as a warning to other women who try to leave.”
She exhaled, tipped the bottle to find it empty.
“What do you think he would do, Chick Tricker, if you tried to quit?” I asked her.
A shrug. “I’m fine. I don’t need to learn how to do laundry.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What?”
“That you don’t need to learn how to do laundry. I didn’t mention the refuge.”
“No, but … people know. About that place.”
“Do they? How did you hear about it?”
“That crazy priest, sure, he takes girls in for their own good.” Her voice roiled with sarcasm. “Everyone knows about that place.”
“How do you know about it?” I pressed. “Chick Tricker wants the refuge shut down, doesn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I don’t listen to those conversations.”
So there were conversations. “Was Bill Danvers here the whole night?”
“I have to get back inside.”
I followed her, asked again, “Was he here the whole night?”
“Yeah, the whole night.”
“Tell me how you know that.”
“He was following me around, going, I know you have my money. His breath stinks. He follows you, you know it.”
It was a compelling scenario. But Bill would have been done following Moira before Leo and I went up to the roof. Between divan doings and the chaos of the raid, there would have been more than enough time for him to get to the refuge. Had that been the subject of his conversation with Chick Tricker? Was he making plans to kill Carrie—or was he reporting that he had already done the job? Tricker had several properties around there; any one of them could have served as the necessary dark place where everyone looked the other way. Carrie could have lain there until someone dumped her in the alley later at night when the coast was clearer.
The band was playing, and I had to talk into Moira’s ear. “Don’t believe what they tell you about the refuge. Or my uncle. He can help you. The building is on Bowery and Third…”
All of a sudden Moira gasped in pain as Bill Danvers grabbed her by the shoulder and twisted. Panicked, I thought to shout for help, then realized no one would hear me above the music.
Shoving Moira hard against the wall, Bill said, “Third and Bowery? You don’t want to go there, Moira. Girls are dying there. You don’t want to be next. You’ve got more sense than that, I know you have.”
“Sure,” she whispered. The blow had knocked both the wind and the boldness out of her. Nevertheless, Bill Danvers showed her his fist.
Reaching for a chair, I said, “Stop it. Or I’ll tell Mrs. Pickett that you’re not the reformed character she thinks you are.”
“Go on,” he said, eyes on Moira. “My work’s done there anyway.”
“What work was that, Mr. Danvers? Throwing rocks or something worse?”
There was something in his hand; I could tell from the way his arm was bent and his shoulder tensed. The knife was out.
He said, “Now, this, Moira, is a woman without sense. She doesn’t think how this is a very crowded place. A lot of drunken people. Floor slippery with beer, broken glass. Doesn’t think that if she fell, she could cut herself. Cut her throat. Did someone cut it for her? Or was she careless? Showed no sense?”
I was judging whether to aim for the throat with the chair leg or j
ust swing and run when there was a crack, a spray of champagne, and, yes, broken glass. Bill Danvers lurched forward and fell onto the floor. Leo stood triumphantly behind him. Next to him, holding the remains of a bottle, stood Emily Tyler.
Crouching, I examined Bill Danvers’s wrists. No scar. Not even a trace of one.
“Oh, my Lord,” said Emily breathlessly. “That was sublime.”
* * *
It was late by the time I returned to the refuge, so I used the kitchen entrance to avoid waking Berthe, who had a keen ear for the click and creak of the front door. But when I went around to the side, I saw there was a light on. And I could smell coffee. Berthe unable to sleep for worry, I thought.
But it was not Berthe who stood at the stove, coaxing our old coffeepot along. It was my oldest friend. Even in selling tickets, I thought, Anna’s dedication to the cause was steadfast.
Putting up my hand, I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t think about tickets right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The pageant. Your—”
Exasperated, Anna turned off the stove. “I’m here because I heard what happened to your uncle. I’m here for you.”
“Oh,” I said. And burst into tears.
When coffee had been poured and bread toasted, I regaled Anna with the whole miserable story, including this night’s events, which had all but proven Bill Danvers’s innocence in Sadie’s and Carrie’s murders. Kneading my eyes with the heels of my hands, I said, “The worst of it is, he’s lying to me.”
“I don’t think of your uncle as a liar,” said Anna.
“Not lying, but he’s not being truthful. He won’t tell me where he was on the night Sadie was killed or the night Carrie died.”
A shadow crossed Anna’s face. “He likes his privacy.” Then, with a small smile, she said, “So, what took you to the Acme?”
Grateful for the change in subject, I said, “A … friend.”
“Is he good-looking, this friend?”
I described Leo Hirschfeld, both his good qualities and the ones less so. Anna listened, then said, “He sounds very charming. But I don’t like the dishonesty.” She peered at me. “You don’t look heartbroken.”
Death of an American Beauty Page 17