Yet that might be risky. But why? There were thousands of colicky babies in Chicago, and twice as many parents hoping for relief. No one would remember a man buying soothing syrup and lemon drops.
Still, better safe than sorry. But his nausea increased, along with a lancing headache. He uncorked the bottle of Dr. James Cordial, its sickly sweet smell undercut by something chemical, cherries dipped in kerosene. He poured some into his coffee and drank it. After several minutes he felt the familiar, fizzing sensation, as though his head had been pumped full of seltzer.
He paid for his breakfast and went outside. The shimmering air made him feel as though he walked underwater. Dreamily he imagined Hell Gate’s subterranean river flowing beneath the entire city, moving under his feet at this very moment; not just this city but New York and Boston, Dreamland and Wonderland, all those places where he’d found children unafraid of venturing into the darkness with him. His hand reached out as though to grasp another, smaller hand as he crossed the street and headed north, toward the amusement park.
Chapter 40
FRANCIS HAD A bad night’s sleep in his room at Mrs. Dahl’s boardinghouse. Back at Robey Street, he’d grown accustomed to seeing men gutted like carcasses at Packingtown, twelve-year-old girls dead from botched abortions, women whose faces had been melted like candle wax because their lovers belonged to the Black Hand and suspected a betrayal. That’s what had happened to his sister, Ellen, his only family since their parents had died of influenza. Ellen had taken up with a man named Lorenzo Filli, who worked at a bakery while extorting money for the Black Hand. After he impregnated her, Ellen confronted Lorenzo’s wife after Mass one Sunday morning, showing her the evidence of her husband’s infidelity. Two weeks later Ellen was dead, her hair and flesh burned away and her violated body thrown from the roof of the building where she and Francis shared a small apartment.
“Leave it,” Cabell had ordered him when Francis, mad with grief, began his own investigation of the gang’s activities in Little Hell. “Your sister’s not cold in the ground, you’ll be joining her if you continue like this.”
Francis didn’t leave it. He knew the only reason he hadn’t been killed in the aftermath of his failed investigation and subsequent firing was that his death would have brought more attention to the department’s corruption. Or made a martyr of Francis and inspired one of the city’s newspapers to delve into the tale behind it. Better that he become a floorwalker and a toy cop patrolling the midway.
Francis showed up at the Riverview station shortly before ten o’clock, bleary eyed and unshaven. He’d rushed from Mass at Immaculate Heart of Mary and was somewhat relieved to see that Hickey, too, didn’t look like he’d slept. Francis usually didn’t work Sundays. Neither did Hickey. But every man at the park had been called in this morning.
“I want you to go to Robey Street later.” Hickey dropped the roster he’d been reading and gazed wearily across his desk at Francis. “Cabell’s meeting with the newspapers there around two o’clock. I want to know what he has to say.”
Francis’s jaw clenched. “Send Paterno. Or yourself. They’ll be expecting the captain, not me.”
“They’re expecting no one.” Hickey’s voice sounded like his throat had been scraped raw. “Not from here. I can’t leave the park, and you’re the only real sergeant I’ve got. You’ll know if Cabell is lying. Get a shave and some lunch before you go, and come see me after.”
Francis left, glaring at Paterno in the waiting room as he stormed out the door. He couldn’t find a barber open on Sunday, and his brief meeting with Hickey had killed his appetite. But he knew a hop joint that used to be a meeting place for reporters as well as cops. The cops had moved on after the saloon changed hands—good luck for Francis, who’d gotten into several brawls with former colleagues since he’d left the department.
The new owner was a taciturn Irishman known as Cue, short for Cue Ball, the weapon he’d used to kill a man back in Boston. He ran the place as a blind pig these days—the cops never bothered him, out of deference to the saloon’s legal past—but on Sundays Cue waited till noon to open, so he could attend Mass. A heavyset Irish boy sat on a box that blocked the entry, paring his nails with a shiv while he perused a newspaper. He glanced at Francis, then shifted the box, allowing Francis to enter.
Inside was dark as a confessional. A kerosene lantern gave off just enough light that Francis could see two other customers seated at separate tables, wizened men bent over glasses of beer or whiskey. He made his way through wooden crates and empty pickle barrels to the far wall and rapped four times on a worn panel. The panel slid open and Cue’s face peered out. Francis saw the bar counter behind his broad shoulders, and heavy drapes drawn across the window that fronted the street.
“Mr. Bacon.” Cue gave a nod of greeting. “What is your pleasure on a Sunday?” His breath smelled of coffee and pickled eggs.
“A whiskey.”
Cue turned to fill a tumbler with whiskey. Francis dropped two coins into his hand and downed his drink. Cue refilled the glass, sipped delicately from a china coffee cup. He said, “That was a very unfortunate event occurred yesterday in your park, Mr. Bacon.”
Francis winced. “You’ve heard, then.”
“A Polack girl, I was told, from St. Hedwig’s parish.”
Francis gestured at the newspaper. “It’s in there?”
“Not yet.” Cue took another sip of coffee. “I was told they’re holding it from the morning editions. So as not to interfere with Mr. Deneen’s visit with his sister in Wisconsin.”
“What else were you told?”
Cue’s voice dropped. “That the child was interfered with, and her clothes taken. And they arrested a colored man who works at the park.”
Francis nodded. “Clyde Smithson. I know the man—he couldn’t have done such a thing.”
“I’ve known of one who did.”
Francis eyed him skeptically. “When?”
“Four years ago, in Wonderland. Before I came to this city.”
“Wonderland?”
“An amusement park. Like yours, Mr. Bacon. With the Hell Gate and the roller coasters and the freaks. Deirdre Monahan—I knew her sister’s husband, Joseph. Joe Neely, we worked together at the docks. A wee girl. She was twelve years old and they found her in the Hell Gate.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Defiled and her little dress stolen. Joe went off his head with drink, couldn’t see the hole in a ladder after that. I won’t take a step into your park, Mr. Bacon, and now you know why.”
Francis set down his empty tumbler. “How do you know this?”
“Joe Neeley worked beside me for three years, Mr. Bacon, how would I not know? It was in the papers for a month. Anyone with eyes and ears knew her name. Deirdre Monahan,” he repeated, and fixed Francis with an iron stare.
“Did they find him? The man who killed her?”
“If they had, I’d be telling you his name.”
Cue glanced at the empty whiskey glass, but Francis shook his head. He asked, “This park, it’s in Boston?”
“Revere. Was. It closed after that. You can understand why.”
“Does anyone know of this? Have you spoken to anyone?”
Cue picked up the china cup. He stared at Francis as he drank the rest of his coffee. Setting the cup back on the counter he continued, “I live a quiet life in this city and do not care to have any more doings with the Chicago police if I can help it.
“But I speak to you as one who values your trade, Mr. Bacon. And I have heard of your own circumstances. I will appreciate you not bringing my name into any conversation you may have about that Polack girl. Deirdre Monahan,” he added as he closed the panel. “A name to remember, Mr. Bacon.”
Chapter 41
AFTER HALF AN hour at the Infant Incubators, Pin refused to stay any longer.
“It’s all ladies and babies. C’mon, let’s try the Witching Waves.” Henry ignored her, still gazing at the little girls whose dresses and hair rib
bons drooped in the heat.
“Men don’t come here,” she said. “Except for you.”
She stalked off toward the Witching Waves. The way he stared at those kids, much younger than the girl from Hell Gate, only five or six years old…
Her irritation edged into unease. Yesterday, she’d seen Henry after the girl went into the dark ride. She’d dozed off and, when she woke, witnessed the man with the boater leave the ride without the girl. She’d spent about ten minutes searching the Pike for a sign of the girl before returning to Hell Gate. That was when Henry had signaled her. What had he been wearing?
The same clothes as now, she thought. But what had the other man worn? A suit, maybe seersucker, maybe not. But what if she was wrong? What if his clothes were the same as Henry’s? The man had worn a bow tie, she knew that. Henry had worn one, too, she remembered, because it was so dirty.
And they both wore boater hats—that was the only thing she knew for sure. She squeezed her eyes shut in frustration. Why was it so hard to remember something that happened only a day ago? Why hadn’t she paid more attention then? It was like every time she told someone what had happened, or thought about it, the image in her mind changed. All she could be sure of was the boater hat.
And the killer was a man; she knew that. And that meant any man could be a murderer.
She opened her eyes and saw men everywhere, drunk or shouting, laughing as they pulled women around: onto the roller coasters, where the women would scream and cling to them; into the House of a Thousand Troubles, where fans would blow up the women’s skirts so you could see their drawers; onto the Witching Waves, where men and women would be thrown against each other and the men could grab their breasts, pretending it was a mistake. Her breath came too fast, she fought the urge to run—but run where? Nothing was safe, nothing was safe, it was the only thing she knew was true.
The sun was a hot skillet pressed against her face. She wiped her forehead, glanced back to see Henry twenty or so feet behind her. The instant he saw she’d noticed him, he looked away. It couldn’t be him, she thought, why would he have signaled her if he’d been the one who killed the girl? He’d really be a moron to do that.
But she couldn’t trust him. She wouldn’t go to the Witching Waves; she’d head for the Lagoon and lose him there. She broke into a run, but when she looked back again, there he was, dogging her. She kept on a few more yards, finally whirled to confront him.
“Stop following me!”
“Not following. I’m tailing you.” He removed his hat and fanned his face. “You hungry?”
“What?”
“Hungry. You look hungry. I’ll get us some corn.”
He turned and walked to the hot-buttered-corn stand. She watched him, torn between her suspicion and her empty stomach.
Hunger won. She waited till he came back with two dripping ears and handed her both without speaking. She ate them quickly, before he could ask her to share. When she was done, she wiped her hands on her knickerbockers. Henry stood motionless as a wax figure from the Ten-in-One, again gazing at the Infant Incubators.
“Why do you do that?” she demanded. He flinched but didn’t look away. “Those girls—why are you always watching them?”
“Protecting them,” he grunted without looking at her.
“Lemme see that card again,” she said. “From your detective agency.”
She drew up alongside him, her hands clenched. Let him think she’d punch him; maybe he’d run away. Instead he just looked around furtively, gestured for her to follow him to a grove of trees. She hesitated, then joined him. He glanced around again, pulled out his cardboard wallet, and sorted through its contents with exaggerated care. Scraps of paper spilled to the grass.
Trash, she thought with disdain, he’s got nothing but trash in there.
She bent to pick them up, then froze, staring at a newspaper photo: a black-and-grey smudge that might have been clouds but wasn’t. It was the top portion of a picture of her sister.
Chapter 42
ABRIANA’S THICK DARK hair was held back by a ribbon that the newspaper photograph had turned to ash. The photo had been taken on Easter, just a few weeks before she disappeared. It was the last time Pin and her mother had attended Mass at Assumption, the Italian church closest to Little Hell. A man from the Examiner stood outside the church after Mass and shot photographs of the congregation as they left.
She and Abriana had been crushed when the newspaper photo never appeared. By the time it did, it accompanied an article about a girl who had been missing for two days. She stared at the clipping, words she’d memorized without realizing it.
Police continue their search for ten-year-old Abriana Onofria, missing since April 13, and believed to have been abducted by a vagrant. She was last seen wearing a smocked yellow dress, pink hair ribbon and black shoes and stockings. Members of the public are encouraged to share any information they may have with the police department.
“Why do you have this?” Pin’s voice came out as a whisper, then a shout. “Why do you have this?”
“Give me that!” Henry tried to snatch it from her. “It’s mine, you thieving bastard!”
“Why do you have this? Tell me!” People turned to stare, and she lowered her voice. “This is—”
She stopped before she said, This is my sister. “This is someone you don’t even know. What are you—”
He grabbed the paper. It tore in two as Henry burst into a string of violent epithets. She punched his arm, hissing, “Shut up!”
To her relief he did. His hands shook as he fumbled with the scrap, trying to stuff it back into the wallet. When he started to walk away, Pin grabbed him.
“Why do you have that? Do you know something? Did you hurt her?”
“No!” Henry shouted, and more people stopped to stare.
Pin fought to keep her voice low as again she hissed, “Shut up!” She kept hold of Henry’s arm, and after a few seconds the rubberneckers moved on. “I could go back to the police,” she continued. “They asked me about you, I—”
He yanked his arm free, his eyes wild. “She was very brave, all of the girl rebels are brave! They fight tirelessly—I have seen them!”
“Abriana—have you seen her?”
His face twisted with fury but also terror. “No! Only Annie Aronburg. And Elsie,” he babbled. “But no, not Elsie!”
“What are you talking about? Elsie? Do you mean Elsie Paroubek? Did you know her?”
“Elsie?” He blinked, staring at Pin, and his face crumpled. “We were great friends, you know,” he whispered. “Very great friends. We fought together against the generals.”
“What generals?”
He didn’t answer, and Pin’s neck prickled. She’d been almost ten when Elsie Paroubek had gone missing, but she remembered the photo that accompanied endless articles about the five-year-old girl in her coat with the fur collar.
The little girl is described as having long curly golden hair, blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks, with a prominent dimple in each. At the time she disappeared she wore a red hat, a red dress, black stockings and high top black boots.
She stared at Henry, sweat trickling into her eyes.
He knew something. He’d done something—that’s why he watched children all the time, why he had pictures of little girls stuffed in his pocket. Abriana, Elsie Paroubek—the realization that she’d been talking to the man who might have murdered her sister made her stomach turn. She clapped a hand to her mouth, trying not to be sick, breathed deeply through her nose until she felt calmer.
It might not be true. If he had killed the girl in Hell Gate, would he have had time to run from there, then find her? She didn’t think so.
Yet why would he even want to find Pin?
Maybe he knows I saw him go into the tunnel with her, she thought. He knows, and he wants to kill me.
But what if Henry was telling the truth, and the Gemini were real, and he was a detective, trying to track down whoever kille
d Abriana and Elsie and the girl in Hell Gate?
She ran a hand through her cropped curls, looked up to see Henry muttering to himself and punching at the air. If Henry was a detective, she could help him find the killer. If Henry was the murderer, she would need more proof of that.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she walked to his side and pointed to the Lagoon.
“We can look over there,” she said.
They continued without speaking. Henry seemed subdued and nervous. She saw him watching her from the corners of his eyes as he kept touching the pocket that held his wallet. As they passed the elephants lined up alongside the Waterdrome, she asked him, “Did you really know Elsie Paroubek?”
“We were very great friends” was all he said.
Chapter 43
HE PAID HIS entrance fee and made his way through the crowd. A hot breeze carried the smells of burnt sugar and the yeasty scent of beer. A group of boys scampered along the path, shouting as they kicked up dust. The strains of a polka vied with the ballyhoo from the Great Train Robbery.
“See the bloodthirsty crime! Your only chance to see Tom Mix, the star of the moving pictures live and in the flesh!”
A warm lassitude filled him, a sense that his flesh melted into the air like wax into a flame. Sweat trickled down his neck; he thought of Maria, the girl’s head replaced by a doll’s. So pretty.
He made a detour around the dunk tank, arriving at a broad avenue that surrounded green lawn and trees. An organ-grinder strolled across the grass, trailed by half a dozen children waving balloons on sticks. A Chinese woman selling paper fans from a tray was doing a brisk business. He stopped and bought one for a penny, but it was useless against this infernal heat. He decided on the German beer garden, which had electrical fans inside.
It was crowded in the beer hall. He went to the bar and ordered a pilsner, drank it, and set down another nickel, waiting as the bartender refilled his glass, then walked slowly through the room.
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