“We need to confirm everything before we—”
“I stood here and heard you tell a roomful of reporters, and I quote, ‘A Negro man has been taken into custody and will be charged with the crime…From my understanding, paperwork’s being drawn up now.’”
Bennie looked up from his notebook. “Those are your words, Captain Cabell. Every man in this room heard you say them.”
“I’m not denying that I said them.” Cabell’s voice dropped. Francis recognized this as a far more dangerous sign than if he’d started shouting. “Mr. Bacon, if you do anything to interfere with this investigation, I’ll have you brought in for tampering.”
“Is that what it’s called?” broke in Bennie. “I’d think you might be more concerned with negligence on the part of your staff—twenty sergeants at this station, and not a single one made a connection between this murder and one in Boston?”
“Boston is a very long way from here.”
“So it is,” said Francis. “I suggest you check with Mr. Smithson as to his whereabouts at the time of the Wonderland murder. I bet he has a very good alibi, just like he does now.”
Cabell strode toward him, his moist cigar pointed at Francis’s throat. “Don’t you tell me how to do my fucking job.”
“Someone’s got to,” said Francis, and left the station.
Chapter 45
HE STOOD IN the crowd outside the Hippodrome with the girl Gilda, fuming. He’d forgotten they’d held over this Italian movie, rather than premiering Chaplin’s new comedy. Who wanted to see a moving-picture version of Dante’s Inferno, anyway?
Everyone in Chicago, apparently. Just past the ropes at the theater entrance, a machine pumped out clouds of steam. Red gel lights bathed the lobby in crimson. A huge poster depicted naked men and women who gazed imploringly at two figures being ferried across a reach of black water:
THE GLOBAL SENSATION!
CROWNING ACHIEVEMENT OF THE MOVING PICTURE WORLD
POET’S JOURNEY THROUGH HELL SEEN THROUGH HUMAN EYES
Gilda nudged him. “Kids aren’t allowed.”
He peered over the sea of hats at the ticket booth:
ADMISSION 50 CENTS
NO UNACCOMPANIED CHILDREN
Fifty cents! He’d never heard of a theater charging so much for a flicker. “It says ‘no unaccompanied children,’” he said. “That means you can’t go in alone. Still want to see a movie?”
She nodded. “Sure.”
“It’s a bit scary, I think.” He pointed at the figure of a devil waving a pitchfork.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not scared.”
“All right, then. If anyone asks, tell them I’m your uncle Arthur.”
The girl giggled as the crowd began to move at last. Inside, he guided her through the packed lobby and up a narrow stairway. “We’ll be able to see better from up here,” he said.
At the top, a uniformed usher took their tickets, raising an eyebrow at Gilda. “Picture’s over an hour long. Might be kinda spooky for a kid.”
“She goes to Sunday Mass,” he replied. “She’s used to sitting still. And devils.”
This, the uppermost level of the Hippodrome, wasn’t as crowded as those below. The last dozen rows of seats were empty. The rest were occupied by younger couples, all purposefully sitting a good distance apart from one another. A group of high-school boys perched at the edge of the balcony, their feet on the brass railings as they smoked and tossed candy wrappers into the audience.
He led the girl to the center of the last row. From here he could see everyone in the balcony, and no one could see him, not unless someone sat in the same aisle. But he knew that older adults tended to avoid the balcony seats, which attracted young couples more interested in each other than in what was on the screen.
To his relief, no one else ventured into the balcony. Fifteen rows in front of him, several couples had already sunk into their seats, the tops of their heads barely showing. The high-school boys sniggered, but no one took notice of him, or the girl.
It was stifling up here. The walls were the color of a rare tenderloin, the horsehair seats upholstered in red velvet. Electrical lights glimmered behind ruby-glass shades, as a pall of rising tobacco smoke settled over them.
“Can you see?” he asked the girl, pointing to the screen far below. A small figure sat in front of a huge pipe organ and began to play Bach’s Fugue in D Minor.
“I can see just fine.” Gilda slumped into her seat, the celluloid doll in her lap.
After a few minutes, the organist walked backstage. A line of women marched into the orchestra pit and played “Paragon Rag.” He reached into his jacket pocket for a tin of lemon drops, opened it, and popped one in his mouth before holding it out to her.
“Care for a lemon drop?”
She took one, her gaze fixed on the Ladies’ Orchestra, and crunched it greedily. “Can I have another?”
“Help yourself.”
She took two more and stuck them in her mouth as he loosened his tie. She yawned and mumbled, “When’s it gonna start?”
“Soon.”
The Ladies’ Orchestra struck up a lively rendition of the overture to William Tell, finishing to loud applause. The electrical lights dimmed as a bright square appeared on the movie screen below. The music swelled into something ominous and unfamiliar, eerie piping, strings that sounded like human voices. The high-school boys fell silent and leaned over the rail, staring raptly as the screen filled with the image of a beautiful woman floating above a field, her hand extended to a black-clad man.
He glanced at the girl beside him, her glassy eyes only half open. The doll had slipped beneath her armrest. He picked it up and set it back in her lap.
The orchestra’s accompaniment grew louder. He watched as the phantoms on the screen journeyed among the damned, many of whom were indeed naked. As the orchestra’s playing grew louder and more feverish, he let himself sink down in his own seat, one anonymous shadow among many, as beside him the girl breathed heavily, and then not at all.
Chapter 46
IS IT TRUE?” Bennie asked Francis when they were a safe distance from Robey Street. “About that other killing?”
“How could I make that up?”
“How’d you find out?”
“I’ll tell you—but what about filing your story?”
Bennie laughed. “I already did—it’ll hit the streets in half an hour. But maybe I should’ve waited. How the hell did you know about that murder in Boston?”
“Someone who used to live there told me about it, not more than an hour ago.”
“Is he trustworthy?”
“I believe him.”
“Think he’d talk to me?”
“No.”
“And they never caught whoever did it?”
“Not as far as I know.”
They waited at a corner to let a streetcar pass. Francis jangled the keys in his pocket, a habit when he was concentrating.
“It can’t be a coincidence, Bennie,” he said as they crossed the street. “Two girls, two murders inside the same kind of dark ride—what are the odds?”
“Not good,” admitted Bennie.
“Have you heard of any other girls disappearing?”
“Girls are always disappearing. Especially in Little Sicily. And Gypsy kids. They run away, or their families marry them off when they’re twelve or thirteen years old.”
“Those girls don’t show up dead in amusement parks.”
“They don’t show up at all. That’s my point. Maybe your two girls aren’t a coincidence, but you can’t prove that. And there’s only two of them. Two crimes, what was it—four years apart?”
“It’s queer, Bennie. You can’t argue with that.”
“Of course it’s queer. That’s my job—following every bit of queer news I come across, and making it up when I have to.”
Francis laughed. It was true: a few years back, Bennie had faked a story about an earthquake in Lincoln Park, and an
other about pirates on the Chicago River, paying a tugboat captain to dress up like a buccaneer. “But really,” he said, “can you think of another crime like this? It could be a big story.”
“It already is.”
Francis halted. “The Daily News is a big paper. Do they keep records of crimes like this? Not just in Chicago—other cities.”
“Like Boston?”’
“Boston, Minneapolis, New York—anyplace that might have an amusement park.”
Bennie shook his head. “You’re not a detective anymore, Francis.”
“Doesn’t mean I stopped thinking like one. Do me a favor—look through your paper’s records, see what you can find and let me know.”
“And? Can you get me a copy of the coroner’s report?”
“You know I won’t get close to that, Bennie.”
“What about photos of the dead girl?” Francis scowled. Bennie went on, unruffled, “Okay, so how’s about that kid who found the girl’s body? You know who he is, right? All you need to do is point him out to me, I’ll do the talking. What time’s your shift start?”
“I should be there now. I appreciate this, Bennie.”
“Beats counting corpses—that’s what I was doing a few weeks ago with the Eastland.” Bennie stuck his notebook into a pocket and turned toward the streetcar stop. “If I find anything, I’ll track you down at the park. This could be a great story, Francis. Like Dr. Holmes.”
Francis gazed at the Hippodrome’s angel gleaming in the summer haze. “I sure hope not,” he said.
Chapter 47
SHE PASSED THE Wild West Show, Henry a dozen yards behind her with his head bowed, talking to himself. Pin kept an eye on him, increasingly unnerved.
The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that there could be only one reason he’d have newspaper clippings of Elsie Paroubek and Iolanda Vasilescu and her sister, Abriana. Once news broke about the girl she’d found in Hell Gate, he’d add her picture to his wallet as well. She’d been stupid, thinking she could trust him, imagining that the two of them might find a murderer. He wasn’t some harmless weird little man: he was crazy, a chester.
He scared her. She should go back to the Riverview station and warn them—while they were congratulating themselves on locking up Clyde Smithson, this guy was lurking around the Infant Incubators.
She began to walk faster. After a minute, she looked back to see that she’d momentarily lost Henry in the crowd on the Pike. She darted forward, ducked behind the back of an arcade and held her breath, listening; heard the sound of running feet.
Damn. He’d seen her. As she turned to race farther down the alley, someone punched her in the ribs. She collapsed to the ground, clutching her stomach.
“You fucking little sneak.” Ikie stared down at her, his fist raised. “You son of a bitch.”
“Fucking fairy,” Mugsy spat. He glanced around, then slammed his boot into Pin’s side. She cried out, tears filling her eyes.
Mugsy laughed and kicked her again. “Goddamn sissy. What’d I say? He’s a punk.”
Pin tried to gasp out a retort, but her lungs wouldn’t work. She turned onto her side, reaching for the shiv in her pocket.
“Why’d you say that about Clyde?” Ikie’s loathing was tinged with hurt. “You punk.”
“Fairy,” Mugsy repeated. He reached into his pocket for a switchblade knife, clicked it so that the blade sprang out.
Ikie reached for his friend’s arm. “Mugsy, don’t.”
Mugsy elbowed him away. He bent, sweeping the knife down toward Pin’s jaw, and with a grunt went sprawling onto his back. A blue-clad figure sat astride him, hands locked around his throat. Pin pushed herself onto her knees as Mugsy’s face turned purple and Henry stared down at him with impassive eyes.
“Henry,” she croaked, trying to stand. “Henry, stop…”
Like a mastiff grabbing a terrier, Ikie flung Henry aside. He dragged Mugsy to his feet.
“Come on, man!” he cried, and Pin realized Ikie was frightened of Henry. “They’re pansies. We gotta go.” He turned to cast one last glance at Pin.
“How could you?” he asked, and dragged Mugsy down the alley.
Pin staggered to her feet, wiping her eyes as she fought to catch her breath. Ikie, the one person she’d thought of as a friend, thought she was a fairy. He believed she’d betrayed Clyde—she had betrayed him, even if she hadn’t intended to.
And what was she? Not a girl, not a boy. Beneath her shirt, the elastic truss dug painfully into her skin. She tugged at it, overwhelmed by a wave of yearning as she thought of girls she’d seen walking hand in hand around the Lagoon, laughing as they whispered to each other, their summer dresses blown against their legs. She’d never wear a dress again if she could help it. Yet she felt almost sick with a longing to see Glory in her teddy bare, the peach-colored silk against her tanned skin and her red mouth that tasted of sugar.
It hurt to think of Glory; her eyes burned, but she wouldn’t cry. Next time she’d use her shiv to kill Mugsy; she’d kill them all before letting them see her cry.
“He was a bad man.” She could barely hear Henry, whispering as though to himself. “I killed people before.”
She refused to look up, just stared at the ground with her hands clenched. Henry babbled on, now trying to get her attention.
“Pinhead. Pinprick. Pin Drop. Pin…”
He filled her with disgust, despite the fact that he’d just saved her from a beating, or worse. She’d seen the man at the Ten-in-One who bit the heads off chickens—not a gaffed freak but the real thing, they called him a geck or geek. He’d stare at the wriggling bloody creature in his hands, as though wondering how the headless thing got there. Henry reminded her of the geek. So what did that make her?
Ikie was right. She was just a dirty little punk. A real girl would have screamed upon seeing that body inside Hell Gate, and Clyde would have run to investigate, along with everybody else working the ride. Everyone would have known Clyde wasn’t the killer. It would be her fault if he went to the gallows.
“Pin!” Henry’s voice grew more urgent. “Pin, look.”
She looked up to see him clutching a paper sack stained with grease.
“Here,” he said. He set the sack beside her foot, along with an open bottle of sarsaparilla from the arcade. Pin hesitated, then grabbed the sack and opened it. She jammed a potato wedge into her mouth, barely chewed it before swallowing, took a gulp of sarsaparilla, and wolfed down the rest of the potatoes. Henry stared at her, his head cocked and brow furrowed.
“Armes einsames Kind, armes einsames Kind,” he murmured in German. “Es is so verloren…”
She couldn’t understand him, but the tenderness in his tone cut her like a whip. She turned so he couldn’t see her face. After a moment, she heard him move beside her.
“Do you want to see the Black Brothers Lodge?”
Her gaze remained fixed on the ground. “The what?”
“The Black Brothers Lodge. Where the Gemini have our Destiny Meetings.”
She couldn’t help it—she laughed. Henry stiffened: what she saw in his eyes froze her. He backed away and lashed out at the air in a rage. “You are not to mock!”
“Stop!” she hissed. “They’ll toss us!”
But she and Henry might have been atop the Blue Streak: no one gave them a glance.
“Not to mock, not to mock!” Henry mumbled his nonsense, agitatedly rocking back and forth. “Ticktock, laughingstock…”
Pin stared at the now-empty sarsaparilla bottle and paper sack at her feet. Henry had fed her; he’d protected her from Mugsy. Why? He might be a chester, but he’d made no move to touch her. She could barely imagine him touching anyone; he acted like his fingers would be burned if he tried.
And his voice still echoed in her mind, repeating those German words she couldn’t understand, as though soothing a sick child. Clyde hated her, and Larry and Ikie. Mugsy might have killed her if Henry hadn’t stopped him. She to
ok a deep breath.
“Are you having a meeting tonight?” she asked. “The Gemini. At the lodge?”
He shook his head, still upset. “No, no. Willhie’s away—only when both Gemini are there with the Black Sack of Destiny.”
She bit her lip to keep from laughing again. “The Black Sack of Destiny?”
Henry stopped rocking on his heels. “Yes! But if we do this”—he lowered his voice—“no one can ever know. Bad for business. Do you swear?”
She didn’t respond, thinking.
I killed people before.
Detectives killed people. In stories, anyway. Maybe they were real, the Gemini. Maybe he really was a detective—that was why he kept all those newspaper clippings in his wallet. Maybe together they could find the Hell Gate killer. Maybe he knew who killed her sister.
At last she nodded. “Where’s your friend? Willhie?”
“In Decatur, until later. Visiting his sister, mister. If you come with me now,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “I’ll show you.”
Without waiting for her reply, he turned and walked away.
Pin let her breath out in a low whistle. He was crazy as a bedbug. But would he lure her off someplace to kill her, after saving her from Mugsy? Probably not, but she touched her shiv for reassurance, just in case. And she could always just run.
She left the arcade. She didn’t catch sight of Henry again till she reached the main gate. A crowd had gathered by the Hippodrome, even more people than usual for a late-afternoon showing—three policemen held them back from the theater’s main doors.
Pin shaded her eyes from the blinding sunset. Was a new Chaplin movie opening tonight? The Inferno had been held over, and Pin still hadn’t seen it. Maybe now she’d missed her chance.
She hurried through the exit gate to meet Henry at the streetcar stop. From farther down Western Avenue came a grinding shriek, as the trolley raced toward Riverview. As it slowed in a shower of sparks and the smell of hot metal, a woman outside the Hippodrome began to scream.
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