“A girl. Murdered.” Gina cried out as Magruder pointed at the angel. “The Hippodrome. Some kids found her in the last row of the balcony.”
“Does Hickey know?”
“Everybody knows.” For the first time, he noticed Francis was out of uniform. “Except you, I guess.” He turned to Gina and lifted his hat. “Apologies, ma’am. Francis, you better come along with me.”
Gina stared at him wide eyed, one hand covering her mouth. Francis firmly grasped her arm, glancing at Magruder. “Go ahead—tell them I’ll be right there.”
Magruder seemed about to protest, but thought better of it and ran on toward the Hippodrome.
Francis could feel Gina trembling as he drew her close. “Are you sure you have no one you can stay with?”
She shook her head frantically. “No. And Pin—what if it’s Pin?”
“You heard him—it’s another girl. If Pin’s not home now, he will be soon. Look around—they’ve cleared the park. Come on…”
They hurried down the alley to the shack. Francis took out his billy club. “You stay right there,” he ordered. “I’ll check everything first.”
He entered the shack, struck a match, and lit the lantern hanging inside. Three strides and he’d crossed the entire room. There was no possible place to hide. Nothing but a small trunk and a mattress on the floor. He turned and beckoned Gina.
“It’s safe. I hate to leave you, but I need to go.”
“Pin,” she said.
He took her hand. “If Pin doesn’t show up by morning, you’re to let me know. Here…”
He gave her his billy club. “I hope you won’t need this. But if you do…”
She stared at him and whispered, “Thank you, Francis.”
He clasped her hand, and left.
Chapter 56
PIN! PIN!”
She heard Henry shouting after her, then Willhie’s alarmed voice, but she didn’t look back. She didn’t slow until she reached Bosworth Avenue, half a mile away. She doubled over, coughing as she fought to catch her breath, checking to see if she’d been followed.
She saw no one behind her, or anywhere else. The shops were all closed, the streets and sidewalks deserted except for a Model T that chugged past. The gas lamps hissed—no electrical lights here—and bats flitted around the halos of yellow light, chasing moths.
She began the trek back to Riverview. She felt as though some poison swam around inside her, a terror that could not be separated from her body, from herself. She’d felt like this when Abriana disappeared, but that fear had been attached to her sister. This fear seeped from someplace inside Pin, like the blood that trickled from her every month.
Who were those girls? Henry’s pictures made the missing girls look like dolls. But they weren’t dolls: they’d been alive, like she was now. Why would Henry—why would anyone—set up such a crazy display?
She could think of only one reason: he’d killed them, and he was proud of it.
Yet he hadn’t gloated over the images. And he hadn’t killed her. But what kind of grown man would cut pictures of murdered girls from newspapers and decorate them with crayon and pictures of flowers clipped from seed catalogs?
I lived in the asylum…They called it the crazy house…
She shuddered. Beneath the elastic band her chest burned, the skin chafed raw by heat and the filthy fabric. She unbuttoned her shirt, tore off the truss, and flung it into the dark, a disgusting stinking rag. She longed to rip off her shirt, too.
But then she would be crazy; not as crazy as Henry but close. If someone saw a fourteen-year-old girl walking the streets late at night shirtless, never mind the heat, they’d arrest her for a whore. Or lock her up like they’d done to Henry. She fastened up her shirt and kept walking, thinking of Henry’s pictures.
It’s part of the Ceremony. I protect them. So we don’t forget.
Were there other Gemini? She doubted it now. The Child Protective Society and the Black Brothers Lodge were some kind of game that Henry had made up. He claimed to live at the hospital, but he could be lying about that, too. He might have escaped again from the asylum, with Willhie protecting him by going along with his crazy game.
But if Willhie knew Henry had murdered those girls, why would he help him? Unless Willhie was a murderer, too. Nothing made any sense.
By the time she arrived back at Riverview, the cuckoo clock was crying ten forty-five. For some reason all the lights were out, save the glowing angel. She saw no people except for a small crowd by the Hippodrome. Too exhausted to investigate, she continued on to her shack.
Chapter 57
WILLHIE WAS TOO tired to listen to Henry’s explanation for why Pin had been in the barn.
“No more!” Willhie held up a warning hand as Henry excitedly reached into the Black Sack of Destiny, searching for the secret card that Pin had signed. “You must go home now! My sister is tired, that boy frightened her when he ran away.”
So Henry trudged back to Workingmen’s House, sweaty and hot and still excited by the night’s events. He entered his stuffy room as quietly as he could, removed his shoes and heavy canvas jacket, and sat at his desk, brooding.
Why had the boy run off when Willhie arrived? Was he guilty of some crime? Could he have been the one who choked the girl to death in Hell Gate?
Henry knew this was impossible. He’d seen Pin with his own eyes, standing outside Hell Gate after the murderer and the girl entered the tunnel. Pin scarcely looked older than the girl, and he was skinny as a rat. She would have fought him off easily. People never thought of girls as good fighters, but they were.
He opened his desk drawer, took out the votive candle, and lit it, then withdrew his manuscript and bundle of pictures. Tenderly he removed the newspaper photograph of Elsie, placing it where only she could see him.
“Dearest one,” he whispered.
Tears stung his eyes. He’d wanted only to protect her, and yet she had come to great harm. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for forgiveness, touching Saint Dymphna’s scapular beneath his shirt.
I firmly resolve with the help of thy grace to sin no more…
When he opened his eyes, Elsie’s face moved in the candlelight, smiling at him. He got out his stub of pencil, found a blank sheet of paper, and began to write:
Elsie Annie Aronburg struggled against General Arnold Patsfry his hands clutched around her neck. The other girls watched in awestruck terror…
Hours later, the candle burned out. He looked up to see the slit of window above his desk tinged with gold. Hurriedly he bound up his manuscript, hid it and the votive candle back in the desk, darted to his bed, and slid beneath the blanket, still fully clothed. It seemed his eyes had only just closed when Sister Rose pounded on the door, clanging the handbell that woke the entire corridor at five each morning, so they could attend six o’clock Mass.
“Mr. Darger!!”
He waited until she moved down the hall before jumping from bed, and changed into a cleaner shirt. He ran his fingers through his hair, forcing thoughts of Elsie and the others from his mind. There would always be more dead girls. Time to go to work.
Chapter 58
THE BODY HAD been discovered by a high-school boy who’d been sitting in the uppermost balcony with his friends. When the movie ended, they’d laid low in their seats, hoping to sneak into the next show, then began roughhousing, running back and forth between the rows. His shouts drew his friends, and then Sergeant Paterno, on security duty at the theater entrance.
“There wasn’t an usher there?” demanded Captain Hickey, who’d raced back to the station house from his home in Hyde Park. There’d been no time to change into his uniform, and his jacket and trousers didn’t match. Francis could smell roast beef gravy on his breath.
“It’s a passion pit,” said Paterno. “The usher admitted he didn’t clear the balcony between shows, or even poke his head in. Claims he’s a churchgoing man and he can’t stand to know what goes on in there.”
Hickey shook his head, disgusted. “He must have taken their tickets—could he describe the man who went in with her? What the hell was she doing there in the first place? It’s not a goddamned kids’ show.”
The three of them were back in Hickey’s office—Francis, Hickey, Paterno. Through the closed door, they could hear the girl’s mother screaming in the next room.
“Parents bring their kids sometimes. The high-school kids, they sneak in all the time.” Paterno glanced anxiously at the door. “Has someone called a doctor for her mother?”
“The coroner’s bringing a sedative,” Hickey said tersely.
The body of the child, Gilda Belascu, was laid out on a table at the back of Hickey’s office. Someone had covered it with a uniform jacket, and Hickey had closed the window blinds.
Francis felt numb: he’d been here when the parents had first glimpsed their daughter. Their anguish made him feel as though the flesh had been peeled away from his scalp. He was starting to believe he could use a sedative himself.
Paterno tapped his knees nervously as he sat. “What were they thinking, leaving the girl to run wild while they were out dancing?”
“You think this was their fault?” demanded Francis.
“I do, if—”
“Shut up!” Paterno blanched as Hickey continued, “Cabell’s men are questioning all the ushers and the projectionist, anyone who might remember seeing a man and a girl.”
“What about the ticket seller?” asked Francis.
“Him, too.” Hickey rubbed his forehead, glancing at Francis. “Jesus Christ almighty, look at you, man. This is enough of a mess without Cabell seeing we’re all run down to the bone. Go home, sleep for a few hours, then come back. I’ve called in Anton Magruder and Tom Haller.”
“They haven’t been involved with this investigation. I have.”
“Investigation?” Hickey’s voice rose angrily. “You’re not a detective sergeant anymore, Bacon. Go home. Now.” Hickey pointed at the door. “I don’t want to see you in uniform before sunrise. And get a proper shave, you look like you’ve been on a bash. Paterno, finish your statement and you go, too.”
Paterno gave Francis a sympathetic look as he grabbed his hat and stalked out the door. The outer room was crowded with Chicago police sergeants, several men in usher uniforms, and half a dozen high-school boys who looked equal parts scared and excited to be part of the fray. Anton Magruder stood over a figure slumped in a chair—Miriam Belascu, the girl’s mother. Her husband, Werner, knelt beside her, his face transformed by grief into a gargoyle’s. As Francis approached, Werner Belascu looked up at him imploringly. Francis held his gaze, his own eyes filling. He felt as though he were being strangled.
“My sympathies,” Francis muttered, and pushed his way to the door.
Once outside he stood for a minute, sweating as though it were noon. He reached into his pocket for his blackjack, remembered he’d left it with Gina. His fingers brushed something else.
The notebook from Gina’s booth. He’d forgotten he’d promised to bring it to the station’s lost-and-found. He opened it, squinting as he skimmed the pages.
Bury her in coffin as in EAP. When she’s found only skeletal remains + her long beautiful hair.
Realizes too late that she is not an automaton but live person. Gasping w horror he drops her body to the ground. Leader: THE END
He continued flipping through the book until he reached the last written page and stared at a single scribbled word.
Hellgate
“My God,” he exclaimed.
He shoved the pad into his pocket, glanced over his shoulder at the station house, then hurried toward Gina’s shack.
Chapter 59
GINA!” FRANCIS CALLED her name urgently, hoping she wasn’t already asleep inside, hoping he didn’t wake the boy. “Mrs. Maffucci, it’s Francis Bacon, can you come out, please?”
The door cracked open and Gina stared at him, clutching a silk kimono around her thin frame. “Sweet Jesus, now what is it? Pin?”
“No! I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. But I need to speak with you, Gina, can you please step outside?”
She peered down the dark alley, disappeared back inside and returned, holding the hurricane lantern. “What’s happened?”
“This.” He held up the notebook. “How did you come by it?”
“I told you, a man came in. I told his fortune, and he left it behind.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Describe him? Why? Where’s my child? Where’s Pin?”
“I have no idea where he is,” snapped Francis. “Listen to me, Gina. What do you remember of the man who left this book?”
He reached for her arm, but she slapped it away. “What man? I’ve told you what I know!”
Francis drew a deep breath. “Gina, take a minute and think on it. This notebook…”
He opened it and held it up so she could read the word Hellgate. She stared at it blankly. “Hellgate? What does it mean?”
“I think it belongs to him. The murderer. Almost surely it does.”
“What? How would you know?”
“There are…other things, written inside.”
“What other things?”
“Things you don’t need to know, Gina!”
“Who are you to say what I need to know?” Her voice grew shrill, furious and also despairing. “What are you keeping from me?”
“Nothing!” His frustration veered into anger. “Damn it, Gina—I have to bring this notebook to the station house! It’s evidence and they’ll need to question you. I’m trying to help you. So please, tell me now—do you know this man? Do you know anything about him?”
Gina shook her head, ashen faced. “No. I never saw him before, he just walked in like everyone else.”
“Was he with anyone?”
“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. He came in alone.”
“Do you remember what he looked like? Anything he said? Was he a colored man?”
“No!” She set the hurricane lantern on the ground and began to pace, arms tightly crossed against her chest. “I can’t think, let me think.”
She stopped and stared at the lantern. “He was a white man, in a light-colored suit. Seersucker. And a straw hat, a boater hat.”
Francis groaned softly. Was he the only man in Chicago who wore a derby? “Do you remember what color stripes?”
“No.”
“What else? How old was he, what color hair?”
“Thirty or thereabouts, I’d guess. His hair…” She rubbed her arms, thinking. “I believe he had dark-colored hair.”
“A mustache or beard?”
“No, I’d remember that.”
“What about a wedding ring?”
“No. I always check.”
“What kind of accent did he have?”
“Accent?” She hesitated before replying. “Not from here. Somewhere back East, I think. Philadelphia?”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing, really. I did most of the talking. He didn’t have any questions, not that I recall.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The usual nonsense. That he had a powerful enemy, and he’d never marry.”
“Why on earth would you tell a man that? A complete stranger?”
“It’s what the tea leaves said,” she retorted. “There’s a book that you have to memorize, it tells you how to read the omens. His said he’d never marry.”
“And that he had a powerful enemy?”
“Yes.”
Francis didn’t know whether to laugh or toss the notebook at her. “Do you think it upset him? What you said?”
“Maybe.” She seemed disquieted. “Some people are angry if they don’t hear what they want to hear, but usually they just pay for another reading. Do you think he got so angry he killed someone?”
Francis sighed. “No. I was just hoping you might give us something more to go on.”
“Well, he�
��ll come back for it, right?” She leaned against the shack, pulling her kimono tight. “If he notices it’s missing.”
“Maybe.” Francis’s tone was doubtful. “Once he realizes it’s gone, he’s not likely to come looking for it at the station house.”
“I could keep it at the booth, and notify you if he shows up.”
“Too risky—once he has it, he’ll run off.”
He tucked the notebook back into his pocket, removed his derby, and fanned his face, his hair gold in the lantern glow. “This heat, I’m surprised more people aren’t going nuts. Tell you what…”
He tapped the derby back onto his head. “You keep an eye out for this man. I’ll have a sergeant in plain clothes standing close by your booth tomorrow—I’ll tell him to come by early. It’ll probably be Morgenstern, do you know him?” She nodded. “Good. You two work out a signal, if your man comes back, let him know, and we’ll get someone right on it. Cabell’s men will be crawling all over the park, we won’t be lacking for policemen.”
“You don’t think they’ll close the park?”
He gave a sour laugh. “Not if Baumgarten can help it. Every day this place has to shut down, he loses a fortune. The police commissioner would have to order him to close it, or the mayor or governor. They’re all in each other’s pockets, and none of ’em wants to lose a dime. Everyone’s going to make money off this—the newspapers, Baumgarten, the guys who run Hell Gate and the Hippodrome. Everyone but those dead kids and their families.”
Gina looked away, and he sighed. He’d offended her by being so blunt. But he was too exhausted to apologize properly. And he knew that everything he’d said was true.
Chapter 60
PIN DRAGGED HER feet as she approached the alley by the shack. The faces of the murdered girls on Henry’s altar still floated behind her eyes, as sweetly fanciful as drawings in the Sunday funnies or picture books. And she was no better than him—in the tunnel, she’d mistaken a murdered girl for a doll or balloon.
Curious Toys Page 18