“I know for damn sure that is not the case,” said Hickey. He stood. “Mr. Baumgarten pays my salary, and yours, too, Bacon. You’re not a detective anymore, no matter what Dr. Phipps might believe. You need to do your job. Make the visitors feel safe. Wasserman’s meeting with the newspapers in the morning. He’ll tell them about the reward and the plainclothesmen. Surely that will be enough to scare off this madman. Or capture him.”
“No doubt,” said Dr. Phipps.
Hickey gazed expectantly at Francis, who remained silent as he stared at the motionless white form in the back of the room. “I hope you’re right,” he finally said. “But I don’t believe you are.”
Chapter 62
NEXT MORNING, PIN woke to the sound of her mother getting dressed, then grunts of annoyance as Gina brushed her thick hair and pinned it up, and finally a thunk as her mother tossed the hairbrush onto the trunk.
“Get up.” Gina prodded her shoulder as Pin feigned sleep. She smelled of cherry elixir and Sen-Sen. “I know you’re awake.”
“Your breath stinks.” Pin rolled over. “What time is it?”
“Getting on to eight.”
“Jesus! It’s so early!”
“Watch your mouth.” Her mother swatted her. “It’s Monday. You need to do me up.”
Pin rubbed her eyes, sat up, and clumsily began to button her mother’s clothing, shirtwaist first, then the cheap metal buttons that ran down the back of her skirt. Pin did this every day, morning and night, and never got any better at it. Or any faster, it took at least five minutes. When she finished, she flopped back onto the mattress and noticed an object on the rumpled sheet where her mother had lain.
A billy club. She picked it up. “Why do you have this?”
Her mother looked over her shoulder. “Put that down.”
“It must weigh ten pounds.” Pin turned it back and forth. “Maybe fifteen.”
“I said, put it down!”
Pin dropped it to the floor with a loud thud. “Where’d you get it?”
“Mr. Bacon loaned it to me.”
“Mr.—Fatty Bacon? The cop?”
“His name is Francis.” Her mother stooped to gather her bag and fortune-telling cards. “Why do you call him by that idiotic nickname?”
“Why do you think?” Pin nudged the weapon with her foot. “Why’d he give you a billy club?”
Gina straightened. She stared at Pin with an odd expression. “Someone else was killed last night,” she said. “He wanted me to be safe. Us.”
“Someone else?” Pin looked at her stupidly: Was she still asleep, and dreaming? “You mean here at the park?”
Gina nodded.
“Who was it?”
“A girl, I don’t know her name.”
“At Hell Gate?”
“No. The Hippodrome.” Her mother plucked at her blouse. Her hands were trembling. “I don’t know any more than that.”
“But how did you find out?”
“Francis. He walked me home, one of the other policemen ran up and told him.”
“He walked you home?” Pin echoed her, stunned. “From where? What were you doing?”
“Stop it!” Her mother whirled. “I said that’s enough!”
Gina sank onto the mattress and pulled on her shoes, fumbling with the buttons. Pin crossed to the door, cracked it open, and retrieved her shirt from where she’d hung it to dry on a nail on the outside wall. It was still damp. So were her socks. She dressed, stiffening as her mother took her by the shoulders and pulled her close.
“I want you to listen to me.” Gina’s hands still shook, but her voice remained steady. “I want you to come by the booth today.”
“I’m not staying there.”
“You don’t have to stay. Just come by so I’ll know you’re safe.”
“They won’t open the park if it’s not safe!”
“Do you really believe that, Pin?” Disdain and despair warred in her mother’s gaze. “Do you think Baumgarten cares for anything except how many people he can crowd in here every single day?”
Pin flinched as her mother strode to the door and kicked it open, the flimsy wood splintering beneath her shoe. “See that?”
She pointed down the alley, to where two men on ladders adjusted a banner on the Cyclone building. “Everything as usual. Girls are murdered, but nothing changes. Nothing ever changes. No one is safe. Come by the booth, or…”
Without a goodbye, her mother left. When she was out of sight, Pin yanked the door closed, but it wouldn’t shut properly—a hinge had loosened when her mother kicked it. Pin kicked it herself, and left it hanging.
She slumped on the mattress and stared at the two photographs she’d tacked to the wall, the room’s sole decoration: Clyde and Harriet Quimby.
To Pin, with regards, Lord Clyde.
Vin Fiz! The Sparkling Grape Drink.
She traced the outline of Harriet’s beautiful face, the aviatrix smiling as she stood proudly alongside the aeroplane she’d died in. Next to Harriet, Clyde gazed out at Pin with a strange half smile, as though some secret kept him safe.
She knew that wasn’t true. Her mother was right: no one was safe. Her stomach roiled as she recalled the newspaper photo of her sister that had fallen from Henry’s wallet, all those other photos in the Black Brothers Lodge.
We keep them safe. Girls. Because.
She bunched the thin sheet in her hands, torn between fury and fear. Henry was lying, he had to be. If he hadn’t killed those girls, hadn’t killed Abriana, he knew who did. Willhie, probably. She should go to the police, but then what would happen? She’d be questioned again, longer this time and not at Riverview but one of the city stations. She’d be searched and exposed as a girl, maybe even arrested and sent to the detention home.
She felt under the mattress for her shiv and slipped it into her pocket, turned onto her side, and stared at the two photos. Her mother’s words repeated in her mind like Red Friend’s bally.
No one is safe, no one is safe…
Not Clyde, not brave Harriet, who was remembered only because she’d been filmed, flying and dying. Would anyone remember Clyde if they hanged him?
No one remembered Abriana except for her and their mother. People only remembered you if someone took your photograph or painted your picture, or used your face to sell soda or magic tricks. Everyone else was forgotten. Everybody else just died.
Chapter 63
THE TRAIN ARRIVED half a day late into the Niles station. Chaplin passed the time reading and gazing out the window as the California desert crawled past, a vast waste of scrub and cactus punctuated by settlements that looked as though they’d been constructed by bored children deprived of anything except the most rudimentary blocks and tools. When the porter finally rapped at his compartment door and announced they were approaching Niles, Chaplin blew him a kiss. Then he stood, gathered his hat and valise, and peered out at the platform.
A good-sized crowd waited to meet the train—the California Limited, first class only. He’d grown accustomed to being met by fans and reporters, but surely only the most stalwart of his fans would have braved the afternoon heat of an August day to catch a glimpse of Charlie Chaplin. So he was mildly surprised as two men, one lugging a camera, rushed toward him as he stepped onto the platform.
“Mr. Chaplin!” The other man flapped a newspaper in Chaplin’s face. “Care to make a comment on this?”
Chaplin glanced at the front page of the Los Angeles Times, where the photo of him and that adorable little girl from Essanay took up several columns. He shook his head and smiled. “That’s yesterday’s news, fellas. I was just there for a visit, I’m—”
“This is last night’s edition, Mr. Chaplin—our paper, we’re all from the Los Angeles Times. What do you have to say?”
“Not much to say, is there?” He flashed the photographer a smile as the man fiddled with his camera. “Other than I’m glad to be back in California. And I’ll be starting work on A Night in the Show t
his week.”
The reporter gave him a quizzical look. “Haven’t you heard, Mr. Chaplin?”
“Heard what?”
The reporter thrust the newspaper into his hand, pointing at the headline:
Child Actress Brutally Murdered in Chicago Amusement Park
Chaplin stared blankly at the words. “I know nothing about this. Who is she?”
The reporter jabbed his thumb at the girl in the grainy photograph. “‘Maria Walewski, twelve years old,’” he read, “‘meeting the star Charles Chaplin at the Essanay movie studios in Chicago a few hours before her death.’ How did you know her?”
“I don’t.”
He pushed past them toward the entrance to the station, the reporter shouting after him as Chaplin yanked the door open and hurried inside.
“Mr. Chaplin?” Another man rose from a bench and walked toward him. A policeman. “How was your journey?”
“My journey was fine.” Chaplin looked over his shoulder to see the newspaperman racing toward them, the photographer at his side fumbling with his camera. “What the hell’s going on? Have those men lost their minds?”
The policeman strode past him toward the reporters. Chaplin considered bolting but thought better of it. Moments later, the two men were headed for the exit, the photographer walking backward as he snapped a photograph.
“The train station manager said we could use an empty office here,” the policeman said as he returned, his tone apologetic. “I’m with the Niles police. This way, if you please, Mr. Chaplin.”
Chaplin started to protest, then saw that people were gathering to stare at him. Without a word he followed the policeman into a small unfurnished room at the far end of the building.
“Captain Farina, police department,” the man said, closing the door behind them and extending his hand. “I apologize for this inconvenience, Mr. Chaplin, I know you’re very busy. I’ve seen a number of your movies—my wife loves them. I do, too,” he added, “though I work with some men who hate how the police always look so stupid.”
“Tell them it’s Sennett’s fault.” Chaplin forced a smile. He felt a buzzing in his ears; his hands had gone cold. Panic—he’d experienced it as a boy, when his mother sent him to the workhouse, and later when she entered the Cane Hill Asylum. He removed his cigarette case and offered one to Farina, who accepted it. “What’s going on, Captain?”
“You probably haven’t heard. I know the train was delayed out of Wichita, so you won’t have seen the papers.”
“Not since yesterday morning.”
Farina stroked his mustache. “Well, a girl was killed back in Chicago. Young girl, smothered to death inside an amusement park ride.”
Chaplin recoiled. “Jesus Christ! How horrible.”
“It is. A young Polack girl. She was only twelve. Chicago police say she was at the studio with you on Saturday, working on a movie.” He drew a notebook from his pocket and studied it. “S and A Studios, they said.”
“Not with me, she wasn’t.” Chaplin took a quick drag from his cigarette. “I’m not with Essanay anymore—not in Chicago, anyway. I dropped by only because Spoor wanted to hire me back. But I’m very happy here at their Niles studio.”
He flashed Farina another false smile. “I met the girl for only a minute, she and another girl were extras in a movie that was being filmed,” he explained. “I happened to be in the room and the publicist wanted a photo with her. A Wallace Beery movie. He’s got a reputation for young girls, maybe you should talk to him?”
“Police in Chicago already have. No one thinks you’re a suspect, Mr. Chaplin. Just, you left town that same day, and they’re trying to get as much information as they can. The other girl, she said you’d whispered something to Miss Walewski that made her blush. Like maybe you and her had met before. Can you remember what you said to her?”
Chaplin felt his face grow hot. “No,” he lied. “Probably I said the same thing I say to every girl I meet—that she’s lovely as a bluebell. That’s an English flower. I don’t think you have them here.”
“No, I expect not.” Farina dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out. “So, nothing else comes to mind?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Farina clapped his hands on his knees. “I told them this was a wild-goose chase. I’m sorry for taking your time. Where are you staying? I’ll help you get a taxi.”
“That would be very kind.”
They walked back through the station and into the burning gold of late afternoon. People milled around, porters heaving trunks onto carts, women wilting beneath their hats. Chaplin saw the men from the Los Angeles Times grabbing a smoke by a telegraph pole. He turned to Farina and made a show of laughing and shaking his hand.
“Thanks for being so congenial,” Farina said. He squinted at a black taxi pulling in from the main street and raised a hand to summon the driver. “Here’s one now. Before you go, would you mind…?”
The policeman pulled out his notebook and a fountain pen. Chaplin grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 64
HE SLEPT DEEPLY, and woke early to grey light. His hand throbbed painfully where the girl had bitten him. Someone would have discovered the body last night, but he wouldn’t have been recognized. One man in a crowd inside a movie palace? He’d seen no policeman, no indication that the usher had noticed anything awry.
That would change now. People, not just policemen but men and women, even children in the streets, would be looking for a man who preyed on young girls. And because there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to distinguish him from other men, he realized with growing horror that he would now have to share his private theater—his dolls, his photographs—with all those others.
Not literally, of course. But he would never again be able to think of his carefully constructed tableaux, the dolls with their limbs and sleep-glass eyes and flowered pinafores, as being his alone. The fact that any man might be suspected meant that any one of them might be inspired to replicate his passion. Like a bad actor stepping into the role made famous by a great one, an audience of leering swine gazing with envy at and longing for what he alone should possess. They were all out there now, watching.
Desperation seized him, coupled with hunger. And rage. If he fled immediately, he might well be pursued and captured, but without the satisfaction of having those final moments with the doll lying silently beside him.
Yet he had no reason to believe the two Riverview killings would be immediately connected with those in Dreamland and Wonderland. The girl in Gary would be more problematic. Having heard of this weekend’s murders, the Indiana police might well have contacted their counterparts in Chicago. The similarities would be clear. The body wouldn’t need to be exhumed for them to determine the same person had killed all three.
On the other hand, the corpse of the slow-witted dago girl from two years ago would never be found. He’d disposed of it close to the amusement park. He’d passed the site often, and there was no reason to think the spot might not be useful to him again now, as long as he didn’t hunt too far from it. There was no shortage of slums in this part of Chicago. If he was lucky, he might be able to take more photographs this afternoon.
He rose, washed up, and dressed. He examined the scratches on his chin where the little bitch had attacked him, touched them up with a styptic pencil. If anyone noticed, he’d say he’d cut himself shaving. He prepared himself a boiled egg and coffee, ate quickly, then grabbed the remaining tin of lozenges and bottle of cordial.
He started for the door, after a moment’s indecision returned to the suitcase. Inside he found the leather wallet that contained the photographs he’d developed two nights before. He gazed at that calm smooth face, lips parted in an expression that held both a promise and a secret. He slipped the photos in his pocket, along with the leather wallet, tipped the boater onto his head, and left. Just another man out for a morning stroll, that was all, just another man.
Chapter 65
HECHT COLLARED HIM as he stepped off the streetcar at Riverview’s entrance.
“Bacon!” Bennie ran up, dressed in the same checked suit as yesterday, now even more rumpled, and carrying a battered leather satchel. “Can we speak for a few minutes? Alone?”
Francis looked over at the park gates. A policeman stood there, along with men he recognized as reporters. It was not yet seven, hours before Wasserman would meet with the newspapers, but already they smelled blood. He nodded. “Yes, but not here. Come with me.”
They walked a few blocks to a small German restaurant that Francis knew opened early. Inside were a half-dozen tables, only one of them occupied, by a man whose bloodstained overalls identified him as a laborer from Packingtown. Francis and Bennie took a table in the back.
“Just coffee for me,” Francis told the waiter, and set his helmet in his lap. “I’ve already had my breakfast.”
“Not me.” Bennie perused the blackboard menu, ordered white sausages and beer. “And a pretzel. And strong black coffee. And some iced water, please. I haven’t slept since Friday.”
Francis winced. “Good thing you’re young.”
“I feel a lot older than I did three days ago. You were right—I was able to confirm that account of Deirdre Monahan’s murder. It checks out as your man told you it did. This is what else I found.”
He unlatched his satchel, withdrew a large envelope, and set it on the table. Inside was a copy of the New-York Tribune, dated the last week of July. Its front-page headlines blared news of the Eastland disaster, which had occurred less than a week before.
“Page seven,” said Bennie. Francis scanned the columns until he found a brief item:
Skeleton Unearthed in Dreamland Ruins
A human skeleton was uncovered by a railway worker at Coney Island, on the grounds once occupied by the Hell Gate boat attraction at Dreamland amusement park. The skeleton is said to be small, that of a child or resident of Dreamland’s Midget City, though no one was reported missing in the conflagration’s aftermath. It is requested that anyone who might shed knowledge upon this macabre discovery contact the Coney Island police.
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