Yet she couldn’t keep it from her mind, or the thought of Glory’s hand in hers, how she’d cocked her head and gazed at Pin with that sly half smile.
I suppose you’re just braver than me…
No one had ever thought she was brave. She’d never thought she was brave. Girls never were, unless they were martyred saints, like Joan of Arc.
But Pin wasn’t dead. And Glory’s kiss proved she would never be a saint. The longing to be with her again made her feel restless, frantic even. She needed to get Lionel’s notebook from her mother’s booth. Once she retrieved it, she’d hit up Max for Lionel’s delivery and streetcar fare, and head to Uptown and Essanay.
But that meant waiting for Max to show up. Maybe she could cadge the fare from her mother now. Then she could make two trips to the studio: one to deliver Lionel’s notebook, the other after she saw Max and got Lionel’s cigarettes.
The arcade was thronged with boys and girls her own age. Of course: kids were admitted free today. Pin tugged down her cap to hide her face. She didn’t want to chance running into anybody from one of her old schools.
She squinted at the boys snatching hats from shrieking girls who were obviously delighted to be picked on. No sign of any kids she knew, though she recognized the beefy man who stood a few yards from the arcade, watching the goings-on with a detached expression, like he was pretending he was somewhere else. Sergeant Morgenstern, one of the Riverview cops, though he wore a natty brown suit and derby rather than his uniform. She skirted him, annoyed. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she still didn’t want to be recognized.
Why had Lionel even visited her mother’s booth? First Fatty Bacon, now Lionel, who always spoke of Riverview with contempt, like he’d never be caught dead in an amusement park.
So why had he come here? Probably had some crazy idea for a movie, the way he had about fires a month ago, and that story about the black cat in the wall. He’d gone through four notebooks so far this summer. Now what?
The murders, she realized with a sick feeling. He was here because of the dead girls.
Chapter 77
LIONEL EDGED THROUGH the crowds, hot and out of sorts and apparently the only person uninterested in joining an endless line for the Tickler or Witching Waves, Shoot-the-Chutes or the merry-go-round or—well, any of them. All he wanted was to be back in his own apartment, with a tumbler of whiskey and one of Max’s hand-rolled cigarettes and his Royal Upright, “The St. Louis Blues” playing on the gramophone. Instead, he was wasting his afternoon, retrieving his damn notebook.
Overhead stretched a threatening line of anvil clouds. The near-constant rolls of thunder had grown indistinguishable from the coasters’ roar. The wind carried a whiff of acrid smoke from Bricktown. Policemen were everywhere: he spied a brawny fellow with a walrus mustache and a pair of opera glasses, obviously a plainclothesman. The Hippodrome theater remained closed, but the line for Hell Gate stretched all the way to the Velvet Coaster. Even with tens of thousands of free admissions, the park’s owner would make a killing today.
He avoided the stretch of midway in front of the freak show, where foot traffic had come to a standstill. Craning his neck, he spied a tall figure in formal wear and a top hat, holding aloft a birdcage as he threaded his way through the wall of rubberneckers. That black magician they’d arrested for the first girl’s murder, out of jail and obviously back to playing to full houses.
Ahead of him the Pike curved toward the Miniature Railway and balloon sellers, Merry Ann the mechanical pony and the duck pond. Beyond were the Woodland Cabaret and burlesque stalls, Max’s She-Male tent, and the booth that sold French photographs. Past those was the penny arcade where Madame Zanto held his notebook hostage.
He slowed as he neared Max’s tent. From the shouts and taunts from inside, he must have just opened. Lionel halted beneath the lurid banner:
ADMISSION 25 CENTS NO ONE UNDER SIXTEEN ADMITTED.
NO WOMEN, NO CHILDREN
NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART
The wind had loosened the cords that held the canvas flaps closed during performances, leaving a gap that Lionel peered through.
A wall of men blocked his view of the stage. Even from here he could smell their rage and arousal, bodies packed like spoiled oysters in a barrel. He’d witnessed Max’s show only once before, on his first visit to Riverview not long after they’d met at a supper club on the Stroll. He’d been impressed by the performance: Max knew just how to tilt his head and widen his eyes slightly, part his lips with a sideways glance; then turn so that the illusion of a youthful flirt was upended as a snappy dude challenged the audience, stroking his mustache with a salacious grin.
Now Lionel wondered if he’d somehow come to the wrong tent, or if Max had been replaced by another performer. Instead of Max’s blond good looks, the actor resembled a roughneck, his hair black with a greasy sheen. Thick white powder covered his entire face, not just the woman’s half. The powder didn’t hide a cut on his chin with blood seeping from it, or the raw look of his upper lip, as though he’d been shaved with a dull razor. A scarlet bloom surrounded the iris of one eye. He hadn’t even bothered with a wig, just a Panama hat. It looked as though he’d been at the losing end of a fight, his face knotted with such barely contained rage that he appeared deranged, like the poor soul who howled at the crowds in the freak show.
Yet Max was utterly silent, utterly still, refusing to move or speak despite the epithets and taunts shouted at him by the crowd. Like them, Lionel couldn’t look away. Until, with a jolt of horror, he saw Max’s gaze shift with the dreamlike slowness of an automaton’s, until it focused on the rear of tent, and his bloodshot eyes riveted on Lionel’s own.
With a gasp Lionel backed away, turned, and sprinted toward the crowded path. He let himself be carried along until he spotted a grassy patch at the edge of Fairyland where he sat, struggling to catch his breath, struggling to find words for what, exactly, he had seen in Max’s eyes, and why it had terrified him.
Chapter 78
LIONEL WAS FASCINATED by murders; everyone knew that. The Riverview killings would make exactly the kind of story he loved, gruesome but also peculiar, like that scenario he’d written for the Sweedie movie with the dolls. Pin thought it was funny when Wally Beery played it, but she’d overheard Lionel pitching the original version to Billy Carrera. Dolls that came to life in the toy shop at night, dolls that the toy maker mistook for real girls. She was glad that Spoor had put the kibosh on that one. It gave her the willies.
The giant clock sang a solitary cuckoo. Already afternoon. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss her chance to get the book to Lionel at the studio, dash back to the park, and make a second run for Max. Glory had said she’d be around all day, but Pin knew how quickly things changed at Essanay, entire movies rewritten and reshot within a few hours. She hopped onto the arcade’s wooden walkway and pushed her way through a group of girls milling in front of her mother’s booth.
“Hey, we’re next!” One of the girls squared her shoulders to block Pin’s way. “Wait your turn.”
“Yeah, get in line, buster.” A girl with glasses grabbed Pin’s hand and peered at it. “Phew! Says here, you need to take a bath.”
Pin shoved her aside. The girl gasped, yelping, “Didn’t your mother teach you not to hit girls?”
The black velvet drapes flew open. “Who’s next? What’s going on out here?”
Her mother stood in the doorway, frowning. After a moment, her eyes widened—in recognition, Pin realized, though not of her daughter but of someone behind Pin. Gina raised her eyebrows and quickly nodded, signaling to whoever it was. Pin glanced around but saw no one she recognized.
Yet when she looked back at Gina, her mother’s gaze did fix on her, now in alarm. She made a shooing gesture, urging Pin to leave. Confused, Pin again turned to scan the Pike.
Morgenstern had removed his derby and was waving it. Standing on tiptoe, she could just make out another Riverview cop, this one in uniform, pus
hing through the crowd toward the arcade. She glanced back at her mother, who shook her head vehemently and mouthed the word Go! Without a sound, Pin left.
Chapter 79
SWINE. THEY WERE all swine. If he had a knife he’d pry that one’s eyes out like a nutmeat.
And that one in the front, spit spewing from his mouth whenever he opened it. If he tried anything, he’d gut him. Slit their bellies like pigs’ carcasses, expose their organs while they still breathed. Only a matter of time till nightfall. Catch the train, packed already, leave behind what can’t be carried. Always another, that softness between his fingers. Never again would he allow one to strike him back. Take them to a dark place, hold them in your hands. The silence. The way they never blinked.
Chapter 80
THEY GRABBED HIM in front of the fortune-telling booth. Two men, one wearing a shapeless dark suit and derby, the other in uniform.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?” Lionel asked as they drew up alongside him.
“Shut up.”
The policeman smacked his billy club against Lionel’s ribs. He doubled over as the two men took his arms and bullied their way through the crowd.
They dragged him to the park station house, down a hallway and into an office where a barrel-chested man stood behind a desk, a police captain by the look of him.
But not a real policeman, Lionel thought, his desperation growing, surely he wouldn’t have the authority to make an arrest. Someone must have seen him in Fairyland yesterday—that man, the one who resembled a banker. He could have been a plant, put there to entrap inverts. Yet Lionel had done nothing!
But he could still go to prison—he would be ruined, even murdered.
No, he would not, he thought. Think of it as a story, how would the hero escape? He drew a few deep breaths, focused on the details of the room around him. The smells of sweat that clung to the men’s woolen uniforms and stale cigar smoke. The light scent of his own Lilac Vegetal cologne—they’d find a way to use that against him. Scattered newspapers. The carnival clamor from outside the open windows, air heavy as wet fleece.
“We found him, Captain Hickey.” The man in the suit glanced in disgust at Lionel. “I spotted him by the booth and signaled Mr. Doylan.”
“Looks like he put up a fight.” Captain Hickey turned to Lionel. “What is your name, sir?”
Lionel stared the captain full in the face. “I didn’t fight.”
“I asked your name.”
Hickey’s eyes narrowed. He gestured at the two men, who released Lionel. For the first time, Lionel saw that the plainclothesman held his straw boater, now crushed flat. He set it on the desk in front of Hickey with a flourish.
The captain pushed the hat aside irritably. “If you please, sir. Your name.”
“Lionel Gerring.”
“Mr. Gerring, what is your employment?”
“I work at the Essanay motion-picture studio. I’m a scenarist—a writer. I write photoplays.”
“A writer.” Hickey shuffled through the scattered newspapers until he found a small object. “Would this be yours?” He held up a notebook.
Lionel laughed in relief. “Yes! That’s mine—!” He stepped toward the desk but was restrained. His elation wavered. “Why have I been brought here?”
“How long have you known Mrs. Maffucci?” asked Hickey.
“Who?”
“Regina Maffucci. She works at one of the arcades as a Gypsy fortune-teller, Madame Zanto. Her given name is Regina Maffucci.”
Lionel frowned. “I never set eyes on her before yesterday. I didn’t know her name until you just told it to me.”
“But this is your book?”
Reluctantly, Lionel nodded. “Yes. But—”
Hickey signaled silence. He opened the book and turned its pages, his face registering disgust. “You describe some revolting things, Mr. Gerring. ‘Large stone pressed upon his chest till he expires.’” He turned to another page. “‘All that remains afterward are her charred shoes.’”
“Those are notes for scenarios I’m working on. Stories.”
“A moving-picture story?”
“Yes.”
Hickey grimaced. “No one in their right mind would choose to watch a moving picture like that, Mr. Gerring. Just as no one in their right mind would write about something so reprehensible as the murder of those two girls.”
“Is that what you think?” Lionel gaped at him. “That’s ridiculous! Ask Mr. Spoor—call him now, damn it! I’ve pitched every damn one of those stories to him.”
“Enough of that!” commanded Hickey. He continued to flip through the pages. “You have a diseased mind, Mr. Gerring. Who would imprison their cat behind a wall?”
“It’s a story! And it’s not even my story! It’s by Edgar Allan Poe, ‘The Black Cat.’ The others are from ‘The Pit and the Pendulum’ and ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’ They’re very well known, ask anyone.”
Hickey scowled. “I’ve never heard of them. Mr. Morgenstern, have you? Mr. Doylan?”
The plainclothesman, Morgenstern, nodded. “I have. Couldn’t tell you the writer’s name, but I read that story about the morgue and the ape who kidnaps a lady in France.”
“France.” Hickey pronounced the word as though this in itself might be proof of guilt.
Morgenstern nodded. “Don’t know if he’s the killer, but he definitely stole those stories.”
“Everyone does it,” Lionel protested weakly.
“What about this?” Hickey indicated a page with a single word scrawled on it. “‘Hellgate.’ Is that from one of your magazines?”
“That was a note for a different scenario, about the killings here at the park—”
“How dare you? Those children aren’t in their graves and you’d defile their memories with this?” Hickey looked as though he might throw the notebook into Lionel’s face. “Can you account for your whereabouts for the last two days?”
“I can. Yesterday—”
Someone knocked at the door.
“Captain Hickey?” A sergeant peered inside. “Detective Berens is here to question Mr. Gerring.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Paterno. You can show him in. Mr. Morgenstern, Mr. Doylan, thank you.”
As the plainclothesman headed to the door, he paused to leer at Lionel. “Your next story, you should use The Man in the Iron Mask,” he said.
Chapter 81
BEHIND HER, MORE and more people swarmed toward the arcade, shoving one another in their efforts to see…something. Pin cursed. Why had her mother warned her off? Now she’d missed whatever was happening, and there was no point trying to fight her way back.
She headed for the path by Hell Gate. A line snaked around the dark-ride pavilion, petering out where people stumbled laughing from the boats. In the ticket booth, Larry was handing out wooden tokens as fast as he could. She walked by, her eyes half closed, trying to recapture the moment when Glory had kissed her. Her longing grew so intense she felt like she might pass out.
If she could only tell someone how she felt—not just Glory, anyone—that might help, like when you pierce a balloon to let the air out. Even Henry had a friend in Willhie. She had no one, other than Henry, and how could she trust someone who might have killed her sister? How could she even think about it?
Her mother’s voice echoed in her head. Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Your sister’s the one who’s dead.
She heard the cuckoo clock chime and counted its notes. Still too early for Max, probably. She glanced up at the knoll, from where she’d seen the killer enter Hell Gate, let her gaze drop to the stand of poplars where she’d first met Henry, not even two days ago. It felt like centuries. What if she hadn’t met him? Would she feel worse now, or better?
Her head ached from the heat, the heavy air fizzing like the electrical lights in the Ten-in-One. She touched the shiv in her pocket, its blade warm as her own skin, and wandered toward the poplar grove. Something moved in the green shadows, and she felt a stir
of excitement: Henry had returned! But it was only a squirrel scurrying in the grass.
Still, she could pretend it felt cooler here. The leaves rippled in the hot wind and touched her bare arms as she slipped between the trees. Something caught her eye in the long grass, a scrap of trash or lost handkerchief. She stooped to see what it was.
A rock—two rocks, one atop the other—had been placed on a square of cardboard as big as her two hands. She looked around to see if anyone was watching her, then picked up the cardboard. It was stained and wrinkled, the torn flap of a carton, she guessed, folded to form a makeshift envelope.
Nothing was written on the outside, but as she carefully unfolded it, a smaller piece of cardboard fell out. White shirt cardboard, cut into a tidy square. One side was blank. She turned it over.
Three small pictures had been pasted on this side to form an arc. The first was a picture of a rolling pin from a magazine advertisement. The center was the photo of Maria Walewski from the newspapers, the photo that had been taken at Essanay with Charlie Chaplin. Maria’s dark hair had been scribbled over with black ink, her mouth dabbed with red crayon, and her eyes made to look like the eyes of the crazy old man in the Polly comic strip.
The last picture was an illustration torn from a magazine story—a drawing of a rabbit lying on the ground, its long ears sleeked back and a peaceful expression on its face. Someone had meticulously shaded in its white fur with a pencil, so the fur looked grey, like the rabbit she’d seen in the Black Brothers Lodge.
She sank onto the grass and touched each of the pictures in turn. The rolling pin—that would be her, one of Henry’s crazy nicknames. Maria. The rabbit. Last of all she traced the wobbly words at the bottom of the homemade card. No one had ever given her a card before.
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