“Wait here,” she said. “Don’t let anyone in, I’ll be right back.”
Pin sank into a chair and stared at the sailor dress in her lap. The blouse had been carelessly mended, and one striped cuff was stained. It stank of mildew. The thought of actually wearing it made her want to tear it into rags.
But that was why she had to borrow a dress in the first place. Her own few pieces of girl’s clothing had been reduced to rags by hard wear and neglect.
“Here!”
Glory swept breathlessly back into the room and threw something at her—it looked like a cat. Startled, Pin dropped the middy dress.
“That’s what I mean!” scolded Glory.
She snatched up the dress as Pin bent to retrieve what Glory had tossed at her. A tawny blond wig, its ringlets brittle as straw. Pin poked at the stiff curls. “Who wears this? What’s it made of? Hay?”
“Flax and horsehair. Lookee…” Glory took the wig and set it on Pin’s head, tugging it as Pin fidgeted.
“Ouch! Stop it, that hurts. Jesus—it’s too tight!”
“Be quiet!” Glory pressed a hand against Pin’s mouth. “Whoever needs it, wears it. It’s for the extras. I borrowed it from the wardrobe shop—if you lose it, they’ll kill me.”
Pin took Glory’s wrist, gently pulled Glory’s hand to her, and kissed her palm. “Thank you, Glory.”
Glory smiled. “You look cute.”
They both jumped as someone knocked at the door and yelled, “Glory? Louella wants you to come look over your new lines this minute!”
“Be right there,” Glory called, and pulled the wig from Pin’s head. “Bring them back as soon as you can,” she said in a low voice. “Here.”
She handed Pin a brown paper sack, and Pin stuffed the wig and dress inside. “Tomorrow,” she promised Glory, though that was probably another lie. “Oh, and wait…”
She dug into her pocket and withdrew the Helmar packet Max had given her. “Can you give this to Lionel?”
Glory hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”
She took the packet, opened it, and tapped out one of the cigarettes. Sniffing it, she pinched the end so that golden-brown flakes rained down on her open palm. Brow furrowed, she tore the cigarette paper and tipped its contents into her palm.
“Well, lookee here.” She extended her hand to Pin. “It’s not dope at all—it’s just plain old tobacco. I wonder why he’d do that?”
Pin’s heart raced. Because he doesn’t care anymore what happens next. She tried to memorize everything she could: Glory’s hair, her eyes, her smooth hands; the way she appeared so tall for someone who was barely five feet.
“Thank you again,” she said. “Glorious.”
Footsteps echoed from the hall, heading in their direction.
“Good luck, Pin,” said Glory, and pushed her toward the door.
Chapter 86
FRANCIS TOOK A brief dinner break, alone at a table in the Casino Restaurant. He had little appetite for his pork chop and potatoes, but was grateful for the second cup of coffee that the waiter brought him without being asked.
He’d looked for Bennie on his rounds of the park but hadn’t yet seen him, and he’d gleaned little additional information from the other policemen or newsmen he’d spoken to. No one seemed to believe that Lionel Gerring was guilty, but no one seemed in a hurry to see him released, either, not until another suspect was brought in, or another murder occurred. The newsmen were content to wait, at least for another day or two, and embellish the facts in the meantime.
The police, on the other hand, were increasingly exhausted and irritable, prone to sudden angers. It was a mood Francis recognized and feared, not for himself but for visitors to the park. Drunks were an easy target. So were colored people, and anyone whose accent or appearance identified them as a newcomer to the city. He waved away the waiter’s offer of a free dessert and returned to his rounds.
For the last few hours he’d avoided the area near the arcade where Gina Maffucci worked. He knew she’d been brought into the station for questioning, then released. Now he saw a long line in front of Madame Zanto’s booth, fueled by rumors of the arrest there earlier.
He heard mutters of protest as he pushed through the line, but those quieted when they saw the interloper wore a uniform. When the curtains parted and a middle-aged woman stepped out, Francis entered the booth. Inside, Gina had her back to him, cleaning a teacup.
“Please sit, I’ll be right with you,” she said. She turned and nearly dropped the cup. He put a finger to his lips, sat at the little table, and motioned for her to do the same.
“I heard what happened at the station, Mrs. Maffucci,” he murmured.
He expected her to tell him to call to her by her first name. But she only stared at him. Francis cleared his throat nervously and went on. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I would have—”
“What would you have done, Mr. Bacon? The detective asked if I could identify the man who owned the notebook. Which I did. Could you have done that for me?”
“No, of course not. But—”
“Then there’s nothing to apologize for. It was the same man, I recognized him. He didn’t deny the book was his. I only wish they hadn’t made such a scene when he came back here for it. But now it’s done.”
She shook her head. “I wish I’d never told you about that damn book. I should have tried to return it to him directly.”
“But that’s ridiculous! You did the right thing, it was evidence—”
“Evidence of what? He works at the movie studio! That notebook contains ideas for movies, Mr. Bacon.”
“Well, that’s what he claims.”
“Would he be so careless, if it contained evidence he intended to murder those girls?”
“He might be,” Francis replied, with little conviction. “Men sometimes record imaginings of crimes they intend to commit.”
“Do they? Then someone will have to prove it.” Gina’s dark eyes glittered. “Mr. Gerring knows Pin. Did you know that?”
“Did he say how?”
“No. But he looked shocked when he heard my last name. He asked if I was Pin Maffucci’s mother.” Her voice broke. “I—I said I was, and he just seemed…confused. Upset and confused.”
“But don’t you see, this could mean something, too?” Francis tried to choose his words with care. “A grown man, why would he know a boy?”
“From the movie studio. Pin goes there, I’m not sure why. Maybe he was looking for work.” She picked up the teacup, set it back down. “I thought we would be safer here, at least for the summer. We come from Crosby and Oak—Little Hell. I thought this would be a better place.”
Francis stared at her thin face, the bangles on her arm, and her sunken eyes. One would have to come from a terrible place to imagine living in a shack at an amusement park as an improvement. But then Little Hell was such a place. He slid his hand toward hers, waiting to see if she would remove her own. When she did not, he gently rested his atop it.
“I’m sorry” was all he could think to say.
“I’m sorry they’re holding a man who’s innocent.”
“You don’t know that, Gina.”
“I do. I can see evil in men, and this man had none.”
“You told me your husband was an evil man,” said Francis. “Did you see that?”
“No. Not at first. That’s how I learned to see it. After.” She withdrew her hand from his, as unhappy mutterings came from outside. “I have to return to work.”
She stooped to retrieve something from beneath the table and handed Francis his billy club. “Thank you for lending me this, Mr. Bacon. I don’t need it anymore. I have an aunt in Indiana, I’m going to ask her to wire me the money so that we can go and stay with her.”
“But why?” His voice rose plaintively as she stood.
“Because I want to. This is not a safe place for us. It never has been.”
Chapter 87
PIN SAT IN the streetcar, hugging the
paper bag to her chest. She didn’t know which stop was closest to the hospital, but a woman in a freshly pressed and starched nurse’s uniform had boarded at Montrose. Pin kept an eye on her as they rattled on. When the woman stood, Pin followed her to the rear door, waited for the streetcar to jolt to a stop, then hopped out, following the nurse as she crossed the street.
An ice cart rumbled past, its horse shying at a roll of thunder. The mottled sky looked like a shiner, sickly green and purple. A few yards ahead of her the nurse dodged horse apples in the road. Pin had to run to keep up. By the time she saw the hospital, vast as a castle, she was sweaty and out of breath.
St. Joseph’s covered an entire city block, five stories high with corner turrets. An ugly castle. Pin watched the nurse hurry up the steps to the portico, where she greeted two other white-clad women and disappeared inside.
Pin looked down at her shabby knickerbockers and shirt. What if they didn’t let her in the hospital? Henry had said he worked at St. Joseph’s, but she didn’t know where. There must be hundreds of people in there, nurses and doctors and patients. Her hand slid into her pocket to touch the photograph. A doll wearing a girl’s clothes. A dead girl’s clothes. Her sister was dead.
A bolt of lightning fizzed through the sky, followed by a deafening thundercrack and the hiss of rain on the hot pavement. She ran up the hospital steps to the portico and stopped, shaking her wet hair. An orderly stood by the door, smoking a cigarette. He gave her a sympathetic look.
“Cats and dogs,” he said. “Stay dry, kid.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and went inside. She smoothed her wet hair, then the front of her grubby white shirt, and took a deep breath. She pulled open the heavy door and entered the lobby.
It smelled like the Infant Incubators, of carbolic soap and Bon Ami. Everything was very brightly lit. Voices echoed from upstairs, the clatter of footsteps and the rattle of typewriting machines. Pin stood up straight and marched toward a long desk in the center of the room, where a tall nun stood behind a spectacled man who sat writing in a registry book. He raised his head at Pin’s approach.
“Can I help you, son?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Pin said. The nun’s thin lips pursed disapprovingly.
The man blotted his pen. “A patient? It’s not visiting hours, I’m afraid.”
“No. He works here. Henry…”
“Henry?” the nun broke in. “A dozen Henrys work here. Who is it?”
“Dargero. Or no, Darger.”
“Henry Dargero? Don’t know him.” The man turned to the nun. “Do you know him, Sister Rose?”
“Darger?” The nun squinted at Pin. “Henry Darger. Is that who you mean?”
Pin nodded. At the man’s blank expression, the nun snapped, “That crazy janitor.”
“Oh! Right.” He nodded at Pin. “Yes, he works here. Why do you need to see him?”
“I have to give him a message.”
The nun stepped forward to peer suspiciously at Pin. “Who are you?”
“His nephew.”
“Is that for him?” The nun pointed at the package. “You can leave it here with me.”
Pin shook her head. “This is mine. I only need to see him for a minute.”
“You can’t do that. Visiting hours aren’t till five.” The nun’s black eyes burned into Pin like she wanted to set her on fire. “And that’s only for patients, not employees.”
The deafening buzz of an electrified bell rang out, signaling a shift change. Doors slammed as a white-clad army surged down the stairs and emerged from behind countless doors. Scores of nurses and orderlies hurried toward the desk.
“Good night, Mr. Gregorson! Good night, Sister Rose!”
“Sister Rose, Dr. Hudson asked if you’d sign this, I’ll run it back upstairs before I go.”
“Mr. Gregorson, here’s the bandage request for West Four-A.”
“Sister Rose, I lost my time punch card.”
“Mr. Gregorson…”
“Sister Rose…”
Pin backed away, breaking into a run when she reached the staircase. By the time she reached the second floor, the corridor was almost empty.
This floor seemed to be all women patients. Rooms full of hospital beds, few of them empty. Crucifixes on the walls and holy-water fonts by the doors. She saw no sign of a janitor, no mops or buckets, no wheeled cart for hauling off trash. She stopped at a door that read CUSTODIAL CLOSET, but it was locked.
She climbed to the third floor, where all the patients were men. Still no sign of Henry. On to the next floor, where a sign read MATERNITY WARD: QUIET PLEASE.
It was much warmer here. Two nurses stood in the corridor, chatting. One laughed, adjusting her cap before she disappeared through a doorway. The other nurse walked in Pin’s direction. When she caught sight of Pin, she cocked her head questioningly. Pin remained motionless. The nurse pushed open a door that led into a long glass-fronted room and went inside.
Pin let her breath out and continued down the hall. Behind the glass wall, babies lay in rows of identical cribs, like Christmas oranges nestled in paper at the grocer’s. There must have been a hundred, tended by nurses who adjusted blankets and the tiny knitted elf caps on the babies’ heads. In the hall, a solitary man and several women in hospital gowns stood with hands pressed against the glass, staring inside. Pin might as well have been invisible. No one took any notice of her whatsoever. At the end of the corridor, she opened the door to continue upstairs.
“You don’t want to go up there, young man.”
Pin turned to see a plump nun shaking a finger at her, black rosary beads dangling from a cord around her midsection.
“That’s where the very sick people are,” the nun went on in a soft Irish burr. “Not a place for boys.”
Pin bit her lip. “Oh,” she said.
The nun smiled, her blue eyes nearly disappearing in a face like rising dough. A rose-pink birthmark covered most of one cheek. “Are you looking for your mother, dear? Visiting hours for the babies aren’t till five o’clock.”
“No. I’m looking for Henry Darger.”
“Mr. Darger?” The nun looked as though Pin had asked for directions to the moon.
“Yes. He—he said he works here.”
“Well, he does, of course he does.” The nun smiled again, but she still appeared startled. “Although his shift’s just ended—he’ll have gone back to his room, I suspect.”
“Are you sure?” Pin’s hands tightened around the paper bag. “I really need to find him.”
“Are you a relation?”
“No. I’m a, a friend. He’s expecting me, he’ll be really upset if I don’t see him.”
The nun’s mild blue eyes gazed probingly at Pin’s face. Pin felt herself grow hot under that intense inquiry: not suspicion, not anger, but something fierce all the same. After a few seconds, the nun’s hand dropped to the rosary at her stomach. She fingered the jet beads, then slipped her hand into the folds of her robes to withdraw a brightly colored slip of paper.
“Do you know Saint Dymphna?” She handed a holy card to Pin. “My name saint. She’s the patron of girls in distress.”
The card showed a red-haired girl, light streaming from the small crown on her head. Pin touched the embossed gold lettering. Saint Dymphna, Protect Me in My Hour of Need.
“Thank you,” Pin said, and tucked the holy card into her pocket.
The nun folded her hands across her stomach. “Mr. Darger lives at Workingmen’s House. Do you know where that is? No? Over there—”
She tipped her head to indicate the stairway at the opposite end of the hall. “There’s a fire escape on that landing—if you follow it downstairs, it will take you directly outside, and you won’t have to walk back through the hospital lobby. When you get outside, you’ll see another big building right behind this one. That’s Workingmen’s House. The men live on the third floor. The nurses live in the rest of the building, and men aren’t allowed there. Even young boys
,” she said, and gave Pin a strange look. “There’s a separate stairway to the men’s floor, you’ll see it on the left once you’re inside. I believe that Mr. Darger’s room is number thirty-two.”
Pin started to thank her, but the Irish nun raised that gently chiding finger again. “Tell Mr. Darger that Sister Dymphna gave you permission to see him. He doesn’t have many visitors. I think he’s lonely. How do you know him?”
“I know his friend Willhie, and Willhie’s sister. I’ve been to their house.”
“I have met Mr. Schloeder. His sister, that would be Elizabeth?”
Pin nodded. Sister Dymphna turned, robes swishing, then stopped to look back. “What would your name be?”
“Pin. Pin Maffucci.”
“Pin.” Sister Dymphna savored the word, then smiled. “Your nickname? Because you’re bright as a pin, I reckon.”
“Yes,” said Pin, and met the woman’s sharp gaze with her own. “That’s right.”
“Goodbye then, young man,” said Sister Dymphna. “Good luck to you.” To Pin’s shock, she winked at her before turning away.
Chapter 88
WORKINGMEN’S HOUSE WAS a quieter, smaller shadow of the hospital, its dim hallways smelling of floral colognes, clean linens, the Murphy oil soap used on the slippery wooden floors. Two young women walked arm in arm past Pin, talking happily.
“He took me to the Movie Inn, we sat by the picture of Mary Pickford! Can you believe it?”
“He’s a keeper, Eloise,” said her friend.
Pin found the stairway to the men’s quarters and went up to the third floor. The hallway was very plain, with white walls and windows that overlooked the street. Each wooden door had small brass numbers on it. A print of Jesus with a crown of thorns hung at one end of the hall, a crucifix at the other.
She walked along, counting each door until she reached number 32. She didn’t know what she would do if he wasn’t there. She barely knew what she would do if he was. She knocked quickly and loudly, before she could change her mind.
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